The Wild Inside

by Jamey Bradbury

  With Helen round, Dad’s mood improved. He didn’t say a word about grounding me for running off, and when I ducked into the woods to check traps he only asked, Any success? when I got back. Then, day before Thanksgiving, when I complained that the critters nearest our property had learned all my best spots for setting traps, Dad suggested, Try your luck farther down the trail.

  Between homeschool work and chores, I ain’t got time to get far enough out, I said.

  So take a team, he said.

  I didn’t hesitate or ask if he was sure, I stopped what I was doing that very second and hitched three dogs up to a sled, and that’s how we managed to have two hares on the table that Thanksgiving.

  Thanksgiving Day, the kitchen filled with smells that reminded me of the time before we’d got rid of all our help, when Dad would invite the youngsters and Aaron to dinner and Mom was still happy and healthy, she cooked up huge meals and the room filled with voices. Usually I didn’t like so many people round, but those times Mom would smile and laugh and Dad would tell stories about his adventures on the trail, everyone grinning and eating, passing plates back and forth, and the whole place bright and warm.

  There was fewer of us now, but the feeling was almost the same. Helen put on soft, cheery music, and there was white Christmas lights strung round a ceiling beam over the table. The bills and books and my half-done homeschool work that was usually piled at one end of the table was gone, instead there was more food than the five of us could eat. We stuffed ourselves full, then Helen brought out the pies, a blueberry cobbler she had made and a chocolate pie made by Jesse.

  How’d you learn to bake? Scott asked round a mouthful of pie.

  Jesse shook his head. You pick up all kinds of skills on the road, he said.

  It’s good, Scott said and sliced himself a second piece.

  It is, Helen agreed. I’d love to get your recipe. Where’d you learn it?

  Jesse glanced at me. It’s my grandmother’s, he said.

  That’s right, Helen said. Bill mentioned you lived with your grandparents in—Maine, wasn’t it?

  Jesse took his time chewing.

  I had an aunt who lived in Maine, Helen went on. We used to go out summers, to visit. Have you ever been to Camden?

  Jesse wiped his mouth. Shot a look at the clock, then jumped up from his chair. Shoot, I didn’t realize how late it was, he said and nodded at my dad. I should get going.

  I wanted to get up, follow after him. But Dad surprised me by being the one to usher him to the door. He handed Jesse the keys to the second truck.

  Where’s he off to? I asked.

  Dad ignored me. I don’t know about you all, but I could use a good walk after all that food.

  So the four of us tromped along under the canopy of branches toward the lake and, all round, that kind of quiet that happens when everything is still and insulated by snow. As we walked, Scott and Helen pulled ahead with their cameras, snapping pictures and chatting. Scott still used Mom’s old camera. I wondered if he thought of her each time he changed the film, same way little things would bring her back to life in my own head.

  You seem awful deep in thought, Tracy Sue.

  Dad kept pace with me, though he kept breaking through the surface of the snow as he walked. The trail was packed enough for me to keep on top of the snow, but Dad was heavier, he postholed up to his shin every few steps. Walking that way is tiresome, but he carried on, his face smooth and untroubled. He was happy as I’d seen him in at least a year.

  I didn’t mean to worry you when I run off, I said.

  He squeezed my shoulder. You’re old enough to know that’s not the way to deal with what troubles you, he said. But I get it.

  You do?

  He pushed a low branch out of the way, the snow fell from it and showered us. Lot of changes this year, he said. More than just this year. And I haven’t always gone about things the best way. It was a mistake, maybe, to send you to school. I couldn’t think what else to do. But—

  He sighed. His breath a cloud we walked through. Then Jesse come round, he said. I know you weren’t keen on that. But I needed a hand.

  I thought about him and Jesse making their way through the dog yard together, the way Jesse had made him laugh.

  Maybe more than a hand, I said. Is that how come you let him stay even though he lied about Gerald Vetch?

  We was losing light. Up ahead, Helen and Scott clicked on their headlamps. The beams bounced against the snow.

  Partly, Dad said. Mostly, Jesse’s a kid.

  Barely, I said.

  He’s only a little older than you. He shouldn’t be on his own like he is.

