by Drew Jordan
Or maybe that was me.
He did the same thing with the soup that he did with the water. He came to the bed, sat down next to me, and spooned its warmth into my mouth. It tasted delicious and after swallowing, I opened for another bite. I should have protested, should have told him I was able to feed myself, let him go about his chores so I didn’t inconvenience him, but I didn’t. I just leaned against the headboard and opened for him, half a dozen times. I watched, trying to gauge his mood, noting the length of his eyelashes and the squareness of his jaw. He looked at me from time to time, and I couldn’t read anything in his expression. But mostly he kept his gaze trained on my lips and the spoon as it traveled from bowl to mouth.
Though when I licked my lip I could have sworn I saw lust buried there in those icy depths.
“I think that’s enough for now,” I whispered. It was a hearty vegetable soup and for whatever reason it filled me up quickly. “What time is it?”
He glanced toward the window. “About six o’clock.”
I’d left Fairbanks at ten am. I wanted to calculate what that meant- how long Sean had carried me, but I was too exhausted. I sighed and sank down a little into the pillow. “Is there a… restroom I could use?”
“There is,” he said. “But as it’s outside, I’d suggest we put these pants on you first.”
I discarded the Sean name. That was wrong, too. “Outside?” Oh, Lord. It was an outhouse. I should have figured that out but it was still a shock. How did he pee when it was forty below? “Right. Of course.”
“So you’re from Washington state, Laney? What do you do in the land of Starbucks and Microsoft?”
“I work in a store.” I reached for the sweatpants he had grabbed from the bottom of the bed, but he ignored me.
The comforter was yanked back by him, exposing my legs and my panties. The cold air brought goose bumps to my skin and I blushed for some stupid reason. He’d undressed me already. It was ludicrous to be modest now. Maybe it was just a knee-jerk reaction to being exposed to a stranger. He shot me a curious look.
“What kind of store?”
“Clothes.” I didn’t feel like going into detail with him. He would think it was lame, I could already tell. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared if it wasn’t for the fact that I was only doing it because I didn’t know what else to do with my life. I’d gone to college and gotten a degree in sociology and then had tried to find a job doing… sociology things. My stepfather had told me those jobs didn’t exist and it turns out he was right. I was willing to admit that. But now after two years out of school I had no clue what I actually wanted to do. This guy made me feel frivolous for my indecisiveness. I bet he was never indecisive.
“I guess this isn’t the fashion statement you’d like to make.” He lifted my bad ankle and gently eased it into the pant leg.
“I don’t give a shit about fashion,” I said, and it came out more vehemently than I meant it to. “I almost died.” That was the second time I’d said it since we’d gotten to his cabin. Maybe I wanted more of an acknowledgment of the trauma. I was still freaked out and he just wasn’t.
“I know. But I guess here we face death more readily.” He put my other foot in the pant leg and eased them up.
I lifted my ass up a little so he could finish the job.
He had them up to my waist, but he paused for a minute, his fingers pressing into my bare skin. “Do you trust me?” he asked, eyes intense.
“Yes.” I nodded. What other answer could there be?
“Don’t.” He stepped back. “Never trust anyone in the bush until you know one hundred percent for sure you can.”
I blinked, startled.
“Make me earn your trust. Push me. Test me. Then trust me.”
Suddenly I needed to get away from him. He confused me, frightened me. Intrigued me. I couldn’t help it. He aroused feelings in me that he shouldn’t. “Take me to the outhouse,” I demanded. I just wanted to go pee and then close my eyes and fall asleep and forget any of this had ever happened.
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
Was it sarcasm or had I actually earned his respect? I couldn’t tell.
He went and put a shirt on then brought me a bottle of Advil. “Take four.”
My fingers still weren’t working right and I couldn’t get the bottle open. I placed it on the nightstand, frustrated and in pain so deep and aching, I felt sick to my stomach again.
He came over, opened the bottle and shook out four pills. He dropped them in my hand without a word.
“Thank you.” I popped two of them into my mouth and drank some water quickly, then repeated the process.
