The ferry without a name

The crate of potatoes hit the dock hard enough to make the ferry’s bell ring.

It was a poor ring. The bell had no clapper, so the sound came from the crate striking its rim. Potatoes knocked against the wooden slats, and one rolled between my boots toward the water. I caught it with my heel.

“Careful,” I told Celia.

“I was careful. The crate wasn’t.” She looked from the truck to the ferry. “How many of these can you take?”

Behind her, the grocery truck sat at the end of the lane with its back doors open. The road over the ridge had closed an hour earlier when rain brought part of the bank down across it. The driver had made it as far as Tern before the barricades went up. Half his load belonged to Tern’s store. The other half was for Larch, across the reservoir.

Celia ran the store in Larch. She had ridden over that morning to argue with the supplier about bruised peaches and now had no way home except the long road south, which the driver said might close next. The boxes waiting on the dock held supper ingredients, bread for tomorrow, and the eggs she had promised three households. The boxes had already been paid for.

I hooked a finger under the ferry’s rail. There was tar beneath my nail from a seam I had touched up that morning. Six crates stood beside the truck, and the navy paint on the hull was still fresh enough to make me protective of it.

“I can take them,” I said.

Celia’s face loosened. “All of them?”

“Let’s get them aboard before the rain starts.”

That answer bought me three minutes in which I did not have to mention the load test.

I had taken the ferry out six times since I finished repairing her, always alone or with one passenger. Her motor was an old one, but it had started and run properly on every trip. I had never put a full grocery load on the deck. I meant to do it carefully, on a clear morning, with someone at each dock. Instead, I had six crates and a sky the color of wet wool.

The ferry had been sitting in lake mud when I found her. Mud had packed the gaps between her planks and sheltered patches of paint from the sun. I had spent eight months getting her afloat again, and enough of the wood still showed its old dents that I liked her better for it. I had painted the nameplate lime green and left it blank. The papers that came with the abandoned hull were a receipt for storage fees and a bill of sale from a man who could not show me who had sold it to him.

I wanted the ferry to carry people. I also wanted that first loaded trip to go well enough that the two villages would stop calling her “June’s project.”

By the time we finished loading, there was little room to stand. Celia climbed aboard with her account book under one arm. I took the stern. The ferry settled lower than I expected.

A voice from the lane said, “Put the bread back on the dock.”

Oren Pike came down the slope in his brown coat, walking fast despite the cane in his hand. He had run this crossing for twenty-three years. He had also spent most of my restoration asking whether I had checked things I had, in fact, checked, followed by things I had not.

“The bread weighs less than your coat,” I said.

“Then put my coat back too.”

He stopped beside the bow and looked along the waterline. The wind pushed a little chop against the hull. I loosened the dock line. The ferry moved the length of my forearm away from the timber, and a potato crate shifted against another with a hollow knock.

Oren held out his hand. “Line.”

I looked at the wet mark creeping across the deck near Celia’s shoe. It was only spray from a wave, but I had never seen it there on my earlier trips.

I passed Oren the line. He drew us snug to the dock again.

Celia looked at me. “Is something wrong with it?”

“I don’t know what it does with this much aboard,” I said. The words came out more quietly than I intended. “I haven’t finished testing it loaded.”

She stepped onto the dock at once. She took the account book with her.

“You could have told me that before I got in.”

“Yes.”

Oren did not improve the moment by agreeing aloud. He began handing crates ashore. I stayed aboard and passed them up. The ferry rose as each one left it. When the last crate was off, there was more dry deck beneath my feet than I had noticed before we loaded.

Celia folded her arms. “The driver says the ridge may be shut for two days.”

“We’ll take fewer crates,” Oren said.

“We?”

“I’m coming.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it. Oren had brought the ferry to both docks in fog and crosswind long before I was born. He had also come to my shed in April, seen the new planking, and told three people at the post office that I had made a lovely coffin lid.

“You can come if we agree on the loads together,” I said.

“I was going to insist on that.”

“Wonderful. We’ve had our first agreement.”

It took a while to sort the crates. Tern’s storekeeper arrived with her own list and carried her village’s boxes up the lane. Larch’s six remained on the dock. Celia wanted the bread first, because her baker had closed for a funeral. I wanted the potatoes first, because the crates were sturdy and would stay put. Oren asked which homes were waiting on the eggs. Celia named them, and we put eggs and bread in the first pair of crates.

The rain had not started, but a dark band lay above the far shore. Inez Bell came out of the boat shed carrying a coil of rope and stopped when she saw the cargo spread across the dock.

“Is this the test?” she asked.

“The test has become a meeting,” I said.

Inez made oars and repaired farm trailers. She had offered to help me with the ferry twice. I had declined twice, because by then I had told everyone I was restoring it myself, and I wanted the claim to stay true. She bent beside a crate and pressed the knot I had tied around it.

“This will rub loose,” she said.

“It held coming down from the truck.”

“The truck wasn’t moving like a boat.”

She looked at me until I handed her the rope. Then she went to work. I helped, letting her place my hands where she needed them. She checked the other places I had planned to secure cargo and found one fitting I had placed through a piece of new wood that was sound but too thin for the job I had given it. I had shaped that piece to match the old deck. I was fond of the fit.

