Rusty Summer

by Mary McKinley

  We look down and see a bear blob and a cub blob. We can see salmon blood shining red even from this distance. They’re just hammin’ on those salmon.

  “I’d get us closer, but I don’t want to buzz them! The binoculars are under the seat!” Shane hollers.

  We take quick turns looking and saying, “wow,” as he slowly soars above, circling at a respectful distance.

  We fly on. Even the drone of the engine becomes unnoticeable after a while. The Bomb now looks out the window just like she’s riding in a car.

  The sun is out, and we can see huge mountains in the distance. I think my dad has hunted in those mountains; I can remember him spinning this bedtime yarn, “The Great White Hunter (him) & The Dall Sheep,” when we were really little. It all had to do with him “bagging” a bighorn ram in the Wrangell Mountains near Mount McKinley. When I was little I thought it was a “doll” sheep he shot.

  My mom hated that story. She is so not a hunter!

  I remember her saying, “don’t scare them right before bed,” but we weren’t scared.

  Instead, for some reason we were riveted when my dad would describe how, after he shot the ram, it tumbled “ass over teakettle” all the way down the side of the rock face. I could imagine the weird scene in my mind: a giant curl-horn ram, made of white terry cloth or fake fur, as befits a doll, holding a teakettle and somersaulting, flabbergasted, down the side of the huge mountain and into a huge bag my dad is holding open, at the bottom.

  “That’s Denali!” Shane yells, using the Native word for Mount McKinley.

  Apparently Alaskans want to change the name back, but Congress won’t, or something.

  People in Alaska just call it Denali anyway.

  Rugged individualists.

  As we fly over frothing coastal shoreline, I feel my nerves constricting again. I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. What am I going to say to my dad, for real?

  Why am I even bothering, anyway? To save our relationship? Dad and me? Really?

  What relationship exactly? It’s been years since we’ve even spoken! He doesn’t know me anymore. I was a grade-school kid when he left.

  I sigh profoundly, and stare out the window in growing woe.

  Anchorage is the biggest city we’ve landed in so far. I can see it coming as we turn and circle, preparing to land. The squawk box that tells Shane things in squawk drawl springs to life and starts to garble more instructions involving the elusive “niner.”

  The landing in Anchorage is splashier than the other ones. We are beside the international airport, so this is the busiest float plane airport I’ve seen.

  As is usual for us now, we taxi up to the dock, where the plane gently bumps against the truck tires they use to pad the deck edge. We moor there and get our stuff. Shane turns to us.

  “We’ll stay at a place down the road a little called The Puffin Inn. They let pets stay there.”

  We load in the shuttle and ride along like school kids in the back of the bus.

  The rooms at the inn are fine, but we can’t shove the beds together like we have been. They’re bolted to the floor.

  Same arrangement again: Leo and me, one room, Beau and Shane, the other.

  And again, later that night Leo disappears. This time I get up and decide that Bommy needs a walk. It’s not like they’re hard to find. They’re sitting on the lawn chairs in the courtyard.

  At least Shane is. Leo is sitting on his lap. They are totally making out. It bayonets me.

  I stop before they see me so I can spy on them. Big sloppy kisses! Mwah! Mwah!

  I want to scream and throw a tantrum. I hold The Bomb back. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself . . . but it really hurts . . . a new kind of pain.

  I turn and silently return to the bedroom. When Leo comes in I pretend to be asleep and don’t give her a hard time. She quietly gets into her bed. I lie on my back, listening till her breathing becomes slow and regular.

  I feel tears flow and flood my ears.

  The next morning I get up and actually do take The Bomb for a walk. I’m always up first.

  This time is different.

  As I leave the room, I see Shane walking toward the dining room, where they have free coffee and breakfast. He sees me and stops, and then gestures for us to come with him.

  So we do. We walk over to him. He smells good. He pats The Bomb.

  “Did you get a husky because of the U?” U Dub’s team (and students) are the Washington Huskies. Even though their actual mascots have all been malamutes, they’re all still “Huskies.” Purple and gold! Bow down to Washington! Go Dawgs!

