Road Talk

  "Pull over. Stop the truck."

  I couldn't drive this way; I knew he was right. I pulled as far over on the dirt road as possible, popped the seat belt, and hauled ass out of the cab. Back by the tail gate, I bent over and tried to stop the grief shit. It took a minute, but I finally got control of my body.

  Thankfully, Lou left me alone to get myself together. I didn't need anyone hovering over me. At the back of the still running pickup, I kicked a little dirt around and wondered how the hell I could get back into the cab.

  But there was a job to do and standing here wallowing wasn't getting it done. I had to do this. Several people depended on me, and it was time. If I didn't get going, we would be late. The slow boat ate up any margin we had.

  With a deep sigh, I got back into the truck. Without looking at Lou sitting quietly in the passenger seat, I snapped in the belt, put the truck in gear, and we moved down the road. Not a word came out of the man's mouth, thank God. I wasn't up for anything but driving; I can always drive. I sure as hell didn't want to talk.

  But it seemed Lou understood how I felt. I didn't hear a peep out of him all the way to Chitina. As soon as we got close to the lake, I pulled off into the parking area and called Brewer's satellite phone. Once he answered, it was time to drive to the one lane cut through the mountain. We crossed the bridge over the Copper River, and we were on the McCarthy road.

  It's a damn rough road, and it required all my attention to keep the truck where it should be. I didn't want to get too far over to either the middle or the side.

  There are places on the road where I would have loved to stop and take pictures, but that would have to wait for the return trip. The sun would be in the wrong position later, but that couldn't be helped. The delivery came first, so I kept my mouth shut.

  It took four hours to make the 55 miles to the rendezvous point. Some of the time wasted could be blamed on the shitty road, and some I blamed on the slow pokes driving the road itself. If the sign said 35 mph, the tourist driving would slow to 15 or 20.

  By the time we got to the meeting point, I could have chewed nails. Thankfully, we didn't any tire trouble to this point. That was a God send, 'cause I might have lost it all the way. I had pulled myself together somewhat. The need to concentrate on driving saw to that.

  Lou and Brewer took care of the engine swap. Brewer's truck had a hoist mounted on the back of the bed near the tail gate. He lowered the engine we were picking up onto the hunk of plywood he brought along. With the de Havilland engine on the ground, the men moved the other engine into Brewer's pickup. The next step involved lifting the one from the ground up and into the bed of my truck.

  Once again, I made sure the whole thing got tied down tight. Since I'd been walking around, I worked most of the kinks out and was ready to take off again. I didn't want to spend any more time on this shit city road than necessary.

  The whole time, I kept thinking about what Lou said. I tried hard not to, but the Rev Em, Dorcas' dad, had made a few cryptic remarks along those lines recently.

  I began to wonder how many other people didn't bother to say anything, and I started to get a little angry. Who the hell asked any of them? It was my life, and if I wanted to sit in the cabin and hide from the world, so be it.

  I fumed silently as we started back the other way. I didn't choose this lousy hand I'd been dealt at all. I was working with it the best I knew how.

  Somehow, it felt like the silent man in the other seat was judging me, and the more I thought about it, the worse it dug at me. "Do you think I'm a coward?"

  "You don't know me. Why the hell do you care what I think?"

  I hated it when people answered a question with another question. "Yeah, but you know me, don't you? You listened to Davis talk about me for what, three years?"

  "Four trips. Yeah, he talked about you almost constantly."

  Beyond pissed, I was almost frothing at the mouth. What does Louis not know about me? Before I spit out all the nastiness sitting on the tip of my tongue, things got ugly. A sound like a muffled gunshot split the silence in the cab, and the rear end of the truck on the driver's side dropped dramatically.

  Every curse word I learned from Davis Lee came out of my mouth. Now, I had a real reason to be angry. A tire blew out, the rear one on the driver's side. Lou would have to dodge tourists while changing the tire. It would be dirty and potentially dangerous.

