The Survivors (16 page)

After ten minutes he is almost within arm's length, but flattened to the ground, ready to bolt. He knows the distance, the length of a human arm with a stick or whip. She sings a song, a baby song she hasn't thought of in years: “Did you ever see a lassie, a lassie, a lassie? Did you ever see a lassie go this way and that?”

For a long second Brush's eyelids droop and his shoulders relax. Continuing to sing, very softly, she eases forward the piece of deer fat. Holds it out to him. Brush's nose quivers, and his eyes cross as the fat comes nearer and nearer to his snout. With a lunge, he darts forward and snaps it from her hand. Sarah falls over backward—if Brush were a rattlesnake, she'd be dead.

The following night for dinner they eat venison. Miles has hung the deer in the sawmill shack, pulled off the skin to cool the carcass, and then cut off some meat. He now stands at the woodstove tending the frying pan. Small, round loin chops, cooking in a mix of butter and wild rice. The skillet throws off a sweet, hot, earthy smell—like the odor of a strange new restaurant.

“Most people cook wild game so they can't taste the wild part,” Miles says. “They cover up the taste with bacon, with sauces—anything to disguise the flavor.” It's as if he's hosting a cooking show.

“Where'd you learn how to cook venison?” Nat asks Miles as she sets the table.

“Actually, I read about it at the library,” Miles says with a shrug as he tends the skillet.

Sarah swallows, and then again, because the cabin smells so good. And soon they're ready to eat.

“A salute to Miles,” Artie says, hoisting an imaginary glass.

“To Miles,” Sarah and Nat say, though not as enthusiastically.

As the platter comes around, Nat says, with an apologetic tone, “Mainly wild rice for me, thanks.”

“At least try one bite,” Artie says.

“I knew someone would say that,” she mutters. Carefully she cuts off a small piece of the venison, seared brown on the outside, pale pink on the inside.

They all watch as the fork goes into her mouth.

“Do we have to make such a big deal about this?” Nat asks. She tries to swallow quickly, but her jaw stops. She looks at all of them, then chews. Slowly.

“Well?” Miles asks.

She takes her time, then swallows. Her eyes go to the platter. “I think I need another piece—just to make sure.”

Miles pushes the platter of venison her way. “Eat up. There's plenty more where that came from.”

They finish the whole platter except for one piece.

“Last bite, anyone?” Miles asks.

“No, no way,” they groan in unison.

“I can't either,” Miles says, leaning back from the table.

“Let's save it for Brush,” Sarah says.

Even Miles the mighty hunter does not object.

While their parents do the dishes, Miles sits by the woodstove with his feet up.

“After all, I brought home the meat,” he reminds them.

Sarah steps outside. The stars are rising. The air has a hard bite of coldness. “Here, Brush! Here, Brush!” she calls softly.

There is rustling near the sawmill shack. Like a ghost, Brush comes forward. He is covered with sawdust, as if he has been burrowing in it to stay warm. She makes sure to look off to the side as she holds out her hand and the meat. This time he is not so anxious; he takes it quickly but without lunging away.

“Good, Brush, good dog.” Still not looking directly at him, she touches the top of his head. His hair is cold but smooth. His skull is heavy and wide. She pets him twice before he pulls away. He wags his tail.

“You go to sleep now,” she murmurs, and points to the sawdust pile by the shed.

He cocks his head, looks at her sadly, then limps away.

Back inside, Miles is first to ask: “Was our watchdog out there?”

“Yes,” Sarah says quickly. “And I petted him.”

“Be careful,” Artie says. “We don't want any accidents.”

“He doesn't bite,” Sarah says defensively, with a glance to Miles. “He just eats fast.”

“Where was he?” Miles asks.

“Over by the shed.”

“Figures,” Miles answers. “He smells my deer. That's why I hung it up there—so nothing could get it.”

“He's guarding it,” Sarah says.

“Yeah, right!” Miles says. He leans back and puts his hands behind his head as he watches them clean the cooking area after supper. With his long hair, fuzzy chin whiskers, and tattered plaid shirt, he looks like a character from a Jack London story about Alaska. He's slightly louder tonight, too, as if at last—finally—he's the boss of the family. Her parents don't seem to notice Miles's new attitude. The whole thing is slightly creepy.

AFTER THE FIRST REAL SNOW—FIVE
inches in one night—Miles motors up to Old But Gold on his Kawasaki. Riding in snow is not his favorite thing. The bike has knobbies, and he stays around thirty miles per hour to avoid skidding, but he leaves behind a narrow black trail on the highway. Light snow is still falling; his tracks should be covered within the hour.

At OBG he steps inside the empty front office, which is hot, full of cigarette smoke, and cluttered floor to ceiling with junk—“collectibles,” as they are called: old woodworking tools and cabbage cutters for making sauerkraut, canners and jars. Miles would call them “use-ables,” and he could make them all work, thanks to Mr. Kurz's stories of how he lived. He'd already learned how to can venison.

“Howdy, Miles,” Butch says from behind him.

“Hey,” Miles says.

“Special on eight-track players today.”

“Just what I need,” Miles says. Butch is not that much older than he is.

“What's up?” Butch asks.

“Looking for a snowmobile.”

Butch's dad appears from the back room. “Got plenty of those,” he says. “What kind of sled did you have in mind?”

Miles shrugs as if he's in no hurry and maybe not all that serious. “Something late model. Maybe a Polaris or a Cat.” That would be Arctic Cat; he has done his research, also at the library.

“Got just what you're looking for,” Albert says. “Butch, take Miles in back.”

Butch jerks his head for Miles to follow.

