Adventures with Max and Louise (40 page)

The older one, in a greasy John Deere cap, recovers quickly. He lifts his coffee mug. “Want some? Just made a fresh pot.”

“No, thanks.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead and drop my pack on one of the folding chairs.

The younger man, his cheek bulging with chew, points at a
Sports Illustrated
swim suit calendar tacked to the wall. “See that?” he says, tapping his greasy digit on Miss October’s blond head. “It’s October, honey, not the middle of an arctic friggin’ blast.” He squints as I get closer, yanking a price tag off the back of my jacket. “You spent 235 bucks on a jacket? Jesus, sister, you look pretty good for a gal that’s just been skinned alive.”

I glare at him while patting myself down for any more errant tags. I know the word for people like me:
greenhorn.
And if I don’t take this man down a peg, I’m going to be taking the most expensive chopper ride Anchorage has ever seen. I shake a finger at him. “Don’t call me sister ’cause if you were my brother, my mother would have drowned you at birth. And, yes, some people don’t mind paying more than a buck ninety-eight on their clothes, especially when they’re headed for a place like Talkeetna, where, depending upon whether or not you can help me, I plan to go.”

Chew Boy blushes six shades of red, while his buddy grins into his coffee mug before glancing expectantly at the door. “You got anyone else with you?”

I shake my head. “Nope, just me.”

The older man shuffles around the sleeping dog to his desk. The dog lifts his head to examine me with rheumy blue eyes before collapsing with a groan. “Shame you didn’t call me yesterday; we just took a party over to Talkeetna this morning, real early,” he says, reading the paperwork on his desk. “Only pilot we got here is Nick, and he ain’t current on his hours.”

I look at Nick’s stone-washed Levis and matching jacket.
That’s not the only thing he’s not current on.
“Don’t you have anyone else on call?”

The older man cocks his head at me. “You ever been to Talkeetna?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

Nick spits into a can and laughs. “That explains why she wants to go there so bad. Listen, sister, it ain’t nothing but a dirt strip and a bunch a drunk natives. You want to see wildlife, you oughta get right into the park.” He hooks his thumbs under his faded red suspenders, puffing up. “And for that you’re gonna need a guide.”

The older man gives Nick a stern look. “Nick, why don’t you see if Larry can take you up later and work on your own problem, okay?”

“Ten-four, Jess,” Nick says with a thumbs-up before giving me an exaggerated wink. “Keep me in mind, sister.” He saunters out the door, kicking it shut.

The dog sighs happily. “Kid’s got an attitude. Good pilot, though.” The older man holds out his arthritis-gnarled hand. “Name’s Jess Kinn. I run this outfit, and if you’re willing to shell out a fair bit of dough, I can get you to Talkeetna even if I have to fly you myself.”

My face relaxes into a smile before I start to wonder how old Jess is. I squint, trying to get a better look under his cap, which was yellow once upon a time. “So, are you current?”

Jess snorts loudly, which startles the dog. “I ain’t current on much of anything else, ma’am, but when it comes to flying choppers in Alaska, I am your man.”

His face breaks into a broad network of wrinkles, and the sun comes out. Inside, I feel Max and Louise rejoice. We’re on the last mile.

Chapter Thirty-Six

T
HE ONLY PEOPLE
who are not onboard with the last-mile scenario are the good people at MasterCard, who believe, based on my spending habits from the last twenty-four hours, that my card has been stolen.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but a plane ticket, a hotel room, and a very sizable REI purchase have all been recorded in Anchorage, Alaska, within the last twenty hours. The Ms. Gallagher in our profile is not a traveler.”

Jess has me on speaker phone. I screech, “I’m Molly Gallagher, and I’m traveling now!”

“Yes, ma’am” was followed by a long silence. I grab the phone, take it off speaker, and tell her my mother’s maiden name and my social security number.

The company’s security specialist, a woman with a halting Jersey accent, still sounds suspicious. “So you want me to authorize a $569 flight to where?”

“Talkeetna, but it’s really none of your business, is it?” I snip. “Either you extend my limit and I’m gone, or you leave me alone. I was on the last mile of a very difficult trip until you got involved.”

There is a hugely pregnant pause. “I can see that. I’m sorry, Ms. Gallagher, but your card was flagged based on a profile of the card’s previous activity. Furthermore, I’m not the one to talk to about extending your credit limit. I am a security specialist.”

