They always show the birds on TV. Black all over, matted, and unrecognizable. I wonder if the people watching even know what the birds looked like before. Vero used to track the murres around the sound. Their heads were always black, but their feathers were snow white. I told Vero’s kid once that if the fish stopped coming, we’d have to hunt the birds. She cried and cried. Stupid joke. Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead now, the fish, the birds, Vero. They never put Vero on the TV, only the birds.
The phone rings. June is calling me, asking me to speak at Vero’s funeral. Vero’s not the first to kill himself, but it’s worse this time. I walk by his house and see the boat out front. I see our twenty seasons together. The fog reminds me of the mornings on the sound, working and laughing. I want to tell her yes, but I can’t. June doesn’t know about the check. Vero didn’t either. He would hate me if he knew. And I think he’d be right. I give her some bullshit excuse, “I’m not much for public speaking,” and hang up on her. Then, stare down at the check.
“Holy shit”. I blink but it’s still there staring at me when I peer again. The relief is temporary, but powerful. More money than I ever made fishing. Enough to pay my mortgage for three months. After months of nothing, the check is salvation. But the corner of the check glares at me, and bitterness steals my excitement. Vero would hate me. And now, I have to take it to First National. Our bank, the fishermen. The new-in-towns and the Exxon whores all bank at the Wells Fargo, but not us, not the fishermen. We’ve always been with First National, anyone who is actually from Cordova, anyway.
“Good morning,” The teller, Cole’s wife, recognizes me.
“Just dropping this off,” I mumble, practically whispering. She glances at the check, and pauses. She noticed it. Shit. Her lip curls. Disappointment. Anger.
“Deposit or cash today?” She is cold and short.
The man behind me is someone I knew before the spill, another fisherman. He greets me, but I can’t respond. Shame stole my voice. I shrug at him, and wander home. I want to cry, but I don’t.
The birds are on the TV again. I stare at them all day. I don’t want to see the stupid dead birds anymore. I wait to see a hurt person, like Vero. But they’re always birds. I never watched TV before. We fished every day we could, Vero and me. We had a job to do and a life. Vero put a TV on the boat one season. He wanted to watch Family Feud, but we never had time and one day it busted. He never replaced it. If we watched TV, we were drunk at Cole’s.
Cole’s Bar is packed. It usually is now. It’s mostly new people here. Clean-up people, journalists, whoever the hell else. They’re here for the birds. They’re young and they keep putting shitty music on jukebox. I liked when I knew everybody’s name here. Walking in and saying hello to Don and his boy. They were always here. It isn’t like that anymore and it won’t ever be again. Don left when the fish stopped coming. I don’t want to know these people’s names. They didn’t know Vero’s name, and they don’t know mine. They’re here for the birds. The scent of cheap cologne has taken over, but it used to smell like salmon guts. I used to smell like salmon guts too. We all did. I miss that smell. Cole is behind the bar. At least that hasn’t changed.
“CC on the rocks,” I wave him over.
Nothing.
“Cole!” Nothing. He heard me; I know he heard me. There’s hurt on his face. His scowl tells me what I need to know. He hates me, just how Vero would. He shoves the glass across the bar and hurries away. The new-in-towns don’t glare at me, but everyone else does. They found out about the check. Cole’s wife told that man behind me at the bank, of course, before getting home and telling Cole. Word travels fast here, and once Cole knows, everyone does. I stare into the glass. The pale brown liquid reminds me of the water, only cleaner. I pound the whiskey and trudge out of Cole’s. I can get drunk at home with the birds on TV.
The surface of the sound isn’t black anymore. The black stuff is further down. It sinks lower every day. Not because of anything we’re doing. The chemicals we put in the water coagulate the oil so we can drag it out. They tell us we’re making a difference, but I doubt it. It’s just so they can tell the TV people that they are helping the birds. I don’t care about the birds. The water is still dirty. There still aren’t salmon. Vero’s still dead. The only thing we’re cleaning is their reputation. The Exxon men on the boat with me don’t know what it was like here before the fisheries closed. The sun hit the water differently. The light sat on the surface and danced with the waves. Vero and me were out here every day as the sun rose. It was beautiful. Even in the winter, when we couldn’t fish, we’d go to Shepard Point to watch the sun rise. Vero would piss into the water and laugh. I laughed, too. Now our lives are oil and dead birds. These Exxon men only know us like this, sick and covered in oil. I don’t talk to them, unless forced. They’re too young and they’ll be gone when the money goes away. Still, I’m out here with them. I feel dirtier than the water.
I try to call Cole, but he won’t answer. I want to explain it to him, about the check. I want to tell him I’m on your team. I’ve lived here my whole life and I care. Not about the birds, but about us. The fishermen, the people. It doesn’t matter. I’m an Exxon whore now. I am alone. Without thinking, I try to call Vero, too. June answers. I hang up. My stomach twists when I hear her voice. Does she know about the check? I want to cry, but nothing comes. The birds are on the TV and they can’t judge me. I stare. I get drunk at home.
I wake up to the paper hitting my door. The obituaries plaster two pages this week. More than usual but unsurprising. They took down Glancy’s boat shed and put ten more parking spots at the funeral home. Vero kept the boat at Glancy’s in the offseason. I wonder what else will disappear.
Vero Tomlin
1944-1990
Survived by his wife, June, and daughter, Maria. A celebration of life will be held at-
I stop reading, I already know the rest.
The service is well attended. Other fisherman, mostly. They don’t look at me. Cole and his wife glare. We used to sit and eat together. They laughed at my jokes and smiled when I saw them. Now, they just glare. June’s trying to smile at the guests as they walk past the urn. I shake her hand with my head down. She doesn’t know yet, that I’m an Exxon whore. I can tell from her voice. She’ll know after this. Their eyes attack me from all sides. I imagine them whispering what I know they are thinking
“Fuck you for taking their money.”
“Fuck you for being here.”
I want to explain myself, to tell them I’m not like them, but it doesn’t matter. I still get a check every two weeks. Vero never got a check. Never will. Vero’s kid gets up and speaks, mostly about fishing. She’s brilliant. I remember when she was born. Vero took the whole month off. He never missed a day before that. She came out with us on the bay the last few summers. She made a great deckhand. Once we got caught in a storm. Vero was calling out orders but I could hardly keep up with them. She ran the bilges while I cut the net. She was only 13 then, but she was fearless. Now, she sobs through her words. I want to cry, but I don’t. I’m not a bird and nobody cares.
That night, I go to the beach. I cover myself in the sludge. I drink the filthy water and chew on the blackened sand, feeling the grit between my teeth. I must look horrible; all black and matted, sick and dying. I wait for the TV cameras to arrive. I am a stupid dead bird.
Image – USGov-DOC-NOAA, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. A pool of oil from the Exxon oil spill. Large globs of black oil clumped together.
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