The Great Alone Page 19

  “Tell ’em, Ernt,” Mad Earl said, leaning forward, reaching down for a jug hidden beneath his chair, uncorking it with a thunk.

  “Tom Walker is a rich, arrogant prick,” Dad said. “We’ve all known men like him. He didn’t go to ’Nam. Guys like him had a million ways to dodge the draft. Unlike me and Bo and our friends, who stood up for our country. But, hey, I can get over that, too. I can get over his holier-than-thou attitude and his rubbing his money in my face. I can get over him leering at my wife.” He stepped down the rickety porch steps, splashed into the murky water that pooled along the bottom step. “But I will not let him destroy Kaneq and our way of life. This is our home. We want it to stay wild and free.”

  “He’s fixing up the tavern, Ernt, not building a convention center,” Thelma said. At her raised voice, Moppet got up and walked away, went over to play with Marthe and Agnes.

  “And a hotel,” Mad Earl said. “Don’t forget that, missy.”

  Thelma looked at her father. “Come on, Dad. You guys are making a mountain out of a molehill. There are no roads over here, no services, no electricity. All this complaining is counterproductive. Just let it go.”

  “I don’t want to complain,” Dad said. “I want to do something, and by Christ, I will. Who’s with me?”

  “Damn right,” Mad Earl said, his voice a little slurred.

  “He’ll raise the price of drinks,” Clyde complained. “You watch.”

  “I didn’t move out into the bush so I could have a hotel nearby,” Dad said.

  Mad Earl grumbled something, took a long drink.

  Leni watched the men come together, each one clapping Dad on the back as if he had said the perfect thing.

  Within moments the women were left sitting alone in the muddy center of the compound.

  “Ernt is pretty worked up over a little fixing-up of the saloon,” Thelma said, watching the men. You could see them ingesting righteous anger, puffing up with it, passing the jug from one to the other. “I thought he’d let it go.”

  Mama lit a cigarette. “He never lets anything go.”

  “I know you two don’t have much influence with him,” Thelma said, looking from Mama to Leni. “But he could start a shitstorm up here. Tom Walker may have a new truck and own the best land on the peninsula, but he’ll give you the shirt off his back. Last year when Mop was so sick, Tom heard about it from Large Marge and showed up here on his own and flew her to Kenai.”

  “I know,” Mama said quietly.

  “Your husband’s going to rip this town apart if we aren’t careful.”

  Mama gave a tired laugh. Leni understood. You could be as careful as a chemist with nitroglycerin around Dad. It wouldn’t change a thing. Sooner or later, he was going to blow.

  * * *

  ONCE AGAIN, Leni’s parents got so drunk she had to drive them home. Back at the cabin, she parked the truck and helped Mama into her room, where she collapsed into bed, laughing as she reached for Dad.

  Leni climbed up to her own bed, to the mattress they’d salvaged from the dump and cleaned with bleach, and lay beneath her army surplus blankets and tried to fall asleep.

  But the incident at the saloon and the meeting with the Harlans stayed with her. Something about it was deeply unsettling, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on any one moment and say, There, that’s what bothered me. Maybe just a sense of imbalance in her dad that was, if not new, a magnification.

  Change. Slight, but apparent.

  Her dad was angry. Maybe furious. But why?

  Because he’d been fired from the pipeline? Because he’d seen Mama and Tom Walker together in March, seen Mr. Walker sitting at their table?

  It had to be something more than what it seemed. How could a few businesses in town upset him so much? God knew he liked to drink whiskey at the Kicking Moose more than most men.

  She rolled over for the box by her bed, the one that held Matthew’s letters from the last few years. Not a month had gone by without word from him. She had each letter memorized and could pull them up at will. Some sentences never left her. I’m getting better … I thought of you last night when I was out to dinner, this kid had a huge Polaroid camera … I scored my first goal yesterday, I wish you’d been there … and her favorites, when he said things like, I miss you, Leni. Or, I know it sounds lame, but I dreamed of you. Do you ever dream of me?