Inez sat back on her heels. “I can replace it with the oak offcut in your shed. We’ll lose some time.”

The offcut was rough and streaked dark where an old nail had been. I looked over the water. Larch’s dock was visible as a brown stroke at the base of the hill.

“Get it,” I said.

I held the board while she fitted it. We worked in the open, with sawdust sticking to the damp paint and Celia checking the sky every few minutes. The new piece showed dark against the neighboring wood. When Inez was satisfied, she wiped her hands on her trousers and told me to load two crates.

Oren stood by while we did. Then he stepped aboard, carrying no bag and wearing no coat. He had left both on the dock. I could not bring myself to ask whether he had done it to save weight or to make a point.

The motor started on the second try, as it usually did. I eased us clear. The ferry lifted over the small waves with a motion I knew. Two crates rested where six had crowded the deck, and Celia remained ashore with the other four.

She raised the account book. “Bring my bread back dry.”

“That sounds like several requests,” I called.

“It is.”

Oren sat forward, one hand on the rail. For the first half of the crossing, he said nothing. I followed the open water toward Larch, where a pale strip of beach broke the dark trees.

“You’re taking the old approach,” he said at last.

“It’s the straight one.”

“It used to be. Water’s lower this year.”

He pointed to a bare patch beyond the reeds. From where I sat it looked like shore. Closer, I could see a bar of lake mud showing through the water, with a branch caught on it. I steered farther out. The branch passed to our left, its stripped twigs combing the surface.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’ve hit it before.”

I glanced at him. His cane lay across his knees, with the worn handle cupped under one palm.

When we reached Larch, three people waited at the dock. Celia’s husband, Bram, took the bread crate as though it contained glass. A woman in a red raincoat lifted out the eggs and checked the cartons before carrying them uphill.

“Where’s Celia?” Bram asked.

“Keeping the other four crates from leaving without us,” I said.

He looked past me at the weather. “You’ll make another trip?”

“Two.”

He sent a boy for his handcart. The boy ran, his boots slipping in the soft lake mud where the path met the dock. While we unloaded, the first drops of rain darkened the planks.

---

On the way back, Oren took a cloth from his pocket and wiped rain off the inside of the bell.

“You keep cleaning that thing,” I said, “and it’ll still have no clapper.”

“I know.”

He folded the cloth. We were near the middle of the reservoir when he said, “The last load they wanted me to take was quarry stone.”

I kept my eyes on Tern’s dock. “I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“That you refused and they dismissed you.”

“After I refused, they asked me to try with half. The ferry had a bad patch then. I’d written it down for the committee. They wrote back telling me to keep the route open.” He rubbed a spot on the cane handle with his thumb. “When I would not take the stone, their minutes said I abandoned the crossing. They held my last month’s pay.”

I had seen a copy of those minutes among the loose papers in the ferry’s locker. I had not seen his warning.

“I didn’t know they kept your pay,” I said.

“My wife was ill that winter. I asked for it until asking wore me out.” He looked toward the village. “You painted over the old scratches. People started telling me the boat had only needed someone willing to work.”

My first thought was of the rotten planks stacked behind my shed. I let him finish.

“I said I restored it myself,” I said. “I shouldn’t have let them say it was an easy job.”

“No,” he said.

The rain came harder. The motor kept its familiar beat, and we made the dock with enough light to see Celia standing under the truck’s open door.

Inez met us at the edge. She checked the new oak piece before looking at either of us. Then she helped load potatoes and a crate of onions, carrots, and canned tomatoes. They made a heavier pair than the first. Celia moved a few things into a smaller box and sent it back to the truck for Tern. We had enough space when we were done, though I still waited for the ferry to settle and watched it rise against the waves before I cast off.

Celia caught my sleeve. “If the rain gets worse, leave the last two.”

“I will.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You mean that?”

“I came back for fewer boxes. I can come back without any.”

She let go.

The second crossing was slower. Rain roughened the water, and I could no longer see the mud bar until we were well past it. Oren kept the Larch dock in view for me whenever it appeared between sheets of rain. Once, the potato crate gave three hard knocks as the ferry climbed a wave. I stopped looking at the far bank long enough to check it. Inez’s rope held.

At Larch, Bram had the handcart ready. He pushed it up the hill with the potatoes while Oren and I waited beneath the dock shelter. Water ran from the roof into a barrel. We could hear children in the store yard calling to ask what had arrived.

“There are two more crates,” I told Bram when he came back.

He looked at the strip of sky above Tern. “If you can manage.”

“We’ll see when we get there.”

The return took us into the rain. Halfway across, the wind shifted and put spray over the bow. I slowed. Oren braced one hand against the seat and watched the water. Neither of us spoke until the ferry was tied beside Tern’s dock.

Celia had brought the last two crates under cover. One held apples and cabbages. The other held jars, oatmeal, and the peaches she had spent the morning complaining about. A few peaches wore soft brown spots.

“We could wait,” she said.

I looked across the reservoir. Rain still fell there, but I could see the beach and the dock. The wind had eased. Beyond Larch, one low cloud had begun to lift from the trees. There was time for one careful crossing before dark if it stayed that way.

