The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  Upon arrival, he sees that the birds have picked the litter clean. Among the rocks, there is nothing to eat. Easley gawks at the emptiness for a time, forcing down the hunger and the fear. He scans the ground for anything resembling food. Even the eggshells that had once been here have disappeared. Only the loneliest grains of rice and a congealed pile of grease remain. He is ready to turn and leave when he sees it—the bright, battered rind of a lemon. He picks it up, brushes off gravel and sand, slips it inside his pocket.

  The clang of what he imagines is an empty pot issues from one of the tents, perhaps a hundred yards away. Easley crouches and holds his breath. After a long pause in silence, he rises and cautiously retraces his steps back over the hill.

  The most important thing now is to fill his pack with coal. Circle around the hills behind the camp and village, then top the rise to get a good look at the shed. Easley pokes his head above the rocks and sees the houses and church, but the shed is gone. His bowels constrict, the bile rises in his throat. He scrambles around the back of the hill, then makes his way to where the shed used to be. Between the rocks, wet coal dust is all that remains. Easley is unsure of what to make of the despair he feels welling up inside. With a trembling hand, he pulls out the lemon rind and sticks it in his mouth to keep himself from crying.

  And now the sound from the camp is unmistakable: a generator’s clunk and whir. Men. Machines. Food and warmth. Easley sucks on the rind, considering—then walks straight toward the village.

  The first house is silent. He peers through the windows at the shadows within. Where chairs, a table, and beds should be, he sees only emptiness. The walls devoid of pictures, calendars, or lamps. He walks around back of the small wooden home and tries the door. There is no lock. Carefully, he turns the knob, takes silent steps inside. A glance around the corner reveals only the top of a jar and some scattered papers. He pulls the door closed, presses his back against a wall as the wind tears through the cracks and seams. What happened to the people who built this home? Are they still alive somewhere? Were they relations of Tatiana? He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor.

  EASLEY WAKES to the sound of a truck rumbling down the road. He holds his breath as the vehicle passes the house and continues onto the beach below. Falling asleep in the enemy’s lap? Karl would be sorely disappointed. When Easley hears only wind, he rises to his knees and peeks through rippled panes. He sees no movement, save the distorted image of a lone soldier walking away from the village toward the camp. The man carries a large empty sack, his free hand moving to his lips every couple of strides. Cigarette.

  Since the truck is on the beach, he will have to escape directly over the hill. He steps out the door and sees several bulging sacks near a large tank at the rear of the adjacent house. He pulls back against the wall.

  Easley keeps low to the ground as he moves between buildings. When he reaches the second house, which is much like the first, he listens for signs of life. Hearing none, he opens the first sack. Heavy canvas with a metal clamp on top, Japanese characters stamped down one side. When this war is done, will we all be forced to learn Japanese? He pulls out a pair of trousers and a sock falls onto the grass. He reaches in for another sock, then shoves the pair into his pocket. He rifles through, finds a pair of trousers that might possibly fit, and stuffs it into his pack. He closes the first bag and opens the others: shirts, underpants. Easley grabs two of the latter, then puts the sack back the way he found it.

  Roads. Houses. Other people’s clothes. Despite the danger, this feels better than being left alone with his thoughts in the cave. Here, the immediate danger makes the world seem brighter, more alive somehow, the line dividing the real and the imagined more clearly defined. And yet the protective pull is strong. Tatiana is all alone.

  As he moves beyond view of the village, Easley can sense he’s being followed. Instead of fear, there is a warm surge of relief. And so this is how it ends. Unfamiliar with the customs of surrender, left with neither the desire nor a place to hide, Easley continues walking away from the harbor. They will shoot him in the back, or call out and he will raise his hands in the air. When neither happens, impatience rushes in. He reaches a ditch carved by a little stream. He drops down, hides behind the rise of grass and stone.

