The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  “No.” He made no move to get up.

  “You can’t lie in that bed forever.”

  “I suppose I can’t,” he muttered. Reluctantly he lifted his bad leg and swung it off the side of the bed, then reached for the wooden cane propped against the nightstand.

  The slopes of the Chugach Mountains outside of Anchorage wore their autumn cloaks of gold, the rocky summits thrusting their heads against the September sky. Dry brown leaves swirled in the dusty street as Ace stopped the car in front of the church and let his passengers out.

  Wylie walked slowly with the aid of his cane. Beside him, his mother practically beamed with pride as people began to notice them. Laboriously he climbed the church steps, dragging his leg up one step at a time, as all along the way family acquaintances eagerly welcomed him home.

  Until his grandmother had spoken to him this morning, he’d been dreading this predictable gamut of questions and comments that sounded so trite and meaningless. Now he listened to them, smiled, nodded, and offered some appropriate reply.

  “It’s so good to see you again.” “I’ll bet you’re glad to be home.” “When did you get back?” “When do you have to report?” “I heard it was bad.” “You were in my prayers.” “My sister’s nephew is stationed in the Aleutians, too.” “You are such a brave boy.” “Some of your mother’s good home cooking will put that weight back on you in no time.” “I’ll bet you showed those Japs a thing or two.” “God bless you, Wylie.”

  Someone opened the door for him. He stepped inside and paused in the vestibule, leaning heavily on his cane while his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom of the church after the brilliant sunshine outside. His mother and grandmother joined him.

  “We probably should wait here until your father comes,” his mother said.

  “That’s fine.”

  Several more people came up to speak to him. Then, over their heads, he saw Lisa. No one had mentioned her since he’d been back, and he hadn’t asked about her. He realized that he’d known all along he’d see her at church this morning. That was the biggest reason he hadn’t wanted to come. He wondered if his grandmother had been talking about the war or Lisa when she’d urged him to accept the pain of the past and start over.

  Lisa looked different to him, more mature and sophisticated. Part of it was the fur hat and coat she wore, an obvious indication of her new affluence. Her dark blond hair was still cut in the long page-boy bob and her features were the same, but she didn’t look like the shy, quiet girl he remembered.

  She noticed him, hesitated, then said something to the man standing next to her. It was Steve Bogardus. Wylie recognized him instantly. Just for a minute he felt the flare of jealousy. He stiffened as they started toward him. His mother touched his arm. As he turned to her, he realized that she’d seen them, too.

  “Maybe we should go sit down so you can rest your leg.”

  But he knew there was nothing to be gained by postponing this meeting, however much he might wish to. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  Then she was there. “Hello, Wylie.”

  “Lisa.”

  “You remember my husband, Steve Bogardus, don’t you?” Self-consciously she included him.

  “Of course.” Wylie shifted the cane to the left side so he could shake hands with her husband. “Hello, Steve. Congratulations, a little late.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to see you in one piece. I heard you had a rough time of it.”

  “No rougher than anyone else had.”

  “I’m glad you’re back,” Lisa said.

  “So am I.” Wylie didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say to her. He wondered if anything should be said once a thing was over. Regrets? He had some. And there was no denying he still wanted her. But she was married now. It still hurt, but time had lessened the sharpness of it, as well as the bitterness.

  A vague frown flickered across her face. “You’ve changed.”

  “It’s the beard.” He stroked his smooth jaw. “It’ll grow back.”

  “I guess that’s it.” But she didn’t sound certain.

  “Your father’s here, Wylie,” his mother interrupted. “I think we should take our seats now.”

  “Okay.” This time he took the excuse she offered. He’d never been any good at small talk.

  “It was good seeing you again, Wylie,” Lisa said.

  “Yeah. Same here.” He switched hands with the cane to properly support his leg and started forward in his usual gimpy gait.

  As he moved past Lisa, she asked, “Is it bad?”

  Wylie paused, leaning on the cane. “Nothing that won’t heal. It just takes time.”