He was pulling his boots and jacket back on. I swung my legs over and tried to tentatively put my feet on the floor. I figured I could hop a little and he could let me rest on his arm. But he stood up and glared at me.
“What are you doing? I’ll carry you.”
Maybe his name was TJ for The Jerk. Why was he the cranky one? I guess because I was inconveniencing him. It’s not like I was having fun. “What if I don’t trust you to carry me?”
A grin split his face for the first time. “Good answer, Laney. Good answer.” He came toward me, arms out in a peace offering. “Let me prove it to you. You can trust me.”
It wasn’t like I had a choice. If I wanted to use the outhouse, I needed his help. “And what happens if I start trusting you?” By then I’d be leaving. Someone would come for me, or the stranger would take me to town.
He swept me up into his arms easily. His shirt smelled like pine needles. I wrapped my hands around his neck.
“If you trust me you’ll find it to be a very pleasant experience.”
I didn’t dare to look up at him. Instead I focused on the necklace he wore. It looked like a piece of bone on a leather strap. Glossy, white, pure. He set me down on the kitchen chair and got another jacket off the hook and a hat, which he crammed onto my head, sending my hair into my eyes. I swiped at it then put my arms through the jacket he held out for me.
When he picked me back up, the jostling bounced my bladder but it was nothing compared to my ankle. There was definitely no way I could walk. He opened the door and stepped outside, kicked it shut behind us. I blinked at the blinding whiteness of the sun on the snow. But I could see we were surrounded by trees, nothing but trees, and in front of the cabin were the dogs, each on its own chain, next to a little wood doghouse. There were random things covered in tarps around the property and unlike a front porch back home, there were no rocking chairs on this one. It was stacked floor to roof with wood on one side, and a chainsaw on the other, sitting on an overturned bucket.
Going down the steps, we jostled a little but he held me without effort. He wasn’t even breathing hard. In the yard, if you could call it that, was an ax sticking out of a stump. Between several trees were a couple of logs about fifteen feet in the air and there were sacks swinging on rope from it. I wasn’t sure what they were, but as we moved closer to it I realized it was animal carcasses strung up. The bags were patchy with dried blood. My stomach flipped. Then I realized the one on the end wasn’t in a bag yet. It was a deer or a moose, I couldn’t really tell from the angle of it hanging by hooves, and I honestly wasn’t well versed in animal identification, but its blank eyes stared at me, and blood was dripping down into the muddy snow below. Drip, drip, drip.
Like the pilot on the plane.
I buried my head in the stranger’s chest and smelled deeply, afraid I was going to throw up again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, stopping in front of a small wooden shed. His fingers stroked the back of my head in a way that I desperately needed.
“The blood. It just reminds me of the accident.”
His lips brushed across my hair, like a father to a child. Or so I told myself. It wasn’t sexual though, if it couldn’t be classified as paternal either. But comforting. “It’s okay,” he said. “That’s not death, that’s dinner.”
It didn’t really make
me feel any better. Nor did it please me when he tried to take me into the outhouse. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” He had set me down on my good foot and he was starting to pull my pants down.
“I can do it.” It was super embarrassing. This was no hospital and he was no male nurse. He was a man. I was not letting him take my panties down and stand there while I peed in a hole.
He hesitated but then he backed out of the outhouse. He gave me a hard look. “Let me know if you need me.”
“Okay.” Tottering on my good leg, trying not to show how much pain I was in, I went to pull my pants down and forgot about the laceration in my arm. Shooting daggers of pain went through my arm. “Shit,” I murmured under my breath. I took my pants down one handed in an awkward tug and shove. Finally I was on the bench and doing my thing in total relief. How did anyone do this in the middle of the night? I guessed you held it.