  “Not exactly.”

  I tell him the story of how Leonie stole The Bomb. He listens and his eyes are bright. He smiles in enchantment.

  “Good for her! That just makes me like her even more. I mean, she’s just amazing, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” I agree sourly, “hella amazing.”

  We leave The Bomb outside on her leash and get food from the dining room, like muffins and honey packs so it’s good to go. We fill his steel thermos with coffee. We load up and head back outside. We unclip Bommy’s leash and she frisks along with us.

  Without anything being said, we are going for a walk.

  It’s easy to get out of town in Alaska; towns are little and the interior is big. We head down the road together till Shane cuts across the clean, yellow-striped blacktop and up a bank. I follow him and climb to a field, which looks like the most remote area in the outback you ever imagined. But it’s only a little way from town, barely a mile. We walk till we come to a huge glacier rock and Shane gestures.

  “Look, I packed our picnic table!”

  I can’t help laughing. The sun is shining and the boulder looks inviting.

  We climb up on the sun-warmed rock and gaze across the sun-dried tundra. So unencumbered!!

  We proceed to have a tea party (but with coffee). We spread out our spread. I give The Bomb a scone with jelly. She’s down with the delicious flavor of buttered strawberry!

  Shane is easy to talk to (as well as look at). He knows all the historical features of the terrain, which I find very interesting.

  He smacks the mammoth rock on which we loll.

  “Imagine an Ice Age so intense that this massive monster comes sliding from those mountains, way over there, and over thousands of years ends up clear down here, before the ice it’s moving on melts. I find that awe-inspiring . . . the scale of time,” he says wonderingly. He holds his arms out to the outback as if in congratulation.

  I know the feeling. We zone out gently in the vast wilderness.

  I find myself relating to him. I tell him the deal with my dad. How mystified I am . . . and pissed.

  He can’t make heads or tails of it either. He shakes his head in baffled interest. It feels good to have someone new to tell. He doesn’t have much to add, sadly. The one idea he gave me was fairly Zen.

  “Expect nothing.”

  I look at him in confusion, and he shrugs solemnly.

  “No disappointment that way,” he explains. “Anything will be more than you expect.”

  “What, like he won’t be glad to see me?” I am annoyed by the notion, even if it’s just hypothetical.

  “Or that you might not even find him in Kodiak. Maybe he’s off on a walkabout.” Omg, Shane is so cool. I’ve never met anyone—besides myself and the movies—that has ever spoken of a walkabout.

  “I doubt that,” I say grumpily. Not likely.

  I can’t imagine the dad I remember being on a magical mystery tour to find himself.

  We relax as we look out into the beautiful day. The field we are in is vast and the wind is mild. The clouds are mare’s tails, high and thin. I can see different distant mountain ranges. It seems like anywhere you look in Alaska you can see different distant mountain ranges.

  We continue to chill and chat.

  “Just let him be . . . you know?” Shane smiles. “Whatever dad you find, he is the way he is. Accept
that now . . . with kindness.” We stare at the sky. Then he looks at me. His lashes cast shadows.

  “Besides, he must be a cool guy if you’re his daughter.” He shades his eyes and nods at me.

  I feel like this . . . sinkhole . . . of love has just chasmed in my gut. Omg. What IS this thing?

  “Thanks,” I say. And as though I was just having a conversation with a regular person (instead of a Greek god), I admit, “I don’t know if he is, anymore . . . I don’t really know much about him, except he’s not around.”

  I don’t say that in a pitiful way. I’m not even feeling sad, but Shane looks down quietly.

  “I feel lucky that my dad has always been around. I need to tell him so. He’s a great guy.”

  (Yuh, gulp, I imagine he is—look how well you turned out. He’s the lucky one.)

  I must have sighed. He glances at me. Then he tears his scone in pieces and gives me half.

  Omg, just like in my cave-people story . . .