  His mother took his arm and walked with him as he moved away. “I’m sorry, Wylie,” she murmured.

  “There’s no reason for you to be sorry.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts, Mom. I never asked her to wait for me.”

  At the conclusion of the morning service, they left the church ahead of Lisa. Wylie didn’t speak to her again. During the drive home, he was silent. He spent most of it staring out the window, noting the changes in his hometown. Even on Sunday morning the streets were crowded. There were soldiers everywhere he looked. Fourth Avenue was crowded with bars. There was no shortage of liquor in this town. If Anchorage had been experiencing a boom before the war started, now it was fairly bursting at the seams. He guessed that nobody could come back to a place and find things the way he’d left them. Places changed as well as people.

  As they neared the house, he glanced at his father. “How busy are you going to be next week, Dad?”

  “Not busy at all. I arranged for Skeeter and Sledge Chadwick to do most of the flying this week so I can have some time to spend with you. I thought we might see if the trout are biting.”

  “I’d like you to fly me up to Circle the first part of the week. There’s somebody I have to see.” But he knew more explanation than that was needed. “A buddy of mine who got killed on Attu asked me if I’d go see his girl. I promised him I would.”

  “If that’s what you want, sure we can go. Just name the day and I’ll have the plane ready.”

  The log cabin was nestled in a stand of birch. The sunlight filtering through the yellow leaves cast a golden glow over the small clearing as a whispering breeze stirred through the branches. A thin trail of wood smoke spiraled from the cabin’s chimney, adding its scent to the crisp autumn air.

  Wylie leaned heavily on his cane, breathing fast. His leg throbbed from the half-mile walk. He was beginning to realize that he was more out of condition than he’d thought. While he paused to catch his breath, he studied the cabin. It was easy to picture Big Jim in this setting—out back somewhere chopping wood. The place looked like his home, rugged and strong, basic and honest, with no frills.

  A pair of huskies were chained near the front of the cabin. The big gray one stood up and stared at Wylie, then lifted its nose, trying to catch his scent. The dog walked stiff-legged to the end of its chain. Even from twenty yards away, Wylie could hear the low rumble of its growl. The chain on the second one rattled as it trotted forward for a look. The first one started barking and the second one joined in.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Wylie caught a movement at the cabin window. He ignored the ache in his leg and pushed off with the cane. The dogs went into a frenzy, leaping and running to the ends of their chains, barking ferociously. The cabin door opened and a dark-haired woman stepped onto the small porch. She wore trousers and a man’s plaid shirt. Her hair was black and straight, the blunt ends brushing the top of her shoulders. But the sight of the black-haired toddler in her arms almost stopped Wylie in his tracks.

  “Stony! Rocky!” the woman yelled at the dogs. Their barks turned to excited yips as they wiggled and hopped like young pups.

  Wylie paused at the bottom of the planked steps. “Are you Anita Lockwood?” She wasn’t at all what he’d expected. The high cheekbones, the black hair and eyes, a
nd the strong nose, they looked Indian, but there was no coarseness in her features. And her skin was more the color of rich cream than dull bronze.

  “Yes.” She jiggled the child in her arms as she watched him with a guarded look.

  “I’m Wylie Cole. I wrote you a letter a couple months ago about … Jim.”

  She seemed to relax a little. “Yes. I received it. Thank you. I’m not sure if I—” She stopped self-consciously, and quickly changed what she’d been going to say. “I sent your letter to his parents in the States. I thought they would like to know.”

  Wylie knew that she wondered whether she would have been notified of Big Jim’s death. It was the reason he’d written her, because he didn’t think she would have. “That’s fine,” he said.

  “You said you would come, but I didn’t think you would.”

  “I promised Jim.”

  “How did you get here? You didn’t walk all that way, did you?” She seemed to be groping to make conversation. He felt the same awkwardness.

