Something Of A Kind (3 page)

“Go on. Bed, now.” Lee sniffed, shoving Noah’s unresisting
shoulder towards the cabinet.

 

Sarah sunk away, backing out of his peripheral.

He moved through a silent challenge between Lee and John,
parting the doors and sprinting across the kitchen. As he stepped out
of the building's connecting foyer, his feet hit the carpet with a thud.

His mother, Mary-Agnes, was unbothered. The tight bun that
had mysteriously migrated from the nape of her neck to the crown of
her skull bobbed as she rocked in the tweed recliner, rolling into a
post-hangover slumber. It was almost disturbing to think he had
become so desensitized, unwilling to summon human disgust.

She would sleep it off in a few hours. Sarah would open, MaryAgnes would shower with coffee and aspirin, and he would show up
like a saving grace at the last minute. They’d work alone until
Kennedy and Aaron would clock in, or until their mother could
function with the run-down, industrialstrength appliances. He’d
pray she didn’t burn the place down. They’d crack open the doors to
hungry locals and starry-eyed tourists, all while wearing a plastered
on smile no different than the Joker’s crayon lipstick.

His chucks seemed to be a step ahead of him as he raced up the
creaking steps of the winding staircase. An unbearable desire to
escape twitched in his shoes, pulling him forward as he reached his
room. Slamming the door behind him, he locked the self-installed
deadbolt.

Noah worried about Sarah, but it was comforting to know they
shared predictable instincts. He had found her countless times hiding
out in her bedroom with the faux-iPod radio she got on sale out of a
book order. In the heat of summer, she draped the extra comforters
rendered unnecessary over the posters of her bed. Curled into a fetal
position, she would pretend she was somewhere as far away as her
dreams.

It was best to leave her there untouched. No one bothered her if
she was to work on time and Sarah never missed a day. If he offered
to take her with him, she’d beg him not to go. It would drag her
down to earth, and she had no business there. It was too dark, too
frightening, shadowed and cold. She belonged in the light, with the
sun thieves.

He slid the navy gym bag from beneath his bed. Tucking it under
an arm, he grabbed a hoodie. His friends called it the bug-out.

They all had one. It carried clothes for work and school, a
toothbrush, a comb, plus money and deodorant. He kept it light. The
temptation for it being a more than temporary solution was too high
and he
found
that it
lost
practicality
after a
few
too many
experimentations.

Pulling open the ceiling hatch, he tossed his haul through the
opening. As he climbed the narrow ladder to the widow’s walk,
Noah elbowed each broad shoulder through the hole before sliding
out his torso. He cracked the small door with a garden rock, painted
like an adult hare for his mother’s collection of stone leverets.

Careful to avoid rotten and waterlogged patches of wood, he
pulled on his sweatshirt and eased his bag over his arms. Taking a
deep breath, he slid down the porch roof as it bounced against his
back. The straps met loosely between his shoulder blades but fit
tight enough as to avoid dropping it. In the window’s blind spot, he
scaled the worn side of the tool shack.

Noah resisted the urge to run to his pickup. As long as it wasn’t
gone, Lee would leave his bedroom door locked if he came looking.
Instead, he bolted for the thick tree line. Sliding through the brush,
he moved along the edge of the bay, making his way towards the dirt
backstreets.

Yazzie's originally closed in the eighties. The entire Alexander
Archipelago was hitby brutal recession, and when Lee’s father,
Yazzie, died after a massive pulmonary embolism, he hadn’t been
overly
thrilled with the
concept. Jobs outsourced and drained
Ashland dry, and unemployment was unacceptable for an elder
family. Noah was immediately enlisted.

When Yazzie's re-opened, it was difficult. A ten-year-old, serving
meals when he hadn't been allowed food for a day or two had never
been an easy place to be. It got easier when other businesses in the
Ashland Harbor Marina strip foreclosed. At that point the years of
hand-me-downs faded and four bi-monthly drives to Anchorage
were enough to fix a toothy gap in his front teeth.