  Tonight, though, she didn’t want to think about him and how far away he was or how lonely she felt without him and his friendship. In the years he’d been gone, no new kids had moved in to Kaneq. She had learned to love Alaska, but she was lonely a lot, too. On bad days—like today—she didn’t want to read his letters and wonder if he would ever come back, and she worried that if she wrote to him, she would accidentally say what was really on her mind. I’m afraid, she might say, I’m lonely.

  Instead, she opened her latest book—The Thorn Birds—and lost herself in the story of a forbidden love in a harsh and inhospitable land.

  She was still reading well past midnight, when she heard the rustling of beads. She expected to hear the clank of the woodstove door opening and closing, but all she heard were footsteps moving across the wooden floor. She eased out of bed and crawled to the edge of the loft and peered down.

  In the dark, with only the woodstove’s glow for light, it took her eyes a moment to adjust.

  Dad was dressed all in black, with an Alaska Aces baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. He was carrying a big gear bag that clanked as he walked.

  He opened the front door and stepped out into the night.

  Leni climbed down the loft stairs and went quietly to the window and peeked out. A full moon shone down on the muddy yard; here and there, stubborn patches of crusty brown snow caught the light. There were piles of junk all around: boxes of fishing tackle and camping supplies, rusting metal crates and contraptions, a broken gate, another bicycle Dad had never gotten around to fixing, a stack of blown-out tires.

  Dad tossed the gear bag into the bed of the truck, then slogged over to the plywood shed where they kept their tools.

  A moment later he came out carrying an ax over one shoulder.

  He climbed into the truck and drove away.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Dad was in a good mood. His shaggy black hair was drawn into a weirdo Jesus-samurai topknot that had fallen to one side and looked like a puppy’s ear. His thick black beard was full of wood shavings, and so was his mustache. “There’s our sleepyhead. Did you stay up reading last night?”

  “Yeah,” Leni said, eyeing him uneasily.

  He pulled her into his arms, danced with her until she couldn’t help smiling.

  The worry she’d had since last night slowly released.

  What a relief. And on the first Saturday in April; one of her favorite days of the year.

  Salmon Days. Today the town would come together to celebrate the upcoming salmon season. The festivities had begun under another name, started by the Native tribe that had once lived here; they had come together to ask for a good fishing season. Now, though, it was just a town party. On today of all days, the unpleasantness of last night would be forgotten.

  A little after two o’clock, after all their chores were done, Leni loaded her arms with containers of food and followed her parents out of the cabin. Blue sky stretched as far as the eye could see; the pebbled beach looked iridescent in the sunlight, with its broken clamshells scattered like pieces of wedding lace.

  They loaded food and blankets and a bag full of rain gear and extra coats (the weather wasn’t reliable this time of year) into the back of the truck. Then they squished into the cab’s bench seat and Dad drove off.

  In town, they parked by the bridge and walked toward the General Store.

  “What in the world?” Mama said when they rounded the corner.

  Main Street was crowded, but not in the way it should be. There should have been men gathered around barbecues, grilling moose burgers and reindeer sausage and fresh clams, swapping fish tales, drinking beers. The women should have been by the diner, fussing over long tables set up with food—halibut sandwiches, platters of Dungeness crab, buckets of steamed clams, vats of baked beans.

  Instead, half the townspeople stood on the boardwalk on the water side of town and the other half stood in front of the saloon. It was like some weird O.K. Corral showdown.

  Then Leni saw the saloon.

  Every window was broken, the door had been hacked to bits, left as sharp shards of wood hanging from brass hinges, and white spray-painted graffiti covered the burnt walls. THIS IS A WARNING. STAY AWAY. ARROGANT PRICK. NO PROGRESS.

