Excerpt
Black Woods, Blue Sky
Chapter 1Birdie knew her mistake as soon as she cracked open her eyes. She was wholly sick, like she had the flu or been clubbed all around her head and body and, in the confines of the one-room cabin, she was increasingly aware of her own stink, how her skin was emanating the odor of cigarette smoke, digested alcohol, and vomit. She slid her arm out from under her daughter’s head, and Emaleen rolled onto her other side but didn’t wake. Little Emaleen, with her messy blond hair and her warm, pink cheeks—Birdie wanted to cuddle with her and go back to sleep. But the pounding in her head was only getting worse. She eased into a sitting position on the side of the bed and slowly stood up. A cold sweat trickled down the small of her back and from her armpits. She put a hand on the wall when it felt like her knees might go out from under her. When she looked down, she saw she was still wearing her same blue jeans and T-shirt.
The Wolverine Lodge had been packed last night. A dozen or so of the regulars had driven from Alpine and Stone Creek, a couple of long-haul truckers had stopped for the night, and Charlie Coldfoot and his buddies had come out from Anchorage on their Harleys for the first ride of the season. Nearly twenty people crowded into the small roadside bar for no other reason than to chase away the darkness. The jukebox played Billy Idol and Emmylou Harris. Outside, the spring puddles had iced up and a light snow had fallen across the mountains, but Birdie remembered feeling on fire. Her hips brushed against the men’s legs as she handed out shots of hard liquor and cold bottles of beer. Everything she’d said, everything she’d done, had been effortless and flawless, like she was a perfect flame dancing across the wooden tables, a touch of heat reflected in the men’s faces. The music rose up into her feet through the plank floor. She’d let Roy twirl her like a ballerina. Even Della had laughed. Every single one of them—the entire goddamned world—golden and beautiful.
It was tempting to blame it on Roy, but it wasn’t a big deal, the cocaine. In fact, she’d hardly gotten a rush from it, so she and Roy had gone back a few more times. Each time they tumbled with laughter out of the bathroom, Della was watching them, unsmiling from behind the bar. Birdie remembered her tongue and nose going numb. Then even her teeth, so that her face felt like it belonged to someone else. It wasn’t the coke that tripped her up, though, as much as the drinking. It was as if she had been granted a superpower—the ability to down tequila like it was water.
And that’s when she’d made her mistake. She hadn’t stopped. When she should have called it a night, counted her tips and helped Della hustle everyone out of the bar, instead she had doubled down. True, she’d been goaded by Coldfoot or somebody calling her a lightweight, and the coke made it tricky to judge just how drunk she was getting. But the real problem was her bizarre sense of hope. Maybe, somehow, this time, she would be able to suspend herself in that perfect moment when you’ve had enough to fly, but not so much as to be sick with yourself.
In the cabin bathroom, Birdie put her lips to the faucet and drank several gulps of water and splashed some on her face. She needed a shower and a cup of hot coffee. First, she picked up her lighter and pack of cigarettes from the dresser and stepped outside in her bare feet. The single wooden step was cold and damp with dew. She folded her arms tightly against the chill as she smoked. After months of winter with no direct sunlight, the sun had finally risen high enough in the sky to shine down on the lodge. In all directions, the mountain peaks were sharp white with snow against the blue sky, but the air smelled green, like cottonwood buds and blades of grass and creek water.
Birdie put out the cigarette, went back inside, shoved her feet into her sneakers, and pulled on a sweatshirt. Emaleen was a heavy sleeper. She’d be out for another hour or two. Birdie closed the door quietly as she left.
The small guest cabins didn’t have any storage space, so she kept some of their belongings in a back shed. Crammed in a corner, beside Emaleen’s bicycle and sled, was the spinning rod that Grandpa Hank had given Birdie years ago. One eye had been duct-taped back onto the rod, the line was brittle with age, and the reel had a hitch in the mechanism. But in the beat-up tackle box, she found a few Mepps spinning lures still in their packages and a tangle of snap swivels. No matter how much her head hurt, Birdie always remembered how to tie a fisherman’s knot. Best cure for a hangover. That’s what Grandpa Hank had always said. Carrying the rod and tackle box, Birdie walked around the back of the other cabins and the lodge, past the picnic table and firepit. Della would still be in bed. Clancy was probably just now brewing coffee and heating up the grill for breakfast in the cafe.
