The Middle of Everywhere (19 page)

When the snowmobile appears and I see Steve's bright green
nassak
underneath the hood of his parka, I feel like jumping up and down myself. It's partly because I'm relieved we're getting out of here, but partly, I think, because of the polar bear.

Hands down, that was the scariest moment of my life, but now I feel—what's the right word?—exhilarated. Yes, exhilarated is right. I faced my fear. And together with Etua and the other guys, I helped chase away a polar bear. Not bad for a
Qallunaaq
! And now I've got an amazing story— one I'm sure I'll tell my whole life. Just like Dad's story about spending the night on a rock ledge. Maybe stories are more important than I realized. Maybe even old Inuit legends have a point. Maybe that's why people bother to pass them on.

P'tit Eric spots Steve too, because he starts barking like crazy. Soon the other dogs are barking too.

Etua runs toward Steve. But Matthew, who has been loading fish onto his
qamutik
, reaches Steve first. From where I am, I can see the two men patting each other's shoulders. Though they don't seem to be saying much, I can tell they are communicating, filling each other in on what has happened since Steve left Short Lake.

But Etua interrupts, jumping into his dad's arms. Steve laughs and holds him tight. “Is Joseph's thumb sewed on?” I hear Etua ask.

“Good as new,” Steve answers. “Mathilde got everything arranged with the hospital in Kuujjuaq. She's still down there with Joseph.”

There's another snowmobile on its way. Even when I see the familiar parka and
nassak
, it takes me a few moments to realize it's my dad. What's he doing at Short Lake? Shouldn't he be teaching today? And what about Tarksalik?

I wave, and when Dad waves back, I walk toward him.

Lenny and Tom want to see him too. “Hey, Bill!” Lenny shouts. “A polar bear dropped by this morning. Your boy helped take care of him.”

Dad grins and opens his arms to hug me. “I was worried sick,” he says into my ear. “What with the weather and all. We've haven't had a storm like that in ages. And the temperature dipped to minus forty-two…”

“When I was a kid and we were out on the land, it got colder even than that,” Matthew is saying.

For once Dad's not interested in the weather. “What's this about a polar bear?” he wants to know.

You'd think a person would get tired of telling the same story over and over, but that isn't what happens. Over lunch, I tell Dad and Steve the story of the polar bear. Etua, Lenny and Tom help tell it too.

“That bear was yellow-white,” Etua says.

“I nearly shit myself,” Tom says.

“You shoulda seen me when my rifle didn't shoot,” Lenny adds.

I leave out the part about the beer. It's another thing I learn about stories: they change depending on who you tell them to.

“It's a good thing you remembered about Etua's rocks,” Dad says, reaching for my shoulder and squeezing it hard. “Sounds like those rocks and the bullets to his paws got rid of the bear. Your mother would have had my head if anything happened to you.” I know that's Dad's way of saying he's glad I'm safe.

I get to mush on the way home. “If you can help fend off a polar bear,” Steve says, “you can mush.” It feels a little weird at first, standing at the front of the sled, holding the sled handle. But when I shout “
Oyt!
” the dogs take off just like they're supposed to. And when the first hill comes, the dogs pull me up over it, and it's Steve and Etua who have to run alongside to keep up.

Later I take a turn on Dad's snowmobile. “Hold on a little tighter, will you?” Dad says when I'm perched behind him, my hands around his waist.

It's the nearest I've been to Dad since I was a little kid.

Dad must be thinking the same thing. “Remember when I used to read to you in bed at night?”

“Kind of. How's Tarksalik?”

“Doing a little better every day.”

“Is she home alone?”

“Rhoda promised to look in on her.”

We're quite a bit ahead of the dogsled teams, so Dad slows down, and then he stops altogether. Matthew and Geraldine are on a snowmobile too, following the dogs.

Dad and I get off to stretch our legs. It's cold, but the sun is out and the sky is very blue.

“So did you know the kid who committed suicide a while ago?” I ask him.

“Tim Arvaluk. He wasn't one of my students. But he went to the school. A ninth-grader.” Dad rubs his mitts together. “He had some pretty serious family trouble.”

