Stone Junction

‘You and Daniel, right here.’

‘Dubuque?’

‘Here,’ Elmo said, pointing at the deck. ‘We want you to restore the Baton Rouge to her previous glory. The drydock stuff ’s all done; she just needs the finish work. Use the four grand to get started. When you run out, call Dave Jaspars and mention the Historical Restoration account – he’s in the book. He’s your contact here. Any emergency, let him know.’

‘Whoa,’ Annalee said, head cocked. ‘How do you want it done? Shit, how do we do it? We’ve pounded nails and cut boards, but that was ranch-style construction – we’re hardly skilled. And what about colors and stuff? I mean––’

Elmo cut her off. ‘Listen, you figure it out. We don’t let dummies in AMO.’

‘Can we live on the boat?’ Daniel was enthralled by the prospect.

‘Sort of assumed you would, but you don’t have to. Us, we have to make some tracks.’

Annalee and Shamus kissed farewell with feeling. ‘Gold doesn’t rust,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll see you again.’

‘Promises, promises,’ Annalee murmured, then held him fiercely as she fought tears.

Shamus shook hands with Daniel, and accompanied Elmo down the boarding ramp and up the dock. Annalee watched till they disappeared across the landing. When she finally turned to look for Daniel, he was leaning against the railing behind her, watching the gray Mississippi slide by. She went over beside him at the rail and put her arm around him. ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘what do you think?’

Still gazing at the river, Daniel said, ‘It’s just like Mark Twain described it. Beautiful and ugly at the same time.’

It took Annalee and Daniel nearly two years and $52,000 to refinish the City of Baton Rouge. For Daniel, the time passed quickly. When he wasn’t sanding the walnut stairs or painting one of the forty staterooms, his nose was buried in any book he could find on the subject of riverboats – especially their construction, appointments, and history. The old, grainy photos of the Natchez, the Grand Republic, the Robert E. Lee, and the Mary Powell moved him with their power and grace. He read about the great races, disastrous wrecks, and other river legends; the courageous captains and slick gamblers and the wily, drunken roustabouts. In the late evening, checking his set-line at the end of the dock for catfish, he imagined the whistles and bells of ghost riverboats passing in the mist. Each bit of knowledge, each feeling, brought a deeper and more passionate respect to his daily work on the City of Baton Rouge.

For Annalee, though, time moved as slowly and sluggishly as the Mississippi itself. The sense of accomplishment that animated Daniel didn’t move her as solidly. The work was interesting, challenging, and rewarding, but it didn’t thrill her – not the way the run from the Four Deuces had, not like the touch of Shamus’s glove at the base of her spine.

She phoned Dave Jaspars whenever they needed money for material or tools. The first time she’d called, he’d told her there was an account at the local First National Bank under her paper name of Maybelline Wyatt. She was now the widowed daughter of J. C. Allsop, a Louisiana sugarcane tycoon and original owner of the City of Baton Rouge, its landing facilities, and forty acres of adjoining riverfront property – all of which she’d recently inherited upon his untimely death in a New Orleans brothel. In a rather feminine voice, Dave Jaspars explained that the boat would be used as a communications center and occasionally for large meetings. To Daniel’s sharp disappointment, however, the steam engine would not be replaced, nor would any other means of locomotion be installed. The City of Baton Rouge would remain moored.

As the work progressed, there was never a quibble over expenses or style. Every call requesting money was answered with a prompt deposit in her account, and no issue of taste or method was raised. They never met Dave Jaspars. No one from AMO came to inspect their work. The only visitors were occasional riverboat nuts (whom Daniel always invited to dinner and pillaged for lore) and the workmen they hired for special tasks. Daniel, who favored wood heat and the original oil-lamp chandeliers, was disgusted by the power lines and the backup generators in the engine room.

Annalee had hoped they would finish by Daniel’s twelfth birthday, but they’d just started painting the dining room when March arrived. Annalee had given him his major birthday present – an excellent telescope – that morning, so when they’d finished his birthday dinner, they took the telescope up to the top deck and looked at the winter constellations. The chilly, wind-whipped evening soon sent them inside to the captain’s dining room, which they’d made their own. Daniel waited at the head of the table while Annalee ducked into the galley and immediately reappeared with his birthday cake, twelve candles blazing, and set it in front of him as she sang happy birthday. Daniel’s eyes glistened in the candlelight.

‘Don’t forget to make a wish before you blow them out,’ she reminded him.

Daniel thought for a moment, took a deep breath and blew out all the candles except the one in the center. Annalee quickly reached over and pinched it out.

‘I guess I don’t get my wish,’ Daniel said. Annalee seldom heard self-pity in his voice. She didn’t know how to respond to his sudden shift in mood. ‘You know what I wished?’ Daniel said, then continued before she could answer. ‘I wished I knew who my father was.’

She grasped the connection with his birthday, but she was still stunned. She sat down across from him, feeling suddenly old and helpless. ‘I’ve told you before, Daniel – I don’t know. I was young and crazy and lost. I was sleeping with anyone who’d hold me warm all night. It could have been a number of men. I wish I could tell you.’

‘Tell me,’ Daniel cried. ‘Tell me! You have to know!’

‘I can’t, Daniel. I honestly don’t know.’

‘Liar!’ He exploded from his seat. ‘Tell me!’ He raised his right arm and smashed his fist down on the cake.

Annalee slapped him so hard it numbed her hand. Daniel staggered, barely catching himself against his chair. He brought his frosting-smeared hand to his cheek, blinking rapidly at the tears.

‘Goddammit, you little shit,’ Annalee yelled, ‘it hurts. Do you think it doesn’t hurt me too?’