David Vann - Legend of a Suicide

He decided he didn’t need to fly. He just needed to leave, and a ferry was leaving for Haines early in the morning. He would sleep on one of the benches.

On the ferry, he ordered a hotdog and a mini-pizza and some frozen yogurt. The constant vibration and sound of the engines beneath the floors were a comfort. It occurred to him that if his whole life had been spent under way, he might have been a lot happier. These ferries were heavy and solid and almost never rolled or pounded at all, but as he sat there eating, he did feel different, anyway. And then he got to thinking again about sailing away to the South Pacific. If he got through all of this okay, he might try that. He felt like telling this to someone, felt like talking about it with someone to find out how it sounded.

Jim looked around but everyone was sitting in groups. He chewed on through the rest of his food, then walked around the upper deck looking for someone standing alone at the railing, but this boat, at least on deck, seemed to be Noah’s Ark, everyone in pairs.

Though he didn’t drink, he went to the bar, because that seemed a likely place, even though it was morning. And he did find a woman sitting alone at one of the tables. Dark hair and an unhappy look, or perhaps just bored. She looked a few years younger than he was. She didn’t look as if she were waiting for anyone.

Mind if I join you? he asked.

That’s okay, I guess, she said, but this sounded so bad, so bored, he hesitated. She just watched him.

Okay, he said, and sat down.

It’s not like you’re doing me a favor, she said.

Jim got up and walked away. He stood on the stern and stared at the wake. He had wanted to tell that woman about Roy. He wanted just one person he could tell the whole story to, to work it out. Because when he left it alone, it just seemed more and more like he had killed Roy.

Jim couldn’t think about this well. He stared at the wake. Though it trailed away and spread and dissipated, it remained exactly the same from his viewpoint. It would never catch up with the boat nor would it ever be lost. It seemed like this might mean something, but then Jim was only wondering what his life was now, and not knowing. One thing had happened after another, but it seemed to him random and odd that things had worked out the way they had.

Jim could smell the diesel exhaust back here. It made him nostalgic for the Osprey, his fishing boat. He had failed at that, finally, and had to sell the boat, but really it hadn’t been a failure. He had spent all that time with his brother Gary pulling in albacore and then halibut; he had gotten to know the fishing fleet, all the Norwegians, even though he had not really talked to them. He had listened to them on the radio, their check-ins every morning and evening, their reports on the fishing, their evening entertainment. They had taken turns singing old songs and playing harmonica and even accordion. It had been an amazing time, really, though he and his brother had been outcasts. The Tin Can, they had called his boat, for the raw aluminum. They had older wooden boats, most of them. Some of them were fiberglass. He’d hear them mention him occasionally, but it was never an invitation to come on the radio and join in. He missed that life. He wished it had worked out. Roy could have worked on the boat in the summers.

One night, the Norwegians lost one of their boats. They came on in the morning, checking in, and no one knew where that one boat was. Most of it was in Norwegian, but there was enough said in English that Jim and Gary knew what was happening. They had slipped anchor themselves once when their sea parachute collapsed. The water was far too deep for bottom anchors, so the whole fleet put out sea parachutes off their bows and stayed anchored together that way, but the night their parachute collapsed, Jim and Gary awoke far from the fleet, no fishing boats around and right in the shipping lanes. So this was what must have happened to this Norwegian boat, they figured, and nothing was heard from it again.

In Haines, Jim called his brother Gary. Hey, he said, it’s me, and then there was silence. He waited.

Well, Gary said. Some people are looking for you.

Looking for me?

You jumped bail, didn’t you?

No.

Another pause. There might be a difference of opinion here, Gary said. And you might think about trying to make amends somehow, since I think the sheriff’s opinion wins.

Why are we talking about this? Jim said. I called you to talk about other things. I wanted to talk to my brother. I’ve been thinking a lot about our time on the Osprey, thinking that it’s too bad that didn’t work out. I wish we were still doing it. And I was thinking it would have been nice if Roy could have worked on the boat in the summers.

Jim, where are you?

I’m in Haines.

Look, you have to turn yourself in. You can’t run from them, and you’re just going to make yourself look bad in front of a jury.

Are you listening to me? Jim asked. I wanted to talk about other things. Do you think about the Osprey, or about living out there?

Jim waited then. He could hear his brother breathing.

Yeah, I do, Gary finally said. I think about those times. And though it was hard then, I’m glad we did it. It was an adventure. I wouldn’t do it again, though.

No?

No.

That’s too bad, Jim said. You know, I’ve been a little lonely in all this since I’ve been back. I haven’t had anyone to talk to. No one’s come to visit me or help me.

No one can now, Gary said. They’d be an accessory or something. Harboring a fugitive. I don’t know what they’d call it, but they’d call it something.

I don’t have any chance of beating this, do I? Jim said. He paused, and Gary didn’t say anything, and Jim realized finally that this was true. He was just waiting around for his own fall. He realized also that he needed not to tell his brother anything more. I need to go now, he said.

Okay, Gary said. I wish I could help you. I really do. I should have come to see you while you were still in Ketchikan.

That’s all right.

Jim walked straight into town looking for his bank. They had to have a branch here. He found several other banks and got toward what appeared to be the end of the small town and started panicking, but then he saw it. He walked in with his checkbook and ID in his hand, waited in line, and then was ushered to a side desk because of the amount of his withdrawal, almost $115,000 in cash. He intended to clean out what was left of this savings account completely, though the sheriff had probably already frozen it. Coos knew about it because he’d already taken over $200,000 for bail and fees and a few thousand for living expenses in Ketchikan.

The financial officer assisting him didn’t really want to assist him. This is a very large and unusual withdrawal, she said. Especially in cash. I have to let you know that we’ll have to report this. We have to report any large deposit or withdrawal such as this.

That’s okay, Jim said.

May I ask what the withdrawal is for?

To buy a house, Jim said.

We can have a cashier’s check made out for that.

Nope, it has to be cash.

A cashier’s check is cash.

Cash cash.

The woman frowned.

Look, Jim said, is it my money or is it not?

It is, of course, the woman said. I’m not sure we have that much cash on hand, though. In fact, I’m sure we don’t.

How much do you have?

What?

I’ll take whatever you have.

Jim left with $27,500 in cash. He knew he had been ripped off, that they had more cash than that, but it was enough. He didn’t need to buy his own boat. He could find some fishing boat that had just finished the March opening and was waiting around. They’d need money.