It was like this game me and Scott used to play, Before and After. Mom would give us two pictures that at first looked alike, but if you studied them closer you’d see there was tiny differences. A man wearing a cowboy hat in one picture, but in the other he would have a baseball cap on his head. A red shoe would be blue. A bird flying in the sky would be vanished altogether. You was supposed to catch the differences.
For us, everything was dogs in the Before picture. A yard full of them, and Dad repairing a sled, and Mom standing over the fire, cooking a pot of green fish and beef tallow to pour over kibble. Making bags for food drops, sewing booties for the dogs’ feet. Enough money to pay for extra hands to help us prepare for each race, right up till the big one. When the Iditarod come round and Dad’s team was in the chute, Mom would handle one of the big wheel dogs, that is a dog who is harnessed directly in front of the sled. The horn would sound, and all the handlers let go of the dogs, and Mom would turn and give Dad a quick kiss before he slid past her. Then she’d hurry over to me and Scott on the sidelines, and Dad would look back and wave to us, wave till he crested the first small hill then disappeared.
After the race, we would meet Dad at the small landing strip where the plane he chartered brung him and our dogs back to us from Nome. We’d load up the truck and head home, Mom on one end of the bench seat and Dad on the other, and me and Scott in the middle, like a sandwich where our parents was the bread. Cold outside but always warm in the truck. Flakes of snow lit up by the beam of the headlights.
That was Before. After was Dad standing with his hands on his hips when I parked the truck in our driveway, looking like a little kid’s drawing of himself, just a collection of skinny lines. All the padding gone from his bones, and his eyes big and dark, like they was sinking into his head. He frowned while he waited for us to get out of the truck.
Hey, son, he said and give Scott a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Go on in and get after your homework, you hear?
Yes, sir.
You, Dad said and I stopped short, my stomach dropping at the tone of his voice. You are grounded. And I don’t just mean no dogs. I mean no leaving the yard, no hunting, no running the dogs. Not for a good long while.
My stomach dropped.
What?
The school called while you were gone. You got yourself expelled. I told you—
No.
Excuse me?
No, I said. This is bullshit. I’m the one who’s been training, up till you told me I had to stop. I’m the one who cares for the dogs most of the time. This is the last year I’m eligible for the Junior. The first year I’m eligible for the Iditarod!
He shook his head. You’re not going to be racing this year, Trace. Even if you was still in school, we can’t afford the entry fees.
The sun throwing shadows of the trees across our yard, long columns of dark soaking into the brown grass. Our dogs had started wondering what we was up to. They sat on their haunches and cocked their heads at us. A couple nosed their bowls. I imagined Dad out there, his hands gentle on each one, checking their paws or massaging their legs after a long run. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d got on a sled.
The thought made me grit my teeth and clench my fists, made me want to hit something. I felt the way I’d felt the day I broke Beth’s nose, rage building inside me like a fire rolling through a forest, consuming every tree and blade of grass.
The madder I got, the quieter Dad seemed. He give a sigh like he was deflating.
Your mom was better at this, he said.
Better at what?
This, he said. Doing what’s good for you. Knowing what you need. It was easier when you were little. You just wanted to be outside all the time, following me around.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t true. Mom was good at lots of stuff, and there was a time we would spend hours together, just talking. But there was plenty of things she didn’t tell me. Sometimes she would be on the edge of something, like standing on the bank of a creek, deciding whether or not to cross. Instead of putting her foot in the water, she would turn round, walk away from whatever it was she wanted to say to me.
But I didn’t say anything. It was rare for Dad to bring Mom up, rarer still for us to talk about how she used to be, or what she would of done. I half-expected her to wander outside right then, poke her head out the front door and ask, You two telling secrets out here? I caught myself actually waiting for her. It feels dumb to say how disappointed I was when I didn’t see her. Like just talking about her could conjure her up.
That’s still what I want, I told Dad. Just to be outside. To race.
You’re not the only one doing something you don’t want to.
He was so quiet, it seemed mean to shout at him. But I couldn’t help myself.
You could do what you want! Instead of wasting time fixing other people’s shit, building stupid tables and shelves to sell—
How do you think I pay for food, Tracy? How do you think I keep the lights on?
You’re a musher! My voice hit him almost like a fist. It hurt me to see him hurt, but I couldn’t stop. Part of me didn’t even care. You’re supposed to be a musher! That’s your job! I’m the only one who raced at all last year—
His face dropped. I did stop then.
He cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was calm.
I’ve said my piece, Tracy. I’d appreciate it if you’d go on inside now. You can get dinner ready tonight, too.
It was worse than if he had yelled back. A chill rolled through the yard. He give me a wide berth as he headed to the dog yard. Soon as they seen him, the dogs hopped to their feet, barking because they knew it was suppertime.
I watched till he disappeared into the kennel, then punched the truck. My knuckles come away scraped and hurting but I punched it again. Then I launched into a run, I blew past the house, across the circle of our yard. To the woods. The cool, solid ground under my feet. Dad would be steaming when I come back. But I had to do something.
There is satisfaction in running fast. When you run you are going one place but you are also leaving another place behind. A feeling comes over you like a blanket. It wraps itself round your mind and quiets your thoughts so you can stop listening to the voices in your head and focus on the rustle of brush or the chattering of a squirrel in the treetops. I run as fast as I can for as long as I can. My mind travels somewhere else, and I become only breath and bone and muscle. The feeling is serene and focused, powerful and energized, all at the same time.
This is how I shake off anger and worry like a dog shakes water off her coat. This is how I empty myself out to fill myself up again.
After a while, I veered off the trail and plunged deeper into the woods. All the leaves whispering in the wind. Fall is brief in Alaska, like Peter Kleinhaus wrote, the leaves browning and turning and tumbling to the ground in the space of one day. But it is a good time to put out traps or go hunting. There’s places you can find where moose have rubbed the trunk of a tree raw with their antlers and if you put your hand there the wood is soft as a cheek.
I felt how soft it was and asked my mother, What about a moose?
Even after she was gone, I would find her in the woods sometimes. Barely there, a cobweb I could put my hand through. I could conjure up the memory of her voice, thin as a scrim of ice on a puddle.
A moose is too big, she said. What would you do with it?
I shrugged. But the thought of taking something big as a grown moose made my insides flutter.