Inez came down from the shed with my lantern. She set it by the dock post and looked at me.

“Two crates,” I said. “Oren and me. If it changes on the water, we turn back.”

“Fine.” She put the lantern in my hand. “I’ll be here.”

“You’ve got a shop full of work.”

“The oak was mine. I’d like it back tomorrow if it falls off.”

I laughed, and she checked the ropes without smiling.

Celia stayed on the dock as we left. The last crossing began in rain and ended under a gap of clear sky, narrow enough to let a little evening light onto the water. We went well outside the mud bar. At Larch, Bram lifted the jars onto his cart. Celia’s sister arrived for the apples and opened a crate to find two cabbages on top.

“Where’s the rest?” she asked.

“Under them,” Oren said. “I checked. June would have made us fetch it.”

We carried the crates to the store ourselves. People were inside buying bread from the first trip. Bram’s handcart stood by the door with wet potato dirt on its boards. Celia’s sister took her account book out from under her raincoat and began marking off deliveries. She gave Oren a pencil and asked him to read the labels on the jars while I went back down to secure the ferry for the night.

The lime nameplate showed pale against the wet navy bow. I rubbed a streak of mud off it with my thumb. I had spent an afternoon making its edges smooth, though I still had no name I was entitled to put there.

---

The ownership meeting took place two evenings later in Tern’s school kitchen. Larch sent three people, Tern sent three, and the man who had sold me the hull came with a folder that did not answer the question anyone had asked him. I brought my receipts in a biscuit tin. Inez brought the rough oak offcut’s twin, because she had taken it for firewood before I asked her to keep it.

The road had reopened that morning. Celia sat beside Bram, filling in figures on an invoice while the committee settled into their chairs. Oren stood near the sink until Larch’s chairwoman, Ruth Vale, asked him to sit.

I had imagined this meeting often while sanding the ferry. In those versions I laid out the money I had spent, described the work, and came away with a signed paper and a boat I could name. The actual table held tea rings, damp coats, and three accounts of who had owned the ferry before it was left in the mud.

The sale to me covered the abandoned hull and its storage debt. An older paper called the ferry a loan to the two villages. Another named a company that had shut down years ago. Ruth read each page aloud, then placed them in a stack.

“We can’t settle title tonight,” she said.

I gripped the biscuit tin under the table. “I’ve kept every receipt.”

“We’ll copy them. We’re grateful for the work, June. The receipts don’t tell us who had the right to sell you the ferry.”

I knew that. It was why the nameplate was blank.

Ruth proposed that the villages hold the ferry at Tern’s dock while they traced the records. I could keep access to the shed and be repaid for agreed materials, once both village committees checked the figures. No scheduled crossing would begin until the ferry had been properly inspected. Ruth asked Inez to list the remaining work for the next meeting.

“I’d like to do the work for that inspection,” I said.

“You can,” Ruth said. “Inez has offered to help.”

“I have,” Inez said. “She can complain about my boards the whole time.”

There was a little laughter. I took the receipts out of the tin and pushed them toward Ruth. On top was the receipt for the paint I had bought to cover a stain that no longer bothered me.

“Oren should be there too,” I said. “He knew about the mud bar. He stopped us taking the first load.”

Ruth turned to him. He had folded his hands around the handle of his cane.

“I brought something,” he said.

From his coat pocket he took a creased copy of his warning about the ferry’s bad patch, dated twelve years earlier. Ruth read it. Then she opened the old minutes again, to the line that said he had abandoned the route.

“My father was on the committee then,” she said.

“I remember,” Oren replied.

“He’s dead. I can’t ask him why this was entered the way it was.”

“I’m asking you to enter what happened now.”

Ruth looked at the people from both villages. Nobody objected. She wrote a correction for the record and read it back to him. It said he had declined the quarry load after reporting the ferry’s condition, and that the old description of his departure was wrong. She said the committees would review his unpaid wages separately. Oren asked her to put that request in the minutes too. She did.

After the meeting, Celia caught me at the kitchen door.

“The driver wants to know whether you’re taking Thursday’s boxes,” she said.

“He’ll have to use the road.”

“If it stays open.” She tucked the invoice into her bag. “Bram says the potatoes arrived without a bruise.”

“That crate spent the trip trying to beat holes in itself.”

“He didn’t say they were quiet.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. Inez waited at the bottom of the school steps with the oak offcut under her arm. Oren had gone ahead toward the dock. I caught up with him where the lane turned and the reservoir came into view.

“I’ll be in the shed tomorrow,” I said. “If you want to come.”

“What time?”

“After breakfast.”

“I’ll bring the old landing maps.” He looked at me. “Some of them are wrong.”

“That sounds useful.”

At the dock, the ferry sat between two empty potato crates Bram had returned. Inez set down her wood, and together we carried the crates into the shed before the night damp got into them. When I came back, Oren was at the bow. He had lifted the clapperless bell to look at its rim, where the first crate had left a small bright mark.

He put it down gently. I tied the shed door shut, leaving the oak inside for morning, and the three of us walked up the lane.