Something Of A Kind (10 page)

This is bizarre.

 

Aly complied.

“Greg’s my father,” s
he stated, forcing herself to make eye
contact. The man’s were brown, murky and dull, not like the
chestnut shine of Noah’s, or her own piercing blue.

“I wasn’t aware he had a kid,” the woman challenged. Veins in
her neck shifted as she spoke. Her hair was tied into a tight bun,
exposing small features and thin lips impacted in her ruddy face.
“License and registration.”

How would she know? They don't even have an official police
station in Ashland.

Thumbing her license from her bag in the passenger seat and
pulling documents from the glove box, she handed them to the male.
His partner glowered. He frowned and nodded, as though they
expected an authenticity issue.

“I moved in a couple of nights ago,” she added, “He’s currently
on a work trip.”

“Very well,” the female officer huffed. She sucked in her belly to
push straying folds of her polo beneath the hem of her pants. She
wasn’t heavy, but had a masculine build. The woman was graceless,
moving like she had just stepped into her skin for the first time. “Are
you aware he’s wanted for questioning?”

Aly quirked a brow. “It's news to me. What for?”

 

The male coughed. As the officers exchanged uncomfortable
glances, she revised, "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

“Not at all," he said. "His facility, p
articularly him, is in some
trouble for unmarked traps, probably big game. Failing to tag is
illegal and black bears haven’t been in season since June tenth.
Several witnesses also claim he’s been marking off public trails for
private recreation, and he’s not obtained any permits to do so. You
see why it’s important he step forward and clear things up?”

“If he’s hunting, I’m sure he has authorization.” She was unable
to comprehend why everyone in Ashland seemed to think her father
was part of some bigfoot, cult 'researcher' conspiracy. The nagging
feeling that she shouldn’t be hearing any of their accusations was
becoming difficult to swallow.

Aren’t researchers supposed to sit in urban labs and stare at neon
beakers? I can’t imagine him getting more adventurous than taking
samples from an on-campus pond or something.

“We need to see them, either way, Miss. You need to have your
father contact the fish and game warden or the state trooper’s office
and proper investigative bureaus immediately.”

Aly suppresseda groan, eying the clock. She and Noah hadn’t
agreed on a time, but she didn’t want to miss it, whenever it was.

“I’ll tell you what, on the nights he’s actually home, my best
guess is he normally leaves just after six. I don’t know where he is,
what he’s doing, or when he’ll be back. I’m assuming it’ll be today
or tomorrow.”

“Alright. Can we take a name?”

 

“Alyson Mackenzie Glass.”

 

“Do you have a number we can contact you at?” He continued.

 

“No,” Aly lied. “I just moved in. Nothing’s switched over yet.”

 

My life deserves to be separate from him. This is his problem,
his fault.

 

“What’s your mother’s contact information?”

 

“My mother’s dead.”

 

“Funny. What’s your mother’s address?” The man’s
condescending pitch altered his former monotone.

“Saint Anne’s
Cemetery, row three, plot twenty-eight. Threehundred South Adirondack Road. Kingsley, New York.” Her hair
slid between her fingers as she rested her head in her palm. “If you
manage to reach her, let me know.”

“Right,” he coughed, tugging on his collar. “
Your license is
registered to the state of New York. You should have it transferred to
Alaska within sixty days.”

“I'll have to do that, then,” Aly sighed.

“Have a good day, Miss,” the woman offered. There was an
apology behind her words. Her steel gray glare now focused on her
partner.

“Have a good day yourself, Officer.” Smirking, she watched
them retreat to their cars like kicked puppies. The questions in her
head weren't worth prolonging the experience.

Or the flaming clouds of awkward.

Ignoring the scrutiny at her bumper, Aly shifted into drive and
pulled onto the road. She could almost see the center of Ashland, the
red and blue rooftops of the shack-style buildings a blur around the
corner.

She couldn’t get away fast enough.
~

Aly peered through the dark windows of Yazzie's. Sunlight
splashed across the tables, failing to reveal any inhabitants. She
debated whether or not to knock as a flash of motion exhaled from
the kitchen.