Somehow I managed to get my pants mostly up, though my panties were rolled at the waist and half up my ass. When I pushed the door back open, I couldn’t look him in the eye. He wasn’t waiting at the outhouse though. He was in the yard, playing with one of the dogs, who was still chained up. He was rubbing the dog’s head, murmuring to him, smiling, and playing a game of pull with the bone in the dog’s mouth. It made him look so much more… normal. Just a guy and his dog, playing in the yard. Except this was the middle of nowhere in Alaska and he was if not a survivalist, certainly living what Michael had told me was a subsistence lifestyle. The stranger provided for himself, eating animals he shot, and heating his cabin with wood he chopped.
But I wasn’t even sure that was what made him abnormal. It was something else. Something that seemed to simmer below the surface. It was all the things he wasn’t saying, from his name to his plan for returning me to civilization, to his lack of questions about me. Maybe that wasn’t crazy or weird at all. Maybe he was being polite, giving me space. Or maybe he was living in isolation for a reason that extended far beyond discomfort with social situations. Maybe he was insane.
Right now he didn’t look even remotely insane and I wanted to believe that the only thing off was what he had said- his social skills were rusty. Because I’d already been afraid enough in those two minutes before the crash and the minutes after to exempt me from fear for a lifetime, in my opinion. I didn’t deserve to be afraid of my rescuer, so I decided I wasn’t going to be. Even if he was a little different.
A man who played with his dog couldn’t be a crazed killer or anything.
I could almost hear my stepfather scoffing in my head.
“Bullshit,” he’d say. “Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances.”
I knew that wasn’t true. Some people, like me, would never be able to purposefully take another human being’s life. If murder was so easy, so natural to us, then why didn’t more people kill? Because death was terrifying, our own or someone else’s. Hopping forward a couple of steps, I let the outhouse door slam behind me to get his attention. I wanted to lie down. I wanted to cry. I wanted my mom. God, how long had it been since I wanted or needed a hug from my mother?
Forever. Since I was fourteen or fifteen most likely. Not that she would have given it to me, because she never did. But I had still wanted her to change, right up until around the time it was clear she was spending more money than my stepfather had and hanging around a lot with his best friend, my “Uncle Jim.” Such a fucking cliché. So ridiculous. And in the end, she’d landed her own ass in federal prison and my baby sister Victoria was without a mom.
That’s why I’d been on my way to Fort Yukon. To see if I could marry Michael and take Victoria in the summers and give her an escape and my stepfather a break. Or maybe I was running away. Escaping. Like other people who had moved here. I wondered again if anyone knew yet I was missing. Michael must be worried. Had he called my stepfather?
The stranger looked over at the noise. I was shivering, despite the jacket. I wasn’t used to it being below freezing so early in the fall. I wanted to start walking toward the house, to be independent. But I was exhausted, physically and emotionally and I was no survivalist. The worst things I’d battled were traffic and my mom’s selfishness turning our household upside down. I’d sucked in gym class in high school and in college the only ailment I’d ever suffered from was a hangover. The day had more than caught up with me and I just leaned on the door of the outhouse, humbly waiting for… Steve to come over and help me.
He could be a Steve. Steves had shaggy hair and that kind of bold, confident walk. Not a Stephen, definitely no, but maybe a Steve. Why wouldn’t he tell me? It was infuriating. But truthfully, the least of my freaking worries.
Giving the dog a final pat, he came over immediately and held his hand out for me. “You okay?”
No. I wasn’t even remotely okay. But I nodded. “Yes.” I took his hand and gripped tightly, needing to transfer some of my weight to him. I hadn’t wanted him to carry me. Now I didn’t want him to not carry me. It was so much easier to let Steve take the burden. I limped a step forward and took a deep breath, bracing myself for the hobbling walk.
Without a word though he just bent over and scooped me up in his arms. I gave a cry of surprise more so than protest. But he must have thought I wanted to walk because he gave a grunt of disapproval.
“Just relax,” he said. “Let me make things easier for you.”
That would be nice. I leaned against his chest again and fought the urge to close my eyes. The motion would be too much if I did that. Instead I concentrated on breathing, on counting the steps he took, on smelling the crisp clean air. I listened to the wind, and the dogs whining, and the occasional exhalation from Steve as he carried me. Once in the cabin, he kicked his boots off while still holding me, then put me on the bed.
