The Great Alone Page 12

  Dad eased up on the gas. They slowed, pulled into line behind a big pickup truck that belonged to Clyde Harlan, and drove up the mountain.

  When they reached a clearing, Leni saw a bunch of snow machines (Leni still thought of them as snowmobiles but no one called them that up here) parked in an uneven line. They belonged to the residents who lived in the bush, without roads to their homesteads. All of them had their lights on and their engines running. Falling snow braided through the light beams and gave it all an eerie, otherworldly look.

  Dad parked alongside a snow machine. Leni followed her parents out into the falling snow and howling wind, into the kind of cold that burrowed deep. They saw Mad Earl and Thelma and made their way over to their friends.

  “What’s up?” Dad shouted to be heard above the wind.

  Before Mad Earl or Thelma could answer, Leni heard the high-pitched wail of a whistle being blown.

  A man in a heavy blue insulated parka and pants stepped forward. A wide-brimmed hat identified him as a policeman. “I’m Curt Ward. Thanks for coming. Geneva and Matthew Walker are missing. They were supposed to arrive at their hunting cabin an hour ago. This is their usual route. If they’re lost or hurt, we should find them between here and the cabin.

  Leni didn’t realize she’d cried out until she felt her mother’s reassuring touch.

  Matthew.

  She looked up at her mother. “He’ll freeze out here,” she said. “It will be night soon.”

  Before Mama could answer, Officer Ward said, “Space yourselves about twenty feet apart.”

  He began handing out flashlights.

  Leni turned her flashlight on, stared out at the lane of snow-covered ground in front of her. The whole world spiraled down to a single strip of land. She saw it in layers—bumpy white snow-covered ground, snow-filled air, white trees pointing up to a gray sky.

  Where are you, Matthew?

  She moved slowly, doggedly forward, distantly aware of other searchers, other lights. She heard dogs barking and voices raised; searchlights crisscrossed each other. Time passed in a weird, surreal way—in light diminishing and breaths exhaled.

  Leni saw animal tracks, a pile of bones mixed with fresh blood, fallen spruce needles. Wind had sculpted the snow into peaks and swirls with glazed and hardened icy tips. Tree wells were black with debris, made by animals into makeshift dens that gave them a place to sleep out of the wind.

  The trees around her thickened. The temperature dropped suddenly; she felt a rush of cold as day gave way to night. It stopped snowing. Wind pushed the clouds away and left in their stead a navy-blue sky awash in swirls of starlight. A gibbous moon shone down, its light bright on the snow. Ambient silver light set the world aglow.

  She saw something. Arms. Reaching up from the snow, thin fingers splayed out, frozen. She lunged forward through the deep snow, said, “I’m coming, Matthew,” through wheezing, painful breaths, her light bobbing up and down in front of her.

  Antlers. A full set, shed by a bull moose. Or maybe beneath this snow lay the bones left by a poacher. Like so many sins, the snow covered it all. The truth wouldn’t be revealed until spring. If ever.

  The wind picked up, banged through the trees, sent branches flying.

  She trudged forward, one light amid dozens spread out through the glowing blue-white-black forest, pinpricks of yellow searching, searching … she heard Mr. Walker’s voice call out, yelling Matthew’s name so often he started to sound hoarse.

  “There! Up ahead!” someone yelled.

  And Mr. Walker yelled back, “I see him.”

  Leni plunged forward, trying to run through the deep snow.

  Up ahead, she saw a shadowy lump … a person … kneeling by the side of a frozen river in the moonlight, head bowed forward.

  Leni shoved through the crowd, elbowed her way to the front just as Mr. Walker squatted beside his son. “Mattie?” he shouted to be heard, laid a gloved hand on his son’s back. “I’m here. I’m here. Where’s your mom?”

  Matthew’s head slowly turned. His face was starkly white, his lips were chapped. His green eyes seemed to have lost their hue, taken color from the ice around him. The ice beneath him glowed with moonlight. He was shaking uncontrollably. “She’s gone,” he croaked, his voice raw. “Fell.”

  Mr. Walker hauled his son to his feet. Twice Matthew almost collapsed, but his dad held him upright.

