“People Talk”

Forgotten in the weeks before they left were the goodbyes and the farewells, the last suppers and the final visits.

Nothing except the rain felt different. The rain had always been home. A descending grey sphere, diffusing and touching everything, evenly and in common. Now the grey was heavier and stickier as it dampened the preparations.

Rake’s grandparents called to attempt a breakfast on the last day, but it was too late. There was packing left to do, and his parents would have found another excuse even if they weren’t so infatuated with that one. It had worked for his father’s last day at the hardware store and his mother’s last behind the counter at the County Liquor

“It’s the same thirty customers every night. Ten of them just left the bar, ten of them          pay me with quarters, and ten of them think I don’t know they’re sixteen. I don’t want        one of them damn screw-ups to tell me they’ll miss me.”

Rake had tried it for his last day of Sunday school, but it didn’t seem to work on his parents.

“Son, we are going to church today and you are getting in that car if I have to drag you to      it by your jacket collar.”

“I don’t want to have church on our last day here.”

“There’s church whether you like it or not. We’re having lunch with Father Clayton               today and he will ask you about Sunday school. What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m going to tell him I liked it.”

“You’re going to tell him which fuckin verse you read and how long it took you to                     memorize and what dress Mrs. Betty wore and that you shared your snack with your               goddamn neighbor.”

“But John stole half of my snack.”

“I don’t care what John did. You’re going say you liked it.”

—-

Rake watched a neighbor leave a tray of food on the good front step one late afternoon. The bottom step shuddered under the weight of a foot and the top step was missing two of its wooden slats, so the middle, faded but stable, offered the only surface for resting the tray. Though it was the only usable step, it had gone years without new nails, and it was always slippery with a sheet mud that the weak Northwestern fall sun could never dry.

She rang the doorbell three times. Rake knew better than to answer and waited in the kitchen until she stopped ringing before he scuffled to the door.

“It was Mrs. Elizabeth,” he shouted back into the house.

“Thank God you didn’t answer it.”

A plain white card rested on top of three pots covered in aluminum foil. The foil was cold. He opened the card carefully.

“We hope you’re doing better. We’ll miss having you next door and wish you all the               best!!! We’re praying for Rake and Melissa.”

Scrawled at the bottom was, “P.S. —- I called twice yesterday and rang the doorbell three times today but no one answered. Wish I could have caught you!”

“Does she think we’re having a funeral? Doesn’t she know you only bring food for                   funerals? Or when people are sick?” his mother barked from behind him. “I thought             they would be happy we’re getting out of here.”

Rake drooped the card back onto the foil and whirred around, presenting the tray to his mother.

“And it’s cold,” she said. “Three cold casseroles. She really does think someone’s                   died.”

—-

Rake was one when his parents bought the house they were preparing to move out of. Their stories about it were some of the only that didn’t bore Rake with retelling. His father had a rotating wheel of reports about his drinking buddies from work that he would tell when he got home three hours after dinner had cooled. Four too many beers, spin the wheel, get the story about Dave, whose wife waited to hadn’t cooked him breakfast in a year. Take an extra shot of bourbon, spin the wheel, get the story about Jimbo and why he got first dibs on the overtime hours even though he wasn’t the best salesman on his own shift. His mother didn’t have any, unless they were about old neighbors who got divorced or new neighbors who yelled at each other and kicked theirs dogs.

“It was a little grimy piece of shit – but it looked nice on your mother,” his dad would             begin.

“We moved in this house back when South Bend was nothing more than three streets,           two docks, and a diner. Back when you didn’t have to pay to dock your boat in the                   harbor.”

The house had been there before the Sunday flea market with its nautical theme had begun to draw tourists and it would be there when they stopped driving in from Olympia, though his father said that couldn’t happen soon enough. Across the road from that same flea market a headstone store had moved in and moved out all while the house was being built. The house had grown up with the pines and it would die with tilted crabapple tree in the yard. It peeked over the hill, only the brown roof and peaks of green paint above the black wooden doors visible from the road above the plummeting driveway of white marble gravel. That was how his father said it looked when they bought it. Rake had watched his father paint it once when he was ten.

“One coat is all she needs.”

It had needed several coats then and several more in the years since. The Pacific rains were salty and they sucked the cheap paint off the walls, lifted the gravel out of the driveway, and teased the planks off of the steps.

Sometimes the story took this turn or that. Maybe his father would remember the old couple with three cats that had lived next door or the time the police came for the man down the block whose garage door was always closed. There was a joke about the broken windows that never really seemed to work. The delivery hadn’t really improved in all the years. His father always finished the story with a summary.

“I came in this town looking for work, but no one wanted to trust the new guy who was         staying at the motel paying in cash. Your mother found a job because her boss was an           old pervert. It got so bad for me that I went to the church to see if they might know               anyone hiring, even for a couple days at a time. Turns out they had this house needed           repairing. Some crazy old widower had died and left it to the church a couple years                 before. No one would buy it because the old man had himself a reputation. Anyway, it           had been sitting there for a couple years and Clayton told me if I could fix it I could have       it until he sold it. I guess it never sold.”

