What’s that? Dad had leaned forward in his chair to get a better look. Some kind of training wheel?
Jesse nodded. There’s a lever over here, a kind of brake. You release that, and the dogs can run in circles till they get tired. When that happens, they can hop up into the box to rest.
Dad raised his eyebrows, drew the book closer to study the picture. That’s pretty clever, he said. Wonder how hard it would be to put something like this together. It’d be a good way to keep the dogs from getting antsy. Although they’ve been pretty calm, lately.
Jesse didn’t respond, but his eyes found mine, the quickest touch. Then he looked back at his own drawing.
My face burned. I got up and run water over our dinner dishes.
Though, that’s a lot of lumber, Dad said.
You could do it with scrap wood, Jesse pointed out. That’s what we used in Whitehorse.
You lived in the Yukon? I asked.
He didn’t bother to turn or look at me. Passed through, he said.
We’ve got lots of wood out back, Scott was saying to Dad.
Just need some nails and about five or six wheels, looks like, Dad said. It was clear he was already calculating the cost. The three of them bent over a fresh piece of paper, heads together, words going back and forth while Jesse’s hand dashed over the page. I watched, thinking about Whitehorse. It was reasonable he would of passed through on his way north. But it was one more place to add to a growing list of places Jesse claimed he’d lived, at least for a spell.
The dog wheel was like a pebble that sent ripples through a pond. After that, it got easier and easier for Jesse to nudge Dad toward any idea. Yes, Jesse could reorganize the pantry. Yes, Jesse could repair the roofs of the doghouses with the asphalt shingles he’d found who knows where. Yes, Jesse could take the truck for a quick errand. Yes, yes, yes. Soon enough nearly everything we owned had his fingerprints on it.
Middle of November, I come into the kennel searching for the dog bootie pattern that I couldn’t find in Mom’s old sewing stuff. Instead of the usual jumble of camping gear and dog supplies and tools on the shelves, I found everything separated and sorted into bins. I dug through the one labeled patterns and plans in neat block letters and found what I was looking for. Outside, Jesse was inspecting scrap wood, picking out the best pieces for his dog wheel. That day’s house dog, Marcey, jogged a stick over to him, he wrestled it free, then hurled it toward the kennel for her to chase. When he seen me, he paused. Then raised his hand, a hesitant little wave.
A softening in me, snow in a patch of sunlight. It happened before I knew it was happening, my thoughts tallying up all he’d done, the neat kennel shelves and the truck he’d got running, the clean dog yard, houses with their new roofs. Just that morning Dad had commented again on how relaxed the dogs seemed, and it was Jesse who covered for me, he piped up and said, I meant to mention, sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I’ll get up and take a couple for a walk. A few minutes in the fresh air usually makes me tired enough to go back to bed. Maybe it helps soothe the dogs, too.
Dad scratched his beard. Maybe, he said.
Marcey returned her stick to Jesse. I watched him fling it again, then raised my own hand in return.
Midday, I helped Dad split and stack wood. After about an hour of work, he glanced at his watch, dropped his armful of wood on the sled, and said, I was thinking, Trace. Thanksgiving’s not that far off. Might be nice to have some meat on the table.
I dropped my own logs on top of his. You going to order a turkey from the village store? I asked.
He shook his head, pulled the sled toward the woodshed. I followed along behind. Actually, I was thinking a rabbit would be good eating. Mind setting some traps?
I stopped short. You mean I can hunt? I said. Like, in the woods? The ones you’re so keen on me not setting foot in?
The very ones, he said. Not racing’s punishment enough, I reckon. You go on, hunt as you like. Just be careful.
Now?
Sure, I’ll finish up here. Take the day.
Maybe his voice was a little too casual. But I ignored whatever I thought I heard, I was so relieved not to have to sneak round for once.
I took the day, just like he told me. I didn’t manage a hare that morning, but I left three traps along a couple paths I knew. Then I hunted for myself awhile, went out to a slender branch of the river to see if I could find a mink, and took not one but two, though the second one sprayed me a little and I had to scrub myself with handfuls of snow to try and get rid of the stench. After I had my fill, I dressed them both, then rested a spell, laid on the ground and watched the snow fall from the sky. The flakes large and languid, no wind, the day round me silent except for the trickling of the stream over stones. That kind of silence turns you inward so you grow aware of your own breathing, and the thoughts that usually bounce all round inside your head go quiet. I stayed that way a good time, till the light drained away and the early night stained the sky.
When I come back to the yard, both mink skins slung over my shoulder, I was feeling warm inside and content in my head. Till I heard the dogs bark to greet me. When you live with dogs all the time you get to know how they talk. A team of sled dogs speaks together, all their voices blend into one voice, and that’s the voice of the pack. And the voice I heard then was weaker than it had been that morning.
I run to the dog yard and looked past the houses that had been empty for months, searched the faces of the dogs we had left. It took me a minute to register which house was newly empty. Flash’s bowl was turned over, like she had been gone for ages.
Dad’s voice come to me across the snow, flat and nearly toneless. Now, just wait before you start hollering, he said. You know Chuck Wheeler. Young musher, few years older than you? He needed a strong dog with a good head to fill out his team. He saw Flash at last year’s race and liked the look of her, so he asked to lease her for the rest of the season, try her with his own dogs. It’s not permanent. She’ll only be gone till after the Iditarod.
I stood in front of Flash’s house, picked up her bowl.
Anyhow, Dad went on. I made this deal before Jesse come along, back when I wasn’t working. It’ll help pay down some of them bills—
I chucked the bowl away from the dog yard, hard as I could. That’s all you give a damn about, is money, I said.
Don’t give me that, Dad said. You’re not the one who has to worry about providing for this family.
I thought that’s why you got your stupid job.
He glared. That job is what’s paying— He bit his sentence in half, swallowed the rest. Then said, This was all decided a good while ago. I couldn’t go back on the agreement.
She was my lead dog, I said. How am I supposed to train without my lead?
You’re not supposed to be training at all.
I’m not supposed to be in the woods, neither, till it’s convenient for you, I snapped. I threw the mink hides to the ground at his feet.
He shook his head. Just go inside, Tracy.
He was already turning away. I scooped up a handful of snow and flung it the way I’d flung the minks. The snowball flew through the air and hit him, exploded across his coat.
If we was only horsing round, he would of laughed and threw one back at me. Instead, he looked down at the snow stuck to the side of his coat. I hated how foolish he looked, small and stupid, and I wished he would brush the snow away.
Don’t you think I’d let you race if I could? he said, quiet. But there ain’t enough—
He lifted his hands.