  When at last Easley raises his head, he finds himself staring at the muzzle of a dog. It neither cowers nor barks. Instead, it sits on its haunches about six yards away, staring back at him. As it yawns, its ears pull back and its tongue curls out in a long, pink hook. Easley looks to see if the dog has betrayed his position but finds no sign. He gazes into the dog’s inquisitive face. “C’mere.”

  The tail wags on approach.

  “You speak English.” Easley extends his hand in greeting. The hand is given a sniff, then the dog returns to its original position six yards away. Unsure of what to do next, Easley considers his companion—a small shepherd cross—but it gets up and turns to leave.

  “Hey, boy. C’mere!”

  The dog returns as requested, hindquarters swinging side to side. Easley is able to pet the dog this time; it clearly relishes the attention.

  “Who sent you? They take you prisoner too?”

  The dog sits down, allowing its head to be stroked. Around its neck is a thin yellow ribbon with some charm dangling at the chest. It turns out to be a coin with a hole punched through the middle. Japanese. The dog rolls over on its back, baring its belly for a rub.

  Easley scratches and strokes. The dog rolls on its side and Easley buries his face in its fur. Sour. Dusty. Deeply comforting. The dog looks around at him with something like affection. For the first time in weeks, he feels almost human again. Then he feels the gnawing emptiness and his hands begin to shake.

  The dog wriggles and scratches its back in the gravel. Easley reaches for his pack. He retrieves the parachute cord and measures out a length. He ties a slipknot, makes a loop at one end, then passes it over the dog’s head. Easley rises to his feet with the rest of the rope in his hand. He looks back toward the village, scans the ridge, but finds no sign of pursuit. Satisfied, he bends down, cups the dog’s face in his hands, then kisses the top of its head. Good boy. A deep sigh, a swift jerk on the cord, and the dog writhes like a fish on a line. It is all he can do to hold it out and away from his weakened body.

  To end it, Easley jerks up again with all his might. The dog tries to cry out but the sound is cut off in its throat. It tries to bite the cord that remains beyond its reach. All of Easley’s strength is required to hold the dog off the ground as it kicks and paws for air. Easley gives two more swift jerks and finally breaks its neck.

  The dog’s muscles relax as its rump is stuffed into the pack. Only half the body fits inside. To keep it from spilling out, Easley sits down and slips his arms through the loops of the pack, then pulls the cord over his shoulder so the dog’s head—still tight in the noose—stays next to his own. He stands up, adjusts the load, then starts back the way he came.

  Easley’s strength is fading. The load is heavy and he is forced to rest several times. The forepaws work their way free and reach straight into the air. When Easley stops to repack the load, he avoids looking the dog in the face. Once he has the pack on his back again, its head lolls in time with his stride.

  Soft fur teases his neck all the way back to the cave.

  TWELVE

  THEY WANDER THE STREETS OF ANCHORAGE IN search of souvenirs. Judith buys a fur hat that makes her look like a Cossack. She begs the other girls to try it on, but no one wants to ruin their hair. Helen buys postcards of Mount McKinley framed by a sky supernaturally blue. The cashier explains that the real mountain—North America’s highest—is usually shrouded in cloud and that this is the only view she’s likely to get. They are lucky to have postcards at all, the cashier says. The military confiscated most of the other landscape postcards for fear they might provide clues for the enemy.

  Earlier this morning, they packed up and left Fort Richardson, made the short tri
p into town, and now find themselves with several hours to spare. As a treat, they all buy tickets to a matinee of Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt, which happens to star the elusive Teresa Wright. The theater, brand-new, has an art deco facade, which already seems hopelessly out of fashion. The carpeted lobby is surrounded in wood veneer. Framing the screen are towering copper reliefs of heroic men and machines extracting Alaska’s natural resources. Helen leans back in the velvet seat. On the ceiling above, dim lights shine in the shape of the Big Dipper and North Star, as featured on the territorial flag. She finds herself in an unexpected oasis of civilization.