When Tony Gabriel migrated back to town, Noah discovered an
escapism in guitar and spent a year paying off and fixing up a
reasonably attractive pick up.

The lapse between providing a better life and affording to add
pricey liquors to it was peaceful. The time didn’t last, and when cut-
backs came around, habits proved which had become a priority. The
westernized cultures brought guns, disease, and religion, alongside
self-indulgence
and instant gratification. Going
without
school
supplies or vehicle repairs were an unforeseen consequence after a
moment’s splurge.

They could upkeep
Yazzie’s stock, employee paychecks, the
fishery’s materials, and food in the kitchen. Provided Andrew and
Mark continued to live with friends and Noah provided for his own
needs or occasionally Sarah’s. Clothes, gasoline, soda – they didn’t
come from home anymore.
That was life with the lush.

Noah’s friends were hardly mature, but they understood. Half the
adults in Ashland were drunks, and the levy had smashed through to
parts of the small town’s limited underage party. The Elders were no
exception, Lee included.

It’s funny how in Ashland, your secrets belong to everyone.

Owen and Luke’s families were more financially stable than the
Locklears. Owen had an extra bunk, Luke boasted a loft. As long as
Noah seemed to respect his father’s privacy and made himself
scarce, they paid no mind. They claimed Noah had a place there,
and he returned the favor when it was necessary. None of the safe
houses were perfectly sober, but one of three was a fair enough most
days. When the stars didn’t align, the rocky beach front had a series
of pavilions and unattended lean-tos. Ashland was suffocating and
damp, but there were options.

He didn't expect to be bothered. Sober outsiders were never
antagonistic and natives were evasive. Being the son of an elder was
a tempting target, but with older brothers towering around six-footfive and carrying the title as the vilest tormentors on the res, no one
was stupid enough to bother him.

The problem is there's nowhere to hide.

 

CHAPTER 3 | ALYSON

Aly was reluctant to accompany her father into town. Greg was
unpleasant in his finest moments, and the experience of driving to
Ashland was uncomfortable at best. She had no desire to repeat it.

Waking to a ravenous stomach, she realized she had little choice
in the matter. Having worked in town for years, her father had
moved into the house only weeks before her arrival. Still, finding
something edible was impossible.

Greg had mentioned his ‘hearty reserve’ between irritable
complaints. Though he seemed pleased with his inventory, a quick
survey of the kitchen only revealed frozen elk and doggy-bagged
salmon reeking of aged garlic. When he noticed her discontent, he
demanded a visit to the grocer.

With her back pressed against the Velcro of Greg’s seat covers,
she fought the urge to dose. Since Greg insisted it be an early one,
she had battled fatigue all morning. Constantly awoken by vicious
nightmares, she accumulated three hours before his muffled shouts
from the bottom of the stairs roused her at six.

Throughout her childhood, her mother had always crooned from
the doorway. Vanessa had a gentle way of waking Aly during the
summer, singing of the sunrise hours after dawn.

A thought that at one time could bring a smile to her face was
now embittering. To rely on anyone else for the trivial task felt
wrong. Greg was no exception.

Aly labored to concentrate on the greenery flying past the
windows. It was hardly an escape from thinking, but it battled the
lulling baritone of a ballad as it struggled through static.

Once losing hope in the station’s clari
ty, her father silenced the
radio. A relaxed hand sent the Chevy rolling across the lane.
Alarmed horns and the squeal of a passing truck snapped her
attention to the road. Greg veered left, pulling
into a
sloping
driveway.

He glared at the intersection; the only remnant of the other
vehicle was the exhaust cloud. After a moment of indecision, he slid
an overstuffed binder from his lap to his feet. From the dirt caked
across the cover, she assumed the careless discard was habitual.

He shuffled out of the vehicle with a lack of ease and lingered
by the hood as she caught up. Gesturing across the street, Greg
pointed at their destination.

A grand porch spanned the front of the building. Stippled with
woodcarvings of bears and black-tailed deer, a rusting bench and
neon welcome mat became peculiar outliers. Imitating a log cabin,
the arrangement embraced the faux rustic theme of the town.