“How come you didn't tell me?”

“I didn't think there was any point upsetting you. Mathilde got called to the house after it happened. Tim hanged himself.”

I don't say anything at first. I just look out at the snow. Today, Nunavik looks like a postcard. But there's a lot about this place you don't see on postcards.

“There's lots of shades of white,” I tell Dad. “See that out there?” I say, pointing to a small clearing with some low brush surrounding it. “Gray-white.”

“I like blue-white best,” Dad says. “You see that mostly around the river.”

“So are you and Mathilde having a thing?”

Dad actually blushes. “I guess so. D'you like her?”

“Sure. She's good with dogs.”

“And people too.”

“Thanks for coming out to Short Lake, Dad.”

“Like I told you, I was worried sick. Look, Noah,” Dad says, and he makes a point of looking in my eyes, “I'm proud of you. And not just on account of the bear, though that was pretty impressive. I'm proud you had the guts to come up here. And that you're getting to know the place. That you're open to it.”

“How come you never told me about the night you slept out on the rock ledge in upstate New York?”

Dad laughs. “How'd you know about that?”

“Lenny and Tom both knew about it. But not me.”

“I guess it never came up.”

“It's a good story. I wish you'd told it to me.”

Dad rubs his hand along the outside of my shoulder. His touch feels good. “We've got some catching up to do, Noah,” he says.

Dad laughs when I raise my eyebrows.

“You know something,” I tell him, “you fit in well up here with the Inuit.”

Dad looks pleased. “How so?” he asks.

I raise my eyebrows again. “You say how you feel without saying a lot.”

“I do?”

“Uh-huh. You do.”

Dad is still rubbing the side of my shoulder. “You could be right about that,” he says.

TWENTY-EIGHT

FROM: Noah Thorpe [[email protected]]
TO: Mom
SUBJECT: Re: What In God's Name Was Your Father Thinking?

Okay, Mom, relax. Calm down. Chill. I'm fine. 100% fine. I don't even have a scratch. Like I said, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Better than fine, if you really want to know the truth.

Listen, please don't go blaming Dad for sending me on the winter camping trip. I wanted to go. Really, I did.

You know, Mom, in a way, YOU helped Etua and me chase away the bear. Dad said he told you how we threw stones at the bear's paws—apparently polar bears have really sensitive feet—well, the reason Etua and I even had stones was because we were collecting them for YOU29 I told him about your inukshuk. Anyway, I'm writing to tell you please don't freak out. I'm at the computer in Dad's apartment. Tarksalik is doing way better. We bring her outside now to do her business.

I guess I'm kind of getting used to life up here. Dad says to tell you he's really sorry and if you insist, he won't allow me to go winter camping again. But Mom, I hope you won't feel that way. Winter camping is pretty, well, amazing. And like I said, I'm fine. Better than fine, even. Hope you are too.

P.S. I don't want you to think it's a bribe or anything, but I bought you this little souvenir made by a guy named Elijah. You're really gonna like it, and when I'm back in Montreal, it'll always remind me of George River.

Love, Noah

FROM: Noah Thorpe [[email protected]]
TO: Chris L'Ecuyer
SUBJECT: Re: Hey dude!

You won't believe what happened to me this weekend. I nearly got eaten alive by a polar bear. Swear to god. It came over to our tent while the others were sleeping. Dude, that thing was huge. At first, I thought it was a mountain. Anyway, we tried shooting into the air to scare him off. But polar bears are fearless. In the end, we had to use rocks and guns to chase him away.

Everyone in George River is talking about us. We're big news on the fm station.

Could you do me a favor and tell Roland Ipkins about what happened? And Tammy Akerman too?

Hey, you know that guy I told you about—Lenny? Turns out he's not really a Roland Ipkins type. Actually Lenny's all right now that I've gotten to know him.

You'll probably think I'm certifiable, but I'm planning to go winter camping again soon. Not this weekend, but the one after. Sure wish I'd taken a picture of that bear—but I was too busy trying to save my skin. Maybe next time.

Talk to ya soon, dude. When you write back, tell me what's up in Montreal. Guess the only polar bears you're gonna run into are on a poster—or at the Biodome!

