Behind small, rimless glasses, Lee’s eyes were both flashing and unfocused. It was almost worse when he was both angry and inattentive. Quiet apologies could be misheard as brooding insults blaming everyone else’s failure to communicate, while explanations were taken for smart-mouths or back-talk. It was typically better to cower in silence and wait for Lee’s slurred dismissal.
“What’d you say?” his father demanded.
“I didn’t.”
“No, no, he’s been running his mouth,” John answered.
“You ruined food,” Noah refuted.
Noah saw the lazy slap coming before it connected with his skull. He resisted a flinch, unable to prevent a stiffening reflex.
It’s worse when they miss.
The contact throbbed, pulsating in the wake of his father’s hand. Noah moved with the blow, lessening the collision.
The stronger the barrier, the harder the impact. He refused to bounce back into place for the second assault, waiting for Lee to slow his hiccupping breaths. His father stood too close, reeking of alcohol. The fleshy skin of his bloated stomach protruded beside where Noah rigidly cradled his head.
“Watch the mouth,” Lee snapped. “I decide who eats.” Anger rose in his chest. The temptation to scream burned. There were a thousand ways to retaliate. It would be easy to shove his father through the slamming doors.
Noah lifted hundreds of pounds of fish, dozens upon dozens of frozen trays of pre- and post-jerky meats, and unloaded trucks weekly. He worked the docks when too many of Lee’s staff were sick or out and being a part of small crew lifting several-thousandpound nets brimming with the convulsing strength of pure Alaskan salmon from vegetation-choked waters certainly wasn’t busywork.
Lee had aged beyond help, adding more and more workers in the path of his uselessness. If the area wasn’t so desperate for employment, his underpaid and understaffed business would have fallen through the rotting wood years ago. He would have, and be, nothing.
It was predictable that his brother, John, would join his father if a conflict ever emerged, but not him. He wasn’t like them. Noah hated fighting. He hated cruelty. He hated the lack of control, the instinct, the consequences, the hostility. It would to stay alien in his life. Like alcohol, it would be one more thing from his past he would leave behind. Something he would refuse to pass on. Something forbidden in a farsighted haven.
He could run. At eighteen, he was legally able to drop out of high school. Last year, unpredictable work hours made it impossible to add in enough electives to meet the prerequisites for early graduation. Senior year was approaching fast, but impressive SAT scores were enough hope for an aced GED. He’d bet his truck could handle an extensive commute, and his minimal savings were enough for the ferry to Seattle, a few hotels, some food, and another prepaid phone card. There were jobs somewhere, and he had experience all over Ashland. Townie Tony Gabriel would offer help, even if hesitantly.
But that was no life, and certainly not one he could make for Sarah. His sister told him his music would get them out of Ashland, but without an education he knew the craft was a joke. Playing on a random park bench sounded homeless and hungry. Even in the biggest city, he’d manage a rundown flat and starving-artist level at best. If he was ever caught, he’d lose wages for the mandatory work until graduation, with a few bruises to show for it.
The thought of his sister defenseless was sickening. Noah was well aware he was a strong reason Yazzie’s was still afloat. It seemed like his mother cared less and less about managing her diabetes each day and her self-monitoring had become downright suicidal. She offered a big-bosomed hug type of affection, but between alcohol abuse and extreme junk intake, he knew his time with Mary-Agnes was limited.
Mark dreamed of moving to Ketchikan and working with woodcarvers, considering himself a craftsman before fisherman. Andrew was engaged. Isaac was on the verge of impulsively ditching town. John had always been a mess. Lee had suffered rehabilitation through two heart-attacks. Each was a shocking recovery considering the remoteness of the town. Noah had fearfully heard three was the charm. Sometimes he even wished for it.
The school year was a mere 180 days, the summer barely three months. His life in Ashland was unstable and his future was unidentified, but it was all he had. Change tainted the air, an unknowing variable haunting every plan and every thought. It was bitter and impossible to dismiss, like the commercial taste of waxen oranges.
He was convinced things were in motion, or at least in the calm before the storm. His situation was hackneyed and trite, but he swore it could get better in an instant.