Noah was engrossed in conversation. She could tell he was
comfortable. His was posture loose, a laid-back smile on his face.
The voices were too muffled to distinguish, but the hearty sound of
their laughter traveled through the glass.

His coworker stepped into view, an apron tied around her torso.
A vintage diner name tag was pinned to the lapel of a white polo,
uncovered by the stretched out neckline of a cerulean sweatshirt, its
sleeves rolled to the crevices of her elbows.

Her dark hair was smoothed into a pony tail, exposing a pretty
face swollen with receding baby fat. As she started an industrial
coffee maker, a flash of capris and beaded flip flops danced beneath
the raised counter. Her eyes, dark and round, met Aly’s with
curiosity, a small smile curving into one blushing cheek. Noah was
easily six feet tall, and the girl was a good head shorter. She shared
his milky tan and dark eyelashes. It wasn’t difficult to see the
resemblance.

The infamous Sarah.

Aly found Noah’s wholesomeness charming. The trait seemed
more childlike in his sister. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her as a
toddler. Oddly petite compared to the other thickset locals, Sarah
still looked like she could get swept into the sea.

Recalling her nightmare, Aly suppressed a shiver.
A smile brightened her face as Noah waved. He sprinted for the
door like he had the time before, as though he couldn’t bear to keep
her waiting. It didn’t look like Yazzie’s had opened yet. He wasn’t
dressed for work, his plain tee and dark jeans replaced with a red
hoodie and shorts.

“Am I driving?” Aly twirled the keys on her
index finger. Noah
grinned, shaking his head and motioned for her to follow as he
rounded the building.

Dirt clung to
Yazzie’s chipping paint, the rain causing it to
gather in
lines like
the
inner
layers of
rock. The
elevated
foundation’s vibrant mural presented rivers of fish.

When Noah noticed her scrutiny, he explained, “It’s based off of
this bus in Ketchikan. Tony spent a few nights at a motel there, and
saw it driving through a lot. He said it was painted for a festival
because they’re the salmon capital of the world or something. Sarah
wanted to see, so we let him try and recreate it with chalk. MaryAgnes – my mom, she fell in love with it because Lee co-owns a
sister fishery. Eventually Tony came back and made it permanent.”

Aly watched him as he
spoke. His eyes flashed at Lee’s name
but crinkled with fondness at his sister and mother’s. Running his
hands through his hair, he motioned to the painted waves. His
movements were rhythmic, his voice expressive.

Absorbed in his story, he lured her into each sentence. Free from
the eyes of his friends or the prey of stress, he seemed genuine and
animated. His attention was compulsive. Feeling silly beneath his
gaze, she forced herself to look away.

“What are the symbols for?” Curiously, she eyed the bold swirls.

“It’s the life cycle of a salmon. They travel to mate and spawn,
then return to the rivers they were born in to die. The babies eat the
plankton that ate their parents, and on it goes.”

Despite the colorful graffiti, Yazzie’s aged wood made it
look
more like a barn than a restaurant. She had noticed the attached
home with a rooftop widow’s walk and a freestanding shed. A grassy
four-yard slope in the backyard set the property apart from the shops
beside the docks. Noah took her hand as she skidded over it.

The diner stood out from the other structures along the Ashland
Bay Marina, most of its company catering to flightseeing, kayakers,
and the boating harbor. Some neighbors had brown roofs plagued
with rot and moss and outer walls painted in reds and sea-foam
greens. Others had cornflower
blue vinyl siding
with rusting
shingles and eggplant shutters. Many held vintage signs, fading
under the weather. Only a few of the cartoonish logos had been
retouched.

All freestanding signs, carvings, and statues in front of open
businesses were chained or roped in place, to withered topiaries or
stone banisters, trash cans or storm doors. Those without them held
aged ‘for-rent’ announcements and barren storefronts. A glance
through the window revealed the remains of
bankruptcy
and
foreclosure. Stained carpets and exposed
cement floors were
covered in papers and disposable dishes. Outdated appliances, cords
awry or hacked away, piled in the center of some or left in the
display of others.

It’s a ghost town.

As a
flashlight flickered, she noticed
sleeping bags in the
shadows of a former gift shop. Sadness swelled in her chest at the
entrance’s broken locks. Noah gently tugged her wrist when she
lingered. The wake of his skin left hers warm as he pulled away, the
chill relieved only when his hand once again migrated into hers.

