The Simple Wild

by K. A. Tucker

  “He won’t bite you unless you give him reason to.”

  I think of Tim and Sid, their humps bobbing as they scurry down the driveway after rooting through bones and rotten, smelly meat packaging, and I cringe. “You know they carry diseases, right?”

  Jonah gives the raccoon one last pat before standing tall again. The raccoon scampers away. “Bandit’s fine.”

  “You named him.”

  “Yeah. You know, because of the black mask around—”

  “I get it,” I interrupt. “Super original.” But also, fitting. “He stole my sandwich.”

  Jonah shrugs. “Don’t leave your sandwich lying around where he can steal it, then.”

  “I didn’t leave it lying around. It was on a plate, on a table, inside here. He came in here. And he made me spill my drink all over myself.” I throw a hand at my jeans, covered in thick green liquid. My socks are soaked through.

  Jonah’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Don’t be so clumsy next time.”

  I shoot a glare at him—why is he even here? I thought he was working!—and then, picking up my mangled food and dishes, I head inside to change into the only clean pair of clothes I have left and grab a banana to eat.

  When I return, Jonah’s sitting in my seat. Thankfully, there’s no raccoon in sight.

  “What is this?” he asks, nodding toward my MacBook.

  “A computer.”

  He throws me a flat look. “Why are you looking up charter company websites?”

  “Because I wanted to know more about my dad’s competition.”

  “For what? You suddenly interested in taking over the family business?” he mutters.

  “No,” I scoff through a bite of my banana. “But I noticed that Alaska Wild doesn’t have a website and I think that’s a huge mistake. Everyone has a website nowadays. The sixteen-year-old girl in our neighborhood who walks dogs has a website and an online payment option. It’s the most basic way to market yourself.”

  Jonah leans back, his legs splayed in that guy way, his arms folded across his chest. He’s made himself comfortable in my chair. “We don’t need to market to the villagers; they all know us. Same with our shipping contracts and the schools.”

  “Yeah, but what about the tourists? Agnes said you’re losing business with them.”

  “Yeah, we are,” he admits. “But a website’s not gonna help that.”

  I settle into the other seat. It teeters under my weight, the metal legs uneven. “If I were coming to Alaska and looking to go sightseeing or fly to another city, I wouldn’t even know about Alaska Wild.”

  “Of course you would. We’re listed on all the big Alaska tourism pages. And we’re in the directory.”

  “Yeah, but there’s no information. Nothing about what planes you have, or what your rules and refund policies are, your flying schedule, how much it would cost . . .”

  “We tell them all that when they call,” he says, as if it should be obvious.

  Entirely missing my point.

  “Jonah, maybe that’s how people do it around here, but if you’re trying to attract people from the Lower Forty-eight—or whatever you called it—or from other parts of the world, it’s not enough. People don’t phone companies, not until they’ve already narrowed down their choices. People hate talking over the phone. I don’t even talk to my friends over the phone if I can help it. Everyone goes online, Googles what they’re looking for, picks their top two or three choices, and then calls. A lot of people don’t even call if they have questions, they email.”

  “So they can email us.”

  “And how are they going to find the address? You have nothing on your website. And they’re not going to go hunting for it in some directory, believe me.” I forge on, because it seems like Jonah is listening to me. “A lot of people book online, print out their receipt, and show up. And if there are other charter companies around here who have a website and all this information and pictures of planes and videos of flying to make it easy for them to decide, people are going to skip right over Alaska Wild. And honestly? If I’m paying to come to Alaska and then forking over even more money to go see mountains and wildlife, or to fly into a camp, it wouldn’t be with the company that can’t even get a basic website together.”

  It’s not like I have specific data to prove anything I’m saying, but it’s all common sense, isn’t it? I mean, everyone knows this, right?

  Jonah still looks doubtful.

  “Look, say I’m John Smith from Arkansas and I want to come to Alaska to hunt. I’ve never been before, so I look up Alaskan hunt camps and find this one.” I stand just enough to drag my seat over closer, until I can reach my laptop. Jonah makes no effort to move, forcing me to lean over his thigh to reach my computer. I flip over to the tab with the camp that appeared at the top of the search earlier. “And when I click on ‘how to get here,’ it takes me to Alaska Aviator.”

  “Because they’ve got a deal with them. We’ve got the same thing with River & Co.”

  “The one that’s not paying their bills on time?” I lean forward, navigating to their page, accidentally bumping my knee against his. “Sorry,” I mumble. “They have Alaska Wild and Alaska Aviator listed as options for travel there.” I tap the screen with my polished tip to prove it, bumping his knee again. He doesn’t shift away. “So right away, when John Smith is planning his trip, Alaska Aviator is looking better to him because he has nothing to compare it against and he has to make a decision, all the way in Oklahoma.”

  “I thought you said Arkansas.”

  “Whatever. The point is, the only draw for him to Wild would be if it was a lot cheaper.”

  “They’re pretty even.”

  “Well, then guess who John’s going to be going with when he books his hunting trip.” I lean back in my chair, feeling satisfied that I’ve proved my point. “Maybe River & Co. isn’t the problem. Maybe they’re not telling these tourists to fly with these other guys. Maybe these tourists are going to them because they made it easy to pick them.”