  So that makes it okay for him to lie? I said and ignored the fact that if I hadn’t outright lied to Dad my whole life, I hadn’t never been upfront with him, neither.

  Dad was quiet a good while. I thought your mom wouldn’t turn some kid away, he said at last.

  I frowned. It didn’t sound right to me. Mom was the one who’d got rid of Masha. Who’d wanted to fire the three older kids who’d worked for us. And she was the one who’d stopped going into town so often, kept to herself, and got quieter and quieter the last few months before she died.

  Dad chuckled. Don’t know what made me think of this, he said and ducked under another low branch. When your mom was pregnant with you, she was determined on knitting you a little sweater. She sat in front of the fireplace and knitted, cursing up a storm. She could sew just fine, but couldn’t knit worth a damn. She’d get so pissed off, fling her needles across the room. Then two seconds later she’d pick them up, go right back at it. Swearing the whole time. He shook his head. Once, she chucked the whole tangle of yarn into the fire, then snatched it out again. I come into the room, she’s stomping on her handiwork, and it’s smoldering and smoking, and I can’t help it, I just howled, watching her dance around trying to save the thing she’d wanted to throw away.

  We was nearly to the clearing where I’d stabbed Hatch. I slowed, and Dad matched my pace. I asked her once why she didn’t just go to Fairbanks with me sometime, he said. Buy some baby clothes at the store, like a normal person. But she tells me, Bill, I might not get anything else right, but by god, I am going to knit my kid a fucking sweater!

  His laughter rolled up the trail.

  All I could do was chuckle at her, he went on. And it was contagious, almost soon as I started laughing, she started, too, pretty soon both of us was practically rolling on the ground. His smile faded a little, though its shadow lingered. She was like that, you know? She’d catch a laugh, almost like a cold. Or she’d know somehow when you were out of sorts, even before you said anything. She was just good at knowing folks.

  He put his hand on my back. I guess that’s why I figured she would look out for Jesse, if she was here. Whatever he’s been through, to be on his own, she would’ve understood.

  The snow was softer on the parts of the trail not sheltered by trees, I dropped through the surface of it and had to high-knee my way through the slush. The legs of my pants wet through, they stuck to me, and it wasn’t no effort to find Jesse in the sensation, his own jeans stuck to his legs, his shirt plastered to his skin as he searched for shelter in a downpour somewhere between here and the place he come from.

  Mom might of understood what Jesse went through but she wouldn’t of known. Not the way I knew him now. There would of been a wall between her and him, same way there was a wall between just about everybody, the thing that lets each person hold back parts of themselves and only show what they want. I fell behind Dad as I trudged through softened snow. His version of Mom was different from mine. My version scolded me for hurting Scott when I bit him, and tried to keep me from the woods when I was little. My version always had one eye on me. She was moody and kept secrets and wanted the best for me, I knew, but she was also hard to figure out, specially as she begun to say less and less.

  It wasn’t just the secret me and Mom shared that made my version of her different from the one Dad kn
ew. The two of them had almost three years on their own before I come along. A whole life together I wasn’t privy to. I wished I had known her before I was born. Known Dad’s version of her, the one who cursed and knitted and laughed easier than the mom I knew. The one who would of taken Jesse in because he was a kid and he didn’t have nowhere else to go.

  My stomach growled even though I still felt stuffed from our holiday meal. It wasn’t food I wanted, but blood. Not from some critter caught in a snare, neither, but from Jesse. I ached for the taste of him, the experience of him. I could find him if I went looking, feel the certainty that shot through him as he fell out of a tree once that he would break his arm, the helplessness at knowing it was already too late. The undeniable satisfaction that come at a voice calling over to him, Hey, guy, before he looked up from his book and seen Tom Hatch.

  It wasn’t enough. I worried he would fade from me, and while I hated feeling the emptiness of the roads he’d walked and the way he’d strained beneath the weight of Hatch on top of him, I also hated the idea of losing the rest. The closeness of him. The thought that I might know him in a way I’d never known anyone else.

