Of His Bones

By John L. Purdy

In a small community perched on the rugged Pacific coast, a cluster of friends struggle to make a living, only to find their way of life being pushed aside by a large commercial fish farm and processing plant. As the numbers of native salmon upon which they depend shrink, Tom and Clay resist the pressures of change, and labor to keep traditions alive while confronting escalating hostilities. War veterans and life-long friends, they battle social tension, ecological decline, racial prejudice that results in a murder and a complex mystery of political intrigue and organized crime in a hostile takeover of a lifeway, a people. Standing with the two, the indigenous people of the region, for whom current events are yet another episode of an old story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781977251022

John L. Purdy

As a writer who narrates dramas found in landscapes and communities far from the beaten path, John L. Purdy crafts stories about the shared, common ground of cultures that, at first glance, seem remarkably dissimilar. He takes audiences into locales where the stresses of change and conflict drive stories at once narrow in focus, yet sweeping in their implications, for us all, when survival requires communal cohesiveness, and willful acts of compassion, empathy. 

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Of His Bones

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2022 John L. Purdy

v3.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Cynthia, to Carl and all storiers who care

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

In the ocean the silence

moves and moves

and so much is unnecessary!

The Fish in the Stone, Rita Dove

ONE

His belly tightens, then unravels as if in unison with the rocking motions of the drifting dory, buffeted by intermittent waves flipped up by gusting wind. It clinches, like a frightened fist, when he lets thoughts crab in, swirling a slurry of numbers and overdue accounts, small waves tapping a steady tattoo against the wooden hull.

He turns from the wheel and bends over to tug open the plywood lid of the hold behind him; dead salmon slosh in unison in the shallow water as it mimics the actions of the bay’s currents. He counts them for the fourth time. It does not take long. The number is the same each time.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches the mud flats draw closer, their smooth slopes sculpted by a retreating tide that pushes him persistently away from the dock; long green streamers of seaweed point the direction of the flow for a few moments until, weakened, they let go. The space he has to maneuver is shrinking.

Throttling back till the smoking Johnson jolts into reverse, a dull metallic thunk of its worn camshaft like a blow, his knees braced against the inevitable. Against the ebb rush of the tide, he inches the boat back into position only to be bumped by a fiberglass pleasure boat trying to maneuver past him into the moorage basin behind but pushed off tack by wind and current. He ignores the insults from the bungling weekend boater, turning instead to look out over the bay.

In gusts of wind coming off the Pacific Ocean, swaying trees and grasses fall away, then suddenly surge alive again as the wind animates things in its path, massages them into violent action, and then into a profound, uneasy calm, air made visible by effect. Its whimsy can disorient people, agitate some primal nerve, but he finds pleasure in wind’s chaos, how it carries the feel of a coming storm, the smell of decay in mud flats where small indentations sprout air bubbles to mark places clams sleep, waiting patiently now for the water, so recently gone, to return.

He lets his attention drift away from the immediate task of selling his fish, caught up in motion of larger things around him: the wind pounding the river with a flat, insubstantial palm, sea gulls and clouds playing on its currents. The world moves and moves, and he waits in line.

A boat moves away from the dock, opening up a place for his. Closing, kneading the throttle, working the wheel to balance the push-pull of wind and tide, he feels dewdrops falling from his beard, but also sliding down the back of his sweatshirt, the moisture riding the slide of his collar-length hair. Then, a brief hesitation in neutral as the boat swings into position before he jerks the throttle down into reverse to feel the knot in his stomach release when the side nudges the old shiny tires nailed to the gray, worn planking. He switches off the ignition.

The company is understaffed and busy, again, so he climbs up on his fish box and steps to the dock, keeping a firm grip on his boat’s A-frame as he does; his knees ache when he stoops to loop a dock mooring line through it, and then another around a stern cleat with a quick one-handed figure eight. He leans into the Yahoo, into the console for the glass-bottomed, corroding steel beer mug wedged between first-aid kit and flashlight. Its batteries need replacing, have needed it for two weeks or more, and his back creaks like an old fir tree in stiff wind as he straightens up to go to the shack, his feet slipping inside oversized rubber boots.