  Fifteen minutes into the unsettling show, the projector jams, the film melts in two, and the screen goes blank. The girls sit in the dark, critiquing Wright’s performance, awaiting further instructions. Eventually the house lights come up and an aged usherette props open the lobby door. They all get their money back and make their way to the train station.

  As they listen for the all aboard, the girls take turns dancing with one another, each finally donning Judith’s Cossack hat before taking the lead. The other girls stand bolt upright, chin out, trying to move in a very determined way, but it is Gladys who really pulls it off—better than most male leads. Helen takes her turn, then marvels at how seamlessly they all move between and with each other, for the benefit of no one beyond the oversize ravens preening themselves on the platform outside, glancing in through the windows.

  THE TRAIN DEPARTS in the late afternoon. Remarkably, they are the sole occupants of the passenger car at the front of a long line of empty coal cars heading north to Fairbanks, the opposite direction of the Aleutians. Either a hawk, or some sort of eagle, makes lazy circles over hills that grow in size with each passing mile. John would know which bird it is.

  There was no news of him at Fort Richardson. Helen’s careful enquiries were met with crinkled brows, shrugged shoulders, the shaking of heads. Regardless, she continued to stick out her hand and introduce herself to everyone, hoping to meet pilots who had flown to the Aleutians, or knew men serving there. In lieu of the truth, she invented a cousin to ask after. She hasn’t seen him in years, she says, but heard that he’s stationed in the islands. Having carefully built her biography of lies, it is both easier and necessary to lie again.

  After their second performance, a pilot came up and introduced himself. An unkempt man of perhaps thirty years with shadowed eyes and a week’s worth of beard. He was on his way to Idaho on bereavement leave and wanted to personally thank her for the show. It had lightened his load in ways she can’t imagine. When he told her that he had been stationed in the Aleutians for over a year, she caught her breath and pulled him aside.

  Helen asked about her imaginary cousin. He gave it some thought, but then shook his head. He’d never heard of a Connelly from Olympia Washington. But between Dutch Harbor, Umnak, and Adak, there were thousands of guys out there. Wherever he was, the pilot assured her that he was most likely safe—for now.

  Then she pressed: What about journalists? She had a friend who was a member of the press. Had he ever run into a reporter? His expression soured. In fact, he had run into a lady in Dutch Harbor who called herself a journalist. She took endless notes, asked questions about the welfare of the men. He told her that morale was low and insubordination on the rise. But when her story hit the wire services, it was a whitewash, he said. Made everything sound practically jolly. She must have been working for the Navy. He won’t waste his time again.

  Outside, day gives way to a cold, clear night. Among black spruce shadows, white paper birch reflects dim moonlight. As they pass a marsh, Helen sees a moose raise its rack and stare back at the passing train. Although in silhouette, this is the first moose she’s ever seen. She feels the urge to jump up, point it out to Gladys, but they’re past it in a blink. Beyond the tracks and telegraph line, there is no sign anyone has ever been in this place before. She turns and glances back to the end of the car, where Stephen buttons his sport coat as he pulls closed the lavatory door. He smiles and checks in with each girl, but chooses a seat next to Helen. In no time, he’s sound asleep on her shoulder.

  In the seat ahead, Sarah pulls out a pen and begins writing a postcard on a book spread across her lap. They have been warned not to mention the war in their correspondence; anything to do with their location, destination, facts about the soldiers or bases they’ve seen. They should limit their news to the weather, the songs they sing, how happy everyone is to see them. Soon, everyone’s bowed over writing.

  Judith suggests the girls draw pictures. She passes around her postcard, which features a flattering cartoon of herself belting out a song, surrounded by everyone else in something less than supporting roles. The bust of her self-portrait is out of proportion with reality by a factor of two. By the time the card makes its way back to her, someone has written “A Girl’s Gotta Dream!” in a little marquee up above with arrows pointing at the voluminous breasts.