The trail into the woods led to Syd’s place, but she wouldn’t pester him this early in the morning. Instead she followed it a short way through the trees, and then she left the path and set out for the creek down in the ravine. The summer birds—thrushes and warblers and ruby-crowned kinglets—were returning after the winter, and they fluttered and trilled through the birch and spruce boughs. She had to climb over a storm-fallen spruce tree, but the wild grass was still low to the ground and the devil’s clubs hadn’t grown to their full, spiny height, so the walking was fairly easy. When the mosquitoes found her, she pulled the hood of her sweat-shirt over her head. Even with her ears covered, she began to hear the murmur of the creek before she could see it.
It was only as she was fighting her way through an alder thicket that she realized she’d forgotten her rifle. She’d fallen out of the habit of carrying it on her walks because there was no need in the winter. But the bears would be out of their dens now. She stood quietly in the dense brush, held her breath, and listened. There was only birdsong and the creek, and farther away, the low, steady roar of the Wolverine River.
“Hey bear!” she shouted and clapped her hands. Just in case.
Most often, bears behaved the way you expected, when they came around at all. They avoided people and, when they heard your voice or caught your scent, they gave you a wide berth. Black bears were often spotted on the hillsides, grazing among the soapberry bushes. The more mischievous among them would raid the garbage bins behind the lodge. A shot fired into the air was usually enough to chase them off. The larger, more fearsome grizzly bears were rarely seen, leaving only paw prints or piles of scat in the woods. But now and then, a bear would surprise you. They were too smart to be entirely predictable. Jules lived just down the highway from the lodge, and several years ago a black bear had stalked her as she walked along the power line picking cranberries. Whenever she turned her back to the animal, it loped more quickly at her. When she faced it, it stopped and paced side to side, as if trying to build up the courage to go after its prey. This went on for more than a mile, and Jules said it was like a hellish version of red light, green light, with the bear steadily gaining on her. She was only saved because Stan heard her shouts from his house and came out with his .375 and shot the bear.
Jules had told and retold that story, and others would pipe up with their own. It was a favorite pastime at the lodge, telling bear stories. Part of the fun was frightening the wide-eyed tourists who might overhear, but in truth, you were an idiot to not be somewhat afraid. The most terrifying stories were about grizzly bears, because of their astonishing size and force. Hunters told of grizzlies circling their camps at night, huffing and clacking their teeth in displays of aggression. A surveyor said it was like being hit by a silent freight train when he was attacked by a sow near Alpine. He still bore the scars on the back of his neck and scalp where the bear had clamped down on his head and shook him fiercely, before running off with her two cubs. Just last summer, on the tundra north of the Wolverine Lodge, a grizzly bear had dragged an elderly man from his tent, killed him, and partially eaten him before caching the body under a pile of moss and dirt.
All these stories ran through Birdie’s mind as she waited and listened. But how many times had she hiked through these woods and seen nothing more than a spruce grouse or porcupine? Not once had she come across a bear near the creek. In her entire life growing up along the Wolverine River, she had seen only a few, mostly at a distance through binoculars.
Just ’cause you don’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t around, Grandma Jo would say. And she’d argue an alder-choked creek is the worst kind of place to be without a firearm. The brush is too dense to see far and sounds are drowned out by rushing water. Nothing is more dangerous than a startled bear in close quarters.
If Birdie turned around and hiked all the way back to get her rifle, though, the morning would be lost. Emaleen would wake up. Birdie would take a shower, then they’d go over to the lodge cafe for breakfast. In no time at all, Birdie would be back at the bar for the evening shift, her head still hurting and her brain in a sick fog.
