Читать книгу The Wolves of Winter - Tyrell Johnson - Страница 13

6

In the life before, in Alaska, Mom was a librarian. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her now. The hardened eyes, the dirt under her nails, the pinch of her lips. Crevices of survival, of suffering, of endless winter, not of a librarian in an elementary school, handing out Dr. Seuss to kids.

But she did that, once, and she loved it.

She loved my dad too. We all did. But his death had more of an impact on her than it did on me or Ken. Before, she was something like shy. She didn’t have friends or any real social life, and she’d let Dad make almost all the decisions. Sure, she had her temper, but for the most part, she was a kind, quiet, unassuming woman. After his death, I think she felt the burden of the world on her shoulders. The burden of me and Ken. She became a strong-willed, outspoken, zealous woman full of fire and a will to survive. It’s probably what’s kept her alive so long. That and the fact that Jeryl showed up and nearly shoved us out the door. He saved us. Saved us from the town, which was rotting at the seams from flu, being torn apart by looters, and freezing in the plummeting temperatures. Our heater was broken, and the fires we had each night barely warmed our living room, let alone the whole house. I remember falling asleep, watching my breath gathering in front of my face and disappearing toward the ceiling. But Mom had refused to leave. Even after half the town was dead or on the move, she held tight to the walls of our house like they were the living, breathing reincarnation of Dad. Maybe if Walt Whitman had anything to say about it, they were.

Jeryl came over one morning with his animals all packed up and ready to go. “Mary, time to leave.”

She fought him, screamed at him, told him to get the hell out of her house. He wouldn’t budge. He started packing things up for her, and she got violent. Pushing and punching, but he just shoved her away. That’s when she ran to the basement, came up with a pistol in her hands.

“Get out.” Her voice was shaking.

Jeryl stopped what he was doing, and Ken and I watched from the living room. Deep down, I knew she’d never do it. But that’s when everything changed with Mom. My vision of her altered. She was the same, but she was different. More feral. Protective. We were still in Alaska, but that was the moment Yukon Mom was born.

Uncle Jeryl walked up to her, calm as ever, as she held that gun out to him, telling him she’d do it, she didn’t care. He reached out, took the gun right out of her hands, and she crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut loose. Jeryl knelt down, helped her back to her feet.

“Pack your things,” he said again.

We left with Jeryl’s animals in tow, with what we could bring of our lives packed on their backs. The goats, the musk ox, the donkey, and the horse. Wouldn’t you know it? The damn donkey and horse were the ones to bite the dust. The donkey on the way through the Yukon, the horse two years after. But Hector, Helen, and Stankbutt, don’t you worry, they’ll probably outlive us all.

Anyway, it’s hard to picture my mom like she used to be. From before. My before-mom. Handing out books to kids. Stamping the due date onto the little insert inside the cover of each book. That mom’s gone. Gone like chocolate, cartoons, balloons, bananas, cars, planes, buses, bus stamps, food stamps, government, gum—the sour apple kind I loved so much—commercials, sports, school, sunglasses, and summer.

Good-bye, summer.

Hello, chilly spring. Hello, long, frozen winter.

The man came closer. He had a dark brown beard and bright blue eyes that looked almost white, even against the snow. He might have been attractive once, but it was hard to tell beneath all that beard. A funny thing to wonder about someone—whether they were attractive. I couldn’t remember the last time I wondered that.

He followed me up the hill at a steady and healthy distance while the dog jumped around me, excited as a kid on Halloween. I kept glancing back at him—waiting for him to pull a knife and attack—and noticed that he was limping on his left leg. I slowed my pace just a little.

“What’s his name?” I asked, calling over my shoulder.

“Uh, just Wolf. Found him a few years back. Gave him some food. Been following me ever since.”

I looked down at the husky trotting by my side. “You know he’s not, right?”

“Not what?”

“A wolf.”

The man’s eyes dropped to the dog.

“He’s a Siberian husky. Probably a sled dog,” I said.

For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing and the dog’s feet puncturing the snow. The man mumbled something, I wasn’t sure what, but it sounded like: “Looked like a wolf to me.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Long pause like he was thinking about it. “Jax,” he said. Seemed like a lie, but why would he lie about his name? Something was off about this man. I knew the potential danger I was in. Alone with a strange man, in the middle of nowhere, too far away to call for help. What a stupid idea it was to invite him back to the cabins. Why had I done that? God, it was so exciting.

“Lynn,” I said, not that he’d bothered to ask my name. He still didn’t say anything. “Short for Gwendolynn. Gwendolynn McBride. It’s Scottish.” Why was I still talking? Maybe because he wasn’t.

“It’s a nice name,” he said.

We continued the rest of the way in silence, the sun a ball of flame beneath cotton clouds.