What’s one more day? As Noah coaxed himself into composure, he kept his gaze averted. Lee and John murmured back and forth, trading excuses and meaningless, half-hearted scolding. He kept his breathing level and his head turned away from the exchange. Tuning them out, he held still, eyes focused on Sarah.
She swallowed repeatedly, lower lip trembling, glassy eyes brimming with tears. In the midst of summer, the day was warm, and the air conditioners wouldn’t kick on for hours. Still, she looked cold and stricken. The arms of her pink hoodie were crossed tightly as she hugged herself. As though she couldn’t look away from something horrible, like watching an accident, a spectator made a witness.
He knew the feeling.
We’re powerless. She stiffened when John grabbed Noah’s shoulder, jerking him upright. Lee’s eyes swiped across the space above his son’s head, looking to see if there were visible wounds. As a child, they made him stay home from school, even going over stories and false explanations. After a while, Lee stopped caring about what he believed to be a fragile reputation. Noah supposed his father realized no one cared that much anyway.
At one point, Noah was the talk of the town, a change-of-life baby for the ever-blessed Locklears. Sarah was a shock three years later, but everything seemed less surprising at that point. It’s sad and cruel,they’d say, since Mar’ and Lee will be old or dead when they’re grown. But they were elders’ kids. No one worried, everyone trusted. Don’t ask and don’t tell was unspoken ritual to natives, practically religion.
Of course they knew. Elder’s respect, Elder’s secrets. Folk gossiped well enough, but once Tony Gabriel rode into town with a backpack and a cherry coke on a Harley like an unwanted queen in her gilded chariot, rumors gave way to a series of more fascinating ploys that required a lot less guilt and inaction.
“Go on. Bed, now.” Lee sniffed, shoving Noah’s unresisting shoulder towards the cabinet.
Sarah sunk away, backing out of his peripheral. He moved through a silent challenge between Lee and John, parting the doors and sprinting across the kitchen. As he stepped out of the building's connecting foyer, his feet hit the carpet with a thud.
His mother, Mary-Agnes, was unbothered. The tight bun that had mysteriously migrated from the nape of her neck to the crown of her skull bobbed as she rocked in the tweed recliner, rolling into a post-hangover slumber. It was almost disturbing to think he had become so desensitized, unwilling to summon human disgust.
She would sleep it off in a few hours. Sarah would open, MaryAgnes would shower with coffee and aspirin, and he would show up like a saving grace at the last minute. They’d work alone until Kennedy and Aaron would clock in, or until their mother could function with the run-down, industrialstrength appliances. He’d pray she didn’t burn the place down. They’d crack open the doors to hungry locals and starry-eyed tourists, all while wearing a plastered on smile no different than the Joker’s crayon lipstick.
His chucks seemed to be a step ahead of him as he raced up the creaking steps of the winding staircase. An unbearable desire to escape twitched in his shoes, pulling him forward as he reached his room. Slamming the door behind him, he locked the self-installed deadbolt.
Noah worried about Sarah, but it was comforting to know they shared predictable instincts. He had found her countless times hiding out in her bedroom with the faux-iPod radio she got on sale out of a book order. In
the heat of summer, she draped the extra comforters rendered unnecessary over the posters of her bed. Curled into a fetal position, she would pretend she was somewhere as far away as her dreams.
It was best to leave her there untouched. No one bothered her if she was to work on time and Sarah never missed a day. If he offered to take her with him, she’d beg him not to go. It would drag her down to earth, and she had no business there. It was too dark, too frightening, shadowed and cold. She belonged in the light, with the sun thieves.
He slid the navy gym bag from beneath his bed. Tucking it under an arm, he grabbed a hoodie. His friends called it the bug-out. They all had one. It carried clothes for work and school, a toothbrush, a comb, plus money and deodorant. He kept it light. The temptation for it being a more than temporary solution was too high and he found that it lost practicality after a few too many experimentations.
Pulling open the ceiling hatch, he tossed his haul through the opening. As he climbed the narrow ladder to the widow’s walk, Noah elbowed each broad shoulder through the hole before sliding out his torso. He cracked the small door with a garden rock, painted like an adult hare for his mother’s collection of stone leverets.