Wobbling a bit from the steadiness of the dock, he edges his way along the slim border between the shack’s rear wall and bay to the kegerator, fills the mug from a beer tap that sticks through its door. Looking down the river to the bridge, the sea beyond, he tilts his head and drinks. Beer burns going down, and he realizes that, except for a candy bar at mid-morning, he hasn’t eaten, either.

When the mug comes down, it is empty and there are tears in his eyes, the slight tint of the mug’s metal on the back of his tongue. He pulls in a deep breath from the salt-heavy air, sucks the remaining drops of beer from his long mustache, sighs, then rubs his chin through a curly, sand-colored beard, before turning back to the tap.

With his mug full again, he goes to the shack. The back window is partially open, so he pokes his head into the office. Sandy is at the wood bench that serves as a desk, a portable heater humming underneath. She looks thoughtfully at him, brows furrowed.

Where’s Bart? She looks haggard and bored, but before he can answer she turns back to the other end of the dock when one of her crew shouts a weight for her to record. She writes the figure slowly, methodically, on one of the green-inked lines in the massive ledger before her, eyes glued to the page while she waits for his answer.

Up north. Radioed him before I started to run in, but he said he wanted to fish an hour or so more. His voice has a funny sound to him—a squeaky, distant quality of a person who hasn’t spoken for a long time. He leans against the building to look out toward the bridge. An hour or so more. He sips.

How’s the weather outside?

There’s a nasty wind chop. Nothing to worry about, yet. There is a bank of clouds moving in, though, and no doubt fog below it. He shivers as a chill runs up his back like a quick wind over a ridge, unnerving with its suddenness. Momentarily distracted, he slides the mug back under the tap. Ah! Pale. Cold. Bubbly …

Like your women?

Smartass, he thinks. That a proposal? Sandy gives him a dismissive chuckle. How’d the others do? When he tries to lean in the window far enough to get a glimpse of the ledger, she reaches across it to get a slip of paper, covering the numbers with her motion. She doesn’t write anything on the paper.

From poor to worse. Bob’s high so far.

Any Chinook?

A couple.

Tell me I’m high boat. His laughter is oddly out of place against the somber background of the gray dock and silent crew. Images—of the other fishing boats’ hydraulic gurdies, electronic navigation, and inboard-outboard, four-cycle engines purring smoothly, reliably over calm oceans—sweep through.

Sandy smiles an unprecedented third smile. How’d you do?

Six worthwhile silvers, five kings—three will go large. It is not a good day by old standards, but he has come in ahead for his fuel, time, energy, so he feels good by old standards, even after three long days of smaller catches. Very good, full, like the slow burn that is beginning to relax and soothe his belly.

You going to sell them, or spend the day next to the keg gloating over a few fish? The crew has finished with the other boats and is moving to his. Bank’s waiting, so don’t get smug. Bart’s not in, yet, comes as a parting shot at his back.

He beats them to the Yahoo, steps in after a few quick words, swings the lid of the fiberglass-lined fish hold open. Two at a time he lifts the fish out by the gills, carefully setting them on the slatted fish trays for the crew to weigh. The rhythm of his motion as he bends to lift and then stands straight to flip the fish ashore begins to balance with the bay’s motion, the rolling of the boat. The job is quickly done.

The crew weighs the stony-eyed salmon and shouts the total weights to Sandy. As they begin to toss his catch into fir-wood bins full of ice and other fish, though, Clayton quickly turns away to fill his plastic bucket with a mixture of sweet smelling Lemon Joy soap and fresh water, using it and a long-handled brush to scrub the inside of the boat. There is no need to hurry. Except for Bart, he is the end of the line. But he does not like to watch the crew handle fish, stiffly, business-like, producing hollow noises of dead fish against the bin’s dead wood, and then there is the shoveling of ice over their stony stares, burying them with bright, shiny ice that has the look of smooth, cold steel. It is better to clean the boat.

