Maybe it fell out, he finally said.
I should go, I said.
Wait.
He reached past me to close the door. Then his hand on me. In my hair. His lips on mine. It was different from when I’d kissed him before, softer. Only the ghost of blood in my mouth from the wound on his lip. I felt him inside me, closer than I’d ever got to anyone else.
I got to go, I said when he drew away.
Across the small stretch of yard between the shed and the house. Making new tracks in the fresh snow that had fallen in the last hour or so. My heart thudding in my chest again. My thoughts on the backpack, still hidden under my bed. And on Jesse, and the distance I put between us with every step.
11
That week, Helen become what Jesse called a fixture round our place. She come out in her big Jeep or riding alongside Dad in his truck after a shift at the clinic and spent evenings helping to clean the dog yard, making cobbler for our Thanksgiving meal. Holding Dad’s hand when the two of them sauntered down the trail. One afternoon, I stayed behind to help Jesse work on the training wheel and caught a glimpse of them from the corner of my eye. For the briefest moment, the figure in the red coat next to Dad wasn’t Helen, but Mom. Then the sun come out from behind clouds, the day brightened, and I seen the coat was more maroon than red, the hair was a couple shades too light, and the woman at Dad’s side was almost as tall as him, instead of a whole head shorter.
With Helen round, Dad’s mood improved. He didn’t say a word about grounding me for running off, and when I ducked into the woods to check traps he only asked, Any success? when I got back. Then, day before Thanksgiving, when I complained that the critters nearest our property had learned all my best spots for setting traps, Dad suggested, Try your luck farther down the trail.
Between homeschool work and chores, I ain’t got time to get far enough out, I said.
So take a team, he said.
I didn’t hesitate or ask if he was sure, I stopped what I was doing that very second and hitched three dogs up to a sled, and that’s how we managed to have two hares on the table that Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving Day, the kitchen filled with smells that reminded me of the time before we’d got rid of all our help, when Dad would invite the youngsters and Aaron to dinner and Mom was still happy and healthy, she cooked up huge meals and the room filled with voices. Usually I didn’t like so many people round, but those times Mom would smile and laugh and Dad would tell stories about his adventures on the trail, everyone grinning and eating, passing plates back and forth, and the whole place bright and warm.
There was fewer of us now, but the feeling was almost the same. Helen put on soft, cheery music, and there was white Christmas lights strung round a ceiling beam over the table. The bills and books and my half-done homeschool work that was usually piled at one end of the table was gone, instead there was more food than the five of us could eat. We stuffed ourselves full, then Helen brought out the pies, a blueberry cobbler she had made and a chocolate pie made by Jesse.
How’d you learn to bake? Scott asked round a mouthful of pie.
Jesse shook his head. You pick up all kinds of skills on the road, he said.
It’s good, Scott said and sliced himself a second piece.
It is, Helen agreed. I’d love to get your recipe. Where’d you learn it?
Jesse glanced at me. It’s my grandmother’s, he said.
That’s right, Helen said. Bill mentioned you lived with your grandparents in—Maine, wasn’t it?
Jesse took his time chewing.
I had an aunt who lived in Maine, Helen went on. We used to go out summers, to visit. Have you ever been to Camden?
Jesse wiped his mouth. Shot a look at the clock, then jumped up from his chair. Shoot, I didn’t realize how late it was, he said and nodded at my dad. I should get going.
I wanted to get up, follow after him. But Dad surprised me by being the one to usher him to the door. He handed Jesse the keys to the second truck.
Where’s he off to? I asked.
Dad ignored me. I don’t know about you all, but I could use a good walk after all that food.
So the four of us tromped along under the canopy of branches toward the lake and, all round, that kind of quiet that happens when everything is still and insulated by snow. As we walked, Scott and Helen pulled ahead with their cameras, snapping pictures and chatting. Scott still used Mom’s old camera. I wondered if he thought of her each time he changed the film, same way little things would bring her back to life in my own head.
You seem awful deep in thought, Tracy Sue.
Dad kept pace with me, though he kept breaking through the surface of the snow as he walked. The trail was packed enough for me to keep on top of the snow, but Dad was heavier, he postholed up to his shin every few steps. Walking that way is tiresome, but he carried on, his face smooth and untroubled. He was happy as I’d seen him in at least a year.
I didn’t mean to worry you when I run off, I said.
He squeezed my shoulder. You’re old enough to know that’s not the way to deal with what troubles you, he said. But I get it.
You do?
He pushed a low branch out of the way, the snow fell from it and showered us. Lot of changes this year, he said. More than just this year. And I haven’t always gone about things the best way. It was a mistake, maybe, to send you to school. I couldn’t think what else to do. But—
He sighed. His breath a cloud we walked through. Then Jesse come round, he said. I know you weren’t keen on that. But I needed a hand.
I thought about him and Jesse making their way through the dog yard together, the way Jesse had made him laugh.
Maybe more than a hand, I said. Is that how come you let him stay even though he lied about Gerald Vetch?
We was losing light. Up ahead, Helen and Scott clicked on their headlamps. The beams bounced against the snow.
Partly, Dad said. Mostly, Jesse’s a kid.
Barely, I said.
He’s only a little older than you. He shouldn’t be on his own like he is.
So that makes it okay for him to lie? I said and ignored the fact that if I hadn’t outright lied to Dad my whole life, I hadn’t never been upfront with him, neither.
Dad was quiet a good while. I thought your mom wouldn’t turn some kid away, he said at last.
I frowned. It didn’t sound right to me. Mom was the one who’d got rid of Masha. Who’d wanted to fire the three older kids who’d worked for us. And she was the one who’d stopped going into town so often, kept to herself, and got quieter and quieter the last few months before she died.
Dad chuckled. Don’t know what made me think of this, he said and ducked under another low branch. When your mom was pregnant with you, she was determined on knitting you a little sweater. She sat in front of the fireplace and knitted, cursing up a storm. She could sew just fine, but couldn’t knit worth a damn. She’d get so pissed off, fling her needles across the room. Then two seconds later she’d pick them up, go right back at it. Swearing the whole time. He shook his head. Once, she chucked the whole tangle of yarn into the fire, then snatched it out again. I come into the room, she’s stomping on her handiwork, and it’s smoldering and smoking, and I can’t help it, I just howled, watching her dance around trying to save the thing she’d wanted to throw away.
We was nearly to the clearing where I’d stabbed Hatch. I slowed, and Dad matched my pace. I asked her once why she didn’t just go to Fairbanks with me sometime, he said. Buy some baby clothes at the store, like a normal person. But she tells me, Bill, I might not get anything else right, but by god, I am going to knit my kid a fucking sweater!