No Good Brother. Tyler Keevil

and raised a spoon of stew to give it a taste. She smacked her tongue theatrically, making it clear she intended to leave me wondering.

      ‘Say,’ I said, as if it had just occurred to me. ‘Is Albert about?’

      ‘Down in the engine room.’

      ‘Still at it.’

      ‘Always.’

      I kicked off my boots and headed that way, down the short hall between the two cabins where we slept – one for Albert and Evelyn, one for us grunts – and down a short stepladder. The engine room was divided from the rest of the boat by a hatch, which was ajar. I pushed it open. Inside it was cramped and low and you had to hunch over as you walked to avoid cracking your head. Albert was lying on his back, shining a flashlight at the underside of some pipework.

      ‘Problems, Captain?’

      ‘Nothing that ain’t fixable. Leaking a bit of coolant.’

      I hunkered down beside him, squatting on my haunches, and watched him work for a bit. He reached for a wrench lying next to him, fitted it to a nut on one of the pipes, and gave it a twist. He held his palm beneath the joint, waiting to see if that had done the trick.

      ‘Need a hand?’ I asked.

      ‘I’ll tell you when you get around to asking whatever it is you want to ask.’

      ‘Okay, then.’ I sat for a time, staring at the joint rather than Albert. ‘That fellow in the truck today – that was my brother.’

      ‘The troublemaker.’

      ‘He ain’t all that bad.’

      ‘Thought he did time in Ferndale.’

      ‘That was a while back.’

      ‘And?’

      There was an oil rag on the floor at my feet. I picked that up and began wrapping it around my bad hand, for no real reason.

      ‘He’s only in town for a day, and wants to see me tonight.’

      ‘You don’t get shore leave till Saturday.’

      ‘I know that.’

      ‘Nobody leaves the boat until she’s in shape.’

      ‘I know that too.’

      Albert shook his head and made a sound, sort of disgusted. At first I thought it was a reaction to what I’d asked, but he held up his hand, showing me the greenish glisten of coolant.

      ‘Washer must be shot.’

      He went to work with his wrench again.

      He said, ‘If I let you go, what do I tell the other guys?’

      I didn’t have an answer to that, so I didn’t try.

      ‘Can’t very well let you go and keep them here.’

      ‘No sir. Reckon not.’

      ‘But you want me to make an exception, so you can meet your no-good brother.’

      ‘I told you – it ain’t that he’s no good.’

      I said it sharper than I normally would have. It registered. I could tell by the way Albert paused, just for a second, in twisting that nut. Then he kept working it until it came loose, and with his forefinger fished out the old washer. He gave it to me. ‘Pass me another, will you? Should be in the top of the toolbox, front-left compartment.’

      I found a new one and handed it over and waited while he fitted it. There was no use negotiating or haggling with him.

      He said, ‘We’re having Tracy over for tea and pie.’

      ‘Evelyn told me.’

      ‘Did she now?’

      ‘She was acting pretty mysterious about something.’

      He looked at me, and I could tell by the look that he was in on it, whatever it was.

      ‘It’s important to Evelyn. I suppose you want to skip that, too.’

      ‘Tracy is working the night shift, so won’t stay late. I could go after.’

      He was twisting the nut back on, turning the wrench in swift rotations. On his upper forearm he had this tattoo of a heart, pink and sun-faded, which shifted with each movement.

      ‘I can’t give you permission to do that, Tim.’

      I stared at the oil rag, at my bad hand.

      ‘I figured that would be the case,’ I said.

      ‘But if you slip away – say after we’re all down – I might look the other way.’

      ‘Thanks, Albert. Thanks for that.’

      ‘I ain’t doing you no favours. If you get caught, or they see you, I’ll come down hard on you just the same.’

      He tightened the nut the last few turns, snugging it into place. On the last twist the wrench trembled with tension and the muscles in his forearm flexed. When it was done he nodded, satisfied, as if that had decided it.

       Chapter Two

      Before dinner, while we waited for Tracy, I hopped on dish duty. I wanted to get a head start, and I suppose make amends in advance for what I intended to do later. So I stood at the sink and scrubbed away at Evelyn’s pots and pans. In the window above the sink I could see the reflection of the others sitting at the galley table behind me, their images transparent and ghost-like. There was Sugar and Albert and Evelyn and Big Ben, Sugar’s nephew: a quiet kid with a buzz cut and a scar across his nose, who’d joined the crew the same season as me. The four of them were talking about hockey and listening to Gram Parsons. It was one of Albert’s scratchy old cassettes, and the ragged vocals always reminded me of Jake, the way Jake used to sing.

      Evelyn still hadn’t said any more about her little secret. She’d told me I had to wait till Tracy got there. Since I was at the window I spotted her first: clambering over the port-side gunnel. Like her mother she was strong and solidly built and at ease on the boats and water. When she straightened up she saw me and smiled, her cheeks burnished red from the cold.

      ‘Company’s here,’ I said.

      Albert got up and hurried to open the door for his daughter, reaching it just as she did.

      ‘Should have called out,’ he said. ‘Would have helped you aboard.’

      ‘I’m training to run this boat, Dad. Reckon I can board it myself.’

      Big Ben shook her hand and Sugar told him that was no way to greet a lady, then demonstrated by wrapping Tracy up in a bear hug and lifting her right off the ground. He’d known her since she was six years old and could make that kind of thing seem completely natural. I shuffled over to join them, and when it came my turn to greet Tracy I hugged her as well, though with me it was different. I hugged her cautiously, as if she were a cousin or a formal acquaintance. I always worried, hugging her, that it would seem improper in front of Albert.

      ‘Let’s all sit down,’ Evelyn said.

      ‘I just got the pots to finish.’

      ‘Oh, leave the dishes, Tim. We have company.’

      We sat around the galley table, pulling up a pair of extra chairs for Tracy and me. Evelyn put on her oven mitts – these mitts in the shape of flippers we got her two seasons back – and brought the stew over to the table, along with homemade buns and a bowl of salad. This was all dished out, plate by plate, and the plates were handed around the table to the person on the end: Sugar, in this case. That was how we did it. Everything we did on the boat had its own ritual, and eating dinner was no different.

      As we ate we chatted