by DL Atha
“Everyone remembers you,” Peter answered.
I let my breath out in a huff. “That’s what I’m afraid of and I don’t want to ruin your reputation, Father.” I smiled sarcastically but I wasn’t joking.
“It’s okay. I don’t care if anyone knows you’re here. I’m not ashamed. Everyone knows one of the benefits of being Orthodox is not having to be celibate your entire life.” Our eyes met and I felt my cheeks flame.
“So what were you working on when I drove up?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject away from celibacy.
“Let me show you,” he said, standing up and offering his hand. I let him pull me to my feet against my better judgment. His hands were warm, strong and slightly calloused. He didn’t let go of mine immediately but instead led me in the direction of his workshop for a few steps before our hands slipped apart.
His workshop was connected to the house through a series of hallways. His father used to work out there for hours, and he’d taught Peter everything he knew. The smell of fresh cedar drifted through the hallways as we got closer until I would have sworn I was standing on the side of a mountain.
As we walked into the workshop, I gasped in awe. Spread across braces was the partially finished hull of a boat carved from a giant red cedar tree trunk. At least ten feet in length and three feet wide, the canoe would carry five or six people easily when it was completed, which could take years. Hand carving a canoe is no easy feat.
“Peter, oh my gosh, it’s beautiful! How long have you been working on this?” I questioned as I ran my finger carefully down the sides. It was still rough-hewn and splinters would be abundant.
“About a year. I spend some time on it whenever I get a chance, which sometimes is every day and then sometimes I can’t touch it for a week or two.”
“Well, it proves you’re a dedicated man, and why you don’t have the hands of a minister,” I teased.
“I guess we’ll know for sure when I get it done, and it’s not necessary for ministers to have soft hands, by the way, so long as we have soft hearts.”
“You’ve always had a soft heart. That’s what made you such a good friend,” I said.
“As I remember it,” Peter answered, his eyes holding mine, “we were more than friends.”
The room had suddenly gotten much smaller, and the air seemed to have lost some of its oxygen. I became very aware of Peter’s proximity, the outline of his chest and the fullness of his lips.
“I need some water,” I said, breaking our gaze as I turned and walked back to the kitchen. Behind me, I heard him let out a sigh of frustration.
In the kitchen, I grabbed a bottle of water from off the counter and sat down at the bar while Peter put the salmon steaks on to cook.
“So how are your parents? I should have asked earlier,” I said, hoping for a neutral topic as I reached for some bread arranged on a tray on the counter.
“Mom died a couple of years back, heart disease, and Dad retired to the lower forty-eight. He just couldn’t face living here without her. You know, seeing their friends all the time. It was just too much. The land has been in the family for generations of course, so he just turned it over to me when I came back here.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”
He nodded a thanks as he flipped the salmon over, basting it with a traditional marinade. It smelled delicious, and I was beginning to get an appetite.
“So what’s it like being back here? You miss the big city?” he questioned.
“It’s different. But it’s nice,” I said. “I miss the Fish Market and the music that was a constant in Seattle. And I miss the crowds, which is strange, I know, but Sitka feels kind of lonely now after living there. But it’s good to be back and see the mountains again, and there’s just nothing like the Sitka air. I haven’t smelled anything this clean in a really long time.”
We made small talk awhile longer about the whereabouts of some old classmates and family friends while Peter plated the salmon and fresh grilled vegetables and placed our plates at the massive wooden table in the attached dining room. The table was situated in front of a large picture window. The rain had returned, and the water zigzagged randomly down the window in long streaks. I tried to guess which direction the stream would go, but I missed it every time, and the water would streak in the opposite direction to what I expected. Visibility was low with the mists sweeping in from the sound, and I couldn’t see more than a few feet away from the windows, but rather than closing us in, the fog only added to the privacy that surrounded us tonight.
The evening was perfect. Dinner was delicious. The salmon was cooked to absolute perfection. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he’d caught the fish himself just a few days back. The conversation was pleasant, sticking to easy subjects like Seattle and our old times together. I stopped at one glass of wine, since I had to drive home, but Peter was finishing his third glass by the time we were done eating.
I insisted on helping him clean up despite his protests and forced him to talk about himself for a while. I was anxious to know what he’d been up to for the last ten years.
As I wiped down the table and dried the dishes, Peter described how he’d traveled for a year or two overseas before going to seminary, and in between semesters, he’d done missionary work in the outskirt villages of far northern Alaska. He’d dated a little, had a couple of serious relationships, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to commit, and then he’d returned home and stepped into the role the men in his family had filled for generations in Sitka.
When we were finished and the kitchen was spotless, I insisted I had to get home. It was getting quite late, and I was already dreading returning to my house at this hour. Peter walked me to the entryway, and while I put on my shoes and coat, he went outside and started my truck to take the chill off.
“Thanks for dinner and for starting my truck. Especially for starting my truck,” I said when he came back in the front door. His honey skin was spattered with raindrops and a few had collected on his eyelashes framing the green of his eyes. I couldn’t look anywhere but at his face. He seemed to be having the same problem and for several seconds the only sounds were the hum of the gentle rain and our quiet breathing.
