Charles D'Ambrosio - The Dead Fish Museum

“Well,” said D’Angelo, “I guess you’ll take a ride. I guess you’re game for going wherever the hell we go, huh? Want a drink?”

“Sure,” she said. She slugged from the bottle and wiped her lips. A rhinestone clip in the shape of a horse sparkled in her hair. “If you’re on this road, there’s only one place to go. You got no choice. Nothing but reservation up ahead.” She took another drink before passing the bottle back to D’Angelo. “And the ocean,” she said. “There’s a big ocean at the end of this road.”

“You from around here?” Kype asked. He tried to catch a glimpse of her in the rearview mirror, but she had sprawled out in the big back seat, out of sight.

“Yep,” she said. “Name’s Nell, Nella Ides.”

“Well, Nella Ides,” D’Angelo said, “this guy’s grandpa died. He was very fucking old, a real big shot. You may have heard of him. Kype, his name was Kype. Just like this guy. His name’s Kype, too. Anyway, me and my friend Kype here, we’re drinking the old man’s bourbon, and we got his old gun, and we’re going to catch the biggest, wildest fish in the ocean with his old fishing pole.”

“Putting the fun back in funeral,” Nell said.

“That’s right, “D’Angelo said. “And since you’re from around here, and you know the lie of the land, you’re invited.”

“Suits me fine,” Nell said. “I got a cousin might be interested, too. For your friend there.”

“My grandfather knew Mungo Martin,” Kype said, looking in the rearview mirror.

“Who’s Mungo Martin?” Nell asked.

“Mungo Martin? Mungo Martin was a tyee, a chief — Satsop or Haida, Bella Coola, maybe Makah.”

“He wasn’t no Makah,” Nell said.

“Some chief, anyway. I don’t really know. Supposedly a great artist or something. He carved totem poles, if that’s art. Grandfather met him negotiating a timber contract after the war.”

“See what I was saying,” D’Angelo said. “This guy’s granddad, old Kype, he was a high-ass muck-a-muck. A very big deal who knew Mungo, another very big deal. It was a high old time in town when old Kype and old Mungo got together.”

“I’d know if he was a Makah. That I’d know.”

“How old are you, Nella Ides?”

“Old,” she said.

Nell’s skin was dark and smelled richly of sweat, smoke, and coconut oil. On her purple lips was the fiery taste of bourbon and deep in her mouth was the sour smell of the beer she’d been drinking earlier that day, in Port Angeles. She’d been starting to sober, standing against that rock, smelling the sea, the dry cedar, and, she’d thought, the stars. The man from PA had dropped her off on his way out to Forks. Before that she’d blacked out, and before that she recollected going to a pink motel with the man, where a suspicious night clerk had forced her to sign the registry. She’d used her Makah name, the long English translation that took up three spaces in the guest book: What-you-get-you-can’t-store-up-because-it-is-so-much.

D’Angelo climbed into the back seat and sat beside her. “Your eyes are green,” he said, kissing her.

“Get us that bottle back here,” Nell said.

Kype handed the bottle over, feeling jilted, suddenly the hired chauffeur for his hitching passengers. A convoy of logging trucks boomed by, their wake a vacuum that made the big Cadillac shudder. Kype couldn’t see Nell or D’Angelo, but he listened to the sounds they made, to their voices.

“Don’t look back,” he heard D’Angelo say.

In Neah Bay the road ran out, dissolving into a patch of packed dirt and windblown sand, the Makah Indian Reservation. A few white shacks lined either side of the street. One of the houses looked like the site of a massive collision. Smashed, junked vehicles surrounded it. Axles, tires, doors, bumpers, bucket seats, and radiators were strewn in the dirt. A few intact cars that — powered by prayers — had probably seen the open road for the last time when Eisenhower was president seemed to be under repair. A beat DeSoto with a broken windshield and sun-hardened tires, the rusted rims sunk deep in white sand, was parked beneath a shade tree. Above it, a half-stripped engine dangled from a winch, rocking back and forth as the branches swayed in the breeze. An open toolbox and a coffee cup sat on the fender.

“That must be the chief’s house,” D’Angelo said.

When Nell sat up, one of her small breasts showed, the nipple dark brown like a knot in wood. It glistened with saliva. She tied the tails of her shirt together.

“Salmon season closes today, fellas.”

“How about that?” Kype said. “The ocean must be the spot. My grandfather’s spirit guides us.”

“Here’s to Grandpa,” Nell said, taking a long drink from the bottle.

“Here is Grandpa,” D’Angelo said, holding up the urn. He unscrewed the cap, poked his fingers in, and marked a cross on Nell’s forehead. “Ashes to ashes,” he said. “And dust to dust.”

“Please don’t fuck around with that,” Kype said.

Grains of sand blew across the street, needling the sides of the car. At the far end of the dirt plaza, a motel sign sputtered, the red neon bleeding into the fog.

“I’m going to check on my baby,” Nell said. She pulled back her hair and adjusted the clip. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t forget your cousin,” D’Angelo said. He slapped Kype on the back. “For my friend here.”

The first pale cast of light shone inland, a faint silver rim, like a lid ajar, in the world they’d left behind. Slowly the street wakened to life. A few lamps went on, glowing a cold yellow in the salt-whitened windows of the shacks. A young girl walked toward the water, watching the sun rise, and a hesitant old man left a trail of footprints in the dust as he crossed the road. A boy with a net began scooping bait from a blue plastic pool. Kype stood beside him. In the pool, hundreds of small dark fish swam in circles, darting ahead of the sweeping net. The boy flicked his wrist and twisted the net into the air, and the silver scales of the struggling fish flashed like coins.

The boy emptied the net into a clear plastic bag and tied it shut. The herring flipped around inside, thrashing against each other. In Kype’s hand, the bag squirmed with life, beating like a heart, and then slowly stilled to a few last fitful flickers as the herring suffocated.

“Got our bait?” D’Angelo said.

Kype showed him the dead herring.

When he saw Nell, D’Angelo asked, “Where’s your cousin?”

“She’s sick of fish,” Nell said.

Inside the bait shop, a steel coffee urn percolated, bubbling with the first brew of the day. A plume of steam rose from beneath the rattling lid. A few operators sat on a bench, waiting for customers.

“We need a boat,” Kype said.

A man named Porter stood, rising stiffly on arthritic knees, his joints thickly crusted from a lifetime at sea. He looked at Kype and immediately disliked his smooth white skin, his blue eyes, the easy loose movement of his arms and legs as he approached the counter. He was a kid but wore the fussy clothes of an old man, a thin yellow coat, a pink oxford shirt, khakis with an elastic waistband, a pair of leather boat shoes. Porter guessed the young man was drunk and he didn’t like taking drunks out on his boat. All they did was barf and moan.

“And I want it exclusive,” Kype said. “There’s three of us.”

“Can’t give it to you exclusive,” Porter said.

Kype unfolded his wallet. “I’ll buy up the other spots.”

Porter looked at the neat square edge of new bills crowding the wallet.

“You’ll pay for twelve?” he asked. Porter’s boat would only accommodate six, but what did this kid know?