Something Of A Kind (2 page)

Invasive, much?

A flash of fabric caught her eye. Closer inspection revealed a
blouse, rather than a corner of her beloved duvet. Unable to muster
the energy to embark on a search, she settled with the discovery of
cotton sheets. With a glance towards the closed door, she shed her
clothes.

Cocooned on the crumpled plastic, Aly curled into fetal position.
She hated the alien sterility. It was a haunting reminder of the ICU.

 

She didn’t want to think about it. The concept of beginning
where her mother ended was sickening.

Abandoned and worthless, she felt her strength fading. The
affliction was tangible,
the mourning
all
encompassing. The
convulsing hole in her core yearned for what had been taken. As
pain thrashed against her rib cage, tears crumpled her resolve.
Her mother was dead. There was no going back.

CHAPTER 2 | NOAH

Like most things at Yazzie’s, the f
luorescents were in extreme
need of replacement. Though hardly noticeable in daylight, the predawn flicker was a severe contrast to the black sky splashed across
the windows.

Akin to the high pitched squeal of his sister’s sneakers, the
disturbance was forgotten amongst the fluid routine of clearing each
table. Work moved fast, and Noah had
grown accustomed to
maneuvering around Sarah’s clumsy quest to refill napkins and tend
to empty shakers.

At eighteen, he knew working the family business was a light
task compared to manning his father’s fishery or dealing with the
man’s temper. Easy peace of mind usually gave way to the music,
anyway.

Noah lost himself in the muffled pounding of kitchen speakers.
He followed the throaty howls as they drifted between the radiating
partnership of guitar and bass. Even with electrics, he could almost
catch the cords by ear before getting caught up in the song again.

Catching motion in his peripheral, he grinned. Despite Sarah
insisting she was only dedicated to country-pop, her ponytail flailed
with a vicious head bang as her fingers curled into an attempt at
‘Rock On’devil horns.

“Nice moves, Sar’.” He laughed, unable to contain the
amusement slipping through his smile.

 

“You never dance,” she accused, shaking off a startled freeze as
she twirled across the restaurant.

 

“Not true,” he defended. “Remember when I had to spend an
entire year of gym partnered to Caitlyn Mariano for ballroom?”

 

“Ew!” She sniggered, wrinkling her nose and blinking, as though
the sight could be forced away.

“I did a show for Tribe last summer, too.” Noah reminded,
flexing his arms into sunbird formation, which he had always
thought looked more
like a
bad rendition of
‘Walk Like An
Egyptian’
.

“Until the monsters chased away the crow,” she teased, dumping
mop water into the barrel sink.

“That might’ve been me,” he kidded, remembering the elders’
erratic behavior. It was caused by their paralyzing fear of the beast
of the woods. They had warned the people of
Gigit
and
Omah
,
escorting every womanto their homes and canceling the day’s
events.

Her snorting giggles fell flat, replaced by an angry flush beneath
her cheeks.

Bells clanged as John shoved through the front doors, leaving a
trail of mud over the scrubbed floors. The stains followed his boots
to his thighs, a blaring sign he had already been at the decks this
morning.

Of Noah’s four older brothers, John was the most unpleasant. He
had adopted Mark’s ridiculous use of man-braids and AbrahamLincolnstyle facial hair, Isaac’s moping sulk, and Andrew’s
miserable disposition. Combined with a doublewide fisherman’s
build and an antagonistic sneer, he had a naturally aggressive
presence.

“You been running around in the rain?” John jerked his head
forward, as though Noah’s damp hair was personally offensive.

 

“It’s four in the morning. I just showered.” Noah replied
robotically, refusing to alter his passive tone.

 

“Thought you blew it with the girls.”

 

“You tracked
all
this crap in –
all
over the floors. The sign’s up, I
clearly
just
mopped.” Her teeth clenched.

“Clearly!” John hollered, lip curling. His chest inflated as he
raised his chin, crossing his arms. Meaty hands balled into fists as he
stuffed them into his elbows.