  "Jack?" Lou asked as I pulled the truck over as far to the outside as possible. The road was on a ridge line and had no shoulder. A steep drop off on the south side would have the scaredy cats hugging the center of the road. On our side of the road, the shoulder was none existent. The drop off wasn't as deep, but there was nowhere to park. With my truck broke down on this side, it would narrow the road down to a lane and a half.

  I killed the ignition and put on the four way flashers as I answered his question. "Behind you, on the floor. I brought a small hydraulic floor jack. There's a breaker bar back there and a 1/2 inch drive socket that fits the lug nuts. I think we shouldn't bother trying to get the spare off. Let's grab one of the studs. We need to get this done and get off this ridge ASAP."

  He didn't bother to respond. Lou jumped out of the truck, jack and breaker bar in hand. I would be the only defense he had. I stood beside him as he squatted down to get this job done, I made sure any vehicles overtaking us realized someone was working on a tire.

  If two big motor homes came along in either lane at the same time, the driver behind us would have to wait to get by my truck. It was far too narrow for shenanigans, and a few of those tourists with the big motor homes can be real jerks.

  The tire got changed in record time. The man can hop to in a pinch. We were off that ridge in under twenty minutes. I breathed easier once we got moving again.

  As soon as the ridge was behind us, Lou answered the original question.

  "Not a coward. Bet you kissed a lot of frogs before you found Davis Lee. There's nothing wrong with being careful. What would be a mistake is, locking yourself away from any possibility of meeting someone."

  I got what Davis meant when he said to listen when the man speaks. That was the most he had said to me during the entire trip, but it sure packed a punch. As I processed that mouthful, I got the truck several miles closer to Chitina before responding.

  "What if I don't find anyone who measures up?"

  "There won't be another Davis Lee. Not happening. Maybe you need to rethink your criteria here."

  "What do you mean exactly?"

  When I took a glance at him, I noticed a quick little shrug before he replied. "You're not the same young woman who fell for a high-flying crab fisherman. I'm not the same young fisherman who fell in love with a shy little girl in Prince Rupert, British Columbia. That isn't going to happen again."

  Intriguing. The man is a deep thinker. "What are you looking for?"

  That soft little chuckle told me what he is about to say might be halfway humorous. "Besides peace and quiet?"

  I must have immediately played porcupine, 'cause the next words out of his mouth were designed to smooth my feathers. "I'm not talking about you, M.B. I mean in general. I'm no fan of drama, manufactured drama for no damn good reason at all."

  "Oh, you mean you're looking for someone who is easy to be around. Kind of laid back and not into a lot of shit."

  He started laughing, and I took a look at the man. Lou wore a big grin. "Oh, hell no! I like spice. That's a whole lot different than someone who makes a big deal out of every little thing."

  "I kinda make a big deal out of stuff." Why on earth that came out of my mouth is anyone's guess. I regretted letting it slip out. Cringing, I waited for the rejoinder.

  "Nope, 'cause if you did, you would have hid in the truck and let me handle the tire while you sat in here and whined."

  That gave me a warm feeling and perked me up until I heard the little chuckle from the other side of the cab. I felt a blush reach into the roots of my hair, I studiously ignored him
for the entire time it took to get back to Chitina. If he wanted quiet, he could have it.

  As we started across the bridge over the Copper, the sun was shining down on the river. A light breeze blew the scent of juniper and spruce through the window. I looked out over the wide river and at the man seated beside me. Lou was smiling as he looked at the fishwheels and dip netters strung out along the bank.

  It just slipped out of me. "How long?"

  Without looking my way, he replied, and the smile vanished, which was a real shame. "Eighteen years, here pretty quick."

  He understood what I was asking. Lou got quiet again, but this was a comfortable sort of silence. I headed straight for the tire shop in Chitina.

  The mechanic declared the tire dead, but he had another just like it. The price wasn't as bad as it could be, but we were number four in the lineup. We walked back to the Hotel Chitina and the restaurant to have lunch. No use stressing about it. That's life in Alaska.