  “Thanks,” I manage over the deafening wind tunnel that only I can hear when he’s near. The real wind rustles through The Bomb’s fluffy white ruff. She licks my sticky fingers.

  Shane sees. He smiles at us.

  “Such an amazing girl,” he says softly. I don’t know if he means The Bomb or Leo . . . or me.

  Then he lays back on the rock, his hands under his head. His flannel shirt comes untucked and a little of his tummy shows. The golden hairs glint on his gut. I gasp. Silently.

  I am almost overcome by an urge to push his shirt up and touch his abs. I can tell they’re cut.

  After a minute he sits back up. The world calms down. I try not to show how spazzed out I got.

  For one second. Till he looks over at me again.

  “Here,” he says and reaches out to me. I freeze and look at him, and he brushes a crumb off my cheek.

  Then he smiles and licks it off his finger.

  He smiles into my eyes with this freaking joy of life.

  And the glacier rock becomes the Titanic and upends and I am lost at sea—utterly freaking gone into that good night.

  Then he puts his arms around—his knees—and we sit, me trying with all my might just to breathe rationally, and him so serene.

  The sun shines on us as we reflect.

  After enough time that the shadows move, we bury our biodegradable muffin papers, which Shane says will be uncovered and eaten by wild animals as soon as we leave because they like sweets.

  Lucky we showed up! Poor things were probably just dying for some banana muffin crumbs!

  As we begin to hike back, it’s now Shane’s turn to open up.

  “Can I ask you some stuff about Leonie?”

  I am jerked back to reality at light speed. Gut-punched, I grimace and roll my eyes invisibly.

  “Um, first let me ask you something,” I jibber to divert him. “Why do you guys always say ‘niner’ instead of just ‘nine’? When you’re flying?”

  I actually do want to know. Why not all of the numbers; one-er, two-er, three-er?

  He looks at me and I can see him changing gears. HA! Then he answers me in detail.

  “Well, that would date from near the beginning of aviation, back in the very early years of the twentieth century. America was flying airplanes in both world wars, as were the Germans. I imagine there was some—probably lethal—dick-up that happened because their word for no is nein. Pronounced exactly like the number. Hence our invention of niner.”

  “Ohhh . . .” I think this info is cool, but before I can wind up and ask more, he reverts.

  “So, Leonie . . .” His amazing gaze is focused, as he resumes his fave new topic.

  Hub-boy . . . here we go again.

  “Why, certainly!” I over-nod my head like a bad actor and smirk toothily. He does not hear the snark in my tone, which to me is unmistakable. “Yes, indeed, let us talk about Leonie!”

  (Yes!! Let us please always talk about Leonie! All the time—from here to eternity, forever!!!!!)

  His face is quite serious. He nods.

  “Good, because I was wondering . . . she doesn’t have a boyfriend, does she?” Shane looks quite agonized as he waits for the answer.

  I blow out my cheeks in a huge sigh.

  “No.”

  He lights up like a stupid, extremely handsome Christmas tree.

  “All right!! What a relief! That is awesome! Man, I was worried! But how can she not?”

  Oh, gawd. No way am I getting into that.

  “You’ll have to ask her . . . I’m sure she’d tell you, though. Eventually,” I stress, to remind him they only have a little time before we leave.

  He looks so sad that I stop.

  When we get back, Beau and Leo are up. Leo looks agitated—and cranky.

  “Oh, there you both are!” she says, the second she sees us.

  Oh-ho, so now Leo is jealous for a change. Shane is unaware but to me it’s as plain as the skinny little nose on her skinny little face! Well, well, well! Her turn!

  “Hey!” he says, all alight with delight at seeing her. “Should we get breakfast—all of us?”

  I look at him pointedly. What exactly did we just have?

  He doesn’t notice. He’s so joyful to see Leo. I immediately feel cross. And deflated.

  Beau’s cross too. He’s been getting texts for the last day. When I asked what was up he said he would tell me later. Uninformed, I still assume it’s the evil Kurtis. Hopefully he’s just urging mayhem, not anything mushy. Hopefully Beau knows he’s way too good for Kurtis. I feel my mood worsen.