Noah

I'm working on a composition about the polar bear. Because I've told the story so many times, it's pretty easy to write.

Tarksalik is lying under my desk. She walks with a limp now, but she can get around okay. Mathilde thinks by spring Tarksalik should be running again. “But only if you push her! The two of you coddle that dog too much. This is George River, not some health spa!”

Mathilde has a point. Things are different in George River. For one thing, dogs can come to school.

Dad's making us peer-edit our work. Geraldine is my partner. Her story's a fantasy. It's about a spirit girl who goes to seek this spirit boy. But there are all sorts of obstacles along the way: high mountains, deep rivers and an evil sorcerer.

“I sent in my application,” Geraldine tells me after we've finished reading each other's stories, “for nursing school in Montreal. I've been talking about…well, you know… stuff…with the guidance counselor. She thinks I can do it.”

“That's amazing.”

Geraldine smiles her Geraldine smile. “I know,” she says.

When I get home from school, Mathilde is at Dad's. She's buzzing around the apartment, tossing a jar of pickles from the fridge into the garbage (“How can a man keep gray pickles in his refrigerator?”), straightening up a pile of newspapers near Dad's chair (“Does the word
order
mean anything to you two?”), and pulling on Tarksalik's bad leg (“What a beautiful girl!”).

Mathilde's got her own key to Dad's place. I guess they didn't want me to know at first, but it doesn't bother me at all. Even if she's a bit of a drill sergeant, Mathilde's heart is in the right place. Besides, I'm glad Dad has company. Who knows? Maybe by the time I get back to Montreal, Mom'll have found herself some company too.

“I've been waiting for you!” Mathilde tells me. “Jakopie's mother has gone into labor. It's her seventh child, so it'll probably come quickly and there isn't time to get her to Kuujjuaq. I'm heading right over. And we need your help, Noah.”

“What do you want me to do?” For a second, I'm afraid she wants me to help her deliver the baby.

“It's Jakopie's dog team. Because of the high winds earlier this week he hasn't exercised his dogs in a couple of days. I said you'd take them out for him tonight.”

“You said what?”

Mathilde puts her hands on her hips. It's her sign that there's no arguing with her.

“I haven't done much mushing…”

The only answer I get is a gust of cold air from the front door. Mathilde is already on her way.

Dad wants to come along for the ride. It's pitch dark by the time we've harnessed up the dogs. I'm a little nervous about taking over from Jakopie, but his dogs are so excited to be going out for a run, they don't seem to notice who's mushing.

“
Oyt!
” I shout, and the team takes off along the same route we took when we went winter camping.

“
Oyt!
” Dad shouts from behind me.

I need to keep my eyes on the team, but I can tell, without turning around, that Dad's enjoying himself.

Maybe it's because the dogs are still young, but they pull like crazy at first, and then, by the time we reach the bend where the road narrows, they're panting. Maybe I shouldn't have let them tear out of town the way they did.

Dad must notice too, because he calls out, “What do you say we stop and take a little break?”

The snow angels are Dad's idea. We're sitting out on the snow, when he bends backward and stretches his arms up behind him. Because it looks like fun, I do the same thing. I can't remember ever making snow angels with Dad when I was a kid.

We're lying on our backs when we both notice a faint pink glow at the bottom of the horizon.

“Aurora borealis,” Dad says. “Just a little one though. You don't get the big ones this time of year—the ones that light up the sky like fireworks. They're produced by the collision of charged molecules from Earth's magnetosph—”

I put my hand on Dad's arm.

“You're right,” Dad says. “I'll shut up.”

The pink glow gets brighter and pinker. Then there are more lights—still pink—and they're not just at the bottom of the horizon anymore. They're swirling across the whole sky, like paint on a dark canvas. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And for the first time, I'm enjoying the quiet. Except for the lights in the sky, the world feels perfectly still.

“The Inuit say it's the spirits playing in the sky,” Dad whispers.

I can see that. For a brief moment, I can even see Kajutaijug's stumpy legs, but then, with the next flash of pink, they are gone.