All the Winters After (30 page)

SIXTY-FOUR

Kache had nowhere to go but Snag's. A Honda sat next to her truck in the carport—Gilly's, no doubt. He knocked on the door and waited. He didn't remember ever knocking on Snag's door.

She called to come in and waved through the kitchen window. They both said hi and stood in the living room while Gilly grabbed her keys and purse and said she needed to head back to work. After she left, Snag started to get her cleaning supplies out, but Kache took her arm and pulled her back into the living room. They both sat, Snag in her rocker and Kache on the sofa, and Kache dropped his head into his hands.

“Oh, hon. Does that mean you forgive me?”

He nodded. “We all wish we'd handled things differently.” Was it fair to blame Snag for falling in love with his mom? It turned out he and Snag both fell for smart, brave, kind women they couldn't have. He was so tempted to turn on the television, but he let the sadness keep rolling in until it filled every corner of the room, of him.

In time, Snag cleared her throat and began to speak. “There's something I've been wanting to tell you, Kache. It's a long story, but I want you to know it.”

Kache nodded, leaning back on the couch to listen.

“I was home from college, cleaning windows for the summer. One day, your mom talks me into playing hooky from work. We head toward Anchorage, up by Turnagain Arm, and the tide was out, coming in, but still way out there. This is long before they put up all those warning signs. Bets got an inkling that we should go clamming. ‘Oh, Snag, let's!' she said. She had never been, and of course I wanted to be the first to take her, so I said, ‘Why not?' I had pails in the back of the truck for cleaning windows, and I always kept a shovel and a couple of pairs of hip boots on hand.”

She told Kache how the extra hip boots had been his dad's and four sizes too big, but Bets wore them anyway, and Snag teased her about swimming in boots before they ever got to the water. “But she traipsed along against the wind—your mom always was such a trooper—her hood tied tight around her head like a little kid.” Snag gave her a couple of pointers about looking for the indent in the sand and how you had to dig fast before the clam burrowed itself deeper. “Pretty soon, I was loading my pail and Bets had gone off to load up her own. I got lost in the hunt, and next thing I know, Bets is yelling, ‘Snag! Help! I'm stuck in the sand!'”

Snag said she looked up, and her heart stopped. “You know that crude saying about the Alaskan tide comes faster than a sailor just home from leave? It was never so true.” Bets had gone out too far, and Snag saw where the darker glacial silt, the stuff they call Alaskan quicksand, began. There was no way Snag could reach her without getting stuck herself. The water soon swirled around Bets's ankles.

“Any other person would have been screaming their fool head off. But not your mom. She stayed calm, staring down the waves. Such dignity. She yelled over the wind, ‘Snag Winkel, don't you go blaming yourself for this, okay? I should have never insisted in the first place, and then to wander out here like an idiot. I'm a few rungs short of a full ladder.' She was thinking of
me
while she faced her death head on. And then she hollered. ‘Wait, the
ladder
!'”

Snag told him she'd understood immediately. She tore up to the parking lot and drove the truck right onto the beach, stopping to check the sand so she could get as close to Bets as possible. She pulled open the long steel ladder and, with every ounce of strength she had, flung it out and aimed it at Bets, who was eventually able to grab the end of it. Snag rested the other end on the tail of the truck bed, and with Snag's guidance, Bets pulled one leg out of the oversize hip boot and then the other and crawled up the ladder, onto the truck bed, and into Snag's embrace.

“She had been so brave, so composed. We clung on for dear life and kissed each other's wet freezing cold cheeks, and I remember the taste of salt—all mixed in from our tears and our sweat and the ocean—and we swore we'd never tell a soul how stupid we'd been, how close we'd come to tragedy, and I kept that promise until now.”

Kache leaned forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. “Wow. She always warned us about those mudflats but never said she had personal experience with them.”

“The reason I'm telling you all this now, Kache? When that plane went down, I think your mom somehow gave them courage like she'd given it to me. In those split seconds? When someone else would have been screaming obscenities, she took in all their fear and wrapped them in her love and acceptance. That's who she was.”

Kache liked hearing this about his mom. But he knew Snag was wrong about one thing. He shook his head. “It's nice to tell ourselves these stories, ease our survivor's guilt. But no. You know they were scared shitless, Mom included, no matter how brave she was, no matter how amazing she was, and no matter how none of them deserved to die that way. They did. And it was fucking terrifying. Every goddamn second of it. You know it and I know it. And to make it less than that seems cowardly. There's no way we can rely on lines like, ‘At least they didn't suffer,' because they
did
, and we can't say, ‘At least they're in a better place,' because there was no better place to the three of them than that homestead.”

