Ice Island (5 page)

“Not Dad’s. And not mine. Not
ever.
”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Tatum switched off the video and picked up
The Call of the Wild
. It was by a famous author named Jack London. She’d bought a used paperback copy for a book report when she heard it was about sled dogs. She’d tried reading to Bandit, but Bandit just fell asleep.

Tatum was at the part of the story where Buck gets kidnapped from his family in California. He’s sold to traders during the frenzied 1890s when gold prospectors swarmed to Alaska and the Yukon.

Bandit got up and went to the door.

Tatum marked her place in the book. “Again?”

She waited on the porch while Bandit piddled. Her mom came out to say good night. Tatum hugged her, even though she was still upset. Her dad wouldn’t say he was going to race if he didn’t mean it.

Later, in bed, she put her arms around Bandit’s neck. “You’re the best lead dog in the world,” she said.

Bandit cocked her head, as if she understood. Tatum knew Bandit had heard the same words from Beryl a thousand times.

Bandit put a paw on Tatum’s chest, licking her chin.

“Stop that!” Tatum slapped at her playfully. “It tickles!”

Bandit had to go three more times before morning. Tatum trudged down the hall in a sleepy daze. She turned on the porch light each time, watching Bandit through the window.

After the last trip Tatum slumped on her bed. She used the corner of her bedspread to wipe a thin sheet of ice off the inside of the window. That was when she saw a moving shadow. It looked like a dog team.

Cole?
she wondered.

Tatum reached for her snow pants. Bandit pricked her ears and jumped off the bed. She followed Tatum down the hall and into the kitchen and watched her stir leftover stew into dry dog food. “We’d better leave Mom a note,” Tatum said.

Bandit thumped the floor with her tail.

Tatum opened the front door and a blast of cold air slapped her in the face. She hunched her shoulders, trudging down the steps. It was so cold, dog drool bounced when it hit the ground. The sun peeked over a distant cliff, turning it the color of a ripe peach.

She remembered the time her dad had asked if she wanted a cup of coffee. She’d made a face. “Daddy, I hate coffee. You know that.” She’d screamed when he tossed it at her. It slopped over the rim and froze in midair. She’d laughed, knowing she’d been had.

Tatum kept her eyes down, searching the snow for tracks. “Stay close, Bandit,” she said, stopping to glance back. The twinkling lights were a good reference point.

On the edge of town the snow turned clean and white.
She stepped over a squat tangle of driftwood, noticing a bulky shadow in the distance. It looked like a person bent over something. But she couldn’t be sure it was Cole.

Suddenly she remembered the rogue bear. Being out here was stupid. Big-time stupid. “Come on, Bandit. Let’s go—”

Bandit barked.

“I guess that means
okay
.”

Bandit spun in a circle, barking louder.

All at once Tatum slipped; her boot cracked through the ice. Her feet burned with cold.
What’s happening?
She quickly regained her footing. Slowly, carefully, she took one small step, then another. A million needles stabbed her feet.

“Don’t move!”

It was Cole’s voice.

He called out something else. It was swallowed by the deafening yips of dogs. “Stand still!”

Tatum froze, trying not to panic.

In a flash Cole was beside her, helping her to his sled. The soles of her wet boots squeaked on the ice. He worked quickly to undo the laces, then peeled off her socks.

“What’re you doing out here?” He glared at her. “Are you nuts?”

Tatum sank into the canvas sled bag, wiggling her lifeless toes. No, not nuts.
Stupid
. Her mind went numb as a thermal blanket appeared from nowhere.

Cole wrapped her up like a burrito, then pointed to an ice-blasted cliff. “There’s a cemetery up there. Coffins and crosses under all that snow. Boats capsize. People drown.” He was totally ticked off. “Kids, like my cousin …” He
stopped and sat back on his heels. “This shore has the worst overflow on the island.”

Bandit stuck her head in the sled, nudging Tatum with her nose.

“Didn’t you see the driftwood?” he went on. “Everyone knows you never cross a line of driftwood. This isn’t any place for a
kass’aq.
”

Tatum hated that word.
Kass’aq
meant “white man,” another reminder that she was an outsider.

Cole uncapped a thermos and shoved it at her. “Drink this.”

She took it and sipped. It was something fishy.

