The Last Karankawas(32)
THE MIGRANT
Schafer
He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Since childhood, he’s heard of Galveston: a distant land and, to Schafer, a boy from the rocks-and-river swath of the Hill Country, exotic as Madagascar. From Cab’s enthusiastic description—Beautiful island, man, palm trees and old houses and shit, you’d love it—he imagined more of an oasis. A postcard beach town.
It is a beach town, sure. He can tell from the air slipping damp fingers beneath the collar of his T-shirt, from the constant cry of gulls, ever-present even when not a bird is in sight, from the throng of pink, flip-flopped tourists weaving through the shops and brightly hued restaurants on Fisherman’s Wharf. But the water is all wrong, a murky, silty brown beneath the spiny blanket of seaweed. Sea salt and diesel fill his nostrils—that’s probably wrong, too.
Cab was right. Schafer loves it immediately.
He unrolls his shoulders to loosen the knots. It was a long drive, longer still with the I-45 traffic. He parked just past the touristy stretch of Fisherman’s Wharf, where there are fewer people and more boats. Past the palm tree tops and roofs of buildings, he can see many masts rising, tall and slim as tally marks. He sweeps the sweaty strands of his hair beneath his ball cap and walks that way.
He is sweating harder by the time he reaches the pier. But there are the boats. Row upon row of shrimpers, trawlers, fishing boats, oyster boats. They bear the badges of hard work: metal glinting beneath a sunburn of rust, wood so battered it is worn soft and feathery as down, splotches where the paint has peeled or faded away, streaks of tar. They are blocky and squat; they were built for hard jobs by hard men and will never be beautiful. Yet they seem to sit atop that brown water so lightly, rocking with the movement like dancers, as if defiant of their shape.
They seem empty, but he spots someone moving on one of the boats farther down the pier. He recognizes it as a shrimper from its long arms that reached out on either side. That’s where the nets would fall, he thinks, fluttering in the wind and the ocean currents like wings.
“Afternoon.”
The guy lifts his head as Schafer calls out, his hands wrapped in coils of rope. “Afternoon.”
“Good-looking shrimper you got here.”
The guy lifts a forearm, swipes at the sweat collecting beneath the brim of his cap. “She pulls her weight.”
“What’s the name mean?” Schafer nods at the side of the boat, where the faded letters read La Cigüe?a.
The guy pauses a moment, then shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”
“Oh. Hey. Sorry, I guess I thought—”
“That because I’m brown I know Spanish? Nah.” He smiles cheerfully. “I get shit for it all the time. Anyway, she’s the Cig to us.” He wipes his palm on his cargo shorts, then holds it out. “Jess.”
“Schafer.” They shake. “How long you been on crew?”
Jess returns to untangling the rope. “About six years, I guess. Seems like forever.”
“The season just started, right? Y’all hiring?”
Jess pauses again and looks warily at him. “You’re looking for work?”
“Always.”
“Shrimping work?”
“I’ll take anything.”
Jess thinks a moment, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Vinh’s usually looking for more hands in the fall season. It’s not regular or nothing, and the pay’s shit.”
Schafer shrugs.
“You ever worked a shrimper before?”
“No, but I’ve worked on boats for a while. I learn fast. And I need something—different. From what I was doing before.” He can tell Jess is waiting for him to say more, but when he doesn’t, the other man nods.
“We’re going out again day after tomorrow. Vinh should be here tonight, checking that I did this shit right. Come by around nine and tell him you talked to me.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Thank me later.” Jess lifts the ropes again. “When you’ve spent a day on the Cig.”
* * *
The best part about being in the Army was the routine—others bristled at the rigorous schedule, but Schafer slipped into it as effortlessly as a bathtub. Four years. Three tours. When people asked if it was hard over there, he wanted to say, You know the damnedest thing about it is it’s harder here. Here, no one divided his life into bite-size pieces he wouldn’t choke on. Choices he’d once thought normal—go out and watch a movie or just pick one up to rent—now caused the breath to back up in his chest, lodge in his throat. He had forgotten how to ease through a day. But he couldn’t say that to anyone; instead he shrugged and gave them the answer they were looking for, something along the lines of It was hard, but goddamn was I proud to defend my country.
Laurie liked that response; he could tell from the way she lifted her chin whenever he said it. Since he’d come back to Kerrville after his last tour, when they went anywhere, she usually stood beside him in what he thought of as her Jackie pose. Someone would approach—recognizing him from his pictures in the paper or from the bulletin board at the Baptist church—drawing nearer to slap a hand on his shoulder or clasp his palm and say, Thankyouforyourservicesongodblessyou, and Laurie’s arm would suddenly entwine with his, her face tipped over in a way that emphasized the hollows beneath her cheekbones, her direct gaze, a poised woman both solemn and beautiful in that moment.