Usually this was a dinner story, but Rake’s father had started in even though it was breakfast and they were headed towards tardiness. Church started at 11:00. On time for his father was somewhere around 11:10, but it was 11:15 and he hadn’t even finished his cereal. Rake usually had a series of questions about working on the house, but that required at least another fifteen minutes.

“So why are we leaving, Dad?” he asked.

His father paused.

“I’m about to tell you about building the front door.”

“Why are we moving, Dad? You built this house.”

His mom swooped in to fill the glasses on the table.

“Rake, are you done? Stop pestering your father and clean your plate.”

“We’re leaving because of your sister.”

“What?”

“We have to move because of Melissa.”

“Why?”

“Your mother says people are talking.”

“About what?”

“About Melissa.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“But we’re her family.”

“I know. So what?”

“People talk.”

“About what?”

“Rake, put your plate in the sink. You’re not even dressed for church,” his mom blurted      from the kitchen.

“I am ready for church. Dad, I don’t get it.”

“Goddamn it, Rake. Get what?”

“What people are talking about.”

“Honey, not now,” said his mother. “We have church and an important lunch.”

“Damn, you’re persistent, aren’t you?” said his father.

“Honey, we don’t need to talk about this today. Maybe when we’re all settled after the          move.”

“I want to know why we’re moving. Dad fixed this house himself. We should stay here.”

“He’s got a point.”

—–

Everyone in South Bend had heard about Westport. It was the largest fishing harbor in the state. Rake had heard his dad say the really big boats docked in Kodiak, but Rake wasn’t sure where that was. He had seen on TV that the big Deadliest Catch boats docked in Kodiak, but he had heard that they stopped in Westport sometimes to fuel up. He thought Kodiak might be in Canada, but he didn’t think it could be in Washington. It sounded too big for Washington. He had asked his parents about Westport once. They had been sitting in the backyard.

“You don’t need to know about Wesport,” said his father.

“At least tell him where it is,” said his mother.

“Let him go look it up on his own,” said his father.

“I’ll ask one of my teachers,” said Rake.

His mother squinted at his father and flicked a glance at Rake before saying that she needed to use the bathroom.

His father shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and told Rake that he received the greatest piece of advice of his life in Westport.

“If you don’t know what you want to do with your life, work on a fishing boat for a                   month. Then you’ll know what you don’t want to do.”

“I think about that every time I have to teach someone at the store how to use a                       screwdriver,” he told Rake.

Rake could hear the a door close quietly inside the house. He thought it was his parents’ bedroom door.

—–

“Are you serious?” Rake asked his father.

“I am, son.”

“Why did she leave?”

“She said the town was too small for her.”

“You told me Westport isn’t much bigger.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said that at dinner the night she left.”

His father stared at Rake and crossed his arms.

“Anything’s bigger than this place.”

“How big is Westport?”

“5,000 people. 10,000 when the season is good.”

“Why would she want to go there?”

“She said she wanted to see more of the world.”

“Where has she been since she left?”

“Alaska, mostly. Canada once.”

“What is Alaska like?”

“About the same here but colder. And darker.”

“But it’s always dark here.”

Rake’s father uncrossed his arms. He touched his hair and crossed his arms back across his chest.

“It’s darker in Alaska.”

“So why are people talking?”

“That’s a different story, son.”

“What are they talking about?”

“Us.”

“Us?”

“Us. Me. Your mother. Your sister.”

“Why?”

“They think they know why she left.”

“Why do they think she left?”

“The people here don’t like us very much, Rake.”

The doorbell rang again.

This time it was a whole family of neighbors.

“For Christ’s sake,” yelled Rake’s mother.

“Keep it down,” urged his father. “They’ll hear you.” He shut off the kitchen light and        sat back down in his chair.

“It’s Mr. and Mrs. Brooke,” said Rake. “I didn’t know they had kids.”

“They don’t like us either. We never introduced you.”

The doorbell rang twice quickly and a third time after a minute had passed. No one moved for the door.

Mrs. Brooke turned and placed a wide tray on the bad first step. The tray wobbled and flipped into the mud under the step. Mrs. Brooke crouched down and put a hand over her mouth. Mr. Brooke placed a hand on her back and said something before kneeling to pick up the tray. The dark mud clung to his light blue jeans. Mrs. Brooke pinched a card from the mud, wiped it with her hand, and placed it in front of the door.

“I think the food spilled,” said Rake.”

“It was probably just another casserole,” said his mother.”

“Should I get the card?” asked Rake.

“It’s covered in mud. Leave it outside,” said his father.

—-

Lunch with Father Clayton was right after church. Rake didn’t have time to sneak into the bathroom to wrangle his way out of his tie and sweater before Clayton slapped him in the back.

“Heya, Rake, how are you on this fine day?”

“I’m good, Father Clayton.”

“How was Sunday school today?”“It was good. I learned about Abraham.”

“Wonderful! How is Mrs. Betty today?”

“She was OK. She wore an ugly skirt.”

His mother grabbed his shoulder before Father Clayton could begin to chuckle.