  Tom Walker stood in front of the ruined saloon, with Large Marge and Natalie standing to his left and Ms. Rhodes and her husband on his right. Leni recognized the rest of the people standing with him: most of the town’s merchants and fishermen and outfitters. These were the people who’d come to Alaska for something.

  Across the street, on the boardwalk, stood the off-the-gridders; the outcasts, the loners. Folks who lived in the bush, with no access to their property except by sea or air and who had come here to get away from something—creditors, the government, the law, child support, modern life. Like her dad, they wanted Alaska to remain wild to her fingertips forever. If they had their way, there would never be electricity or tourists or telephones or paved roads or flush toilets.

  Dad walked confidently forward. Leni and Mama rushed to keep up with him.

  Tom Walker strode out to meet Dad in the middle of the street. He threw a can of spray paint onto the ground at Dad’s feet. It clanged in the dirt, rolled sideways. “You think I don’t know it was you? You think everyone doesn’t know it was you, you crazy asshole?”

  Dad smiled. “Something happen last night, Tom? Vandalism? What a shame.”

  Leni noticed how powerful Mr. Walker looked beside her father, how steady. Leni couldn’t imagine Tom Walker ever stumbling around drunk or talking to himself or waking up screaming and crying. “You’re worse than a coward, Allbright. You’re stupid. Sneaking around in the dark to break windows and spray-paint words on wood I’m going to tear down anyway.”

  “He wouldn’t do that, Tom,” Mama said, taking care to keep her gaze downcast. She knew better than to look at Tom directly, especially not at a time like this. “He was home last night.”

  Mr. Walker took a step forward. “Listen closely, Ernt. I’m going to let this go as a mistake. But progress is coming to Kaneq. You do anything—anything—to hurt my business from here on out, and I’m not going to call a town meeting. I’m not going to call the cops. I’m coming for you.”

  “You don’t scare me, rich boy.”

  This time Mr. Walker smiled. “Like I said. Stupid.”

  Mr. Walker turned back to the crowd, many of whom had drawn in close to hear the argument. “We’re all friends here. Neighbors. A few words painted on wood don’t mean anything. Let’s get this party started.”

  People reacted immediately, rearranged themselves. Women drifted over to the food tables while men fired up the barbecues. Down at the end of the street, the band started up.

  Lay down, Sally, and rest you in my arms …

  Dad took Mama by the hand and led her down the street, bobbing his head in time to the beat.

  Leni was left standing alone, a girl caught between two factions.

  She felt the schism in town, the disagreement that could easily become a fight for the soul of what Kaneq should be.

  This could get ugly.

  Leni knew what her father had done and the vandalism revealed a new side to his rage. It terrified her that he had done such a public thing. Ever since Mr. Walker and Large Marge had first sent Dad to the pipeline for the winter, Dad had been on his guard. He never hit Mama in the face, or anywhere that a bruise could be seen. He worked hard—beyond hard—at controlling his temper. He walked a wide, respectful berth around Mr. Walker.

  No more, it seemed.

  Leni didn’t realize that Tom Walker had come up beside her until he spoke.

  “You look scared,” Mr. Walker said.

  “This thing between you and my dad could tear Kaneq apart,” she said. “You know that, right?”

  “Trust me, Leni. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  Leni looked up at Mr. Walker. “You’re wrong,” she said.

  * * *

  “YOU WORRY TOO MUCH,” Large Marge said to Leni the next day, when Leni showed up to work. For the past year, Leni had worked part-time at the General Store, stocking shelves, dusting supplies, ringing up sales on the antique cash register. She made enough money to keep herself well stocked with film and books. Dad had been against it, of course, but this one time, Mama had stood up to him, told him a seventeen-year-old girl needed an after-school job.

  “That vandalism is a bad thing,” Leni said, staring through the window, down the street toward the ruined saloon.

