The Great Alone
Lenora Allbright
In September, cold winds roared across the peninsula. Darkness began its slow, relentless march across the land. By October, the moment that was autumn in Alaska had passed. Every night, at seven P.M., Leni sat close to the radio, the volume cranked high, static popping, listening for Mr. Walker’s voice, waiting for news on Matthew. But week after week, there was no improvement.
In November, the precipitation turned to snow, light at first, goose down fluttering from white skies. The muddy ground froze, turned hard as granite, slippery, but soon a layer of white lay over everything, a new beginning of sorts, a camouflage of beauty over whatever lay hidden beneath.
And still Matthew wasn’t Matthew.
On an ice-cold evening that followed the first vicious storm of the season, Leni finished her chores in a sooty darkness and returned to the cabin. Once inside, she ignored her parents and stood in front of the woodstove, her hands outstretched to its warmth. Gingerly she flexed the fingers of her left hand. The arm still felt weak, foreign somehow, but it was a relief to have the cast off.
She turned, saw her own reflection in the window. Pale, thin face with a knifepoint chin. She’d lost weight since the accident, and rarely bothered to bathe. Grief had upset everything—her appetite, her stomach, her sleep. She looked bad. Drained and exhausted. Bags under her eyes.
She went to the radio at exactly 6:55 and turned it on.
Through the speaker, she heard Mr. Walker’s voice, steady as a trawler in calm seas. “To Leni Allbright in Kaneq: We’re moving Matthew to a long-term facility in Homer. You can visit on Tuesday afternoon. It’s called Peninsula Rehabilitation Center.”
“I’m going to see him,” Leni said.
Dad was sharpening his ulu. He stopped. “The hell you are.”
Leni didn’t glance at him or flinch. “Mama. Tell him if he wants to stop me, he’ll have to shoot me.”
Leni heard her mother draw in a sharp breath.
Seconds passed. Leni felt her father’s anger and his uncertainty. She could feel the war waging within him. He wanted to explode, to exert his will, to hit something, but she meant it and he knew it.
He hit the coffeepot, sent it flying, muttered something they couldn’t quite hear. Then he cursed, threw up his hands, and backed away, all in a single jerking movement. “Go,” Dad said. “Go see the boy, but get your chores done first. And you.” He turned to Mama, pointed a finger at her, thumped it on her chest. “She goes alone. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Mama said.
* * *
TUESDAY FINALLY CAME.
“Ernt,” Mama said after lunch. “Leni needs a ride to town.”
“Tell her to take the old snow machine, not the new one. And be back by dinner.” He gave Leni a look. “I mean it. Don’t make me come looking for you.” Yanking his iron animal traps from their hooks on the wall, he went outside, banging the door behind him.
Mama moved forward, glancing uncertainly behind her. She pressed two folded-up pieces of paper in Leni’s hand. “Letters. For Thelma and Marge.”
Leni took the letters, nodded.
“Don’t be stupid, Leni. Be back before dinner. That gate could close again anytime. They’re only open because he feels bad for what he did and he’s trying to be good.”
“Like I care.”
“I care. And you should care for me.”
Leni felt the sting of her selfishness. “Yeah.”
Outside, Leni angled into the wind and trudged through the snow.
When she finished feeding the animals, she pulled the starter on the snow machine and climbed aboard.
In town, she pulled up in front of the harbor dock entrance and parked. A water taxi was waiting for Leni. Mama had called for it on the ham radio. The sea was too rough to take the skiff out.
Leni slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed down the slick, icy dock ramp.
The water-taxi captain waved at her. Leni knew he wasn’t going to charge her for the ride. He was in love with Mama’s cranberry relish. Every year she made two dozen jars of it just for him. That was how the locals did it: trading.