“Wow, two syllables,” Sarah snapped, her shoulders heaving
with a deep breath. Rolling teary eyes, she spun on her ankle and
returned to the sink, unearthing piles of supplies from the cabinets
below.

“So how’s that blatant disrespect for human beings been
working for you? You know, I hear harassing fifteen year old girls
looks really great on college applications. Not that you’ll ever see
one, of course,” Noah seethed.

The fact John had intentionally gotten a reaction from Sarah was
infuriating, and Noah felt the anger swelling in his chest. His
knuckles were pulled white, heat flashed across the back of his neck.

John’s jaw set as he reached across the counter. Nearly knocking
napkin holders to the floor, he slapped a sugar jar across the drying
surface. As though the explosion of white wasn't enough damage, he
flicked the crystals in various directions.

"What the hell, John!" Noah yelled, dropping the cloth and
throwing up his hands in frustration.

"Watch your mouth, punk."
"Punk? You're kidding. You do realize you are the world's most
stereotypical bully,
right?
You are
literally
a
goon. Nineteen
seventies mafia, right there."

"Shut your mouth!"

"Me? You're an idiot, no, seriously, you are. Lee’s wallet earns
every pound of sugar in this damn place. You’re just biting the hand
that feeds you. Chomp freaking chomp. Just wait.”

"Noah," Sarah warned.

 

"Are you threatening me, little boy? You talk about your father
like he’s trash on the street.”

 

"He's not the one I have a problem with."

 

"Gut it out," Lee growled as the kitchen doors flew open.
"Outside, like men. Go 'head. Gut it."

"Not interested," Noah muttered. Even though the kitchen’s CD
track had slowed to a stop, his voice was barely audible as he
struggled to control his tone.

The sun hadn't risen, the work day barely started, and his father
had already begun drinking. Stains of morning coffee and ketchup
from the abuse of a scrambled omelet coated his plaid shirt. The
close stretching between buttons over the bulge of his belly left Lee
looking ten years too pregnant. Propped in the kitchen’s entrance,
his cheap bolo tie reflected the metal panels of the double doors as
one swung in his wake, the other propped by his arthritic hip.

Behind small, rimless glasses, Lee’s eyes were both flashing and
unfocused. It was almost worse when he was both angry and
inattentive. Quiet apologies could be misheard as brooding insults
blaming everyone else’s failure to communicate, while explanations
were taken for smart-mouths or back-talk. It was typically better to
cower in silence and wait for Lee’s slurred dismissal.

“What’d you say?” his father demanded.

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“No, no, he’s been running his mouth,” John answered.

 

“You ruined food,” Noah refuted.

 

Noah saw the lazy slap coming before it connected with his
skull. He resisted a flinch, unable to prevent a stiffening reflex.

 

It’s worse when they miss.

 

The contact throbbed, pulsating in the wake of his father’s hand.
Noah moved with the blow, lessening the collision.

 

The stronger the barrier, the harder the impact.

He refused to bounce back into place for the second assault,
waiting for Lee to slow his hiccupping breaths. His father stood too
close, reeking of alcohol. The fleshy skin of his bloated stomach
protruded beside where Noah rigidly cradled his head.

“Watch the mouth,” Lee snapped. “I decide who eats.”

Anger rose in his chest. The temptation to scream burned. There
were a thousand ways to retaliate. It would be easy to shove his
father through the slamming doors.

Noah lifted hundreds of pounds of fish, dozens upon dozens of
frozen trays of pre- and post-jerky meats, and unloaded trucks
weekly. He worked the docks when too many of Lee’s staff were
sick or out and being a part of small crew lifting several-thousandpound nets brimming with the convulsing strength of pure Alaskan
salmon from vegetation-choked waters certainly wasn’t busywork.

Lee had aged beyond help, adding more and more workers in the
path of his uselessness. If the area wasn’t so desperate for
employment, his underpaid and understaffed business would have
fallen through the rotting wood years ago. He would have, and be,
nothing.

