My luck run out the next couple nights. For months the fridge had been making noise like a small plane about to take off, till finally it found another noise to make, and Dad spent a whole evening tinkering with it, way past his usual bedtime, trying to suss out whether it was something he could fix or if he’d have to spend the money to hire someone. I looked round the kitchen, the counter crowded with plastic containers full of leftovers and the milk slowly warming next to the three eggs we had left. Trudged up the stairs to my bed. There wouldn’t be no chance to slip past him that night.
The next evening, I went to bed early, still in my sweater and jeans, and set my clock to wake me near midnight. But when I crept halfway down the stairs, I seen a light on in the kitchen. The room was quieter than it had been in a good while, the old buzzing fridge was gone, Steve Inga had helped Dad haul it away that afternoon. No replacement yet, Dad would have to fetch a new fridge from Fairbanks, which meant a long drive, not to mention the money he didn’t have to spend.
One of the house dogs whined. Dad’s shadow lifted its arm then lowered again, and glass clinked against glass. I could even hear him swallow. Next morning, there would only be about an inch of whiskey left in the bottle Steve had brung. I sat on the stairs a spell, listening to Dad drink, till he got up and crossed the room. A small clatter as he picked the phone up off its hook, the beep of numbers as he dialed.
Yeah, it’s me, he said after a moment. Sorry to call so late.
A pause. Then, That’s why I’m calling. I changed my mind. Think you can make it happen?
He give a long, heavy sigh. Said, I know. I’ll deal with it some way. ’Preciate your help, Steve.
He grunted as he sat back down, and I stole upstairs. My stomach cramped and growled.
During the day, I fed the dogs and stacked wood and watched the trees, as if any second Tom Hatch would stroll back into the yard, come straight for me, asking after his pack.
When I wasn’t thinking about Hatch, though, I was planning for my race season. February, and the Junior, was getting closer day by day, and then it would be time for the Iditarod before I could turn round twice. If I was going to sneak out often enough at night to train proper, I needed Dad to have fewer sleepless nights. But that wasn’t nothing I could control.
In the meantime, I went against every instinct in me and volunteered to drive into the village to fetch groceries, even though the sight of trees flinging themselves past the truck’s windows made me sick to my stomach.
Dad raised his eyebrows. You feeling okay? he asked, teasing. I mean, you must’ve come down with something if you’re offering to drive into town.
Ha, I said. I’m just trying to lend a hand. But if you don’t want the help— I shrugged.
No, no, by all means, he said and tossed his keys across the room to me.
Once I got to the village, I rushed through the shopping quick as I could, then run my real errand. Walked to the post office and slipped two envelopes in the out box, one addressed to the Junior Iditarod’s committee and one addressed to the Iditarod’s, stacks of ten- and twenty-dollar bills in each to pay for my race fees. I knew I oughtn’t send cash in the mail, but that couldn’t be helped.
Course, after I volunteered to drive into the village once, Dad was keen to take advantage of what he called my unexpected willingness. A couple days later we drove in together to pick up bags of dog kibble. We loaded the truck down with dozens of fifty-pound bags, then swung by the school to pick up Scott. When we pulled in Scott was sitting outside, fiddling with his camera.
What’s up? Dad asked him.
There’s something wrong with the lens, maybe, Scott said. I can’t get it to focus right.
Let me take a look, Dad said and leaned against the truck, messing with the camera. I shifted from one foot to the other, ready to get back on the road. I was eager to turn in early that evening so I could get up and run the dogs again after the two of them had gone to bed. Plus, it had been days since I’d hunted. My head was swimmy and out of sorts, my belly hollow.
We holding you up? Dad said wryly. You’re in such a hurry, you drive.
Fine, I told him.
We crawled our way through the village, then onto the highway. I wound the truck up, seemed to me like we was going plenty fast, till Dad looked up and said, Christ, Tracy, you can’t go forty on a road like this. Someone comes along going seventy, they’re going to run us right over.
I inched the truck up to forty-five.
Oh, for Pete’s sake— He made a strange, choked sound, and at first I thought he was mad, but I wasn’t about to go no faster, the trees already whipping past the windows quicker than I liked. But then he gasped and chortled, and I realized he was laughing at me.
What the hell? I asked as Scott joined in. What?
Dad shook his head, gradually got hold of himself. The way you looked! he exclaimed. He clenched his fists and his teeth, hunched forward and glared out the windshield, his eyes big as plates. Scott cackled at his imitation.
I shook my head, irritated. But a smile crept over my face. It was nice, both of them laughing, even if it was at my expense. You going to let me drive, or sit there making fun of me? I asked.
I can’t do both? Dad grinned at me.
An hour or so later, I steered the truck into the driveway. When we rolled past the trees that shielded our property from the road there was a shape waiting for us halfway between the dog yard and the house. Even though I could see with my own eyes it wasn’t Tom Hatch, my mouth went dry. For a moment it was Hatch, the shape held something in its hands, my eyes seen it and my brain turned it into a knife, my knife, even though that was impossible since my knife was in my pocket like it always was.
The shape that wasn’t Hatch raised its hand hello. My muscles tensed up, my foot pushed the pedal to the floor, and we rocketed forward.
Brake! Dad shouted. Brake!
I slammed the brake, the truck slid another three feet on the hardpacked snow, and we stopped just shy of the corner of the house.
Dad give me a look. Maybe you shouldn’t drive after all, he said.
Calmer now, I could take in what was in front of me instead of what my panicked brain thought it seen. The shape coming toward us wasn’t tall or broad but thin and barely taller than me, though it tried to make itself look bigger with clothes that didn’t fit. Its baggy jacket wasn’t warm enough for the time of year. When it got closer, I seen its pants was held up by a hank of rope.
Help you? Dad asked.
I hope so, the stranger said. Now that we was closer, you could see that even though his clothes was ill-fit he had tried to make himself presentable, he was real clean shaven and his reddish-brown hair combed, hat in his hand.
You ain’t here about the room for rent? Dad said.
That’s right, the stranger said. His words come out slow, like a tide creeping in.
Well, it ain’t much, Dad said. But you’re welcome to take a look.
Scott had already gone up to the house, but I trailed behind them round the back where the shed was. The building was about ten by fourteen foot, there wasn’t much room, but the three of us crowded in so the visitor could take a look. It was clean even if it was small, and you would be pretty cozy and warm even after the fire in the stove died for the night.
When we stepped back outside, Dad said, It’s pretty spare. I reckon you could find something nicer in the village. More convenient. But you’re welcome to use the kitchen and the bath up at the house as you like. I got two kids, Tracy here, and you probably saw Scott before he disappeared. They won’t bother you none.