Kache took a deep breath. “We'll never know if Dad was thinking of you or me or anything other than getting through the cloud-filled corridor. We'll never know, Snag. All we know is that they died and we'll miss them every single day for the rest of our lives.”

He went on. He couldn't stop talking. He told her about Nadia and the fight.

Snag said, “You are so much like your dad.”

“You mean my mom.”

“Well, that too. But you've definitely got some Winkel in you.”

“Such as?”

“Winkels never forget anything.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I've definitely got that gene.”

“Which is why I know you didn't just
forget
to ask for Nadia's school papers.”

He stared at her. “Yes, I did.”

“Hon, if you really want to call off the bullshit, let's be consistent. You didn't want her going off to art school, just like your dad didn't want you going off to music school. I'm not saying it was completely conscious. But we instinctively want to keep those we love close and safe. Problem is irony kicks in when we try to play that game. Your dad, for instance, used to say how rock and rollers always died in plane crashes.”

“He did not.”

“He did.”

Kache ran his finger down his nose. “He just hated my music.”

“Then why did I always catch him on the nights your band played, parked outside the Spit Tune with the heater blasting and his windows rolled down?”

“You did not.”

“I did.” She sighed. “Your daddy loved you, Kache. He just had strange ways of showing it sometimes. But you've got your mama in you too. You can do better than he did.”

Kache leaned back against the sofa cushion and stared at a crack in the plaster. “I guess I won't be needing to stay here tonight after all.”

“Well, there's a piece of good news.” She stretched and hugged him. She said that she had to run some errands, that she'd see him later at the Spit Tune. Kache tried Nadia's cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. He thought she might at least charge it after he'd left. An hour to kill—not enough time to drive out and apologize before the show. So he grabbed his guitar, sat back down, and started playing with a song idea that had come to him when he was driving into town. He just needed to remember to leave early enough to get some gas on his way to the Spit Tune.

SIXTY-FIVE

In Kache's old room, where she'd slept for the ten years before he came back, she patted the bottom bunk to tell Leo it was okay, and he curled up at her feet and watched her, worrying.

She never imagined that a dream coming true would be so difficult. She never thought it possible to love someone this much and still feel it might be right to say good-bye. She loved him more than she'd ever imagined caring for another person. But still Nadia felt that what she had to offer him lacked a wholeness.

And now he said he wanted children. She wished she could talk to Lettie again, or Snag. But talking about this meant crying, and she did not want anyone to see her weakness.

Leo followed her outside into the lingering twilight. A lone sandhill crane took a few steps on its long delicate legs and bent its long delicate neck to stab its beak at a worm.

“Is it you?” she asked. “Where is your love?” With so many predators to worry about—even bald eagles, and certainly dogs—this crane held itself on the land in a confident familiarity. It shared a long look with her; its yellow eyes behind the red mask took inventory of Leo, who would not leave her side that evening even to scare off a bird. It went back to its worm. Nadia walked over to the single birch tree that stood alone and pressed her forehead to it, asking it to share some of its strength. She went to the barn and ran her hands over the sheep and remaining goats, patted the cow, clucked at the chickens in their coop. “I am not alone,” she said aloud.

When the darkness forced the last light away, it was almost 10:00 p.m. No sign of Kache. She sat at the kitchen table, checking to see how many more views her video had received from strangers. Kache had asked to see it for weeks, but she'd told him she still wasn't finished, when, in fact, she'd posted it on YouTube and sent it to film school. She'd wanted to wait and surprise him for his birthday. Something crackled outside, but she hadn't heard Kache's truck pull up. It was the very pregnant cow moose or the sandhill crane that half considered themselves seasonal pets, showing up through summer. Or perhaps a bear or another wolf. She hoped not; she would have to shoot whatever started threatening the barn animals.

The house creaked and settled. Outside, the wind picked up, cried, and whistled, scraping tree branches against the upstairs windows. In the city, there would be many more sounds. Sirens and neighbors' laughter and yelling. People running down stairs and doorbells and music and even, sometimes, maybe someone screaming, like in the movies.

She wrapped Lettie's afghan around her and buried her nose in the fur of Leo's neck.

She didn't know what to do.

And then she did.

She grabbed her video camera. She pulled the Land Cruiser keys out of the drawer. Yes, it was crazy, but Kache said you never really forgot how. If she hurried, she could catch the very end of the show.

