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.”
Before Leni could say anything, the pretty blond girl moved in beside Matthew, put an arm around him, pulled him away from Leni. Matthew stumbled into his sister, moving unsteadily, as if even walking felt unfamiliar.
“You must be Leni,” Alyeska said. Leni nodded.
“I’m Aly. Mattie’s big sister. He told me about you.” She was trying hard to smile; that was obvious. “Said you were best friends.”
Leni wanted to cry. “We are.”
“That’s lucky. I didn’t have anyone my age in school when I lived here,” Aly said, tucking her hair behind one ear. “I guess it’s why Fairbanks seemed like a good idea. I mean … Kaneq and the homestead can feel as small as a speck sometimes. But I should have been here…”
“Don’t,” Matthew said to his sister. “Please.”
Aly’s smile wavered. Leni didn’t know this girl at all, but her struggle for composure and her love for her brother were obvious. It made Leni feel strangely connected to her, as if they had this one important thing in common.
“I’m glad he has you. He’s … struggling now, aren’t you, Mattie?” Aly’s voice broke. “But he’ll be fine. I hope.”
Leni saw suddenly how hope could break you, how it was a shiny lure for the unwary. What happened to you if you hoped too hard for the best and got the worst? Was it better not to hope at all, to prepare? Wasn’t that what her father’s lesson always was? Prepare for the worst.
“Of course he will,” Leni said, but she didn’t believe it. She knew what nightmares could do to a person and how bad memories could change who you were.
* * *
ON THE DRIVE HOME, no one spoke. Leni felt the loss of every second of light as night fell, felt it as sharply as a mallet striking bone. She imagined her
father could hear them, the lost seconds, like stones clattering down a rock wall, plunking somewhere into black, murky water.
Mama huddled in her seat, hunched over. She kept glancing at Dad.
He was drunk and angry. He bounced in his seat, thumped his hand on the steering wheel.
Mama reached out, touched his arm.
He yanked away from her, said, “You’re good at that, aren’t you?
Touching men. You think I didn’t see. You think I’m stupid.”
Mama looked at him wide-eyed, fear etched onto her delicate features. “I don’t think that.”
“I saw how you looked at him. I saw it.” He muttered something and pulled away from her. Leni thought he said, Breathe, under his breath, but she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that they were in trouble. “I saw you touch his hand.”
This was bad.
He’d always been jealous of Tom Walker’s money … this was something else.
All the way home, as he muttered under his breath, whore, bitch, lied, his fingers played piano keys on the steering wheel. At the homestead, he stumbled out of the bus and stood there swaying, looking at the cabin. Mama went up to him. They stared at each other, both breathing unsteadily.
“Make a fool of me again … will you?”
Mama touched his arm. “You don’t really think I want Tom—”
He grabbed Mama by the arm and dragged her into the cabin. She tried to pull free, stumbled forward, put her hand over his in a feeble attempt to make him ease his grip. “Ernt, please.”
Leni ran after them, followed them into the cabin, saying, “Dad, please, let her go.”
“Leni, go—” Mama started to say.
Dad hit Mama so hard she flew sideways, cracked her head into the log wall, and crumpled to the floor.
Leni screamed. “Mama!”
Mama crawled to her knees, got unsteadily to her feet. Her lip was ripped, bleeding.
Dad hit her again, harder. When she hit the wall, he looked down, saw the blood on his knuckles, and stared at it.
A high, keening howl of pain burst out of him, ringing off the log walls. He stumbled back, putting distance between them. He gave Mama a long, desperate look of sorrow and hatred, then ran out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
LENI WAS SO SCARED and surprised and horrified by what she’d just seen, she did nothing.
Nothing.
She should have thrown herself at Dad, gotten between them, even gone for her gun.
She heard the door slam and it knocked her out of her paralysis.
Mama was sitting on the floor in front of the woodstove, her hands in her lap and her head forward, her face hidden by her hair.
“Mama?”
Mama slowly looked up, tucked the hair behind her ear. A red splotch marred her temple. Her lower lip was split open, dripping blood onto her pants.