“I can tell.” Why am I barking at the woman whose help I need?
Slow down, Molly.

“I take my job very seriously, Ms. Gallagher. Why, just the other day I flagged a card belonging to a woman who didn’t even know her card was gone. Her son was in Palm Beach buying his girlfriend a diamond nose ring when I caught up with him. I knew that wasn’t the behavior of a sixty-three-year-old schoolteacher from Iowa. Let me tell you, I saved that lady plenty,” she says in a defensive, hurt tone.

“I’m sure you did. I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot.” My cell phone rings. It’s probably Denise or Trina, so I ignore it until it stops ringing. “It’s just that I really, really need to get going, so you have to tell me where we are here and what I need to do.”

“Okay. I have to put you on hold for one minute while I talk to my supervisor. I’ll be real fast. Is that all right, Ms. Gallagher?” She sounds like a hostage negotiator.

“Yes.” I roll my eyes at Jess, who’s fussing with paperwork, pretending not to listen. A noxious gas rises from the floor where the dog farts in his sleep. I wrinkle my nose.

Jess waves a hand in front of his face. “Sorry ’bout that. In the spring we got skunks, so to me, this ain’t so bad.”

My cell phone rings again, and I check the number calling. It’s a Seattle number I don’t recognize. The name Schubert flashes on the LCD screen. Must be Sasha. I don’t want to talk to anyone until I’ve seen Wolf face-to-face.

“Hello, Ms. Gallagher, I spoke to my manager, and he gave me a number for you to call about upping your credit limit immediately.” She’s reading the number to me when it occurs to me that Sasha isn’t the only person with the last name Schubert. It’s Wolf. By the time I press the button to answer it, I miss the call. I thank the MasterCard woman and hang up the AirPac phone, staring at my cell phone thoughtfully.

“We on?” Jess asks hopefully. The dog thumps his tail.

“I don’t know,” I answer absentmindedly as I punch in my voice mail number. When I hear his voice, it’s like I’ve won the lottery. “Hey there, it’s Wolf. We’re snowed in about halfway up the mountain. Four guys in a tent in desperate need of some Odor Eaters. Well, I know I shouldn’t be calling you after leaving that last message, but, hey, I’m not much for poker, and the three other people I’d call are right here . . .” The reception crackles, and I can’t hear him for a while. “So, anyway, just called to see how the dinner went. I hope no one got it in the head with a piece of art. Ha-ha.” The snowy crackle invades again, and the line goes dead.

I don’t know what to do. I look up, and Jess gives me the kind of happy, uncomplicated grin that means he loves to fly. I decide to trust him. “Here’s the thing, Jess, I’m kind of chasing one of those guys you delivered to Talkeetna this morning.”

“Oh, which one?” he asks offhandedly. Is taking dreamers and weirdos in stride an Alaskan quality? If so, I’m moving here.

“The tall guy with the curly brown hair and hazel eyes.”
The tall, sexy one with the expressive, calloused hands and firm, dry lips.

“Wolf? I don’t know about his eyes, but he’s a heck of a fella. Good climber too. He’s kind of famous around here for that stunt he pulled at the U of A.”

Jess knows him? Boy, did I stumble into the right place. “What kind of stunt?”

“Oh, the president of U of A looked out his window one day, and there’s his car being mushed right across the parking lot by a team of Alaska’s finest. Not much of a vehicle by Alaskan standards, one of them electric thingee-ma-bobs. Funniest dang thing you ever seen. Twelve dogs pulling a car, and every one of ’em havin’ the time of their life. I don’t think the president liked it too much, but he was a good sport.”

“You saw it?”

“Wish I had. I made do with the video on YouTube. Hell of a climber, that kid. He worked for me one summer, washing planes, fueling, odd jobs and the like. How come you don’t wait right here for him to get back? I’m scheduled to go pick ’em up in two days.”

I look out the window at a single-engine Cessna with red stripes landing. “He doesn’t know I’m here. I kind of wanted to surprise him.”

Jess scratches his neck, then bends down to pet the odoriferous canine. “Kind of a pricey surprise, if you ask me.”

“He doesn’t even know how I feel. Now he’s snowed in on the mountain, and I’m trying to decide if I really need to do this in person or can I just do it on the phone. The whole reason I’m here is to see him face-to-face. This may be the most important moment in my life, and I don’t want it to happen over the phone. And I know this sounds crazy, but I just can’t wait. I have to do this now.”

