I wanted to let you be, she’d said. But what I heard now was, I wanted to be you.
Why don’t you come out to the woods on your own? I asked her.
She studied the trees and the gray sky peeking between branches. Her hands tucked into the pockets of her Carhartts as she walked, her cheeks red with the damp chill that clung to the day.
Who taught you to hunt? I tried instead.
Who taught you?
I frowned.
You taught yourself, didn’t you? she said. You watched the woods and learned from observation. And then you caught your first animal. A vole, wasn’t it? And from that, you learned—what? Do you remember?
I thought back to that day, the first animal I ever tasted, even before I managed to kill something myself. I must of been only four or five. Stepping from the warm grass of the sunlit yard into the shadowy woods and finding the vole, barely alive, its scent was what drew me to it. It fit in my two hands cupped together. And when I tasted it, my head flooded with moonlight, a stirring, a twitching in my muscles, and I poked my head from my nest then run through a warren underground till I found my way to the surface, full moon overhead, bright as daylight.
I told her, I learned that if the moon is bright enough, a vole will think it’s daytime and come out to feed.
And when did you catch your next vole? Mom asked.
On a full-moon night, I said.
There you go.
I remembered, too, her finding me at the edge of our woods, and her arms round me as she carried me inside. How bright the bathroom seemed as she knelt before me and scrubbed my skin till it was almost raw and my face stung.
You didn’t want me to, I said.
To what?
Drink, I said. Did you?
She sighed. When I was a girl, younger than you are now, I just did what came natural. I never thought to ask anyone about it or find out if it was the same for other little girls. My brothers never hunted, not the way you do. The way I did.
The way your own mom done?
She shook her head. I never saw her hunt. We weren’t very alike, my mom and me. I used to hear stories about my grandmother, things that made me think we were the same. But I never knew her. They say she disappeared shortly after my mom was born. My own mother never seemed to know what to do with me. I think, sometimes, she was almost afraid of me.
She stopped, so I stopped, too. She bent a little so we was eye to eye, and I seen for the first time she didn’t have to bend as far as she used to.
I never wanted you to feel that way, she said. Once I knew that you took after me, I wanted— She brushed her hand over my hair. I wanted something different for you, she said.
Everything between us, everything we shared, hung in the air like a held breath, I could almost see it. I was afraid to say the wrong thing and bring the whole thing down.
I couldn’t help it, though. You don’t hunt no more, I said.
She didn’t say nothing. Just started to walk again.
You don’t need it? I asked.
She kept her eyes on the trail, but her thoughts traveled her face, I could see her working through a puzzle. Finally she said, You can learn to live without it. You just need a good enough reason.
What was your reason?
You, she said. When I found out I was pregnant with you. Everyone talks about how exciting it is when you know you’re going to have a baby. But no one tells you how scared you’ll be.
I thought of her own mom again, someone I had only seen in pictures, a frowning, fretful-looking woman who clung to her sons but seemed to keep her distance from the daughter who was always slightly blurry, never still long enough to take a decent photo.
You was scared of me.
Not of you, Mom said. Scared for you, I guess.
What’s that mean?
It started to rain then, the lightest drizzle. I could barely feel the drops on my skin, but the rain on the leaves of the trees built a cave round us, only the two of us enclosed in it together, no one else.
It’s kind of your job, she said, when you’re a parent, to be scared for your kids. I worry about all sorts of things. Not just for you, but Scott, too.
Scott was not like me at all, mostly content to stay indoors all afternoon, even when the sun come out for its slim few hours in the deepest part of winter and made the snow sparkle. I ached on days like that, fidgeted and burned till I burst through the door and sprinted across the snow. There was more difference between me and Scott than just him being a boy and me being a girl.
I worry about different things for Scott, she went on. I worry that he’ll get hurt.
I frowned.
That I’ll hurt him.
I’m talking more about the inside. He’s so quiet and tenderhearted. He takes in much more than you think he does.