She kept her gaze locked on the horizon. Blue mist coated the
mountaintops, amplified
by
a
backdrop
of
the
bold greens of
southeastern Alaska’s temperate rainforest. The coast seemed to curl
around the bay, its sky-view geography looking more like the edges
of a hurricane than land tossed out to sea. Despite the rugged
landscape, it seemed oddly natural, not unlike the quaint curves of
the lakes back home.

Aly could recall the PDF brochure
from Ashland’s Chamber of
Commerce, a basic website with hokey fonts and navigation as
unwelcoming
as her worst-case-scenario preconceptions of
the
town. Textual information was limited to a bulleted list of activities
and a certain Captain Howard’s speech-bubbled fishing tip for
tourists: Get him with yer hooch, whack him on the head, stick him,
pick him– in the pail he goes! Its only company was a black and
white photograph, dated for the nineteen forties, captioned for when
the town’s center had been reconstructed,
and an elementary
political map.

The border of Ashland covered much more land than residents,
looping through miles of woods. Resembling a near-perfect shape of
a whale, the black marker carved the image into the coast, horizontal
or upside-down, depending how she glanced at it. On paper, the
parallel peninsulas arching to form the bay looked like flippers and
flukes. From the docks, they were looming masses fused with
mountains, autonomous creatures that had risen from the bay.

It’s so surreal. I’m not the one in Kingsley anymore. It’s just
mom there now, still and silent.

 

Aly bit her lip.

Following her gaze, Noah gestured to the sifting tides. “It’s the
best place to swim for miles, and one of the only areas in AK that’s
warm enough. On the edges of the Marina, there are natural beaches.
Not too crowded, but between the enclave and the sandbar a ways
out, the water’s mellow.”

“Mellow?” She clarified, disbelieving.

It was in constant motion, not loud or crashing up close, but
churning, waves like sheets drawn over a bed. Where the lakes
rippled and slumbered, the body tossed without ease, an insomniac.
Just a yard away from her feet, the water was too dark, a plunge
from the suspended boardwalk, foam and surfacing seaweed wafting
below the wood. There was nothing to wade into, just a fall.

“It’s shallow by the beaches. This part is for boating,” he replied,
nodding towards bobbing smudges on the horizon. “There are
different types, but most work through the fisheries – commercial.
Seiners, longliners, trollers.”

As they rounded a corner, the smear of sand materialized at the
end of the descending walk. Noah moved forward to warn her of a
large step, an abrupt change in the landscape.

Glancing sideways, Aly caught him watching her. She smiled as
a flash of red pooled in his cheeks, gone as fast as it appeared. It was
strangely suiting, despite adjacency his masculine jaw. Warmth
streaked across her skin. She felt herself echo his blush. As they
walked, he moved to face the shore, his gaze lingering on small piles
of gray.

“See those? People actually stack rocks to catch fish when the
tide pulls in and out. It’s been receding for years, but the beach is
still full of life. There are beginnings everywhere. The indents are
tide-pools. Crabs, periwinkles, mussel shells, limpits, sculpin.” He
pointed out each as they surfaced, his voice trailing as the sand
disappeared behind them.

Along the edge, the wind picked up, tousling the hair around her
face, pulling currents in the loose fabric at her back. Tucking a lock
behind her ear as it whipped her eyes, Aly noted that she wasn’t the
only one assaulted at the shore. Rather than sharing her feelings of
apprehension, Noah smiled into the gust, squinting against the
current. He left a hand outstretched, palm curved to bear the front of
the air like it extended from a vehicle’s open window. Amused, she
allowed herself to fall into his step, shielded by his frame.

Taking a path parting the trees, he jumped the bars of a street’s
dead end, offering a hand as she followed. Sprinting through a
private yard filled with old tires and forgotten toys, they crossed into
the lot of an apartment building. Waterlogged mulch was strewn
over the curbs, clinging to her shoes when she passed. Weeds curled
through broad cracks in the asphalt. Smashed windows were
covered with duct tape and trash bags. Aly doubted the area was
maintained, nonetheless populated.