Peter finally broke the silence. “I’m surprised you came, Tam,” he said. “To be honest, I thought I might be sitting here waiting for you all night.”
“Well, if we’re being honest, Peter, I almost didn’t come.”
He sucked in his breath harshly and started to say something before I cut him off. “But you need to know why before you judge me, okay?”
Nodding his head, he took a deep breath as if he were steadying himself for my answer.
“The only reason I considered not coming was for your safety. It’s not that I don’t want to be with you. I do. But I don’t deserve you. Parts of me are broken, Peter and those same parts want something that you wouldn’t understand because you’re too good. And I’m also dangerous because Joel is out there somewhere, Peter. I don’t know where or when he’s going to pop up, but he is out there. I spent a long time with him. Too long, I realize, but if I know one thing about him, it’s that he will not give up. So you see, it was very selfish of me to come here tonight, but I so badly wanted to see you. I just hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake.”
“I can take care of myself, Tam,” he responded quickly. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“You should be,” I said. “But you’re too good to understand how evil someone like him can be. Please don’t under estimate him.”
Pulling my coat on, I reached up and kissed him goodnight on the cheek. “Talk to you soon,” I promised.
I was halfway out the door when he caught my arm in his hand pulling me towards him.
“I can take care of you too, Tam.”
His lips brushed mine in a soft whisper of a kiss before I escaped into the blur of the rain, grateful that he could not distinguish the tears that began to course down my cheeks.
/> Chapter 5
I waved one last goodbye as I climbed into the truck, but I had to pull over as soon as I got out of his driveway to brush the tears from my vision. His words had simply affected me too much to focus on the road. “I can take care of you too, Tam.” It kept replaying in my mind.
What would it be like to collapse into the safe embrace of Peter’s arms? Could I turn all of my fears over to him and not worry about my safety or Mom’s case or Joel’s whereabouts? Could I let my desire to see Joel pay fade away while I fell in love with Peter again? It was such a tempting idea that I seriously considered it. So much that I put the truck in reverse. All I had to was go back. Peter would be waiting for me.
“Are you prepared to watch Peter die?” My subconscious asked me. “Do you want to add another name to your death toll?”
And knowing the answer to those questions, I put the truck in drive and drove towards home. I’d gotten myself into this mess, and I was going to have to get myself out. I forced myself to put away any leftover romantic thoughts and focused on the road ahead.
The highway was empty and quiet as I finished driving home and I studied the yard, as I’d made a habit of doing, while I pulled in and parked. The truck engine shut down with a loud wheeze as if it was as nervous as I was about coming home to a darkened yard, but nothing appeared out of the normal. Since my house set at a higher elevation than Peter’s, the rain had turned to snow, and it had laid out a white blanket across the yard on which glinted the light from the kitchen window.
My right foot was striking the top step of the porch before I realized that something was out of place. I stopped, my leg frozen in midair, as I studied the space around me. Had I missed Joel out there somewhere? God knows there were plenty of places for him to hide in just my yard alone. Not to mention the acres of forest around the house.
To my left, everything was as it should be. Snow dusted the railing of the porch, and beyond the railing, the yard gleamed with the frozen precipitation that clung to the deep green grass that grows in Sitka even in winter.
But to my right, where only the empty space of the porch should have been, a rick of firewood stretched from just under the picture window all the way to the railing on the far side.
Chills showered across my back as I studied the meticulously stacked wood. Each log was so evenly cut that the pieces were the same length. Not at all the way most people cut wood with the logs ending up in several varying sizes. Each cut had been precise, methodical. Only an obsessive-compulsive person can stack wood like that. Only someone who really likes to be in control could have chopped this rick of wood. Beside the stack sat a five-gallon bucket filled to the brim with kindling and rolled up newspapers for fodder.
The porch had been swept, and the broom stood evenly to the left of the front door. My work boots had been moved to the corner, the toes precisely matched up and facing the house. The welcome mat had been squared up with the door so that it matched up perfectly, and on top of it lay a bundle of orange lilies—Mom’s favorite.
How perfectly Joel! He was here; somewhere he was in Sitka waiting for me, and he was a first-class manipulator. Manipulating people was a science he understood all too well. He’d slipped into my life today in the most subtle of ways. What was I going to do? Call the cops and complain that he’d chopped a stack of wood for me and left a bouquet of flowers? I’d look like the complete nut the cops already thought I was.
And yet, he’d gained a little control of my life. Wormed his way in, even if only a little bit. My wood was stacked the way he liked it. My boots were where he wanted them.
Pissed off and nauseated at the same time, I kicked the welcome mat as hard as I could, sending it skittering off the deck and into the darkness of the unlit yard. The slap of the plastic against the snow echoed across the porch. I moved the boots, making sure they were twisted and not facing each other.
Wearily, I turned the key in the knob, and although I stopped and listened every few feet for breathing or any other noise that might let me know he was here, I knew he wasn’t. Joel would much prefer to play with me for a while. How he would enjoy knowing that tonight I’d be unable to think of anything but him. How my fear would turn him out and keep him smiling, satisfied, all night long.