  While we ate a leisurely, satisfying lunch in the old turn of the century building, we talked a little. Lou asked about my photographs and what I planned to do with the ones I took. I told him all about the post cards that the outfit I sell to makes.

  After lunch, I took the camera out, and we walked around the old town. Once I got all the pictures I wanted, we walked over to the gift shop. Pleased as can be, I pointed out a couple of the photos I took on several of the postcards on the rack. Lou grinned at my enthusiasm, which turned me pink immediately.

  By mutual consent, without a word spoken, we headed back to the tire shop. The truck was ready. I paid the bill and got moving up the road toward the junction with the Richardson Highway.

  On the steep hill out of the Tonsina River Valley, Lou asked about the photography again. "Why aren't you doing the postcards yourself?"

  "That would tie me down too much. I like driving and taking the pictures, but I've got no patience for messing with the actual putting it all together."

  Lou was silent as we sped past the turn off for the old Edgerton. I didn't even get questioned for continuing up the pavement to the junction with the Richardson Highway.

  Just before I slowed down for the turn onto the junction, a sort of low rumble came from the passenger seat. "The view is amazing."

  I knew this. I have seen this view many times over the years, and I never tire of it. Low in the sky at 11:00 pm, the sun lit the scene. That wide slant caused the light to hit the Wrangell's and the valley at their foot in a way you won't see anywhere else but in the high latitudes. It's incredible.

  "You've never been out here before?"

  "Nope."

  I took a quick glance at him after turning onto the Richardson, north to Glennallen. He stared out over the broad river valley and the mountains beyond with a look of amazement on his face.

  "How come you don't move out here?"

  It was a reasonable question, so I gave him an honest answer. "Too far from my support network. James, Angel, Frankie and the Hites are all in the Anchorage area or the Matsu Valley. It's not like I can't take care of myself, but..." I couldn't finish the sentence, and I didn't think I needed to. I'm reasonably sure Lou got the message.

  With a smile, I raced down the last little hill before rounding the curve to Willow Lake. I didn't need to look to know Lou was impressed. I heard the sharp intake of his breath as he spotted the view on the other side of the lake.

  As usual at this time of year, the pullout and the shoulder of the road on the other side were full of people just as stunned as my passenger. On an evening like this, the view is world class.

  I pulled off on the shoulder as there wasn't room anywhere else. Funny thing, with all the people parked there, you could hear the breeze stirring the spruce branches. Everyone, even the photographers seemed too awed to be making noise.

  He slid out of the truck, and I caught a little sigh, and then he mumbled. "Dear Lord!" Lou was captivated by the view. He turned toward me for a moment. "What are their names? You know?"

  "Sure. The big brooding one on the far right is Blackburn. The one that looks like a big sugar loaf is Wrangell. It's an active volcano. It smokes now and again. The other one is Mount Sanford, and the one with the big chuck out of it is Mount Drum."

  He shook his head in wonder as he stood there with his hands in his front pockets.

  "Aren't you going to take a picture?" I asked the man.

  "Naw. Not with a piddly little phone camera. Couldn't do it justice." Then he reached out to put a hand on my arm. "You've got good pictures, I bet."

  That light touch, his hand on my arm felt different. I hadn't had a man touch me that I didn't consider family for the last four years. Not sure what to think, I glanced at him. But he wasn't looking at me, Lou was looking at the scenery.

  I didn't pull away or tell him to move his hand that seemed like a bitchy move to me. He wasn't stroking me, or anything like that. I looked down at his hand. Not particularly large as men's hands go, his fingers were long, and there were scars all over them. One real jagged scar ran up from the middle of the webbing of his thumb to the cuff of his flannel shirt.

  I wondered what on earth did that. I decided to ask him later. Now, I needed to respond to his statement. When I looked up, those dark eyes were trained on me. I got nervous as if I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. I colored up and could feel the heat in my cheeks.

  "That looks like a bad cut."

  "Wasn't any fun at all." He nodded as he spoke.

  "What caused it?" I might be babbling, but my mouth kept on going when I knew I should shut it.