  “My dad flew me in from Anchorage.” He saw her glance back along the trail. “He’s doing some fishing. I caught a ride from Circle.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” Wylie shifted more of his weight onto the cane and eased the strain on his leg. “My leg’s kinda tired after hiking that half mile from the road.”

  “Of course. Forgive me and please come inside.” She hastened to open the door for him as Wylie negotiated the steps. “I’m afraid we don’t get many visitors.”

  The interior of the two-room cabin was snug and compact, every inch of space utilized. Wylie thumped into the main living area and paused to look around at the simple furnishings. The tables, chairs, cabinets, and cupboards all looked homemade yet well crafted, with the exception of one stuffed leather chair by the wood stove. The padded armrests were worn and cracked, and he suspected the old blanket folded on the seat cushion covered a tear in the leather. He knew without asking that it had been Big Jim’s favorite chair.

  “Sit down.” Anita Lockwood gestured toward the chair and set the boy on the floor. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  Unwilling to take Jim’s place, even figuratively, Wylie hesitated and watched her go to the cupboards and take down a tin of coffee. He had a brief glimpse inside the cupboard when she opened the door. There were few supplies on the shelf. He wondered how she was getting by now that Jim was dead and she no longer received money from him each month. He’d already checked and found out she hadn’t received Jim’s insurance money. He limped over to the chair and sat down, wincing as he stretched his sore leg out.

  The cushions were all hollowed out to comfortably fit a man’s shape. Wylie settled back into them and leaned his cane against the armrest. The little boy came toddling over, a finger hooked in his mouth. He stared first at Wylie, then at the cane. He looked to be about two or three years old. Wylie wondered why Big Jim had never mentioned the child.

  “Hello.” Wylie smiled at him. “What’s your name?” The boy jabbered something unintelligible, and pointed with his wet finger at the cane. “You’re kinda fascinated by this, aren’t you? I’m afraid it’s bigger than you are.”

  After quickly setting the coffeepot on the wood stove, Anita scooped the boy up with an apologetic glance at Wylie and plunked him down on the floor a few feet away amidst some wooden blocks. “Play here,” she said firmly, then she moved back and sat down on the edge of a wooden rocker. “The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “The boy wasn’t bothering me.” Wylie studied her curiously.

  She lowered her head and chewed at the inside of her lip, then looked at him squarely. “His name is Michael. Jim named him after his father but most of the time he just called him Mikey. When he was a baby, Mikey became very sick and ran a high fever. It took us three days to reach a doctor. We did all we could, but Jim always felt bad, especially after we learned that now Mikey is backward. Jim always worried that people would make fun of him because his mind is so slow.” She glanced at her hands. “That’s probably why he didn’t tell you about Mikey. He wasn’t ashamed of him,” she added defensively. “It was just his way of protecting him.”

  “I see.” Although the boy explained why Jim had been so anxious for Wylie to look after this woman, it made him wonder why Jim hadn’t married her—a breed or not. “This is a nice place,” he said.

  “Yes. Jim built the cabin himself and he made all the furniture, too. He was good with his hands.” The pride and deep love she’d had for the man were clearly visible in her expression. There was a kind of radiance to her face when she talked about him. Then it faded. “I wrote his parents and asked if I might stay here. But I haven’t heard back from them yet.”

  “Do you have any family, Anita?”

  “My mother is still living, but she is very old now. My younger brother, Joe, is away at the native boarding school at White Mountain.”

  Since the turn of the century, there had been two separate educational systems in Alaska. One was for natives and the other for whites and those of mixed blood who led a “civilized” life. Wylie wondered why Anita’s brother hadn’t chosen the latter, but maybe it was easier not to fight the existing prejudice.

  “Is that where you attended school?” It was obvious to him that she had received an education beyond the normal elementary level of most rural natives.

  “No. I went to the Sheldon Jackson School in Sitka. I wanted to become a teacher, but … I was needed at home after my father died.” She gazed at a built-in cabinet; its glass doors revealed shelves lined with books. Her face softened again. “Jim went to college. In the winters we used to read a lot and talk about the things we read. He was very intelligent. He taught me a lot. I probably should pack up all his books and send them home to his family with the rest of his things.”