Do something.
Leni ran into the kitchen, soaked a washcloth with water from the bucket, and went to Mama, kneeling beside her. With a tired smile, Mama took the rag, pressed it to her bleeding lip.
“Sorry, baby girl,” she said through the cloth. “He hit you,” Leni said, stunned.
This was an ugliness she’d never imagined. A lost temper, yes. A fist?
Blood? No …
You were supposed to be safe in your own home, with your parents.
They were supposed to protect you from the dangers outside.
“He was agitated all day. I shouldn’t have talked to Tom.” Mama sighed. “And now I suppose he’s gone to the compound to drink whiskey and eat hate with Mad Earl.”
Leni looked at her mother’s beaten, bruised face, the rag turning red with her blood. “You’re saying it’s your fault?”
“You’re too young to understand. He didn’t mean to do that. He just … loves me too much sometimes.”
Was that true? Was that what love was when you grew up?
“He meant to,” Leni said quietly, feeling a cold wave of understanding wash through her. Memories clicked into place like pieces of a puzzle, fitting together. Mama’s bruises, her always saying, I’m clumsy. She had hidden this ugly truth from Leni for years. Her parents had been able to hide it from her with walls and lies, but here in this one-room cabin there was no hiding anymore. “He has hit you before.”
“No,” Mama said. “Hardly ever.”
Leni tried to put it all together in her head, make it make sense, but she couldn’t. How could this be love? How could it be Mama’s fault?
“We have to understand and forgive,” Mama said. “That’s how you love someone who’s sick. Someone who is struggling. It’s like he has cancer. That’s how you have to think of it. He’ll get better. He will. He loves us so much.”
Leni heard her mother start to cry, and somehow that made it worse, as if her tears watered this ugliness, made it grow. Leni pulled Mama into her arms, held her tightly, stroked her back, just like Mama had done so many times for Leni.
Leni didn’t know how long she sat there, holding her mother, replaying the horrible scene over and over.
Then she heard her father’s return.
She heard his uneven footsteps on the deck, his fumbling with the door latch. Mama must have heard it, too, because she was crawling unsteadily to her feet, pushing Leni aside, saying, “Go upstairs.”
Leni watched her mama rise; she dropped the wet, bloody rag. It fell with a splat to the floor.
The door opened. Cold rushed in. “You came back,” Mama whispered.
Dad stood in the doorway, his face lined in agony, his eyes full of tears. “Cora, my God,” he said, his voice scratchy and thick. “Of course I came
back.”
They moved toward one another.
Dad collapsed to his knees in front of Mama, his knees cracking on the wood so loudly Leni knew there would be bruises tomorrow.
Mama moved closer, put her hands in his hair. He buried his face in her stomach, started to shake and cry. “I’m so sorry. I just love you so much … it makes me crazy. Crazier.” He looked up, crying harder now. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know, baby.” Mama knelt down, took him in her arms, rocked him back and forth.
Leni suddenly felt the fragile nature of her world—of the whole world. She could hardly remember the time Before. Maybe she didn’t remember it at all. The images she had—Dad lifting her onto his shoulders, plucking petals from a daisy, holding a buttercup beneath her chin, reading her bedtime stories—maybe those were just snapshots she’d seen in photographs, filled with a life she had imagined.
She couldn’t be sure. How could she? Mama wanted her to look away as easily as she did, to forgive even when the apology was as flimsy as a strand of fishing line, as breakable as a promise to change.
For years, her entire life, Leni had done just that. She loved her parents, both of them. She had always known, without needing to be told, that the darkness inside her dad was dangerous and the things he did were wrong. But she had also believed her mama’s explanations: that Dad was sick, that he was sorry, that if they just loved him enough, he would get better, and life would return to how it was Before.
But Leni didn’t believe that anymore.
The truth was this: Winter had only just begun. The cold and darkness would last for a long, long time, and they were alone up here, trapped in this cabin with Dad.
No local police, no one to call for help. All this time, Dad had taught her how dangerous the outside world was. But the real danger, the greatest danger of all, was inside her own home.