  "Halibut hook. Almost took me over the side. Tore out at the last minute, because I jerked hard enough to keep from dying."

  I gulped a little, and must have gone white, because he grinned at me, then put that hand up on my shoulder. "That happened a very long time ago. Don't think about it. Tell me, if you have a picture of this, can I get one from you?"

  I nodded in response. For some reason, I couldn't get the picture of that huge hook tearing Lou's skin away out of my brain, and it kept me from speaking. This man was as tough as they come.

  Suddenly, I wanted to know everything about him. A million questions popped into my thoughts, one after another. I turned to take in the view with him. Without any real thought on my part, the first question slid out into the companionable silence we shared. "Why did they call you "the Indian"?"

  "Cause I am." He took one real good look around him, looked up at the sky, then back at me. "And we need to move along here. Even at the speeds you drive, it's going to be bright and early in the morning when we get back to Anchorage."

  Back in the truck, all my questions still bubbled around in the mush of my tired brain. Four more hours to Palmer and in the twilight, stuff on the road can be deceptive. I needed to pay attention to the road. Moose hide in shadows.

  When we got to Glennallen, we gassed up the truck and headed inside to pay and grab some road food. Beef jerky and the highest caffeine content sodas available sat at the top of the list. Close to thirty miles out of town, Lou handed me a piece of the jerky.

  "I'm a Metis from around Prince Rupert, British Columbia."

  "I never heard of a 'metis' before. What kind of Indian is that?"

  He laughed loudly at my question before answering. "If you want to get technical, I'm an Anglo-Metis. You can tell because my last name is MacKie. My ancestor, a Scot married a native woman, Cree in fact. In Canada, we're recognized as an aboriginal people."

  "How on earth did you get involved in fishing?"

  "Needed the money. A job opened up on a fishing boat out of Prince Rupert owned by a sort of cousin. I worked for him until the bottom dropped out of everything in 1996."

  I chewed up my jerky and did a little mental calculation. "You crewed at fourteen? Do they even let kids work on fishing boats in Canada?"

  His hand materialized in front of my face with another piece of jerky. "Well, I turned fourteen part way through the season. Since
he was a relative with the same last name, everyone assumed he was my dad."

  I caught his little shrug out of the corner of my eye. "We let them think what they wanted to. I needed the job, and he needed cheap help. It satisfied the both of us."

  I recalled something about the Alaska ferry, the Malaspina. I asked Lou if he got involved in that fiasco. "Were you part of the group of Canadian fishermen who blockaded the Malaspina in Prince Rupert?"

  "Nope. I had already moved on to crewing on the halibut boat out of Petersburg. While crewing on that vessel, I met another guy who planned on going crab fishing. When he checked with the captain, he found out they needed a second deckhand and asked if I wanted to try it. I went."

  That led to another question. One I was real ambivalent about bringing up. I decided to chance it. After all, he could decline to answer. "Where was your wife in all this?"

  Lou got real quiet, and I figured I had pushed it too far. "Hey, sorry. Don't bother with that one."

  I didn't expect what came out of his mouth next. "It's been a hell of a lot longer for me than for you. About the same time that hook ripped through my hand, my baby sat in a hospital with a bad case of bronchitis she picked up from getting caught out in a storm. She and her family had some nets set out around the island there. I didn't have a clue until the Mounties somehow got in touch with the US Coasties."

  After stopping for a moment, he took a deep breath and went on. "She never was physically strong. She had asthma, but her heart gave out first. Too much strain."

  The two of us fell silent as we both thought about love and loss. My brain did calculations again. "You were what, twenty one, twenty two when she died? How old were you when you got together?"

  I put one hand to my mouth. I needed to stop picking at old wounds. "Scratch that! Pretend I didn't even open my mouth."

  "It's okay; I don't mind. She was another shirt-tail cousin, and we got married as kids, I'd turned twenty. We had a couple of years, but time wise, maybe a year all together before it happened. Guess it's one reason I never went back. There's nothing in Prince Rupert or Canada for me anymore. It's been a very long time."

  "Did you become a citizen here?"