  I had promised my mother that I wouldn’t never make a person bleed. Maybe this was the reason she’d made me give her my word. She’d known, maybe, that one day I would have a taste of someone and it would only make me want more. But if I didn’t make him—if he give it to me willingly? She hadn’t never warned me against that.

  The four of us turned round eventually and the sky grew velvety and studded with stars. Scott and Helen put their cameras away. The walk back, we all fell quiet, the way a group of folks will do sometimes when the setting-out part of a hike is over and muscles are just a little wore out and words get overwhelmed by what’s round you, trees and snow and boulders and sky.

  We’d only been gone a couple hours but Jesse was already back, just opening the dog box on the back of the truck he’d fixed up.

  How is she? Dad called out as we got closer.

  She’s a beauty, Jesse said. He stepped away from the truck, give a little whistle, and out jumped a smallish dog, skinny and quick looking. Jesse knelt beside her and stroked her fur.

  You like her? Dad asked me.

  I give her my hand to sniff. She had bright, alert eyes and a mottled gray coat. Her ears perked when Dad spoke, like she was paying attention as he told me it was Jesse who’d seen the ad at the general store yesterday and who had called the musher from Nenana who was retiring. Jesse who’d arranged to meet the man today when he stopped in the village on his way south to Anchorage. Jesse who’d said it was a little early for Christmas, but maybe a new dog was the right present for me.

  I hunkered down next to the new dog, scratching her chest. She’s mine? I asked.

  Dad took a breath. I’m sorry about Flash, he said. I am. I know you wanted her for your lead. But we’ve got other good leaders, and when Jesse brought it up, I thought maybe this dog would help round out your team.

  My head snapped up. Say what?

  Instead of answering, Dad took a piece of paper from his pocket. My stomach dropped when I seen it was from the Iditarod committee, a confirmation that they had received my entry fee. Most likely, there was a letter from the Junior Iditarod somewhere, too, either in our mailbox at the post office or on its way.

  I’m not thrilled you did this behind my back, Dad was saying. But it’s done.

  You’re not mad?

  He sort of tossed up his hands, let them drop again. He wasn’t looking at me, but at Helen, who give him a smile. No point in being mad now, he said. Anyhow, at least one of us should race, don’t you think?

  I threw my arms round his neck. Thank you, I said.

  He give me a squeeze.

  There was a click, the snow lit up under a flash. Helen lowered her camera. I couldn’t resist, she said.

  I am curious, Dad went on. How you managed to pay the fee. Not exactly a small amount of money.

  I swallowed. I’d give plenty of thought to how I was going to explain this when it come up, and I still hadn’t settled on a good answer. The longer I stalled the more whatever I was about to say would sound like a lie. Was Jesse wondering where I’d got the money, too? Thinking of his lost pack, the one I’d claimed I hadn’t found? I opened my mouth, not sure what was about to come out.

  I gave it to her, Scott said before I found a single word.

  Me and Dad both stared at him.

  What? I said.

  Not gave, really. Loaned. I know you told me not to tell him, Scott said to me. But now that he knows you entered— He shrugged. Well, it’s not a secret anymore.

  Where’d you get that kind of money? Dad wanted to know.

  Scott rolled his eyes. Birthday money. Payment from chores from when Mom was— I do half the papers turned in by the older kids at school. Type them up, I mean. And charge them for it. And I never spend money on anything but camera film and books.

  My mouth hung open, and if Dad glanced at me he would of known right away I was just as surprised at Scott’s explanation as he was. Instead, he put an arm round Scott. That was awful nice of you, son.

  Don’t worry, Scott told him. I’m going to make a killing on the interest rate I’m charging her.

  Dad and Helen walked Scott back to the house, and Scott shot me a look over his shoulder that I couldn’t read. I stayed behind, riding a whole ocean of feelings. Relief, curiosity at why Scott had covered for me, nervousness now that it was real—come March, I really would be racing, no question about it now. All of it wrapped up in an excitement like I never felt before.

  That was nice of Scott, Jesse spoke up.

  He closed the door of the dog box, then stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the dog he’d found for me. I couldn’t tell whether he meant it was nice of Scott to loan me the money, or that it was nice of Scott to cover for me. The pack was still under my bed, but all that was in it now was a few small bills and a piece of jerky, some rice, and a tin mug. Easy enough for me to call up Jesse’s memories, but impossible to know whether he knew I’d lied to him. His face blank, his eyes unreadable.