He tied up his brake and lined out his dogs. “Let’s go!” he called with a one-footed push.

Bandit followed.

Tatum hung on to the thermos. Her feet ached. A good sign. Pain meant she still had circulation. She tried not to think about the guy with glass slippers.

Cole was right. What had she been thinking? This wasn’t the Oregon coast, where waves rolled in one after another. Sure, the sea there was wild and raged during storms, but it never stopped moving. Here, water and land froze into one giant jigsaw puzzle.

If Mom finds out what happened
, she thought,
I’ll be grounded into the next century
.

Cole stopped the sled at the lodge.

Tatum limped awkwardly up the steps, cringing at the pain in her feet. All she wanted to do was go to bed until it was time to leave this floating ice cube. The lodge was dark and quiet. Luckily her mom wasn’t up yet.

The note
, Tatum thought with a sudden flash.
I better rip it up
.

Back in her room, she crawled under the covers, pulling them over her head. Bandit slept at the foot of her bed, a cozy lump warming her feet. Tatum wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when a knock startled her awake. “Hey, lazybones,” her mom said, coming in. “You gonna sleep all day?”

Tatum forced herself to sit up. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up.”

A blizzard had blown in while she was asleep. Ice battered the window. Stiff salt wind whipped up from the sea. It
felt like the air was being sucked from the room by a giant vacuum cleaner.

Her mom settled on the bed. She had on so many clothes she looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. “Dixie Dee called earlier,” she said. “She invited us to a show at the community center tomorrow night.”

Tatum didn’t want to go anywhere, especially if it meant running into Cole. “You have to be smart to survive up here,” her dad always said. “And more than a little bit lucky.”

He always made her feel like she could do anything. Right now she felt like staying in the lodge. Putting on a movie. Letting Bandit sleep on her sore feet.

She’d been lucky.

More than a little bit lucky.

A siren blasted like an exclamation point.

“That alerts the village to danger,” her mom said.

Tatum scooted up, leaning against the headboard. “Probably the bear roaming around the dump.”

Her mom shook her head. “That guy isn’t a problem anymore.” Tatum clutched the blanket. “Oatmeal’s on the stove when you’re ready,” her mom said, getting up. “I’m heading to the store as soon as the storm passes. You want anything?”

“No thanks.” She should have said
A brain
.

Tatum stayed in bed with
Call of the Wild
. Why did dogs have to get hurt in so many stories?

It happens in real life too
, she thought, sliding deeper under the covers.

She’d read about Susan Butcher’s team being attacked by a female moose during the Iditarod. Two dogs were
kicked to death. Tatum nearly cried every time she thought about it.

She’d asked her dad why moose were so mean. “They aren’t very smart,” he’d said. “And wolves are their natural enemy. If a moose sees a team of dogs, maybe he thinks it’s a pack of wolves.” Just because that made sense didn’t mean it wasn’t horrible.

Tatum reached for the leather-bound journal on the nightstand. It smelled like tobacco and burned wood. The entries charted twenty years of bone-chilling weather on Santa Ysabel Island. She wondered who had written it. Probably a friend of Maryanne’s.

The Yupik language had ninety-nine words for ice, depending on its size and consistency. Tatum read the words meaning “crust on fallen snow” and “fallen snow floating on water.”

Ice acts like a conveyor belt
, the person had written.
It brings walrus and seals to our shores
.

Her dad kept a diary, tracking his days on the North Shore. Her mom had a notebook titled
Ridiculous Questions Asked by Tourists
. “What time do they turn on the northern lights?” “Do you take American dollars?” And Tatum’s favorite, “Can you whistle for a musk ox so I can take its picture?”

Tatum had one of her own. “How far can a
kass’aq
walk on thin ice?”

Bandit wiggled under the covers. Tatum didn’t stop her. She wondered what Cole had been doing out there. Maybe ice fishing. She’d seen men cut holes in ice and drop lines weighted with spark plugs. Then they’d soak strips of burlap
in water and wrap up their fish. The bundles froze into rigid beams. Portable refrigerators.

Tatum dozed off and on. Then she got up and padded down the hall in wool socks and slippers. “Mom?” No answer. Flat light filled the living room; the storm had blown off. Her mom must’ve gone to the store.