Ken, Jeryl, and Ramsey were all out when we made it to the cabins. Probably hunting, or fishing, in Ramsey’s case. Mom was coming from the animal pens, with a feed bucket for Hector, Helen, and Stankbutt in her arms. She took one look at the man and his dog and her body went stiff, her face as blank as I’d ever seen. She was wearing her brown Carhartts, black gloves, and heavy blue jacket with the fake fur lining. Her hood was pulled up, and her freckled cheeks were red.

“Lynn,” she said. The word froze in the air. I once saw a video of a woman tossing scalding-hot coffee out of her window in winter in northern Alaska. Minus-whatever temperatures. As the liquid hit the air, it puffed into white mist. The sound of my name on Mom’s lips was something like that. Lynn—puff.

“Mom, this is Jax. Found him by the river. Told him that we could spare a bite to eat.”

There was panic in her eyes as she turned to our cabin and rushed through the door, not bothering to close it behind her.

“Mom?”

I looked back at Jax. He didn’t look surprised.

“Maybe I should go,” he said. “Don’t want to upset anyone.”

Then Mom came bursting through the wooden door, shotgun in hand, pointing at Jax. Jax raised his hands.

“Mom!”

“You sick? Any fever, sniffles, cough?” Mom asked.

“Mom, he’s fine,” I said at the same time that Jax said, “No, ma’am.”

“Any weapons on you?”

He shook his head. “Had a bow. It broke when I took a spill in the snow a few days ago.”

“What do you do for food?”

“My knife.” He pointed to his belt, where a knife—nearly a foot long from blade to hilt—hung in a leather sheath. A good, healthy knife, for skinning and for killing.

“Mom, put the gun down.” She didn’t move an inch. Her gaze was trained on him. I saw her finger hovering over the trigger. She was ready to kill the man, the quiet librarian in her long gone, fire in her eyes.

“You hunt with just a knife?” Mom asked.

Jax shook his head. “Not well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken your offer for food.”

“Not my offer.” She adjusted the gun against her shoulder.

“Mom, what the hell?” I said.

She glanced at me for half a heartbeat. “This was a stupid, stupid move, Gwendolynn.”

Mom’s boots ground the snow beneath her feet as she backed up a few paces. Wolf was taking a piss on the corner of our cabin.

“Go inside,” Mom said, gesturing with the barrel of the gun toward the door. “Dog stays out here.”

“Dog does what he wants,” Jax said, lowering his hands. I don’t think he meant to sound challenging. I think he was just telling it like it was. But it didn’t do him any favors with Mom.

“As long as what he wants isn’t to come inside.” She looked to the animal shed. “He gonna bug my animals?”

Jax shrugged. “Don’t think so.”

It was then that I realized that Jax wasn’t afraid. Not in the least. You learn how to spot fear when you hunt. You can see it in an animal’s posture, in their ears, the tensing of their muscles. You know when they’re about to bolt. Jax seemed completely relaxed, tired even.

“Get in,” Mom said. It was a command.

Jax obeyed. Slowly.

If I wasn’t so embarrassed by Mom’s paranoia, I probably would have thought the sight of her cooking food with a shotgun in her hand was hilarious. I helped build the fire, set the pots, even retrieved the deer meat and vegetables from the freeze out back. She spilled hot water, nearly dropped the meat, but the whole time, she kept an eye on Jax.

“Where you from, Jax?” she asked.

“The States.”

“Where?”

Pause. “Montana.” Was he lying again? Damn. You’re not helping your case, Jax.

“You walked all this way?” Mom asked, stirring the pot and sticking the meat on a grill that Jeryl had mounted over the fireplace when we first built the cabin.

“Had a horse for a while.”

“What happened to it?”

He frowned, like he was taken aback by the question. “Went lame.”

“You eat it?”

“Jesus, Mom.”

“Language, Gwendolynn.”

Jax watched. Mom stirred the pot.

“Yes, I did. Ate what I could, packed what I could carry.”

When the food was served, Jax dove in without saying grace. Mom took up her shotgun again and aimed it at him while he ate. He didn’t seem to mind. There was something gratifying about watching him eat. Something about seeing him enjoy the food, the fact that I knew he desperately needed it and that I’d helped provide it. When there was just a little meat left, he stopped, lifted his head, and eyed the last bit.

“Full?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Eh, stupid dog,” he said, rising. The wooden chair grated against the floor.

Mom lifted the shotgun to her cheek. “What’re you doing?”

Jax picked up the meat. He didn’t say anything else. He walked to the door, opened it, and tossed the hunk of meat outside. Before he closed the door, I saw Wolf dive onto the scrap.

“You feed them once,” Jax said, “and suddenly they’re your responsibility.”

“Not how it works in my house,” Mom said.

Jax laughed, a warm sound but with a hint of sadness in it. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I’ll be on my way. As long as you aren’t going to shoot me in the back.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“Thank you for the food,” Jax said, then turned to me. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

“Lynn,” I said.

He stepped toward the door. Mom aimed.