It was predictable that his brother, John, would join his father if
a conflict ever emerged, but not him. He wasn’t like them. Noah
hated fighting. He hated cruelty. He hated the lack of control, the
instinct, the consequences, the hostility. It would to stay alien in his
life. Like alcohol, it would be one more thing from his past he would
leave behind. Something he would refuse to pass on. Something
forbidden in a farsighted haven.

He could run. At eighteen, he was legally able to drop out of
high school. Last year, unpredictable work hours made it impossible
to add in enough electives to meet
the prerequisites for early
graduation. Senior year was approaching fast, but impressive SAT
scores were enough hope for an aced GED. He’d bet his truck could
handle an extensive commute, and his minimal savings were enough
for the ferry to Seattle, a few hotels, some food, and another prepaid phone card. There were jobs somewhere, and he had experience
all over Ashland. Townie Tony Gabriel would offer help, even if
hesitantly.

But that was no life, and certainly not one he could make for
Sarah. His sister told him his music would get them out of Ashland,
but without an education he knew the craft was a joke. Playing on a
random park bench sounded homeless and hungry. Even in the
biggest city, he’d manage a rundown flat and starving-artist level at
best. If he was ever caught, he’d lose wages for the mandatory work
until graduation, with a few bruises to show for it.

The thought of his sister defenseless was sickening. Noah was
well aware he was a strong reason Yazzie’s was still afloat. It
seemed like his mother cared less and less about managing her
diabetes each day and her self-monitoring had become downright
suicidal. She offered a big-bosomed hug type of affection, but
between alcohol abuse and extreme junk intake, he knew his time
with Mary-Agnes was limited.

Mark dreamed of moving to Ketchikan and working with woodcarvers, considering himself a craftsman before fisherman. Andrew
was engaged. Isaac was on the verge of impulsively ditching town.
John had always been
a mess. Lee had suffered rehabilitation
through
two
heart-attacks.
Each
was
a
shocking
recovery
considering the remoteness of the town. Noah had fearfully heard
three was the charm. Sometimes he even wished for it.

The school year was a mere 180 days, the summer barely three
months. His life
in Ashland was unstable and his future
was
unidentified, but it was all he had. Change tainted the air, an
unknowing variable haunting every plan and every thought. It was
bitter and impossible to dismiss, like the commercial taste of waxen
oranges.

He was convinced things were in motion, or at least in the calm
before the storm. His situation was hackneyed and trite, but he
swore it could get better in an instant.

What’s one more day?

As Noah coaxed himself into composure, he kept his gaze
averted. Lee and John murmured back and forth, trading excuses
and meaningless, half-hearted scolding. He kept his breathing level
and his head turned away from the exchange. Tuning them out, he
held still, eyes focused on Sarah.

She swallowed repeatedly,
lower
lip trembling, glassy eyes
brimming with tears. In the midst of summer, the day was warm, and
the air conditioners wouldn’t kick on for hours. Still, she looked cold
and stricken. The arms of her pink hoodie were crossed tightly as
she hugged herself. As though she couldn’t look away from
something horrible, like watching an accident, a spectator made a
witness.

He knew the feeling.

 

We’re powerless.

She stiffened when John grabbed Noah’s shoulder, jerking him
upright. Lee’s eyes swiped across the space above his son’s head,
looking to see if there were visible wounds. As a child, they made
him stay home from school, even going over stories and false
explanations. After a while, Lee stopped caring about what he
believed to be a fragile reputation. Noah supposed his father realized
no one cared that much anyway.

At one point, Noah was the talk of the town, a change-of-life
baby for the ever-blessed Locklears. Sarah was a shock three years
later, but everything seemed less surprising at that point. It’s sad and
cruel,they’d say, since Mar’ and Lee will be old or dead when
they’re grown. But they were elders’ kids. No one worried, everyone
trusted. Don’t ask and don’t tell was unspoken ritual to natives,
practically religion.

Of course they knew. Elder’s respect, Elder’s secrets.

Folk gossiped well enough, but once Tony Gabriel rode into
town with a backpack and a cherry coke on a Harley like an
unwanted queen in her gilded chariot, rumors gave way to a series of
more fascinating ploys that required a lot less guilt and inaction.