She curled up by the window, drawing the blinds, creating her own private cave world. But she couldn’t stand it. If she couldn’t
be
outside, she had to
see
outside. She opened the blinds.

The next-door neighbor looked out his front door, yawned, and drifted toward the community center. A girl left a house painted a gross green color. She was pulling a sleighlike sledge toward the beach.

Bandit sat at her feet, whining for breakfast.

“You had breakfast earlier,” Tatum said. “How about a snack?”

Tatum saw the petrified walrus tooth on the kitchen table. The woman who’d met their plane must have been here earlier. It really was beautiful, a shiny bronze.

Tatum went back to the window. The girl with the sledge was towing chunks of ice.
Years of living here told her where it was safe to walk
, she thought.
You can’t get that kind of experience from a book
.

Suddenly her mom stormed in through the front door. She kicked it shut and tossed a bag of groceries on the couch. Cans spilled out, falling on the floor.

Bandit nosed a can of chili.

“There was an old man at the store,” Tatum’s mom said, shaking all over. “He was talking about a young
kass’aq
girl.”
Her face was red as stewed tomatoes. She snatched a can and fired it at the bag. “I can’t believe you broke your promise—”

Tatum didn’t know what to say. “I—I left a note.”

“Don’t even go there, Tatum.”

Thud
.

Another dented can.

“I wasn’t crazy about moving up here, you know that. But teachers all over Oregon were getting laid off … and your dad, he always talked about us being independent. Having our own lodge …” Mom swiped at her damp cheeks. “And it was in the middle of the night, Tatum. Do you have any idea? You could’ve died out there. What were you thinking?”

Tatum looked down, slumping lower in the cushion, drowning in the tattered cotton. Sometimes it was better not to talk—to just keep her mouth shut and take her medicine.

•  •  •

Tatum stayed up most of the night, sitting cross-legged on her bed. She tried to finish another chapter so she could get started on her book report. But she couldn’t concentrate. She snuggled under her blankets, staring into darkness. Bandit pressed against her.

“Mom didn’t deserve this,” she muttered, hating herself for disappointing her mother. She suddenly couldn’t remember if she had thanked Cole for saving her life.

Suck it up
. That was what Dad would tell her.
Then do what it takes to make it right
.

Tatum drifted off, knowing what she would do.

The next morning her mom agreed to go to the store with her. They walked arm in arm down the icy street, not talking much. Every so often, her mom squeezed Tatum’s arm, as if she wanted to make sure she was still there. Tatum squeezed back.

She used part of her allowance to buy the ingredients. Back in Portland she had had a chart listing chores. Now she pitched in whenever she could; there was always something that needed doing.

Later, at the lodge, she mixed raw hamburger in a bowl with powdered eggs, brewer’s yeast, dry dog food, and honey. She shaped a dozen fist-sized balls.
Honeyballs
. Dogs loved them. Bandit got the first one and whined for more. But Tatum wrapped up the rest.

Her mom was in the living room, reading. “I packed a treat for Cole’s dogs,” Tatum said. “A thank-you for … you know, yesterday morning.”

Her mom looked up from her book and nodded. “I’ll get my parka,” she said, marking her place with a postcard. “Cole lives with his grandfather. It’s the house with the polar bear hides.”

Tatum’s stomach knotted. She told herself hunting was like fishing, only with a rifle. It was necessary to survive here.

They were heading out when Dixie Dee pulled up. A guy with a small suitcase climbed down from the ATV. He was short with a shiny round face and spiky black hair.

“He needs a room,” Dixie Dee said, before speeding off.

“Thirty minutes and I’m coming after you,” her mom said.

Tatum promised. “Twenty minutes max.”

Her mom sighed and looked straight at Bandit. “Don’t let that daughter of mine get into any more mischief.”

Bandit barked, smiling her doggy smile.

Tatum hurried off, her pack loaded with honeyballs. She wondered what the guy was doing here. The small thermometer clipped to her parka read five degrees. Bandit dashed ahead, happy to be outside.

Few people in Alaska knocked when visiting. Tatum did, though, not used to the custom. An old man answered the door. Cole’s grandfather. He and Cole had the same nose and almond-shaped eyes. The man wore baggy jeans with suspenders. His baseball cap said
RUST HAPPENS
.