I remembered the one time I had bit him, the taste of his blood on my tongue as I pulled away. The experience of him, his own experience. I knew after that day that he couldn’t bear shouting if he thought it meant a fight, and that he closed his eyes when someone else got a shot or cut themselves not because he was afraid of blood but because he could almost feel their pain himself.
We was nearly back home. I could see the dog yard and the house in the spaces between the trees. Everything quiet except the sound of the rain. Soon enough we would step out of this cave we had made, back into our regular life. But I stopped us, reached out to grab her hand. I could stop, I said. I wanted to take back the offer soon as I made it. But I didn’t.
Her hand was cold in mine. Do you want to?
The rain fell harder. I didn’t know how to answer her. There wasn’t no part of me that truly wanted to stop hunting. But I did want to please her.
We come to the trailhead, walking slow despite the rain. The dogs barked a greeting. Smoke curled from our chimney into the slate-colored sky.
You’re old enough now, she went on, you don’t need most of the rules I gave you. Except the last one.
Never make a person bleed, I said automatically.
She squeezed my hand, stopped me. I’m serious, Tracy. You’ve broken that rule too many times already.
I flushed. I could find Scott inside me, the feelings and experience I’d took from him. The alarm going off in Aaron’s head like a fire drill when he seen what I done to the cat. And before that, when I was even younger, and she’d tried to put me in kindergarten, the classroom was crowded and loud and bright, too much light, waves of color and faces and voices, I felt panic rear up in me. Then an arm reached too close, a curious hand touching me, and then a wail. And red. And hands pulling me off the little boy whose face was bleeding where my teeth sunk in.
I’m sorry, I said again.
She shook her head. It’s okay. But you can’t do it again. You hear me?
I nodded.
I mean it, she said. It’s fine to hunt animals all you want. You don’t have to stop that. But when it comes to people, you cannot break that rule. Promise me.
There was more I wanted to ask. Like why people and animals had to be different. Why learning from one could be easy, but when it come to the more complicated creature, you had to do things the hard way. If you had a way to be as close as you could to another person, why wouldn’t you use it?
But we was at the house now, Dad and Scott on the other side of the door, I could hear them in the kitchen, and Mom was waiting on my promise. So I give it to her.
6
I snuck out the next night, a run with four dogs on the line that took me farther than the night before, past the lake but not quite to the river. By the time my head hit my pillow I only managed a couple hours’ sleep before Dad poked his head in my room and said, Morning, Trace. Breakfast time.
He meant the dogs’ breakfast, not mine. My belly was still full from my night run anyway, I’d found two traps triggered with critters I bled right where I stood. I’d found a third trap, too. Its catch missing. About two miles closer to home than the first empty trap.
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My luck run out the next couple nights. For months the fridge had been making noise like a small plane about to take off, till finally it found another noise to make, and Dad spent a whole evening tinkering with it, way past his usual bedtime, trying to suss out whether it was something he could fix or if he’d have to spend the money to hire someone. I looked round the kitchen, the counter crowded with plastic containers full of leftovers and the milk slowly warming next to the three eggs we had left. Trudged up the stairs to my bed. There wouldn’t be no chance to slip past him that night.
The next evening, I went to bed early, still in my sweater and jeans, and set my clock to wake me near midnight. But when I crept halfway down the stairs, I seen a light on in the kitchen. The room was quieter than it had been in a good while, the old buzzing fridge was gone, Steve Inga had helped Dad haul it away that afternoon. No replacement yet, Dad would have to fetch a new fridge from Fairbanks, which meant a long drive, not to mention the money he didn’t have to spend.
One of the house dogs whined. Dad’s shadow lifted its arm then lowered again, and glass clinked against glass. I could even hear him swallow. Next morning, there would only be about an inch of whiskey left in the bottle Steve had brung. I sat on the stairs a spell, listening to Dad drink, till he got up and crossed the room. A small clatter as he picked the phone up off its hook, the beep of numbers as he dialed.