The garage adjoining the office is jammed with motorcycles, lawn tractors, fishing boats, trailers, and jumbled piles of sports equipment from guns to hockey skates to snowmobiling gear, along with a whole wall stacked with televisions, old computers, and other electronic equipment.

“Wow,” Miles says.

“In bad times people's toys are the first things to go,” Butch says.

“No kidding,” Miles says.

“My old man's either crazy or a genius,” Butch says as he threads his way through a section of riding lawn mowers.

“Probably a genius,” Miles says.

“Yeah, well, we need to start selling some of this stuff pretty soon,” Butch says. “I keep telling him that, and he says, ‘Just wait. Things will turn around. I've been through this before.'”

“That's what all the old-timers say,” Miles says.

“Let's hope they're right,” Butch says as they arrive at a group of dusty but newer snowmobiles.

Miles climbs onto a lime-green F8 LXR Arctic Cat.

“Nice unit,” Butch says.

“Crazy color, plus I need more backseat. For my girlfriend,” Miles adds.

Butch gets the joke and wheezes out a brief chuckle. He points to a longer, heavier Polaris. “The Trail Touring 550 has more room for a rider. It's a 2005 model. Very few miles.”

Miles climbs aboard. It has a sweet jump seat with a backrest—perfect for his mother or, who knows, maybe even an actual girlfriend someday. As the billboards for the state lottery used to read, “It Could Happen.” Miles gives the black Polaris a calculatedly casual look, then moves on. A heavy-duty tow sled—black vinyl with pointed snow nose and trailer hitch, the kind of tub made for serious ice fishing—catches his eye. He pretends that nothing really interests him.

“Got some more sleds coming in this week,” Butch says. “Maybe.”

“That Polaris back there run all right?” Miles asks. He looks over his shoulder.

“Did when it came in,” Butch said. He heads over to it and after some choking to get extra gas into the carb, the Polaris engine coughs several times, then catches. Within seconds the sharp smell of exhaust fills the garage.

Miles signals for Butch to kill the engine, then crouches to examine the track—as with tires, wear is easy to see; its hard rubber is scuffed but not worn.

“Like I said,” Butch adds.

“What are you asking for this one?” Miles says.

“Have to talk to the old man,” Butch says.

After fifteen minutes of haggling, Miles is about to peel off twelve one-hundred-dollar bills, which would be a good deal; however, before handing over the money he pauses. “Is there a title?”

The old man's eyes flicker toward his son.

“Not sure,” Butch says evasively. “I'd have to dig around.”

Miles pulls back the wad of bills and puts a pained look on his face.

“How about $900 as is?” the old man says.

“If you throw in a couple of suits, helmets, and that black vinyl tow sled,” Miles says.

“Jeez, kid, you're killing me,” Albert says with his own pained look. “How about $1,000 for the full package?”

“Deal,” Miles says. If he was dishonest, he could tell his folks the higher number and pocket the rest—something he would have seriously considered doing back in the suburbs.

With his motorbike resting in the bottom of the tow sled, and wearing his newish insulated zip-up suit and dark-visored helmet, Miles pulls away from OBG. He cranks the Polaris fast down the empty, snowy highway toward home.

“Yahoo!” he calls. Within seconds he's going seventy miles per hour. At almost 500 cc, the engine has plenty of horsepower. The tow sled starts to whip side to side, and he quickly backs off the throttle; overall it's a sweet ride.

Within ten minutes he's home, where he burns a doughnut in the yard. His parents and Sarah rush out of the cabin.

“Anybody want a ride?” he calls. He unhooks the sled and pushes it to the side.

Sarah and his parents all look at one another. None of them say anything.

“Okay, I'll go first,” his mother says. She suits up and puts on the second helmet, and shrieks as they take off.

“It's like the Kawasaki—only faster!” Miles calls back over his shoulder.

Sarah goes last. “Do I have to? It's loud and stinky!” she says. Reluctantly she sits behind Miles and wraps her arms around him.

“Loud and stinky, true, but this winter it's going to save our lives,” Miles answers.

She, too, shrieks briefly as he accelerates.

“Hang on!” he calls.

When they return after a short ride, Sarah jumps off. “It's kind of fun, actually. You should learn how to drive it,” she says to Nat.

“Me?” Natalie says from the porch. She has been waiting for their safe return.

“Yeah, you. Why not?” Miles asks.

“In case of, I don't know, an emergency,” Sarah says, dusting snow from her legs.

“I'm not driving that thing.”

Artie comes onto the porch. “Let me drive it,” he says.

They all turn to him; it's another one of those meet-the-new-father moments.

“Well, gather 'round,” Miles says. “Snowmobile school's in session.” He shows them the basics: how to start it, where the brakes are, how to accelerate.

“Can I drive now?” Sarah asks.

Miles gestures toward the front position. Sitting behind, he guides her in a slow loop around the yard and back to the front porch, where she gets off.

“What's the sled for?” Sarah asks, nodding to the side.

“Whatever,” Miles answers, scooting forward to the handlebars. “Firewood. Dead animals. Us.”

“Us?” his mother asks.

“I mean, if we have to take a family trip to town,” Miles says. “Two of us can ride on the machine and two in the sled.”

“You're kidding, right?” his mother asks.

“Think of it as a hayride—without the hay,” he calls back, then laughs and guns the engine.

“The way you drive that thing, you'd kill us all,” Sarah says, backing away.

“Sarah's right—be careful!” Natalie shouts to Miles.

He waves and zooms off, cresting the bank. At the top of his arc, he slips the Polaris sideways like a skateboarder, pivots the rear end, and zips back down the hill. He turns and does it again. His mother disappears into the house, and after his third run, Sarah comes forward and waves her arms.