  Jonah’s piercing gaze weighs heavily on me, his usually cold, indifferent expression replaced with curiosity. “You know how to do that? Build a website, I mean.”

  “Yeah. I pretty much built this.” I lean forward to flip to the Calla & Dee tab.

  “It’s pink.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s all aesthetics. I could figure something out for Alaska Wild.”

  “In four days?”

  “Yeah. I think so. A simple one, anyway.” I shrug. “What else do I have to do here?”

  He nods slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “It won’t cost much, will it?”

  “No. I’ll use the same web designer platform that I used for that site. It’s next to nothing. And I have my camera, so I can take some pictures. I’m not a professional, but I’m decent enough. I took these.” I click on a post that I know has a lot of scenery.

  “ ‘Sequins in the City,’ ” Jonah reads out loud.

  “Forget the title and look at the pictures.”

  “Who’s that?” He nods to Diana, who’s posing in High Park, her short, blush-colored sequined skirt identical in shade to the cherry blossom trees in bloom behind her.

  “That’s my best friend.”

  “Damn.”

  “Okay. Great. So you’re into leggy blondes. Surprise, surprise,” I mutter. “But look at the picture.”

  “That skirt barely covers her ass.”

  “Jonah!” I growl through a laugh, and then smack his chest, noting how hard and curved it is beneath my fingertips. “Forget Diana and her short skirt. My point is I’m pretty okay at taking pictures. And in any case, it’s better than what’s there now, which is nothing.”

  His eyes are crinkled with amusement as he watches me, and I feel my mouth curling into a stupid grin in response, even though I’m mi
ldly annoyed. “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  “I am. I swear.” His hand lands on my knee, giving it a quick but tight squeeze, before leaning back in his chair again. “So go ahead and do it.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my surprise.

  He shrugs. “You make a good argument. I still don’t know if I buy what you’re selling, but it can’t hurt.”

  “Should I ask my dad first?”

  “Nah. Just tell him you’re doing it. He’ll be happy.”

  “You think so?”

  “You kidding? His kid showing interest in Wild?”

  I wouldn’t exactly call it an interest in Wild so much as an interest in feeling useful and having something to do. But I keep that to myself. “Well . . . okay, then.”

  “Okay, then.” He nods resolutely. “You and me can bang this out together.”

  Whoa. Wait. “Us?” I feel my eyes pop.

  “How else are you gonna add all that stuff about planes, and Wild’s history, and all that? You think you can figure all that out? In four days? And I know everything there is to know about this place.”

  “Right. I guess.” Me and Jonah, working together on a website for Alaska Wild. “This should be interesting,” I mumble, under my breath.

  His lips curl into a smirk. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re . . . you.”

  “And you’re you,” he retorts, adding more softly, “except you’re actually smart. I’m shocked.”

  “Shut up.” A spark of satisfaction flickers inside me. Jonah thinks I’m smart.

  He sighs, his gaze settling on his folded hands. “Alright, alright. Look. We got off on the wrong foot and that’s on me. Yeah, I can admit when I’ve been an ass.”

  “So . . . is this, like, a truce or something?” Is Jonah capable of being civil?

  “Or something.” He glances at his watch and then eases out of my chair. His heavy boots thump against the floorboards as he heads for the door that leads off the porch.

  “My dad told you to be nice to me, didn’t he?”

  “Nope.”

  I don’t buy that, especially since my dad said he’d tell Jonah to ease off me. And something makes me think they’re too close for Jonah to shrug my dad’s requests off.

  “Hey.”

  He pauses at the door. “Yup?”

  “What do you know about my dad’s diagnosis?” My dad made it clear that he doesn’t want me to bring it up with him, and Agnes has already told me what she knows.

  So the only person left to ask is Jonah.

  His shoulders sag with a heavy exhale. “I know he has cancer, and he doesn’t want to talk about it while you’re here.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  “That he has cancer and he doesn’t want to talk about it while you’re here,” he says, matter-of-factly.

  I roll my eyes at his back. “But he hasn’t let on how bad it is?”

  There’s a long pause, and then he admits, almost reluctantly, “He asked me if I’d ever consider buying the company from him.”

  Surprise hits me. “He’s thinking of selling Alaska Wild?”

  “He’s weighing his options. He said he might want to retire.”

  My dad, retiring. He’s only fifty-three. Then again, he’s been running the place since his early twenties. Maybe, after thirty years, he’s finally had enough. But what would he do?

  Would he stay in Alaska?

  Or would he be ready to finally try something new?

  “What’d you tell him?”

  He chuckles. “I don’t have that kind of money. Plus, I don’t wanna be stuck behind a desk all day long for the next thirty years. I like the way things are right now. No matter what, though, I told him I’d take over running Wild for as long as he needs me to.”

  Much like my dad took over for my grandfather, when he started his treatment.

  I swallow the growing lump in my throat. “That’s nice of you, to be willing to do that.”

  “Yeah, well, Wren’s family to me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” He clears the gruffness from his voice.