  We sit down in the dining room and have breakfast again. I watch the way Shane’s dark eyes glow when he looks at Leo, in a way they don’t when he’s talking to me. I don’t know why I’m so riddled with jealousy. I didn’t even think I was wired that way. But I am.

  I feel excoriated, a new word I heard recently that I’ve been wanting to use, which means “abraded, chafed, or criticized brutally.” It now feels totally appropriate.

  I smash my eggs till the yellow yolks run like a river of blood.

  After breakfast II, we get packed up with a minimum of effort. It’s our last hop.

  We taxi down the long lake, and turn for takeoff. The feeling in my gut when we disengage from the water is like an elevator going up fast.

  As soon as we are safely airborne and Shane can talk, he turns to Beau and me in the back.

  “Get the binoculars again,” he hollers. “I want to show you some stuff while we’re here near Kenai. This place is cool.”

  Of course we fish them out. We are all for it.

  We can see the shadow of the plane on the ground as we look out the window. Soon we approach a river. More bear blobs. We check out bears by binocular. Then Shane points to a hill near a highway.

  “Look on the hill and down to the highway.”

  We see white blobs. Then they come into focus.

  “Dall sheep and a mountain goat . . . check them out.”

  I look through the binoculars. They seem to be grazing on asphalt.

  “What are they eating?”

  “Salt. That’s what draws them so near to humans. The DOT salts the roads when it snows, so they’re salty after it melts and the sheep and moose and deer and elk all come like it’s a salt lick. It’s crazy—people get so excited when they see the animals up close, they pull their cars over and dart out into the road to take a pic and end up getting hit by someone else who was driving while staring at the wildlife—it’s happened more than once.”

  We take turns and get a good look as he circles back around.

  Then we fly off down the river.

  “Oh, yeah,” Shane exclaims. He sounds thrilled. “They’re here!”

  We look down again and in the water we can see large white blobs and small brownish blobs.

  “Beluga,” says Shane. “I was hoping they’d still be here! The big white ones are the cows. They’re adults. The little brownish ones are the calves. They’ll turn pure white too, so
on.”

  Because they are underwater, the Beluga still look like blobs when we magnify them with the binoculars. But playful blobs. I see a little brown blob swim around his/her mother in a frisky way.

  We turn and bank and watch the whales play for a while. And feel very lucky.

  Finally, Shane waves the plane’s wing in a farewell flourish and away we fly.

  This last flight is shorter. This sucks because of my nerves and worry.

  I’m not ready.

  Thankfully it’s still a few hours long, which gives me a chance to sooth my troubled mind. I take out an earplug and put in an earbud. I listen to tunes in the air while we skim above the water. More old protest songs from the ’60s, which I found on YouTube. So I can relate to my dad. Though he wasn’t in Vietnam; he was way too young.

  As we near Kodiak Island the sun subsides and the sky becomes gray. Then we run into the fog.

  I have never flown in heavy fog before. I have driven in it and it terrifies me. It’s like running with your eyes closed. It just gets denser. It’s murky and opaque out the windows. Even out the front.

  I was none too steady before and the fog certainly isn’t helping my butterflies.

  Shane drawls into the squawk box and we start to descend.

  “Sorry it’s so soupy, guys,” he shouts as we start down. “It’s a pretty descent when it’s clear.”

  The lake appears much sooner in this fog than I’d have reckoned. Not a problem though.

  Shane brings the plane in like butter. We taxi around the lake after connecting almost imperceptibly. Seriously, barely a bump.

  In spite of my worries and woe, I eyeball him admiringly.

  Such a great pilot! I flutter to myself . . . and pitter-pat goes my lil’ heart.

  Oh, fer gawd’s sakes! I’ve gone moony for him—as my Facebook friend Winnie would say. In fact all my funny girlfriends, both Facebook and IRL, would be rolling their eyes at me and posting snorty memes—Karen and Cory and Lissa and Shazzie—if they knew how I’m carrying on internally.