  “I think Jim would have wanted you to keep them. He would have wanted you to keep a lot of this,” Wylie stated.

  The coffee started boiling atop the wood stove, its aromatic steam spreading throughout the small cabin. Anita poured a cup for each of them. Wylie wasn’t sure whether the coffee deserved the credit or not, but the initial awkwardness passed and they talked freely. Wylie hadn’t been able to talk much about Big Jim to anyone. With her, he could open up about his buddy. The time passed all too quickly for him. Before he knew it, he had to start back to meet his father.

  He gave her some money, insisting Big Jim had left it with him to give to her. He suspected that she knew it was a white lie, but he also knew it was what Big Jim would have done if he’d thought of it. Then he left, promising he’d be back to see her and little Mikey again.

  During the month that he was home recuperating, Wylie managed to make it back up there once a week. He found himself looking forward to the visits and the chance to get away from the hustle of Anchorage. He’d never been one who found much enjoyment sitting in bars and drinking, or standing in line at a whorehouse. And Lord knew, there were plenty of both in Anchorage. At Big Jim’s cabin, he found a measure of peace and contentment. He didn’t know if it was the setting or the company. He thought it might be a bit of both.

  With a swing of the axe, he buried the blade in the halved log. The wood splintered as it split into quarters. Wylie chopped the two pieces the rest of the way apart, then spiked the axe blade on the flat top of the dead tree trunk and reached down to pick up the chunks of firewood, with no protest from the muscles in his leg. He was conscious of the blood rushing through his veins and heating his flesh. He’d worked up a sweat and it felt good.

  A jay chattered at him from a bare branch overhead as he added the armload of wood to the long stack that represented a winter’s supply of firewood. There was a crackling rustle of dry leaves behind him. Wylie glanced over his shoulder as little Mikey came scurrying up, grinning widely and proudly clutching some large splintered chunks of wood in his gloved hands. He hurried to the woodpile and stretched as tall as he could to stack his wood on top the
way Wylie had.

  “Let me give you a lift up there, Mikey.” Wylie picked him up and held him over the woodpile so he could deposit the small sticks on top, then swung him onto his hip. “You’re quite the little helper.”

  His cap was askew and Wylie straightened it for him. The boy laughed. He was always laughing. Wylie had never seen a child so happy all the time. To Mikey, the world was filled with joy. Maybe it came with being retarded. Wylie didn’t know, but he hoped that Mikey never found out he was different from other children; he hoped that smile of his would never go away.

  The hinges on the cabin door creaked shrilly. Anita stepped to the end of the porch, hugging her arms around her to ward off the sharp nip in the air. “If you two are finished, why don’t you come inside? I just took the bread out of the oven and the coffee’s hot. I thought we might sample some of that jam your mother sent.”

  “Sounds good.” Wylie carried Mikey to the door, striding easily, hardly favoring his leg at all. As Anita opened the door, he made a mock shudder at the screech of the hinges. “I’ve been meaning to oil that door.”

  “That’s the last thing Jim said before he left.”

  Wylie glanced thoughtfully at the door as he closed it behind him, then turned. Anita reached to take the boy from him, but Wylie shook his head. “I can manage.”

  She didn’t argue. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

  He set Mikey on the floor and crouched down beside him to remove his cap, overcoat, and gloves, then shrugged out of his own and hung them all on the wall hooks by the door. He walked to the table and sat down, absently running his hand over the smoothly planed top.

  “You know I loved Jim.” He smiled crookedly. “I’ve never said that about another man before.”

  She glanced up from the loaf of fresh bread she was slicing, her look one of understanding. “He was a good man.”

  Mikey came over and crawled onto Wylie’s lap. “I think he likes me.” Wylie affectionately rumpled the top of the boy’s hair. Mikey mimicked the action and laughed.