Jess stops patting the dog and gets up. He buries his hands in his pockets. “Ah, I see.” He takes his coat from a rickety coat stand in the corner, and the dog comes to life. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

I leave my pack on the chair, happy to get out of the overheated office. I trail Jess down the steps, across the tarmac, and past a couple of hangars. The fresh air feels good on my overheated skin. A pilot checking over his plane greets Jess and gives me a curious look. Jess is a fast walker, and I struggle to keep up. The dog, who looks ten years younger outside, chases a squirrel up a tree.

“It ain’t much further,” Jess calls, his feet crunching on the gravel.

He reaches the door of the bunker, which is a long, arched structure on a scrub-covered hillside. The windows are caked with dirt, crusty with cobwebs. I can imagine it half-buried in snow, looking like something out of a World War II movie. Jess opens the door for me, and the smell of yeasty dirt and mildew wafts out.

I hesitate, and Jess nods his head. “It’s okay. There’s a light inside.”

He takes the lead, pulling on a dangling light bulb cord as he enters. In the dim light, it’s earthy brown and surprisingly warm inside. Most of the space is used as storage, with racks of spare parts, tools, paint, and some housekeeping supplies. One rack holds nothing but rusted coffee cans full of nuts and bolts. In a corner is a card table with a couple of chairs, which is where Jess heads. He reaches across the table and takes down an article tacked to the wall, yellow and curled with age. He hands it to me.

“Brave Duo Keep Private Airstrip in Pacific Open for Round the Clock Air Force Refueling,” the headline reads. Beside the headline, which is from the
New York Times,
dated 65, there is a photo of a man and a woman with their arms around each other, waving lanterns as they pose on the tarmac. A handsome Jess is in his early twenties. The woman has soft, curling brown hair and a dazzling smile.

“You don’t have to read it. The important part of the story for you is that we never said we loved each other until after she left. ’Course, everyone else thought something else was going on in that bunker out there in the middle of winter, but all night long, night after night, we just talked and talked. It was one just like this.” He motions around us.

“Real snug and cozy like. We had a little burner, and she made coffee and heated up soup. She was a teacher who came out here to teach native kids. Her father was a preacher who encouraged his kids to do stunts like that. I was out there as a mechanic, and she was just crazy about planes. I took her flying, and we kind of hit it off. After the war she was gonna get a job teaching in Anchorage, but her father had a heart attack, so she went back to Arizona to take care of her mother and the younger kids.”

“And you didn’t go with her?” I ask quietly. Jess’s eyes are a soft gray. He’s looking out the window at a pilot untethering his plane.

“I wanted to, but by the time I finally got up the courage to spill my guts and send the letter I’d written while she was still around, she’d met another fella. I got the nicest Dear John letter you’d ever want to read in your whole life, all this stuff about there being seasons in life and the timing of it all.”

I reach out and squeeze his shoulder. I can imagine him coming out here during his lunch hour, smoking a cigarette, and thinking about her. “I’m sorry, Jess.”

“Yeah, I burned that letter along with a sweater she left.” He laughs. “Wish I hadn’t.” He shakes his head. “Never did find another gal I could talk to like that. All night long, and there was always something more to say.” He shakes it off, taking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose. “Bet you didn’t reckon on an old fart’s life story when you came here this morning looking for a lift, did you?”

I smile and shake my head. “No, but I’m glad you told me.”

He bends down to pet the dog. “We’d better get out of here before this fella heats the place with natural gas.” He walks out of the bunker and into the fresh air. The memories fade with the smell of mildew and dirt. He waits for me, then double-checks that the steel door is firmly shut.

“Thank you, Jess. Thanks for sharing that with me.” The wind blows my hair into my face.

Jess gives me a relieved smile. “You’re welcome. I don’t trot that one out just to give it the light of day, you know. Given your troubles with your fella, I thought about my own. I’ve gone over that letter a thousand times in my head, but the only part that really eats at me now is the part about timing. ’Cause you could find the right person and if the world ain’t tilting at a certain angle; well, you could just walk right past that person and never know what you missed. That’s the hardest part about it all, thinking that one trip to the post office coulda changed my life. It was pret’ near fifty years ago, and it feels like yesterday.”