The Alaskan Laundry Read Online Free

When she left Wolf Street it had been with not only anger but also relief at not having to trail any longer in her father’s dark wake. Not to be shocked out of sleep each morning by the knock of the filter against the rim of the sink as he dumped stale espresso grounds. No more shuffle of his slippers with the collapsed heel on the kitchen linoleum.
    Her father’s eyes, magnified behind the lenses of his glasses, froze people. It happened with Gypo, her boxing coach, when her father arrived at the gym with sixteen-year-old Tara in tow. Even Urbano’s closest friend, Vic, who ran the barbershop up the block from the Italian Market social club, fidgeted under his gaze. And when gifts appeared at their row home—pepper shooters stuffed with provolone and prosciutto, squid marinated in garlic and olive oil, bottles of home-distilled grappa—they were left on the front stoop. No one wanted to risk looking Urbano in the eye.
    Connor, on the other hand—how many hours had she spent on the edge of sleep thinking about how they weren’t right for each other? Or maybe their timing was off. Her thoughts orbited around him, never coming to rest. It was exhausting.
    From her bag she took out a notebook. He hated telephones. Back home, he’d hiss up at her window and they’d meet in the alley, then sit atop air conditioner compressors, kissing, while the rest of the neighborhood slept. Letters. He was old-fashioned like that.
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27 September 1997
Dear Connor,
I made it! Writing now from this cozy room with log rafters and wooden walls and a kitchenette. You should have seen me boarding that plane in Philly. I kept flipping the ashtray cover in the armrest until someone told me to stop. Then the wheels left the ground, and I could see the city stretched out below, shadow where Passyunk cut through, blip of aircraft warning lights on the radio towers by the Schuylkill River.
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    As she wrote, she could see him at a New York City post office, the faintest impression of crow’s-feet appearing at the corners of his gray eyes. A lightness in his stride as he walked to the coffee shop. Finding his favorite corner, using the blade of a knife to slice open the envelope.
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I slept most of the plane ride, then woke to my ears popping, trying to recall this dream I was having of my mother ahead of me on this pebble beach, pushing through the waves. No matter how loud I shouted she wouldn’t turn. Like she just wanted me to follow.
At the Bellingham ferry ticket counter this guy with a tattoo on his neck said, “Don’t get eaten alive up there. By mosquitoes, bears, or men.” I told him to fuck off. He was surprised and laughed. People seem much less serious here than in Philly. And the sky so much bigger and the trees tall and thick. These wide-open spaces, I’ve never seen anything like it.
And the ferry! Twice the size of the tugs on the Delaware, a smokestack painted with the Alaskan flag, and everyone on the top deck duct-taping tents to the cement. Chains clattered as the loading hatch banged shut, smoke went up, water churned with the propellers. As the buildings grew small behind us it hit me hard what I was doing. I could hardly breathe, I was so excited.
The first night there was this storm, and that did it for me sleeping in the tent. But on the third day the sun came out, and this land, Connor! Snow-covered mountains and sand beaches and trees stretching as far as the eye can see. The air so clean and salt-scented. We saw otters on their backs, seals with long whiskers barking as we passed. And the mountains, I can’t get over them, these glaciers jutting out from jaws of rock like swollen blue tongues. Ropey waterfalls falling from cliffs.
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    As she wrote she wondered when he would get over his annoyance at her leaving. Sometimes she wished he’d just lose his temper. But that wasn’t Connor. When she told him she was going to Alaska, his face grew