  Leni heard people talking in snippets.

  “… fell through the ice…”

  “… should know better…”

  “… Jesus…”

  “Come on,” Officer Ward said. “Let ’em through. We need to get this kid warmed up.”

  NINE

  Winter had claimed one of them; one who had been born here, who knew how to survive.

  Leni couldn’t stop thinking about that, worrying about it. If Geneva Walker—Gen, Genny, the Generator, I answer to anything—could be lost so easily, no one was safe.

  “My God,” Thelma said as they walked solemnly back to their vehicles. “Genny didn’t make mistakes on the ice.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Large Marge said, her dark face crumpled with grief.

  Natalie Watkins nodded solemnly. “I’ve crossed that river a dozen times this month. Jesus. How could she fall through this time of year?”

  Leni was listening and not listening. All she could think about was Matthew and what he must be going through now. He’d seen his mother fall through the ice and die.

  How could you get over a thing like that? Every time Matthew closed his eyes, wouldn’t he see it again? Wouldn’t he wake screaming from nightmares for the rest of his life? How could she help him?

  Back at home, shivering with cold and a new fear (you could lose your parents or your life on a normal Sunday, just out walking in the snow … gone), she wrote him a series of letters, each one of which she tore up because it wasn’t right.

  She was still trying to compose the perfect letter two days later, when the town came together for Geneva’s funeral.

  On this freezing cold afternoon, dozens of vehicles were in town, parked wherever they could, on roadsides, in vacant lots. One was practically in the middle of the street. Leni had never seen so many trucks and snow machines in town at one time. All of the businesses were closed, even the Kicking Moose Saloon. Kaneq was hunkered down for winter, glazed in snow and ice, illuminated by the ambient glow of daylight.

  The world could tumble, change radically in two days, with just one less person living in it.

  They parked on Alpine Street and got out of the bus. She heard the whining drone of a generator’s motor, grumbling loudly, powering the lights in the church on the hill.

  Single file, they trudged up the hill. Light filled the dusty windows of the old church; smoke puffed up from the chimney.

  At the closed door, Leni paused just long enough to peel the fur-trimmed hood back from her face. She’d seen this church on every trip to town, but she’d never been inside.

  The interior was smaller than it looked from the outside, with chipped white plank walls and a pine floor. There were no pews; people filled the space from side to side. A man dressed in camouflage snow pants and a fur coat stood up front, his face practically hidden by a mustache, beard, and muttonchops.

  Everyone Leni had ever met in Kaneq was here. She saw Large Marge, standing between Mr. Rhodes and Natalie; the whole Harlan family was here, squished in close to one another. Even Crazy Pete was here, with his goose settled on his hip.

  But it was the front row that held her attention. Mr. Walker stood beside a beautiful blond girl who must be Alyeska, home from college, and alongside Walker relatives Leni hadn’t met. Off to their right, standing together with them and yet somehow alone, was Matthew. Calhoun Malvey, Geneva’s boyfriend, kept shifting his weight, moving from foot to foot, as if he didn’t know what to do. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  Leni tried to get Matthew’s attention, but even the opening and closing of the church’s double doors and the subsequent sweep of cold and snow didn’t faze him. He stood there, shoulders slumped, chin dropped, his profile veiled by hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a week.

  Leni followed her parents to an empty space behind Mad Earl’s family and stood there. Mad Earl immediately handed Dad a flask.

  Leni stared at Matthew, willing him to look at her. She didn’t know what she’d say when they finally got to talk, maybe she wouldn’t say anything, would just take his hand.

  The priest—or was he a reverend, a minister, a father, what? Leni had no idea about things like this—started to talk. “We here all knew Geneva Walker. She wasn’t a member of this church, but she was one of us, from the moment Tom brought her here from Fairbanks. She was game for anything and never gave up. Remember when Aly talked her into singing the national anthem at Salmon Days and she was so bad that the dogs started howling and even Matilda waddled away? And after it was all over, Gen said, ‘Well, I can’t sing a lick but who cares? It’s what my Aly wanted.’ Or when Genny hooked Tom in the cheek at the fishing derby and tried to claim the prize for biggest catch? She had a heart as big as Alaska.” He paused, sighed. “Our Gen. She was a woman who knew how to love. We don’t quite know whose wife she was at the end, but that doesn’t matter. We all loved her.”