“Wait,” I said. “Mom, Jeryl will want to meet him.”

“Ha. Jeryl will be annoyed we let a stranger in while he was out,” she replied.

“He’s the first person we’ve seen in years. Ever, unless you count Conrad. Jeryl will want to trade news, hear his story.” Long pause. Mom’s hands dipped, the barrel of the gun dropping ever so slightly. Her arm was getting tired. She eyed Jax with suspicion. Something else in her eyes too. I decided not to ask. “You know I’m right,” I said.

Mom lowered the gun, spun a chair around, and straddled it. She rested the barrel on the back of the chair, pointing it at Jax.

“Sit,” she said.

“The gun isn’t necessary, ma’am.”

“Sit.”

He sat.

“You’re limping. Why?”

Jax’s head bowed slightly. “I took a bad spill when I broke my bow.”

“Wounded?”

“A scratch.”

“You did this a few days ago?”

“About. Days kinda blend.”

Mom bit the inside of her cheek. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine. It’ll heal.”

“Let me see.” She adjusted the rifle on the chair.

“What’re you gonna do? Kill him if he doesn’t show you?” I asked.

“Just let me see,” she repeated.

Jax stood, limped around the table, and lifted his left pant leg. On the side of his calf was a gash, two inches long. It was angry red and raw.

“Trust me,” he said. “It’ll heal.”

“Hurt bad?” Mom asked.

“Not really.”

Mom gave him a look.

“Like a bitch,” he said.

I sat, holding the gun on Jax as he reclined in my cot. I felt like an idiot with the gun on him, but Mom wouldn’t be persuaded. She didn’t trust him for a second. Any minute now, he was going to get the jump on us, rape us, murder us, and chop us into little pieces. Stupid. I aimed the gun at his face while Mom went to gather supplies.

“Sorry about this,” I said.

He shook his head. “You have to look after yourself these days.”

Screw it. I lowered the gun, leaned it against the wall.

Mom glared at me as she came up the steps, but she didn’t say anything. She had her bottle of vodka, some bandages, and a steak knife. “I’ve never been the best at this,” she said.

“You don’t have to do this, ma’am.”

“Shut it.” Mom lifted a hand, hesitated, then put it on Jax’s calf. She poured out a good splash of vodka on the cut, then dabbed it with a wet cloth. Jax grunted and twitched.

“We need to cut the dead tissue off.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s small,” Jax said.

“So was David.”

“David?” He eyed her like she was a crazy person.

“David and Goliath. He was small, but he brought down a giant.”

“My leg isn’t David.”

“And you’re not a giant.”

Mom poured a dab of the liquor onto the steak knife she’d brought and started cutting into the bad flesh. Jax closed his eyes. He didn’t squirm or call out. Afterward, the wound looked more red and raw and bigger than it had when Mom first started at it. Maybe she’d made it worse. She’d cleaned up a few of our cuts and scrapes over the years. She even gave Ken a few stitches with fishing wire after he fell down a ravine. But still, she didn’t really know what the hell she was doing. None of us did.

Jeryl’s reaction to Jax was much different from Mom’s. It was already late afternoon when he, Ken, and Ramsey came into the cabin. Mom and I were downstairs, tearing up an old blanket to use as a bandage. Mom nodded upstairs to the loft, giving Jeryl a serious look.

Then they were all crammed on the stairway, staring like a bunch of idiots.

“Who the hell are you?” Ken asked.

Jeryl looked from Jax to Mom and back again. Jax sat up in bed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Jeryl, calm, grabbed a chair and sat next to him.

Then he started asking questions.

“What’s your name?”

“Jax.”

“You got any weapons on you?”

“Just a knife.”

“Where you from?”

“Montana.”

“Was it bad there?”

“Same as everywhere else. Not much left.”

“You sick?”

“No.”

“Been around the sick?”

“Been on my own for months.”

“Months? You’ve seen others out here?”

“A group of maybe twenty.”

“They sick?”

“Nope.”

“Seen anybody else?”

“Not for a long while.”

“Why didn’t you stay with them?”

“I keep to myself.”

“Where you heading?”

“North.”

“And then?”

“No and then. Just north.”

“You running from something?”

“Aren’t we all?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Just trying to find a better life. Same as everyone.”

“You in the wars?”

“I was the wars.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means yes, I was in the wars.”

“You have any family left?”

“No.”

“Seen any of the cities?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody left?”

“Not that you’d want to meet.”

“You hurt?”

“My leg. Just a scratch.”

“Right … you can stay till your leg’s healed up. Then you’re gone.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine to leave now.”

“You’ll be fed, a roof over your head.”

“Don’t want to be a bother.”

“Can’t stay in here, though. You’ll bunk with me. Ramsey, you stay with Ken.”

“I’m not sure—”

“You leave the second you can walk straight.”

“All right.”

“You try anything … and I’ll kill you.”

“Fair enough.”