Here ‘ya go. Sandy leans over the side to give him his fish ticket. Do you want a check today? Straightening up from his scrubbing, Clay takes a long look at her. Under her serious front, she harbors the winter-hardened humor of their shared Scandinavian ancestors. She is a pretty woman, full of life, but he cannot imagine her future, ten, twenty years down the line. Will she stick it out, daily, seasonally recording small successes, debilitating losses? Commenting on up or down days with the same sort of detached business banter that he knows actually covers compassion? Sandy is an anchoring beacon, a common point on all their horizons, and she is very much appreciated.

He drains the rest of the beer in his mug and smiles. She is looking out the channel, her blonde hair swirling around angular face. He’ll be in before long. You know Bart.

Yeah. I know Bart.

Any beer left? A fourth strange, lucky laugh. It worries him.

As the boat rides with the tide, short wind ripples tap the bow like impatient fingers strumming on a table. He lets fatigue wrap around him with worn, warm thoughts. Passing Port Dock Five, he counts For Sale signs, their angry phosphorescent orange a blight across the subdued hues of the scene. He belches. Malt’s done more than Milton can … To justify god’s ways to man. Readying for the last leg to his moorage, he guns the engine to slide the boat’s stern around the tight corner between the large public docks and small, private one where he moors. The boat throws a wake off toward the high bank reinforced with huge gray boulders blasted from inland mountains for the north jetty, but dumped here instead.

The boat hunkers down against reversing propeller, squats still for a long second before white water churns up behind, drawing it backward between the outstretched fingers of slip #4. Steering with one hand, Clay turns around to watch the Yahoo slide home, kills the ignition when the stern passes the fingers, and lets the momentum, wind, tide do the rest.

Sitting on the fish box, he waits for knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders to untangle of their own accord, stretching and wincing as they do. Bursitis, someone told him once. Bills-itis, he had answered. Everything he tells himself. Some days, everything, and today, despite a small profit, a dull sense of accomplishment, he feels as if gravity pulls more heavily than usual. Something is just not right, and it has been nagging him all day. In the distance, he hears a sharp clank as a wrench slips and strikes steel, followed by a sharp curse, a curt commentary on bloody knuckles.

His arms are numb and he is growing cold, so he gets up to put the gunnysacks over his gear trays. Since he is tired, he’ll have to make time in the morning for gear changes. Right now it’s enough to tuck the sacks in tightly to keep the sea gulls from seeing bright colors and growing curious, leaving a Gordian knot that he would rather not face in the dark hour before dawn.

Pulling a tackle box out of the lower shelf in the console, a Ruger .22 pistol speckled with rust, and raincoat from the middle, he rides the springy slip’s finger to the short, slightly listing dock. On the ramp, he waves over his shoulder to Doug, who owns the dock and runs a small hydraulics shop from the oil soaked shack on the far end. The ramp to the parking lot is growing steeper as the tide retreats and the dock sinks. Below him, a plastic bottle bobbles and bumps in a small eddy in the boulders He is glad that he came in early.

The old Ford pick up—its yellow paint, matching the boat’s, rusting and pimpled with enough minor dings to require major body work—is hidden in a quiet alcove of stacked crab pots; against the dark gray backdrop it’s a welcoming beacon, like daffodils that pop up in surprising places in the spring. He hoists the gear into the bed. The key slides stubbornly into the lock and, using the wheel, he pulls himself up into the cab where he pauses for a moment in the comfort of a soft seat with a back, then wobbles the gearshift into neutral, pumping the gas as he chants a soft Come on baby. It starts on the first try.

He’s forgotten what day of the week it is; the streets are a crush of weekend traffic, pedestrians cutting across as if oblivious to others, radios blaring a cacophony of tunes out half-opened windows as if in defiance of the cold. Once out of the parking lot he tries to keep a distance between the truck and the car ahead so that he can idle along in second to save what’s left of his clutch, and after long minutes he swerves up the sharp incline between Harry’s Bait & Tackle and the Barge Inn. Few tourists use the short, dead-end street, steep and slick and bordered by unruly, overgrown blackberry vines.

His knees fight the incline as he walks down to the bar. Half-way, he catches a bright bumper sticker calling, like a billboard on Tim’s shiny new