I made sure the front door was locked as I retraced my steps through the house, double-checking all the windows. I guess if for no other reason than it gave me something to keep in my control, but nothing was out of place—nothing was out of the ordinary.
Still, I was a nervous wreck. How could I not be? It crossed my mind again to call the police about Joel’s intrusion into my life but decided against it. There was no way I wouldn’t come out on the losing end of that conversation.
I could picture it. “Officer Kendrick, I’d like to report a crime. My soon to be ex-husband is stalking me.”
“What did he do, Tamara?” he’d ask.
“He came to my house uninvited and chopped a full rick of wood. While he was here, he cleaned up the porch and left some flowers.”
Click is all I’d hear from the other line.
No, that would never do. Instead, I tried to push Joel from my mind and focus on the mundane part of life that must go on no matter what’s happening around you. I warmed up some soup and made a small batch of hot tea to drink now and put some coffee on for later in the evening when I’d need its power to keep my eyes open. I was not going to change my routine for Joel just in case he did plan to return tonight.
The fire would need to be rekindled, but I refused to use the wood Joel had stacked for me. Instead, I trudged through the snow to the remains of a leftover pile at the far side of the yard. The wood was a little damp, but it would have to do.
By the time I got back with a few logs, my hands were pained from the cold; my feet were wet, but I didn’t stop to change shoes or warm my hands before I worked on the fire. Luckily, embers from this morning remained, and I fed them logs until they were blazing. Wearily, I leaned my head against the mantle.
It was a hard night to be alone in this house with reminders of Joel sitting right outside the front door and memories of Mom staring at me from every corner of the house. I flipped through the radio stations and thumbed through a two-month-old magazine, but nothing kept pictures of Mom and Joel out of my thoughts.
I finally slapped the magazine away and turned the radio off. I tried to eat, but the soup didn’t settle well, and the tea was bitter in my mouth. I pushed them both away as a few tears began to trickle. Angry at my own self-pity, I wiped them harshly away.
Physically I was fine, but mentally I felt exhausted to the bone. Watching over my shoulder for Joel and searching for justice for Mom was leaving me threadbare. I was going to have to empty my mind of this for a while—one way or the other.
Mom had never been a heavy drinker, but she had enjoyed a little whiskey now and again. Her decanter was still sitting tucked in behind her picture of my dad on her bedroom bureau. I poured a good-sized dollop of the golden good stuff and stretched out onto the couch. But not before I pulled my dad’s twenty gauge out from the closet and put the stock within reach.
The first shot of whiskey went down a little hot. I hadn’t drunk in a while, and I sputtered a bit, but the second went down like silk before landing warmly in my belly. I chased it with a little coffee and settled back into the couch, pulling a pleasantly worn quilt onto my shoulders.
I decided to continue my little research project I’d started the previous night. The surgeon’s journal was tucked in between the couch and the end table, and I started with it rather than the vampire book I’d purchased. I glanced quickly towards the mantle, the bottle of presumed blood sitting where I’d left it.
I began with the doctor’s account of the vampire’s staking so it was fresh in my mind, reading again of the poor man’s tragic life, the accusation of rape before being excommunicated and dying outside the church.
The entries that followed seemed routine. What sounded like a f
ew panic attacks and some unknown infections popped up over the next few weeks and were naturally blamed on the recent vampire attack. The doctor ignored them for the most part, feigning ignorance or any knowledge of such an occurrence. Just as he expected, what few witnesses remained quickly moved on, finding other stations in the Russian Trading Company or leaving on the warship that had set sail the following morning.
Finally, in an entry dated nearly six months after the staking, the surgeon’s handwriting lost its refined swirls, becoming shaky and uneven once more. It took three tries to translate due to the length of the passage but also to make sense of his very erratic penmanship. Something had no doubt given him quite a scare. I read it aloud as I ran my fingers across the impressions made by his harried writing.
“Tonight, I prepare for my journey to Russia. I had thought to make Alaska my permanent home, but the events that followed the staking of the vampire some months back have made that an impossibility.
“Even now, my three children sit weeping in the small home they share with the native woman I have called ‘wife’ for several years. They do not understand why I leave them and their sense of abandonment is acute. I cannot blame them for is it not the greatest betrayal a child can suffer? Worse yet is that I cannot even tell them my reasons, and my children will forever believe that I left them for no other reason than a selfish desire to return to my homeland or out of shame at their dark skin and I cannot take them with me when it is forbidden by the Tsar.
“How can I tell them that I leave to save them when I am unable to make them understand how I am saving them? How can I tell them that their father has dabbled in the dark arts? Even now, I question not only my sanity but also my purity before God.
“Let me explain.
“On the night of the vampire’s capture, it was I who treated the body and prepared it for reburial. It was only I and the archimandrite who were present with the body at close quarters. The Baranov had wanted to limit the number of men who came in contact with the aberration in hopes of controlling the aftermath. Thus, I was able to take much blood from the veins of the beast, and in doing so filled up several vials of the substance, which have remained hidden to all men, including the Baranov.