  Laughter, quiet and sad.

  Leni lost track of the words. She wasn’t even sure how much time had passed. It made her think of her own mother, and how it would feel to lose her. Then she heard people start to turn for the door, boots stomping, floorboards creaking.

  It was over.

  Leni tried to make her way to Matthew, but it was impossible; everyone was pushing toward the door.

  As far as Leni could tell, no one had said anything about going down to the Kicking Moose Saloon afterward, but they all ended up there just the same. Maybe it was adult instinctive behavior.

  She followed her parents down the hill and across the street and into the charred, tumbledown interior. The minute she crossed the threshold, she smelled the acrid, sooty smell of burnt wood. Apparently that smell never went away. The interior was cavelike, with propane-fueled lanterns swinging creakily from the rafters, throwing light like streams of water on the patrons below, set in motion by the tap of the wind every time the door opened.

  Old Jim was behind the bar, serving drinks as fast as he could. A wet gray bar rag hung over one shoulder, dripped dark splotches down the front of his flannel shirt. Leni had heard someone say that he’d bartended here for decades. He’d started back when the few men who lived in this wilderness were either hiding out from or coming home from World War II. Dad ordered four drinks at once, downed them in rapid succession.

  The sawdust floor gave off a dusty, barnlike scent and muffled the footsteps of so many people.

  They were talking all at once, in the low voices of grief. Leni heard snippets, adjectives.

  “… beautiful … give you the shirt off her back … best damn nettle bread … tragedy…”

  She saw how death impacted people, saw the glazed look in their eyes, the way they shook their heads, the way their sentences broke in half as if they couldn’t decide if silence or words would release them from sorrow.

  Leni had never known anyone who had died before. She had seen death on television and read about it in her beloved books (Johnny’s death in The Outsiders had turned her inside out), but now she saw the truth of it. In literature, death was many things—a message, catharsis, retribution. There were deaths that came from a beating heart that stopped and deaths of another kind, a choice made, like Frodo going to the Grey Havens. Death made you cry, filled you with sadness, but in the best of her books, there was peace, too, satisfaction, a sense of the story ending as it should.

  In real life, she saw, it wasn’t like that. It was sadness opening up inside of you, changing how you saw the world.

  It made her think about God and what He offered at times like this. She wondered for the first time what her parents believed in, what she believed in, and she saw how the idea of Heaven could be comforting.

  She could hardly imagine a thing as terrible as losing your mother. The very thought of it made Leni sick to her stomach. A girl was like a kite; without her mother’s strong, steady hold on the string, she might just float away, be lost somewhere among the clouds.

  Leni didn’t want to think about a loss like that, the bone-breaking magnitude of it, but at a time like this there was no looking away, and when she did look it in the face, without blinking or turning away, she knew this: if she were Matthew, she would need a friend right now. Who knew how the friend could help, whether offering silent companionship or a clatter of words was better? That, the how, she would have to figure out on her own. But the what—friendship—that she knew for sure.

  She knew when the Walkers entered the tavern by the silence that fell. People turned to face the door.

  Mr. Walker entered first; he was so tall and broad-shouldered, he had to duck to pass through the low door. Long blond hair fell across his face; he shoved it back. Looking up, he saw everyone staring at him, and he stopped, straightened. His gaze moved slowly around the room, from face to face; his smile faded. Grief aged him. The beautiful blond girl came up behind him, her face wet with tears. She had her arm around Matthew, was holding him like a Secret Service agent moving an unpopular Nixon through an angry mob. Matthew’s shoulders were rounded, his body hunched forward, his face downcast. Cal hovered behind them, his eyes glassy.

  Mr. Walker saw Mama, moved toward her first.

  “I’m so sorry, Tom,” Mama said, her face tilted up to him. Crying.

  Mr. Walker looked down at her. “I should have been with them.”

