Ace
Unalaska Island and the town of Dutch Harbor lay in the middle of the string of Aleutian Islands that dribble toward Russia off the tip of Alaska. Fran Corbran walked uphill to the cemetery one last time before flying back to the mainland. Her husband, Ace, had died the year before, mysteriously, while captaining his boat, the Dugan Royal, on a fishing trip.
It was early summer so Fran spread a plaid wool blanket on the still green grass and sat down comfortably. The water off shore appeared its usual deep blue. Fran remembered these last months. The inquest had been painful for her with rumors about a large claw found punched through Ace’s chest, a claw the size of a boomerang. Her husband had been buried at sea per his last will. The coffin had been closed because that had been her final wish for him.
“Damn you, Ace,” she said. His name tasted bitter in her mouth.
She remembered trying to run the fishing company herself. But she was just not cut out for that kind of a life. Especially with several other fishermen mysteriously disappearing at sea. Fishing was not why she’d moved to Alaska. She’d moved here because Ace was her last chance for love. She ended up selling the business to a corporation formed by a few of her former employees. In fact she had just signed the last of the papers that very morning in the old office in Dutch Harbor.
“Damn you, Ace,” she mouthed again. Saying it felt less bitter.
Fran looked at her watch. 10:00 AM. Still plenty of time to catch her flight. She snapped open her purse and pulled out her only remaining photo of Ace. It showed him drunk in the Sports Bar, his hat on upside down. He liked to sing karaoke there, she didn’t.
“Damn you, Ace.”
Slowly and carefully, Fran tore up the photo. She tore it into smaller and smaller pieces. At last, a handful of confetti, she let the photo fly free into the summer breeze.
She wanted to say goodbye, but her voice still said, “Damn you, Ace.” She lacked courage.
Finally free of Ace, all cords cut, Fran stood and looked one last time at the view. The distant hills, still snow-capped in summer. The black beaches full of stones. The eagles along the wharf standing there like big rats with feathers waiting to scavenge food. What had the newspaper said just that morning? About eagles disappearing?
Inside her purse she heard her cell phone play music.
“Hello?”
“This is Betty. Duncan’s wife.”
“Oh. Hi, Betty.”
“We just wanted to let you know how much we miss Ace, and how much we’ll miss you too.”
“Thanks Betty. That’s very kind of you.”
“When you get back to the mainland, use your computer to visit Flickr.com. We uploaded a bunch of photos of you and Ace. To help you, you know, remember.”
“That’s nice. Bye.”
Fran snapped her phone shut. She looked at it for a moment, then dropped the phone to the grass by her feet.
“Damn you, Ace.” She kicked the phone with her toe.
Fran started walking down the hill. Away from Unalaska. Away from the blanket given to her one Christmas. Away from the cell phone and the wrongful kindness of others. Away from the view, always so spectacular. Away from the mysterious deaths. Away from Ace.
“Goodbye,” she finally had the courage to say. “Goodbye, Ace.”