“There you go,” John said, and he held the rifle high, lifting it up like a cheap trophy won at a carnival. “I got my gun now, so if you don’t mind, I’m heading back.”
“Don’t you want to wait here with us?” Elisabeth said. She looked at the line in front of her. “I don’t think it should take much longer.”
“I don’t know.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes with two fingers. “Really, Else, I’m tired. I’m done. I’d like to go home.”
“What’s wrong? What do you—”
“I just want to go home, and I think that you should, too.”
“What? Seriously. What’s wrong?”
“We can’t talk about it now,” John said, and to his credit, he controlled his voice. He rubbed one hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. “We’ll have to talk about it later. Just get this done and meet me back at the house, okay?”
“Well, fine,” Elisabeth said. “That’s fine,” and she was going to say something more, but John was already turning. Without saying good-bye, he was gone, weaving his way back through the crowd in the direction of the house.
The school, the OIA, some throwaway conversation in which he’d found some reason for offense. Elisabeth cycled through a litany of possible reasons for John’s sour mood, anything and everything but herself or Alfred. She had enjoyed herself tonight—she truly had—and that enjoyment had been possible in part because she had felt so comfortable. She had told herself, over and over, You see? Everything’s all right. No one’s talking about you behind your back. Everything’s just the way it used to be. She didn’t want to believe otherwise. She tried not to think about it.
She and Margaret stood in line for five minutes more. Henry’s sister, a stout young woman named Anna Addams, was posted at the front of the line. She and Elisabeth chatted for a short while, but whenever Elisabeth mentioned anything about the potlatch—the food, the dancing, anything at all—Anna would lower her eyes and grow immediately reticent. She would smile and nod at whatever brief thing Elisabeth was saying, but other than that, she would barely react at all. After one last bout of silence in the conversation, Anna turned and started sorting through the piles of gifts behind her, and a moment later she was pushing a tower of folded blankets and clothes into Elisabeth’s arms. Before Elisabeth could even thank her, Anna was already speaking with the next person in line.
Standing off to the side, Elisabeth gave Margaret an armful of items, and together they began to walk home. But as they passed one of the bonfires, something caught Elisabeth’s eye: an odd shape lying within the flames, a bulky chunk of metal that glowed as red as a split tomato. With Margaret still following her, Elisabeth stepped closer to the fire, and then she saw what the strange shape was: the vise that Mack had kept bolted to his worktable. The table itself had already been eaten up by the fire.
She stood there for a second, watching the vise gently pulsate with heat, and it didn’t take long for her to notice other things within the fire as well, other shapes, other objects. The remains of a dough box blazed bright and hot. Dancing with flames, a sickle of wood burned like a massive matchstick, and Elisabeth quickly realized that this was one runner of a rocking chair, the rest of it collapsing into ashes close by. Straggles of clothing were strewn everywhere at the foot of the fire. Leather belts and hide coats crackled with a sound like radio static. Plates, bowls, traps, knives, guns, tools, tools, tools: the fire teemed with everything Mack had once owned. Near the center of the fire, a heap of metal picture frames smoldered like coals. The photos that they had once held were nothing more than blooms of curling char.
“Mama,” Margaret said, and Elisabeth felt a tug on her hand. “Are we going home now?”
But before she could answer, there was shouting, screaming, a burst of commotion. It came from behind them, from the midst of the pavilion, and at once all the talking and singing ceased. Elisabeth and Margaret were squeezing through the crowd a second later, and then they were standing with John near the far corner of the floor.
John’s hair was wild and rough. The collar of his shirt was askew. Daniel Nilak lay on the ground two feet away. His eyes and nose were streaked with blood, and his head was turned to the side just an inch too far. With a life of their own, his hands and feet twisted, and his arms began to thrash. Then his whole body shook, convulsing with the first throes of a seizure as all of Tanacross watched.
CHAPTER 20
Words had been exchanged, a punch or two thrown. Then John had hit Daniel with the butt of his rifle. That was all it took, all that was needed to leave Daniel slowly thrashing on the ground, his eyes wide open yet stripped of all consciousness. Almost two hours passed before the medical crew arrived from Fairbanks, and by then Daniel was barely breathing. Blood still trailed from his nose, and this came to mix with a thick, tawny fluid that dripped like brewing coffee from one nostril.
“I didn’t even hit him that hard,” John told her an hour later. He was slumped forward on the couch. His arms were propped up on either knee. “Honestly, he just kind of”—John shook his head—“fell into it or something. I barely did anything more than just lift the stupid thing. He rushed at me and then, boom, he was on the ground.”
And what, Elisabeth asked, had happened? Now that they were alone, away from the crowd, away from the commotion and the panic and all the eager listening ears, what in the world had actually happened?
She wished she hadn’t asked. More than that, she wished she could blink out of existence entirely. Because what had happened was this: The whole town knew about the letters, photograph and lock of hair and all.