  My chest tightens at the rare hint of emotion. “Do you think he’ll get through this?”

  “I think . . . that if there’s any way you can stay longer, you should.”

  “I could,” I blurt out, without thinking.

  Jonah turns to regard me, his eyebrow arched in question.

  I shrug. “I got restructured out, so I don’t have a job to get home to right now.”

  His gaze roams my features. “Then you should stay another week or two. Or even longer, if you can grow a pair and deal with how things work around here.”

  I give him a flat look.

  But there’s no hint of humor on his face. “Trust me, Calla, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t.”

  He sounds so definitive.

  Does that have anything to do with regrets from his own past, with his father?

  And what would that even mean? A full month in Bangor, Alaska?

  Would my father be okay with a house guest for that long?

  Jonah’s gaze drifts over the soft pink cardigan I’ve wrapped around myself. “I called over to Anchorage to check on your stuff before I came home. Sounds like they’ve got a mechanical problem with the plane. Your suitcases won’t be coming today.”

  I groan. “Seriously?”

  “Roll with it.” He leaves me stewing, strolling out the door and across the lawn toward his house, a little bounce in his step.

  The kitchen door creaks open, and I look over my shoulder in time to see my dad step through.

  “Long day, huh?” He’s been at work for almost fourteen hours.

  “They all are.” With a tired-sounding sigh, he tosses some paperwork on the counter and then rubs his eyes. “Something smells good.”

  I dump a handful of pepper slices into the bowl. “I’m making us dinner. Chicken Greek salad with homemade dressing.” That should be bottled and marketed as liquid gold for what it cost me in basic ingredients plus cab fare. “It’ll be ready in five. I hope you like black olives.”

  “That’s . . . Yup. Sure do.” There’s a long pause, and I can feel his gaze on me. “Thank you, Calla. This is nice.”

  “No big deal.” It’s just the first meal I’ve ever made for us, I think with a small smile. One of those seemingly small and inconsequential things in life that I’ll probably remember for the rest of my life.

  “How was your day?”

  I’m itching to tell him about the plan to build a website for Wild.

  I’m desperate to ask him if he’s truly considering retiring.

  Where exactly do I start?

  Quick footfalls pound up the front porch stairs, and a moment later the door flies open. Mabel bursts through with a wide grin on her face, out of breath, as if she ran down the driveway. “Just in time!”

  “Hey, kiddo.” Dad’s face instantly softens with a smile. “What d’you got there?”

  “My specialty.” She holds up the foil-covered glass dish in her oven-mitt-clad hands, announcing with dramatic flair and an energy that I don’t think I could manage on my wildest day, “The cheesiest, sauciest, most delicious pasta you’ve ever had. Just came out of the oven.” Setting the dish down on the table, she peels the foil back, letting the long strings of cheese dangle in the air. “I’ve finally perfected it!”

  My digestive system would explode if I ate that.

  “Wow. And there’s enough here to keep me fed for a week,” my dad chuckles. To me, he explains, “Mabel has discovered a passion for cooking. She’s been experimenting in the kitchen a lot this past year, and using me as her guinea pig. I think this is the . . . eighth week you’ve made this?”

  “Ninth,” s
he corrects proudly. “But this is the one, I’m telling you.”

  “Nine weeks in a row of cheesy pasta.” He gives me a pointed look, and I stifle my laugh, even through the distinct twinge of offense I feel inside. This clueless twelve-year-old girl has inserted herself into one of only a handful of nights I have with my father. I don’t live across the road. I can’t just trot down the driveway with dinner in my hands anytime I wish. I’m supposed to be making dinner for him.

  She’s only twelve and I doubt she’s barged in on my night with my dad with malicious intentions, and yet I can’t help feeling this resentment for her right now.

  This does, however, explain the empty fridge. And how my dad survives on a regular basis.

  “Calla, wait until you try this.” Mabel pulls three plates from the cupboard.

  “I wish I could, Mabel. But I have a dairy allergy,” I explain with an apologetic cringe.

  “Really? That sucks. So what are you gonna eat, then?” Mabel wanders over to look in my bowl. Her nose crinkles. “Oh. Well, it’s a good thing I made dinner for us, then.”

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Because Wren hates vegetables with a passion. Especially salad.”

  My dad cringes. “I think ‘hate’ is a strong word, Mabel—”

  “No it’s not! Mom calls him Baby Wren when he comes over for dinner because she has to cut them up into tiny little bites and hide them in sauce so he’ll eat them.” She grins at me as she digs out a serving spoon from a drawer.

  So he was being polite, earlier. Now that I think back to it, there weren’t any peas and carrots on his dinner plate last night.

  He sighs, and then offers me a sheepish smile.

  Scooping a generous portion of pasta onto two plates, Mabel collects them and heads for the living room, hollering back, “Are you black this time, or is it my turn?”

  “I can’t remember. You pick.” He stalls at the doorway. “We usually play a game of checkers every night. Missed a couple there.”

  Because I came to Alaska, I gather.

  He hesitates, biting his bottom lip. “So . . . a dairy allergy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s why there’s all that soya milk in the fridge.”