“Your socks are wet.” He eased them off. “You should have let me help you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Because women say they’re sorry. It’s what we’re taught to do. At least I had been. I had an apology problem. Funny how my mother never apologized for anything she did. She just barreled her way through life with a big eff off attitude. She’d always said no one had any right to judge her and I guess she was right. But I’d always been more of a people pleaser and she’d made me feel guilty for that- like it was a weakness to want everyone around me to be happy, content. I just wasn’t wired the way she was, and yet I was trained to apologize for that. For everything. For me.
“It’s not a big deal,” the stranger said. “But I don’t want you getting a chill.” He rested his hands on my knees, and they were big hands. Strong hands. He looked up at me and his blue eyes were filled something I didn’t understand. Was it desire? I wasn’t sure.
“You don’t know the bush,” he said. “I do. You have to listen to me. Do what I say.”
He wasn’t a Steve. No Steve would have that kind of intensity. The kind that made me feel naked, exposed. Aroused. Yet slightly frightened. I nodded quickly. His commanding presence made me want to obey. “Yes. I will. I promise.”
The smile that crossed his face looked so genuine, it felt like a reward for giving the right answer and I felt a frisson of pleasure. “Good girl,” he said.
I smiled back, shyly. “I think the Advil is helping,” I told him, and I wasn’t sure why. To feel less of a burden? To let him know his help was appreciated? I don’t know.
“Good. I’m guessing you’re tired and I have some chores to do. Maybe you should try to sleep.”
I sighed, bone weary. “I think that’s a good idea.” I tried to scoot myself up backwards on the bed, but down a leg and an arm, I wasn’t having much luck.
He came around the side and hauled me by my armpits. It didn’t seem to strain him in any way, but I guess for a guy who chopped wood and hauled kills and did who knew what else, I wasn’t that big of a deal. Once I was up and under the covers, he refilled my water, and brought me clean socks, again flipping the comforter back to skim them over my feet.
He left the sweat pants on me and I was glad. I sighed, lying back onto his pillow. The sheets smelled like lavender. It was a disparate scent in the woods, for a mountain man, but I guess scented soap is scented soap. There was no reason for him to wash his sheets with a bar of Old Spice. How did he wash his sheets? He seemed to have electricity. There was a light on over the kitchen sink and there was a stove. The wood stove seemed to be the only source of heat though and he opened it and fed more logs onto it.
Breathing deeply, I tried to relax, focusing on releasing tension in my shoulders, my back, my hips. I inhaled and exhaled to the throb of the pain in my ankle. It didn’t really feel any better. It was still deep and driving, the tissue all swollen, twice its normal size. He moved around the cabin, but I didn’t look to see what he was doing. He left at one point, a gust of cold air entering the room when he opened the door. He was gone for what felt like an hour, but likely it was much less, it just felt like forever as I ticked time by in pain and worry. My foot hurt too bad to sleep and that worried me maybe it was actually broken. Also, I wanted to recover so I could get to where I needed to be physically, so that I could make my way to Fort Yukon.
When he came back in the stove creaked as he opened the door again, the new wood snapping as he tossed it in. I thought about how much wood must be required to keep the stove burning, and it was only late September. January must be… terrifying. He cooked something then, the sizzle on the stove making my mouth water. It was meat of some kind, maybe with onions. I thought about living alone, in total solitude for maybe months on end, and it wasn’t a pleasant thought. That was way too much time in my head. Way too routine, disciplined, every day leaving no allowance for slacking.
But I supposed my life was pretty routine too, work, family, friends. Oil changes, hair appointments to take my standard brown hair to a darker auburn hue. Life had a rhythm no matter where you lived and I clung to the memory of that ordinary life, praying I could get back to it sooner than later. I dozed off, but when the stranger climbed into bed beside me, I woke back up. I jerked a little, startled. I hadn’t thought about where he would sleep but it was a small cabin and it was his bed. The floor was probably freezing.