  “Aw. Men are stupid. You might as well learn that now. Look at bull moose. They ram into each other at full speed. Same with Dall sheep. This will be a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

  Leni didn’t agree. She saw what her father’s vandalism had done, the effects of it on the people around her. A few painted words had become bullets hurtled into the heart of a town. Although the party last night on Main Street had raged as it always did, clattering on until daylight began at last to dim, she had seen how the townspeople divided themselves into teams, one that believed in change and growth and another that didn’t. When the party had finally ended, everyone had gone their separate ways.

  Separate. In a town that used to be about being together.

  * * *

  ON SUNDAY NIGHT, Leni and her parents went to the Harlan compound for a barbecue dinner. Afterward, as usual, they built a big bonfire in the mud and stood around it, talking and drinking as evening fell around them, turning the people into violet silhouettes.

  From her place on Thelma’s porch, rereading Matthew’s latest letter by lantern light, Leni could see the adults gathered near the flames. A jug that looked from here like a black wasp moved from hand to hand. She heard the men’s voices above the snapping, hissing flames, a din of rising anger.

  “… take over our town…”

  “… arrogant prick, think he owns us…”

  “… next he’ll want to bring in electricity and television … turn us into Las Vegas.”

  Headlights speared through the darkness. Dogs went crazy in the yard, barked and howled as a big white truck rumbled through the mud, parked with a splash.

  Mr. Walker got out of his expensive new truck, strode confidently toward the bonfire, calm as you please, as if he belonged here.

  Uh-oh.

  Leni folded up her letter, jammed it in her pocket, and stepped down into the mud.

  Dad’s face was orange in the firelight. His topknot had fallen, now lay in a lump of hair behind his left ear. “Looks like someone is lost,” he said, his voice pulled out of shape by booze. “You don’t belong here, Walker.”

  “Says the cheechako,” Mr. Walker said. His broad smile took some of the sting out of the insult. Or maybe it added to it; Leni wasn’t sure.

  “I’ve been here four years,” Dad said, his mouth flattening until his lips almost disappeared.

  “That long, huh?” Mr. Walker said, crossing his big arms across his chest. “I got boots that have covered more ground in Alaska than you have.”

  “Now, look—”

  “Down, boy,” Mr. Walker said, grinning, although the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to them.” He lifted his chin to indicate Clyde and Donna and Thelma and Ted. “I’ve known them all of my life. Hell, I taught Clyde how to hunt duck, remember, Clyde? And Thelma smacked me a good one for getting fresh when we were kids. I came to talk to my friends.”

  Dad looked uncomfortable. Irritated.

  Mr. Walker smiled at Thelma, who smiled back. “We drank our first beers together, remember? The Moose is our place. Ours. Hell, Donna, you guys got married there.”

  Donna glanced at her husband, smiled uncertainly.

  “Here’s the thing. It’s time we fixed the old girl up. We deserve a place where we can gather and talk and have fun without smelling like burnt wood and having soot all down ourselves when we leave. It will take a lot of work, though.” Mr. Walker paused, his gaze moving from face to face. “And a lot of workers. I can hire people from Homer, pay them the four bucks an hour to rebuild the place, but I’d rather keep my money here, in town, with my friends and neighbors. We all know how nice it is to have some change in our jeans come winter.”

  “Four bucks an hour? That’s high,” Ted said, shooting Thelma a look.

  “I want to be more than fair,” Mr. Walker said.

  “Ha!” Dad said. “He’s trying to manipulate you. Buy you. Don’t listen to him. We know what’s good for our town. And it isn’t his money.”

  Thelma shot Dad an irritated look. “How long will the job last, Tom?”

  He shrugged. “Gotta be done before the weather turns, Thelma.”

  “And how many workers do you need?”

  “As many as I can get.”

  Thelma stepped back, turned to Ted, whispered something to him.

  “Earl?” Dad said. “You’re not going to let him do this?”

  Mad Earl’s pale, wrinkled face squelched up, looked like one of those dried-apple carvings. “Jobs is scarce up here, Ernt.”

  Leni saw the effect those few words had on her father.

  -->