Careful to avoid rotten and waterlogged patches of wood, he pulled on his sweatshirt and eased his bag over his arms. Taking a deep breath, he slid down the porch roof as it bounced against his back. The straps met loosely between his shoulder blades but fit tight enough as to avoid dropping it. In the window’s blind spot, he scaled the worn side of the tool shack.
Noah resisted the urge to run to his pickup. As long as it wasn’t gone, Lee would leave his bedroom door locked if he came looking. Instead, he bolted for the thick tree line. Sliding through the brush, he moved along the edge of the bay, making his way towards the dirt backstreets.
Yazzie's originally closed in the eighties. The entire Alexander Archipelago was hitby brutal recession, and when Lee’s father, Yazzie, died after a massive pulmonary embolism, he hadn’t been overly thrilled with the concept. Jobs outsourced and drained Ashland dry, and unemployment was unacceptable for an elder family. Noah was immediately enlisted.
When Yazzie's re-opened, it was difficult. A ten-year-old, serving meals when he hadn't been allowed food for a day or two had never been an easy place to be. It got easier when other businesses in the Ashland Harbor Marina strip foreclosed. At that point the years of hand-me-downs faded and four bi-monthly drives to Anchorage were enough to fix a toothy gap in his front teeth.
When Tony Gabriel migrated back to town, Noah discovered an escapism in guitar and spent a year paying off and fixing up a reasonably attractive pick up.
The lapse between providing a better life and affording to add pricey liquors to it was peaceful. The time didn’t last, and when cut- backs came around, habits proved which had become a priority. The westernized cultures brought guns, disease, and religion, alongside self-indulgence and instant gratification. Going without school supplies or vehicle repairs were an unforeseen consequence after a moment’s splurge.
They could upkeep Yazzie’s stock, employee paychecks, the fishery’s materials, and food in the kitchen. Provided Andrew and Mark continued to live with friends and Noah provided for his own needs or occasionally Sarah’s. Clothes, gasoline, soda – they didn’t come from home anymore.
That was life with the lush.
Noah’s friends were hardly mature, but they understood. Half the adults in Ashland were drunks, and the levy had smashed through to parts of the small town’s limited underage party. The Elders were no exception, Lee included.
It’s funny how in Ashland, your secrets belong to everyone. Owen and Luke’s families were more financially stable than the Locklears. Owen had an extra bunk, Luke boasted a loft. As long as Noah seemed to respect his father’s privacy and made himself scarce, they paid no mind. They claimed Noah had a place there, and he returned the favor when it was necessary. None of the safe houses were perfectly sober, but one of three was a fair enough most days. When the stars didn’t align, the rocky beach front had a series of pavilions and unattended lean-tos. Ashland was suffocating and damp, but there were options.
He didn't expect to be bothered. Sober outsiders were never antagonistic and natives were evasive. Being the son of an elder was a tempting target, but with older brothers towering around six-footfive and carrying the title as the vilest tormentors on the res, no one was stupid enough to bother him.
The problem is there's nowhere to hide.
CHAPTER 3 | ALYSON Aly was reluctant to accompany her father into town. Greg was unpleasant in his finest moments, and the experience of driving to Ashland was uncomfortable at best. She had no desire to repeat it.
Waking to a ravenous stomach, she realized she had little choice in the matter. Having worked in town for years, her father had moved into the house only weeks before her arrival. Still, finding something edible was impossible.
Greg had mentioned his ‘hearty reserve’ between irritable complaints. Though he seemed pleased with his inventory, a quick survey of the kitchen only revealed frozen elk and doggy-bagged salmon reeking of aged garlic. When he noticed her discontent, he demanded a visit to the grocer.
With her back pressed against the Velcro of Greg’s seat covers, she fought the urge to dose. Since Greg insisted it be an early one, she had battled fatigue all morning. Constantly awoken by vicious nightmares, she accumulated three hours before his muffled shouts from the bottom of the stairs roused her at six.
Throughout her childhood, her mother had always crooned from the doorway. Vanessa had a gentle way of waking Aly during the summer, singing of the sunrise hours after dawn.