“Never speak that way about your teacher.”

“It’s fine, Rake. I appreciate your honesty. Ready for lunch?”

—–

“So, how is Melissa?”

“She’s fine, we think,” said Rake’s mother.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“Not for a couple months.”

“She called me last week.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am. She asked about you three.”

“Why did she call?”

“She was hoping I would visit her.”

“Will you?”

“I told her she should see you all first.”

“We can’t see her.”

“Why not?”

“People talk.”

“She’s your daughter. You should see her.”

“People will talk.”

“You’re moving anyway. What the people in this town say doesn’t matter. But you know      they’re not wrong about what happened.”

“Yes they are.”

“Why do you think she left?”

“This town was too small for her.”

“Westport is barely bigger.”

“It has 10,000 people in a good season.”

“We all know that’s why she left.”

“We can’t see her. People will talk.”

—-

Father Clayton told Rake where Melissa was staying in Westport and put him in a pickup truck with a fisherman whom he said attended the church. Rake didn’t recognize him. He took Rake as far west as Randle, a drive of half an hour that took two because a propeller slipped out of the bed of the truck and the man’s employees weren’t allowed to carry their cellphones on the job. They repaired the boats and conditions were dangerous so no distractions were permitted. It took a while for help to arrive and lifting the propeller back into the bed was a four-man job. The man didn’t like to be called a fisherman because he owned and operated the business and coordinated all the fleets and ordered all the parts and made the flights for his crewmembers to Northwest Washington and to Alaska and back to their homes in California and Oregon and Michigan and Alabama.

“Where are you from?” he asked Rake after they had tried for twenty minutes to lift the      propeller themselves and then decided to wait for help.

“South Bend.”

“Where’s that?”

“Washington?”

“What part of Washington?”

“Southwest Washington. On the Willapa.”

“The Willapa what?”

“The Willapa River.”

“Near Seattle?”

“Near Olympia.”

“Is that near Seattle?”

“It’s near Portland.”

“How big is it?”

“We just left it.”

“Oh. But how many people?”

“Like a thousand people I think.”

“Damn, that’s small.”

“We’re moving. My dad says people talk.”

“That’s true. You ever been to Seattle?

“Yeah. I’ve been twice.”

“Just tell people you’re from Seattle. It’s easier.”

“But I’m not.”

“Trust me. It’s easier.”

“What if they ask me about it?”

“Lie. It’s a big city. Tell them you love it. Make it up. They won’t know.”

“Is Seattle better than South Bend?”

“Trust me. It’ll be easier.”

“Can you give me a job?”

“A job? Doing what?”

“Fishing.”

“How old are you? 15?”

“No.”

“No, kid, I don’t think I can give you a job. Maybe in a couple years.”

——

Randle wasn’t far from Westport. Rake had heard they had two high schools and all-you-can-eat fried fish restaurants. He paid for three orders of French fries with ketchup at the counter of the first diner he could find, sat at a booth, and counted his money. He asked his waitress how much a bus ticket to Westport would cost.

“Sweetie,” she laughed, “They’re not gonna let a little thing like yourself buy a bus                 ticket. The rules say you have to be eighteen and you don’t even look seventeen.                     Nobody wants to get fired so you can make it halfway across the state and get yourself           lost.”

He had never been in a taxi but he thought they were expensive, so he didn’t want to take one. His dad always moaned about the price when he came home later than he should have.

“Damn Dave, takin my damn keys like I’m a damn drunk. Cost me twenty-five fuckin           dollars just cuz he thinks I can’t drive.”

He asked the waitress if she would drive him to Westport.

“I’ll pay you as much as I can. I have eighty dollars left so I can give you forty.”

“Honey. I can’t drive you that far. Let me call your parents.”

“No.”

Rake stood up quickly, bumping the last basket of fries and nudging the waitress and he pushed out of the booth.

“Do you know anyone who can drive me? I have forty dollars.”

“The gas alone will cost you thirty.”

“I can pay fifty.”

“Why don’t you just hitchhike? Plenty of people will be happy to pick up a little guy like      yourself. They’ll just be happy to have someone to talk to and they don’t think you’ll            rob them. Or kill them.”

“I tried that already.”

“No one would pick you up?”

“The guy told me I should say I’m from Seattle. I’m from South Bend.”

“Well, that’s just smart advice, honey. People like big city people.”

“I’m from South Bend.”

“Uh-huh. Let me see if I can help you.”

“Will anybody drive this young man to Yakima for fifty dollars?” she bellowed from              behind the counter.

“I’ll do it for seventy,” shouted a man at the corner of the counter.

He was wearing a suit but his tie was slung in front of him dangerously close to a dash of spilled mustard. He had a burger, a beer, and a milkshake in front of him and was making strong progress on all three.

“I only have eighty dollars,” he told the waitress again.

“Offer declined,” she said, nodding at the man in the suit.

—-

The waitress was right. It didn’t take long for someone to slow down for Rake as he stood on the curb in front of the diner, his hand in the air, his stuffed blue duffel on the ground beside him, one foot wobbling in the air as he tried to balance on the other.