SIXTY-SIX

Kache sang his butchered heart out. He sang every song he could think of other than “The Nadia Song.” He had the band, the crowd—they were all with him, upturned faces, raised hands clapping—and he never wanted to stop singing.

He took out the crumpled envelope he'd written the lyrics on, smoothed it out, stuck it on a music stand, pulled the stand in front of him, and said, “You heard it here first, folks. This song's a virgin, have never once sung it. So bear with me. Still don't have a chorus, so let me know if you think it needs one.” He took a sip of water, checked the tuning on his guitar, and began.

“I believe in our old windowpanes

and how they catch light like the water.

I believe in the dimpled cheeks

of our future son and daughter.

And I believe in the first time

I held your hand on that old water bus.

But I can't believe this is happening to us.

“I believe in the forget-me-nots

we arranged in that crooked vase.

I believe in the soft, sweet smell

of your kind and pretty face.

And I believe in you and me

growing old and gray together.

But I can't believe you're changing with the weather.

“I believe in strength and frailty

of the body, mind, and spirit.

I believe love fades sometimes

to a whisper, but I still hear it.

And I believe in honesty

and wearing my heart on my sleeve.

But I can't believe you said you have to leave.

“No, I don't want to believe you said you have to leave.”

Marion tucked her long hair behind both ears, placed her hands on her hips, and waited for the applause to die down. “I think we all need to take a break after that one.”

Kache went to the bar, and Rex slid him a beer.

Before long, the Russian guy Tol greeted Kache and said, “You are quite a good singer and writer of songs, my friend.” Kache thanked him. “My friend, Kachemak Winkel.” Tol drank, looking straight ahead. He had a strong jawline.

Suddenly, Tol leaned over and placed his hand on the back of Kache's neck like they were coconspirators. “I wish for you to play that song you played the last time you were here. What is the name of it? ‘Nadia'?”

Someone else elbowed their way in next to him. “Hi there, Nephew.” It was Snag, who leaned over and patted him on the back. “You made me cry. Gilly too. Hey, you
again
?” She was talking to Tol. Snag knew Tol? “Saw you at the gas station, and before that on the mountain, and what is it, three times here now? Weird that I never once ran into you and now you're everywhere.”

“It must be destiny, eh?” he said, raising his hands, palms up. “Actually, I come and go. A nomad.”

“Hey, do you live way out at the east end? I could have sworn I saw your motorcycle behind me that night, when I turned back to the homestead after I left the gas station?”

At that point, Marion said into the mic, “Let's get the star of the show up here, and we'll be ready to sing a few for you before you have to head out in that wind. Kache?”

Tol yanked hard on Kache's sleeve and held on. “That Nadia song, it is not finished, I think. Too much happy. It needs sadder ending. A tragedy.”

His face was too close.
Asshole.
Kache jerked his arm away and took his beer and his place back on stage. They started in with that old Tom Waits song, “Grapefruit Moon,” but Tol called out, “Hey, play song called ‘Poor White Goat,'” and Kache stopped singing and looked for Vladimir, because at that moment, he knew—every blood cell pummeling through his body knew—that Tol was Vladimir, the man who was no longer seated at the bar.

Panic squeezed Kache while he scanned the room.
Where is he? Where is he?
“Gotta run,” he said and felt in his pocket for his keys, but they must have been in his jacket. “Marion, take it from here.”

Kache pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring everyone who tried talking to him, looking everywhere for his jacket. Where the hell did he leave it?

He yelled, “Where's my jacket?” and Marion, looking confused, stopped singing and asked if anyone had seen Kache's jacket.

“What color is it, Kache?” she asked into the mic.

“Dark blue!” Kache was about to ask Snag if he could borrow her truck when someone held up his jacket, and Kache grabbed it, felt for the keys, and ran outside.

In the center of the parking lot, he spun around, scanning for taillights or exhaust, but there were none. He ran to his truck, peeled out of the lot and onto the spit, and drove as fast as he could but saw no taillights in front of him either. He hit the steering wheel, kept hitting it, and tried to call Nadia on his cell, but it went straight to voice mail. He thought,
That woman could not keep her phone charged if her life depended on it
, and then regretted the thought immediately.

Leaning forward, he pressed down on the gas pedal and tried to think. Who could he call? No one. Should he call the police? And say what?
There was a guy with a Russian accent who requested a song about a goat and it spooked me?
By the time the Caboose police found their friendly way to the homestead…no. Kache reached across to the glove compartment and popped it open. Nadia had talked him into keeping the handgun in there. “Even what you call the hippies in Alaska have their rifles on a rack. You can at least hide a gun in your glove compartment, yes?” And so he had. And there it was.