  What should I call her, do you think? I asked him instead.

  He come closer, give her a pat. She reminds me of a dog I used to have, he said.

  In Maine? I smiled to let him know it was a joke.

  I’m talking about a real dog, he said. Back home, in Oklahoma. Her name was Stella. My dad used to say she was so smart, he ought to put her in charge of the books for the farm.

  So much packed into one breath, my brain snagged on words like farm and home and my dad. My mouth felt dry, filled with questions that wouldn’t ask themselves. Jesse knelt next to me, the two of us with our hands on the dog, gentling her, letting her lick our faces. He was so close, I swore I could smell his skin. His blood, pulsing underneath his skin.

  I stood up, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands, my arms. Stella, huh? I grabbed the new dog’s collar and led her to the dog yard, to Marcey, whose house was in the first row. The two dogs traded sniffs.

  Stella used to disappear for hours at a time, Jesse went on while I kept my attention on the dogs. Just take off, sometimes for a whole day. But she’d always come back. I used to call them her walkabouts. Like she just needed to get away and be on her own for a while.

  We went dog to dog, letting each one suss out the newest member of their pack.

  Then one day she didn’t come back, Jesse said. We looked for her for days. Put up lost dog signs. Checked with the animal shelter. After a week, Mom said she was sure another family had taken her in. Dad said maybe she’d gotten hit by a car crossing the highway.

  He fell quiet as the last few dogs met their new teammate. There was plenty of empty houses to choose from, though most of them still had nameplates over their doors. I pried off the one that said Panda and stuck it in my pocket while Jesse piled new straw inside the house. She was smart, he said as he worked. She was a good herder and she knew dozens of comma
nds. But she was strange, too, for a dog. She seemed to like people well enough, but she was never right there at the door when we all came home after being gone. She would sleep on my bed, but she was just as happy to sleep outside under a tree, on her own.

  He stood and brushed straw and snow off his knees. The new dog circled a few times and dug at her straw bed, then laid down. Her ears perked again as he talked. I think sometimes Stella knew she was just passing through. We weren’t her family; we were just some folks she lived with for a time, and when she was ready, she set out on her next adventure.

  We was at the edge of the circle of light cast by the lamp, Jesse backlit and made into just the shape of himself. I realized, facing him, the light made my face plain to him. Whatever he seen on it made him smile.

  What? I said.

  He only shook his head. I went looking inside myself for his lost dog, the foot of his bed where she’d slept only when she felt like it. Nothing there. If I wanted that, I would have to ask.

  But he was already on his way to the shed, aiming to shut himself away for another night. I wondered what he done once the door was closed and the curtain drawn, how he sloughed his layers one by one and revealed the parts of himself he otherwise kept hidden. Imagined him slipping into bed, bare body between the sheets. A shiver low in my belly.

  Night, I called to him before he closed himself off.

  He paused at the corner of the shed. Night, Tracy. Then he was gone.

  I rubbed my new dog’s face and she rolled over, let me scratch her chest. When I was done, she watched me make my way to the house, and I called back to her, Night, Stella.

  12

  When you’re a musher, particularly if you are getting ready for the big race, there’s barely a minute goes by December, January, February, you aren’t thinking about dogs. Through the fall, you have worked hard with your team and you’ve gone on longer and longer runs, but come winter, every day, everything you do is somehow related to the races you’re about to run. You get up mornings and feed the dogs, then go over the day’s chores in your head as you eat your own breakfast. You clean the dog yard and put new straw in houses. The vet comes out for prerace checkups. It takes days to pack the nineteen hundred pounds of food and gear that’ll be dropped at the checkpoints by the trail committee, and you triple-check every drop bag to make sure it has the right number of replacement booties and emergency tools, and still you wake in the middle of the night, certain you’ve forgot something important. You mend harnesses and sled runners. Fret over the dogs who have a poor appetite and work with the ones who cramp easily. And anytime you’re not home, you’re on the trail, long hours and days of running, just you and your dogs, logging your miles.