Yeah, it’s me, he said after a moment. Sorry to call so late.
A pause. Then, That’s why I’m calling. I changed my mind. Think you can make it happen?
He give a long, heavy sigh. Said, I know. I’ll deal with it some way. ’Preciate your help, Steve.
He grunted as he sat back down, and I stole upstairs. My stomach cramped and growled.
During the day, I fed the dogs and stacked wood and watched the trees, as if any second Tom Hatch would stroll back into the yard, come straight for me, asking after his pack.
When I wasn’t thinking about Hatch, though, I was planning for my race season. February, and the Junior, was getting closer day by day, and then it would be time for the Iditarod before I could turn round twice. If I was going to sneak out often enough at night to train proper, I needed Dad to have fewer sleepless nights. But that wasn’t nothing I could control.
In the meantime, I went against every instinct in me and volunteered to drive into the village to fetch groceries, even though the sight of trees flinging themselves past the truck’s windows made me sick to my stomach.
Dad raised his eyebrows. You feeling okay? he asked, teasing. I mean, you must’ve come down with something if you’re offering to drive into town.
Ha, I said. I’m just trying to lend a hand. But if you don’t want the help— I shrugged.
No, no, by all means, he said and tossed his keys across the room to me.
Once I got to the village, I rushed through the shopping quick as I could, then run my real errand. Walked to the post office and slipped two envelopes in the out box, one addressed to the Junior Iditarod’s committee and one addressed to the Iditarod’s, stacks of ten- and twenty-dollar bills in each to pay for my race fees. I knew I oughtn’t send cash in the mail, but that couldn’t be helped.
Course, after I volunteered to drive into the village once, Dad was keen to take advantage of what he called my unexpected willingness. A couple days later we drove in together to pick up bags of dog kibble. We loaded the truck down with dozens of fifty-pound bags, then swung by the school to pick up Scott. When we pulled in Scott was sitting outside, fiddling with his camera.
What’s up? Dad asked him.
There’s something wrong with the lens, maybe, Scott said. I can’t get it to focus right.
Let me take a look, Dad said and leaned against the truck, messing with the camera. I shifted from one foot to the other, ready to get back on the road. I was eager to turn in early that evening so I could get up and run the dogs again after the two of them had gone to bed. Plus, it had been days since I’d hunted. My head was swimmy and out of sorts, my belly hollow.
We holding you up? Dad said wryly. You’re in such a hurry, you drive.
Fine, I told him.
We crawled our way through the village, then onto the highway. I wound the truck up, seemed to me like we was going plenty fast, till Dad looked up and said, Christ, Tracy, you can’t go forty on a road like this. Someone comes along going seventy, they’re going to run us right over.
I inched the truck up to forty-five.
Oh, for Pete’s sake— He made a strange, choked sound, and at first I thought he was mad, but I wasn’t about to go no faster, the trees already whipping past the windows quicker than I liked. But then he gasped and chortled, and I realized he was laughing at me.
What the hell? I asked as Scott joined in. What?
Dad shook his head, gradually got hold of himself. The way you looked! he exclaimed. He clenched his fists and his teeth, hunched forward and glared out the windshield, his eyes big as plates. Scott cackled at his imitation.
I shook my head, irritated. But a smile crept over my face. It was nice, both of them laughing, even if it was at my expense. You going to let me drive, or sit there making fun of me? I asked.
I can’t do both? Dad grinned at me.
An hour or so later, I steered the truck into the driveway. When we rolled past the trees that shielded our property from the road there was a shape waiting for us halfway between the dog yard and the house. Even though I could see with my own eyes it wasn’t Tom Hatch, my mouth went dry. For a moment it was Hatch, the shape held something in its hands, my eyes seen it and my brain turned it into a knife, my knife, even though that was impossible since my knife was in my pocket like it always was.