He knew he was not overreacting. He knew it. Everything merged together in his mind, how Tol—Vladimir, Vladimir
Tol
ov—kept running into Snag, how he probably trailed her to see her turn down the road to the homestead. Or maybe he'd been trailing Kache too. Shit. The asshole was at the Spit Tune the night Kache and Nadia were there. How long had he been following them around? Had he been lurking around the homestead, waiting for an opportunity?

Kache had given her a false sense of security, insisting he was long gone, all while drinking beer and chatting it up with the psychopath. And then all the horrible things Kache had said to her earlier started shooting through his head, but he stopped himself. He needed to think clearly. To be smart and do everything exactly right. He needed to not fuck this up.

“Nadia, Nadia, Nadia.” He wasn't singing; he was pleading. “Don't open the door. Wait for me.”

Almost there. But the truck lagged as he approached the turn off the main road. Another lag, and then it died. No. He turned the ignition.
No, no, no. Shit.
His head had been so far up his ass and then so lost in that damn song, he'd forgotten to get gas. Stupid and dangerous, even on a normal day.

Wait. A full gas can in the back.

At an unbearably slow speed, the gasoline meandered its way through the long spout into the tank, Kache urging and cursing it.

• • •

Denny's Land Cruiser sat parked in the middle of the road where it turned into the driveway, blocking Kache's truck. A motorcycle lay on the ground next to the driver's side. Kache grabbed the gun and jumped out: Nadia's uncharged cell phone was on the seat, keys gone. He took off running toward the house. Had she tried to drive the Land Cruiser? Had it died?

He heard Leo going crazy in the house, like he had that very first night. Trying to catch his breath, Kache kept the gun down close to his side and ran up the steps. Leo was behind the front door, scratching, barking even at Kache. He turned the knob and pushed open the door, and Leo bolted out, ran down the porch steps sniffing, ran back to Kache and then out the gate toward the beach trail, nose to the ground, fur standing up in its own path on his back. Kache grabbed the flashlight that they kept on a hook in the kitchen and followed Leo. “Good boy, good boy. Where is she, Leo? Where is Nadia?”

He wanted to scream her name, but he didn't want Vladimir to know he was there. How far could he have taken her, through the patches of snow and ice and mud? The moon hung fully ripe, casting silver light on the land, and he saw clearly enough, even without the flashlight. Wind whipped and roared so loudly, it sounded like the ocean crashing through the trees. Why the beach? But Kache knew.

Nadia.
Wait.

Leo zigzagged ahead of him, sniffing the mud and snow. He never lifted his head, just kept in a staggering, frantic line while Kache followed. “Where is she, Leo? Find Nadia.”

“Kache!” Nadia screamed. “Here!” He rounded the bend to see her kicking and twisting while Vladimir dragged her by the waist off the path that crested the ridge, toward the cliff.

There they stayed, on the precipice, the moon spotlighting them. Vladimir held his knife to her throat, and Nadia had stopped fighting. She clung onto the arm that gripped the knife, but she did not flinch. Her eyes wide with terror and locked on Kache. Leo crouched, growling. Kache raised the gun.

“Hello, my friend,” Vladimir shouted over the wind. “Took you a long while, eh?”

“Let her go and I won't shoot.”

“You will hit her instead, pussy boy.”

“Put the knife down. Put the knife down and leave and no one gets shot.” His voice and hands shook, and he fought to keep them steady. He sounded like he'd watched too many cop shows as a kid. Trying to be the tough guy he so obviously wasn't. He wished he had the .22 rifle instead of the handgun.

“I must look like fool,” Vladimir shouted. “I
am
fool. I thought she was dead.” He spit his words in Nadia's face. “You think you can just leave again? You trick me. Why not drown yourself for real? Leave me dirty work. It's always left to Vlad.”

Leo was still crouched, growling, at Kache's side.

“No. Just put the knife down.”
I cannot let her die. I cannot let her die.

“Say good-bye to Nadia. This makes good song. At least she told you she has to leave. Me she only tricks.” He continued talking, most of it gibberish. Kache remembered that Nadia called Vladimir a patient trapper, and he wondered if that's what this was, him feigning insanity while waiting for his moment. While Kache waited for his.

“Let her go. She hasn't hurt you. Just let her go, and I'll let
you
go.”

“You will
let
me? How kind.” Vladimir laughed, his disturbingly amiable laugh, as if they were all close friends.

As if he didn't hold his hunting knife to Nadia's throat.