At the potlatch, sharing one last cigarette with Henry and Daniel and a circle of others, John had said that they were leaving. He had said that Margaret was tired, and Elisabeth was, too. And then Daniel had remarked, “I guess that means Alfred is back in town. I bet she’s tired.”
That was the line that had started it. And, laughing, Daniel had taunted John with the vaguest of details: love letters exchanged, a secret affair, clippings of her hair. Someone had seen her letters in the box, and had read snatches of their text through the semitransparency of the envelopes.
And so she had to own up to it all. She told John about the letters, about her and Alfred’s exchange, about the dress. Stammering, shaking in chilly anticipation of John turning on her and letting loose, Elisabeth even told him about the queer spacing in Alfred’s letters, how each sentence seemed to have a little something missing.
“But there’s nothing more to the letters than that,” Elisabeth said. She was choking back tears. “I swear to God. There’s no—” She didn’t even want to say the word. She didn’t even want to acknowledge it. But she had to. “There’s no affair. That’s absolutely not true. I’m using him. I’m trying to find my sister.”
John had been facing the window as she spoke, but now he turned and paced across the room. He held his head stiffly upright, his lips as tight as a fist. When he stopped, they were standing toe-to-toe.
“I knew it wasn’t true,” John said, “because honestly, who would want a stupid bitch like you?”
He turned away, started for the hallway. But then he looked back at her.
“You fucked us, Else,” he said. “You fucked us all. You may as well add Alfred while you’re at it. Maybe you haven’t already, but see if I care. What difference does it make now?”
And then he was gone.
She slept in the guest room that night, and the next few days flitted past her in a dreamy rush. She never left the house, not even to cut wood in the backyard. She couldn’t face the town. The day after the potlatch, the police flew into Tanacross to take a report on the incident. By then, John had a dark shiner that had swollen his eyelid almost completely shut. Daniel, it seemed, had thrown the first punch. The shiner stretched across John’s cheek and partway up his forehead. The police officer from Fairbanks laughed when he saw it.
&
nbsp; “Looks like he got you, too,” the officer said, chuckling as he pulled a notepad from one pocket.
His name was Jeff Hubbell—two Bs, two Ls, he said, “like the ballplayer.” He was one of York’s lieutenants, and he spoke with John for all of ten minutes. If his investigation had been any more lax, there would have been no investigation at all.
“Charges?” Hubbell scoffed at that, hissing air through his lips as he reared back his head. “No, I don’t think so. I talked with a few other folks, and they all said he’s the one that started the damn thing. Even if he hadn’t”—Hubbell clapped his notebook shut—“I mean, Christ, it’s just one Indian.”
An Indian, he assured them, who’d probably be fine.
“More or less fine,” Hubbell said. “I saw him just this morning,” but he didn’t add anything more than that. His plane was charging down the runway a few minutes later, and that was the last they ever heard from him.
It was hard to imagine how John’s class proceeded in the days following the potlatch, but Elisabeth knew well enough to let that topic rest until John himself brought it up. He never did. They barely spoke at all until Wednesday afternoon, when he walked into the living room with an announcement.
“I just spoke with the OIA on the radio,” he said. “They want to talk with me more in Fairbanks.”
“Fairbanks?” Elisabeth said, looking up from her spot on the couch. A week-old copy of the New York Times was spread across her lap. AMERICAN MERCHANT SHIP TORPEDOED: 24 DEAD, its headline read. “They want to talk in person?”
“In person.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“This Friday?”
“This Friday,” John said.
That doesn’t sound good, Elisabeth almost blurted out, but she caught herself. No, it didn’t sound good. Why state the obvious? John walked across the room. He sat down on the other side of the couch, one cushion between them.
“I think we may as well take advantage of this,” he said.
“Of what?” Elisabeth said, surprised to hear him still thinking of them as a we, as a unit.
“The trip,” John told her. “The OIA is flying in Friday morning to pick me up, and I think that you and Margaret should come with me. We could stay in the city through the weekend, and we could probably get a lot done.”
Of course she was already thinking of Alfred’s letter. Of course she was thinking of her chance to see him in person. But she did her best to forget about that for now, and to contain her enthusiasm.
But John was right: If they went with him to Fairbanks, they could probably get a few things done that needed doing. Margaret hadn’t been to a doctor in almost four months, and she hadn’t seen a dentist in nearly a year.
And then there was the promise of simply getting out of town for a few days. They all could use that, and undoubtedly John was thinking the same thing.
“It’ll be a good break,” he said. “For everyone, I mean.” He sat back heavily, chewed at his bottom lip. “I’ll probably have a chance to visit him. I should probably do that.”
“Daniel?” Elisabeth said. “You know where he’s staying?”
“There’s only one hospital, and Henry gave me his room number.”
“And you’re sure that’s a good idea?”
“No,” John said, “but I should probably do it anyway.”
“What does Henry think of all this?”
“Visiting Daniel?”
“Everything,” Elisabeth said. “The fight. The situation.” She swallowed. “Everything in general.”