A thought that at one time could bring a smile to her face was now embittering. To rely on anyone else for the trivial task felt wrong. Greg was no exception.
Aly labored to concentrate on the greenery flying past the windows. It was hardly an escape from thinking, but it battled the lulling baritone of a ballad as it struggled through static.
Once losing hope in the station’s clari ty, her father silenced the radio. A relaxed hand sent the Chevy rolling across the lane. Alarmed horns and the squeal of a passing truck snapped her attention to the road. Greg veered left, pulling into a sloping driveway.
He glared at the intersection; the only remnant of the other vehicle was the exhaust cloud. After a moment of indecision, he slid an overstuffed binder from his lap to his feet. From the dirt caked across the cover, she assumed the careless discard was habitual.
He shuffled out of the vehicle with a lack of ease and lingered by the hood as she caught up. Gesturing across the street, Greg pointed at their destination.
A grand porch spanned the front of the building. Stippled with woodcarvings of bears and black-tailed deer, a rusting bench and neon welcome mat became peculiar outliers. Imitating a log cabin, the arrangement embraced the faux rustic theme of the town.
Having been raised in a lakeside Adirondack city, Aly had little difficulty recognizing tourist traps. From an understanding based on curious web searches, there weren’t many. Despite the flourishing fishing docks, the undeveloped bay made the area inaccessible to large fairies. Even the most unconventional vacationers avoided the archipelago’s mainland, preferring Prince of Wales and other islands.
Climbing the steps and crossing the threshold, tinkering bells announced her entrance. The art indoors was a far cry from the backwoods paraphernalia strung across the storefront. The space seemed limited for all its adornments.
Miniature totem poles flanked the sides of the shelves like bookends. Though the taxidermy lining the walls turned her stomach, Alyson admired the masks mounted between. A closer look revealed wheedled wood and visible brushstrokes, suggesting the region’s renowned native talent.
As she meandered through the space, she realized most of the store resembled her father’s cabinets. The thought of instant coffee, assorted jerky, or an iced slab of marked-down salmon was nauseating.
Aly sighed. She never
thought of herself as difficult to please.
Maybe I just left this all up to Mom. Nourishing was an undertaking her mother enjoyed. Between full-time waitressing, third-shift baking at Martha’s, and eventual culinary school, Vanessa seldom required kitchen assistance. She offered lessons, but detested assigning the maternal chore to her only daughter. Even as the cancer progressed, she preferred to orderin rather than send Aly to the cafeteria. Wrapped in a homemade afghan and sipping Ginger Ale, Vanessa religiously followed cooking networks well into the worst of her condition.
Until nausea forbade it. Aly’s stomach rolled. Having thoroughly scavenged for alternatives, she settled with the basics. Frozen vegetables, overpriced berries, fundamentals. While and sparkling water were time-honored perusing the scattered aisles, she avoided
ominous flavorings and regional delicacies.
Leaving Kingsley is plenty adventurous for one week. With the low shelving, a quick glance across the room revealed Greg’s absence. Swallowing the treachery of being left alone in a strange place, Aly located the checkout. She wasn’t overly fond of her father’s company, but it was almost becoming familiar.
Ashland suddenly seemed far too foreign. Thumbing a card from her pocket, she heaved the basket onto a sticky countertop. Behind the cash register, a portly woman clad in khakis rummaged through bins, knocking stacks of paper across the floor.
Politely feigning patience, Aly skimmed the underwhelming displays of postcards and lighters. Prints of bears and wolves mimicked the gift shops laced throughout the mountains of upstate New York.
Jams from neighborhood canners and stacks of books describing native legends and local wildlife sat within a fiberglass case. Aly smiled at Alaska’s Hairy Man in Ketchikan. As she waited, she observed the sketch of what appeared to be a pot-bellied Ewok embossed on the cover.
The cashier jostled to the counter, dumping the contents of the crate between them. After dragging the items across a scanner, she scribbled onto a strip of pink paper. Stuffing round fingers into a canister labeled “.99” she dropped a wax wrapped slice into the bag.
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