The shape that wasn’t Hatch raised its hand hello. My muscles tensed up, my foot pushed the pedal to the floor, and we rocketed forward.
Brake! Dad shouted. Brake!
I slammed the brake, the truck slid another three feet on the hardpacked snow, and we stopped just shy of the corner of the house.
Dad give me a look. Maybe you shouldn’t drive after all, he said.
Calmer now, I could take in what was in front of me instead of what my panicked brain thought it seen. The shape coming toward us wasn’t tall or broad but thin and barely taller than me, though it tried to make itself look bigger with clothes that didn’t fit. Its baggy jacket wasn’t warm enough for the time of year. When it got closer, I seen its pants was held up by a hank of rope.
Help you? Dad asked.
I hope so, the stranger said. Now that we was closer, you could see that even though his clothes was ill-fit he had tried to make himself presentable, he was real clean shaven and his reddish-brown hair combed, hat in his hand.
You ain’t here about the room for rent? Dad said.
That’s right, the stranger said. His words come out slow, like a tide creeping in.
Well, it ain’t much, Dad said. But you’re welcome to take a look.
Scott had already gone up to the house, but I trailed behind them round the back where the shed was. The building was about ten by fourteen foot, there wasn’t much room, but the three of us crowded in so the visitor could take a look. It was clean even if it was small, and you would be pretty cozy and warm even after the fire in the stove died for the night.
When we stepped back outside, Dad said, It’s pretty spare. I reckon you could find something nicer in the village. More convenient. But you’re welcome to use the kitchen and the bath up at the house as you like. I got two kids, Tracy here, and you probably saw Scott before he disappeared. They won’t bother you none.
This’ll do just fine, the visitor said in his deliberate way. I’m not inclined to be in town.
Dad leaned on the handle of his axe and looked the visitor up and down. You got anyone to vouch for you?
I’m not from around here. But I worked for a guy down in Ketchikan this summer. I could give you his number.
Dad waved a hand. No worries, he said. Anyway, like th
e ad says, rent’s two hundred a month.
Up at the house, Old Su nosed open the back door and come down the stairs, moseyed over. Went up to the stranger and give him a sniff, then put her snout right in his pocket.
Su, come here, I said.
The visitor glanced at me, then pushed Su away, gentle. The thing is, he said, I was hoping we could make a trade.
A trade, Dad said.
I’m a hard worker, the visitor said. And it looks like you could use someone.
Dad raised an eyebrow. We’re doing fine. Don’t need help. What I need is someone who can pay rent.
But one glance round the yard told you what anyone with eyeballs could see, that even with me doing my chores every day, there was plenty more still needed doing. The back stoop of the house sagged at one end and the yard was littered with half-finished projects and broken-down snow machines and unrepaired sleds. The dog yard had never looked so empty. I felt my cheeks flush.
The visitor nodded. Then said, You’re a musher, that much is clear. No disrespect, sir, but if you were really fine, you’d be on a sled right now and I’d be standing here talking to myself.
Dad was quiet. Stood with his hands in his pockets. Then cleared his throat. You ever worked with dogs before?
Sure.
Where was this?
Montana.
Dad raised his eyebrows. You know Gerald Vetch?
Oh, sure.
That right? Dad scratched his beard. That meant he was rolling a thought over in his head. Gerald and me come out of the chute back-to-back the first year I won the Iditarod. We ran neck and neck the whole way through the Quest once. Every time one of us stopped, there the other one was. Real good guy. How’s he doing these days?
Real good, the visitor said.
Dad gazed at the dog yard, still stroking his beard.
Dad? I spoke up.
But he was lost in his own thoughts. I often wished I could know what was going on in his head, but never more than right at that moment. I felt desperate to know if he was recalling how Tom Hatch had lurched into our yard just weeks before, or if he was reminding himself of what he’d told me, that you never knew who might come roaming through the woods. Or showing up on our doorstep.
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