Having been raised in a lakeside Adirondack city, Aly had little
difficulty recognizing tourist traps. From an understanding based on
curious web searches, there weren’t many. Despite the flourishing
fishing docks, the undeveloped bay made the area inaccessible to
large fairies. Even the most unconventional vacationers avoided the
archipelago’s mainland, preferring
Prince
of
Wales
and other
islands.

Climbing the steps and crossing the threshold, tinkering bells
announced her entrance. The art indoors was a far cry from the
backwoods paraphernalia strung across the storefront. The space
seemed limited for all its adornments.

Miniature totem poles flanked the sides of the shelves like
bookends. Though the
taxidermy
lining
the
walls turned her
stomach, Alyson admired the masks mounted between. A closer look
revealed wheedled wood and visible brushstrokes, suggesting the
region’s renowned native talent.

As she meandered through the space, she realized most of the
store resembled her father’s cabinets. The thought of instant coffee,
assorted jerky, or
an iced slab of
marked-down salmon was
nauseating.

Aly sighed. She never thought of herself as difficult to please.

 

Maybe I just left this all up to Mom.

Nourishing was an undertaking her mother enjoyed. Between
full-time waitressing, third-shift baking at Martha’s, and eventual
culinary school, Vanessa seldom required kitchen assistance. She
offered lessons, but detested assigning the maternal chore to her
only daughter. Even as the cancer progressed, she preferred to orderin rather than send Aly to the cafeteria. Wrapped in a homemade
afghan and sipping
Ginger
Ale,
Vanessa
religiously
followed
cooking networks well into the worst of her condition.

Until nausea forbade it.

Aly’s stomach rolled. Having thoroughly scavenged for
alternatives, she settled with the basics. Frozen vegetables,
overpriced
berries,
fundamentals. While
and
sparkling
water
were
time-honored
perusing the scattered aisles, she avoided

ominous flavorings and regional delicacies.

 

Leaving Kingsley is plenty adventurous for one week.

With the low shelving, a quick glance across the room revealed
Greg’s absence. Swallowing the treachery of being left alone in a
strange place, Aly located the checkout. She wasn’t overly fond of
her father’s company, but it was almost becoming familiar.

Ashland suddenly seemed far too foreign.

Thumbing a card from her pocket, she heaved the basket onto a
sticky countertop. Behind the cash register, a portly woman clad in
khakis rummaged through bins, knocking stacks of paper across the
floor.

Politely feigning patience, Aly skimmed the underwhelming
displays of
postcards and lighters. Prints of
bears and wolves
mimicked the gift shops laced throughout the mountains of upstate
New York.

Jams from neighborhood canners and stacks of books describing
native legends and local wildlife sat within a fiberglass case. Aly
smiled at Alaska’s Hairy Man in Ketchikan. As she waited, she
observed the sketch of what appeared to be a pot-bellied Ewok
embossed on the cover.

The cashier jostled to the counter, dumping the contents of the
crate between them. After dragging the items across a scanner, she
scribbled onto a strip of pink paper. Stuffing round fingers into a
canister labeled “.99” she dropped a wax wrapped slice into the bag.

“Greg’s got a tab,” she noted gruffly. “It’s the best o’ the best.”

Aly nodded as the odor of teriyaki salmon jerky prickled her
nose. Grabbing the brown paper bag, she fled the building, stepping
into a pleasant breeze.

A series of chants drew her attention across the street. In an
enclosed lot, attached to portables, men and women danced across a
wooden platform.

As an audience of children observed the presentation, they
fidgeted and cast glances amongst their peers. Aly couldn’t remove
her gaze. With cloaks draped across their backs, the performers spun
in unison. Their coordination resembled the formation of migrating
flocks.

A fierce array of colors whirred together as they moved. The
troupe had seamlessly timed pauses, granting viewers a moment to
absorb the details woven into the fabrics. Natural curvature brought
dimension to the animalistic features. The cloth on their backs
became wings and paws. Each time they turned a new mask claimed
their faces.