  Helen takes comfort in the warm physical presence leaning into her, the scent of tobacco and aftershave. The weight, the heft of him is the most satisfying part. She considers his long legs, the knees pressed up against the back of the seat in front of him. For a moment she feels disloyal, then she catches herself. It is a strangely liberating sensation to have a man occupy such an intimate space without being a lover.

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a postcard. She pauses to think for a moment, then chooses her words carefully.

  Dear Dad,

  How I miss you! You would find Alaska fascinating. Big enough to be its own country. I’ve only met a few people actually from here, but I pity anyone who would attempt to fool with them. You can bet these folks know their way around a rifle. They don’t think much of outsiders telling them what to do. I have the sense that, if things heat up around here, they could all just disappear into the bush and cause havoc ’til the end of time.

  You would be impressed with how much we do with so little. The girls, and Stephen, somehow light the stage up each night. I can’t tell you how much I miss you. I will be writing again soon with good news about having found our mutual friend.

  Love,

  Helen

  She writes a second postcard to the parish priest at St. Brigid’s, thanking him for checking in on her father once a week. To ensure he remembers his promise to her, Helen underscores her gratitude for his pastoral care and his many prayers for her family throughout the years.

  And then she puts the postcards aside. The car gently shimmies and sways as the train makes a long bank to the east.

  She is ambushed by the question she’d become adept at avoiding. Why hasn’t John contacted her or his parents? No telephone call, letter, telegram, or postcard. No word sent through someone else. Silence. Of the dreadful possibilities, she prefers military stockade, but surely she would have been notified by the authorities. There is the reoccurring thought of him being taken prisoner by the Japanese. Beyond this, she will admit no further speculation without evidence. He is alive until proven otherwise.

  THE TRAIN STOPS at a place called Curry, but no one is there to meet them. One by one, they step into the sharp night air and walk a short gravel path to a silent hotel that would serve as a set for Hitchcock. It is well built and brightly lit, but made ominous by the unbroken sea of night extending for hundreds of miles around. Inside, an adolescent bellhop sets his comic book aside to belatedly help with their bags. Behind the check-in desk, a man old enough to be his grandfather stirs to life and smiles mechanically as the girls approach. It is as if these two have been waiting in silence for months, putting off this inevitable disruption until the last possible moment.

  They discover they each have a room to themselves upstairs, complete with proper spring mattress, washbasin, and towel. Luxury. Everyone agrees—this is more the style to which they hope to become accustomed. Helen closes the door, paces her room, then sits on her bed, wishing she had a thick Russian novel.

  STEPHEN IS IN HIS UNDERSHIRT when he crac
ks open his door. Although it’s midnight, it is clear she hasn’t roused him from bed. His eyes are bright and the light is still on. He peers out from behind the door, hiding his lower half. “Can it wait ’til morning?”

  “It’s nothing, really. I just wanted to . . . This is silly. Good night.”

  He pulls suspenders up over his shoulders and looks both ways down the corridor.

  “Forget it,” he says. “Come in. Sit.”

  The solitary chair has his sports coat draped over the back—likely the only sports coat between here and the North Pole. She rests her hands on her thighs and sits forward to avoid crushing the collar.

  “Everything all right?”

  “I just wanted some company, that’s all.”

  He reaches into his pocket and produces his flask. “You want a shot?”

  She declines with a wave of her hand.

  “I prefer not to drink alone, but I drink either way.” He sits on his bed, unscrews the cap, and takes a sip. Then he twists the cap back in place definitively, as if he’s just had his fill for the night.

  “Do you mind if I sit for a while?”

  “If you’re willing to risk the rumors.”

  They sit across from each other for a few uncomfortable moments, at a loss for what to say. There is a stillness in the room, the hotel, and, it seems, the surrounding wilderness that makes her wonder if the end of the world has passed them by but they’re simply too far removed to get the news.