“I only talked to him a little bit, and he was very”—John shifted his shoulders, rolling them as if he had an itch in the middle of his back—“he was polite. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Honestly, what’s he going to tell me? Don’t worry. Everything’s okay? They’re talking about us, Else. They’re talking about us and Alfred, and it’s humiliating.”
They both slumped in their seats, and they were silent. No anger was left in John’s voice; he spoke with weary sobriety. And in the absence of his anger Elisabeth felt more keenly what she had done to him. She had humiliated him. That was the word he had used, humiliating, and at once she felt like the most awful person in the world.
“Honest to God,” John said, “I didn’t want to hurt him. Daniel’s a prick, but I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I know.”
“It’s just one of those things. One of those freak things, you know? I never thought I’d hurt him so badly. I really didn’t.”
“I know.”
“Told Henry as much, too.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he believed me.” And again John flailed a little, rolling his shoulders. “And he said that other people aren’t so sure.” Reaching up with both hands, he rubbed his face. “I don’t know how we can fix this, Else. I don’t know what to do.”
But Elisabeth knew what to do, at least for the time being. She knew that she should sidle up to him, take him in her arms. She knew that she should tell him, pulling him close, It’s all my fault, and I’m sorry. But I swear I’ll do you right from now on. Everything will be okay. We’re still one family, and that’s all that matters. Us, not them, not anyone else. We’ll work through this one way or another.
That was what she was supposed to say—she the wife, the voice of comfort, the voice of humility, the obliging breast to sleep on. She could feel it in the air, John’s expectation, his manifest and clearly desperate need, but Elisabeth didn’t say a single word. They sat in silence, the blue Alaskan afternoon as thick as water all around them, and soon Elisabeth felt as if she were sitting next to a person she had never even met before. Finally, John stood up and left without speaking, and only then did Elisabeth feel like herself again.
CHAPTER 21
Your father and sister return from Ephrata later that afternoon, and the three of you have dinner. Cold sliced ham. Creamed potatoes. Rolls and coffee. After eating, your father walks to the hardware store downtown while you and Jacqueline wash up.
And all the while, your sister says nothing about the missing money and notes and tickets. She must have checked on them—after returning from Ephrata, she promptly went to her room—and you wonder if she’s secretly relieved. Perhaps you’ll never speak of it. Perhaps The Plan and Jacob and everything else will be forgotten. Perhaps, years from now, this will all seem like some kind of dream.
But you want a fight. You want this to be over, but you want to end it yourself. Your skin crawls with nervous energy. Your lips are cold and dry. Once, in the silence of clearing plates from the table, you almost start laughing, not from humor but from nerves. After washing up, you go to your room and sit on your bed, and you feel like jumping out the window.
“Jacqueline,” you whisper, though you know she can’t hear you. “I’m waiting for you. I’m right here. I’m waiting.”
And then the wait is over. Jacqueline pushes open your door, and she takes a single step inside your bedroom.
“Where are they?” she says.
You stand. “Where do you think?”
“Tell me. The money and the dagger and the tickets—”
“And the letters?”
“They’re mine,” Jacqueline says. “Where are they?”
“I read the things that Jacob wrote about me. What have you been telling him?”
“The truth. That you’re a baby, and that you’re awful.”
“How am I awful?” you say, and you can’t control your voice anymore. Tears are boiling in your eyes. Your words tremble. “What have I done wrong?”
“You’re—”
“I’m your sister,” you say, and then you’re sobbing, tears streaking down your cheeks and itching your chin. “We’re supposed to be a team. You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to love me.�
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Your sister is crying, too. She holds her face in her hands, and her shoulders quake and bounce. But it doesn’t feel good, watching her cry. It doesn’t make you feel any better. It makes you angry, and you step forward and shove her on both shoulders.
“The workshop,” you say.
Jacqueline stares at you. Aghast. She doesn’t move.
“Your things are behind the workshop,” you say, pushing her again. She nearly falls backward. “Go get them.”
She stares for a second longer. Then she turns and bounds down the staircase. You follow her, but you take your time. You move slowly. The stairs seem very steep. The ceilings seem high. Outside, the world glows pink and blue as the afternoon recedes. Across the yard, your sister is already behind the workshop. She’s kneeling beside the ashes.
“This is a joke,” she says, looking up as you approach. Her eyes are dry. Her face is calm. “You didn’t really burn them.”
“I did,” you say. “The money. The tickets. The letters.” You glower— you this time, not her—and it feels good. “Everything. I burned it all up. It’s gone.”
Jacqueline stands.
“The photograph, too,” you say. “I took it from the vanity. You can tell Jacob, for all I care. I hope you do.”
“Else—”
“And also,” you say, “I did take something from the basement.” Now you walk around to the front of the workshop. The ruined cigarette case and the dagger are waiting behind the crates. You take them outside and drop them on the grass by your sister’s feet. “There were pictures of her inside that case,” you say, “and I burned them up along with the one that you had. I smashed the case flat. The dagger, too.”
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