  “Oh, Tom…” She touched his arm.

  “Thanks,” he said in a hoarse, lowered voice. He swallowed hard, seemed to stop himself from saying more. He looked at the friends gathered close. “I know church funerals aren’t our favorite, but it’s so damn cold out, and Geneva did love the idea of church.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, a sense of restless motion contained, of relief mingled with grief.

  “To Gen,” Large Marge said, lifting her shot glass.

  “To Gen!”

  As the adults clinked their glasses and downed their drinks and turned their attention to the bar for another round, Leni watched the Walker family move through the crowd, stopping to talk to everyone.

  “Pretty high-falutin’ funeral,” Mad Earl said loudly. Drunkenly.

  Leni glanced sideways to see if Tom Walker had heard, but Mr. Walker was talking to Large Marge and Natalie.

  “What do you expect?” Dad said, downing another whiskey. His eyes had the glazed look of drunkenness. “I’m surprised the governor didn’t fly down to tell us how to feel. I hear he and Tom are fishing buddies. He loves to remind us peons of that.”

  Mama moved closer. “Ernt. It’s the day of his wife’s funeral. Can’t we—”

  “Don’t you say a word,” Dad hissed. “I saw the way you were hanging all over him—”

  Thelma pushed in closer. “Oh, for God’s sake, Ernt. This is a sad day. Stow the jealousy for ten minutes.”

  “You think I’m jealous of Tom?” Dad said. He glanced at Mama. “Should I be?”

  Leni turned her back on them, watched Alyeska hustle Matthew through the mourners, over to a quiet corner in the back.

  Leni followed, eased between people who stank of wood smoke and sweat and body odor. Bathing was a luxury in midwinter. No one did it often enough.

  Matthew stood alone, staring blankly forward, with his back to the charred, black-peeling wall. Soot peppered his sleeves.

  She was shocked by how changed he looked. He couldn’t have lost that much weight in such a short time, but his cheekbones were like ridges above his hollow cheeks. His lips were chapped and bloodied. A patch of skin was white at his temple, the color a sharp contrast to his windburned cheeks. His hair was dirty, and hung in limp, thin strands on either side of his face.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” he answered dully.

  Now what?

  Don’t say, I’m sorry. That’s what grown-ups say and it’s stupid. Of course you’re sorry. How does that help?

  But what?

  She edged forward cautiously, careful not to touch him, and sidled up beside him, leaning back against the burnt wall. From here, she could see everything—the lanterns hanging from burnt rafters, walls covered with dusty antique snowshoes and fishnets and cross-country skis, ashtrays overflowing, smoke blurring everything—and everyone.

  Her parents were huddled with Mad Earl and Clyde and Thelma and the rest of the Harlan family. Even through the cigarette smoke haze, Leni could see how red her dad’s face was (a sign of too much whiskey), how his eyes were narrowed in anger as he talked. Mama looked defeated beside him, afraid to move, afraid to add to the conversation or to look at anything except her husband.

  “He blames me.”

  Leni was so surprised to hear Matthew speak that it took her a moment to process what he’d said. Her gaze followed his to Mr. Walker.

  “Your dad?” Leni turned to him. “He couldn’t. It’s not anyone’s fault. She just … I mean, the ice…”

  Matthew started to cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stood there, stock-still, so tense he seemed to be vibrating. In his eyes, she glimpsed a bigger world. Being lonely, being afraid, a volatile, angry dad; these were bad things that gave you nightmares.

  But they were nothing compared to watching your mother die. How would that feel? How would you ever get over it?

  And how was she, a fourteen-year-old girl with troubles of her own, supposed to help?

  “They found her yesterday,” he said. “Did you hear? One of her legs was missing, and her face—”

  She touched him. “Don’t think—”

  At her touch, he let out a howl of pain that drew everyone’s attention. He roared with it again, shuddered. Leni froze, unsure of what to do—should she pull away or push forward? She reacted instinctively, took him in her arms. He melted into her, held her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She felt his tears on her neck, warm and wet. “It’s my fault. I keep having these nightmares … and I wake up so pissed off I can’t stand it.”

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