The Middle of Everywhere (9 page)

I try not to laugh. “Sure,” I tell him. “All the time.”

Tom nods slowly. I can tell there's another question coming, even if it may take a while. The Inuit don't seem to do anything in a rush. “So what do Big Macs taste like, anyhow?”

“Like a hamburger, but with a special sauce on it,” I tell him. “The bun's a little soggy though. I guess you've never had one, right?”

Tom raises his eyebrows to say yes. Or in this case, no. He's never had a Big Mac. “Me and my family eat mostly country food—stuff we trap or catch. And sometimes junk food from the Northern or the Co-op. Except for camping trips like this one, I've never left George River.” From the way he says it, it's hard to tell whether he thinks never leaving George River is a good thing or a bad thing.

For a second, I try to imagine what that would feel like, but I can't. I've lived in Montreal all my life, but it's a big city with millions of people, and I've traveled to other places, like New York and Toronto and even Cuba. The idea of never leaving George River makes me feel kind of claustrophobic. It's a weird feeling, considering how everywhere I look there's nothing but snow and empty space. And loads of it. If I had to spend my entire life up here, away from everything Montreal has to offer—the Bell Centre, movie theaters, restaurants, stores, tons of people—I'd feel trapped. But if Tom's never been anywhere else, he can't know what he's missing.

“I'll buy you a Big Mac when you come to Montreal,” I tell him.

Tom grins. “Did you ever eat ptarmigan?” he asks.

“Until Tuesday night, I never even heard of ptarmigan.”

“I guess ptarmigan's kind of like our Big Mac. Only we don't have to line up for ptarmigan. Or pay. We just shoot 'em.”

“You shoot 'em?”

“Yup,” Tom says, adjusting the rifle that is slung over his shoulder, “then we roast 'em for lunch. You'll probably be eating some today. The heart and liver are the best parts. We eat those raw.”

I gulp. “Raw?”

Tom licks his lips.

Maybe I should have stayed with Dad and Tarksalik after all.

“How far are we from Short Lake now?” I ask Tom when we begin slowing down.

Tom turns to look out at the tundra. “Coupla hours at most,” he says. “You'll know we're almost there when we see the inukshuk.”

I pat the camera in my pocket. My mom will want a picture of the inukshuk. She has a collection of miniature inukshuks on a shelf at home, and I helped her build one in our front yard.

The dog teams pull up near a small wooden cabin just beyond the trail. The cabin has a porch that wraps around two sides. “One of the teachers built it himself,” Tom explains as we climb off the
qamutik
. “He moved back south. But he left Steve the key.”

“Why would anyone go to the trouble of building a cabin up here?”

Tom shrugs. “I guess he wanted some place quiet to come to.”

I look to see whether Tom is joking, but he isn't. “Some place quieter than George River? Isn't George River already in the middle of friggin' nowhere?”

I'm sorry I said it almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Tom puts his hand to his chest, like I've slugged him. “It's not the middle of nowhere to us,” he says, looking right at me. “For us, George River is the middle of everywhere.”

We have to wade through the snow to reach the cabin. By the time we get there, Jakopie has already lit the wood-stove. Steve is trying to help Etua unzip his parka, but Etua wants to do it himself. I'm beginning to realize that Etua is a very stubborn kid.

“Your dogs are looking real good,” Steve tells Jakopie.

For a second, I notice Jakopie's dark eyes light up, but then he looks back down at the snow. You can tell he isn't used to compliments. “I do my best with 'em” is all he says. He pokes at the fire, but I think he's just trying to keep busy. Jakopie's even quieter than the other Inuit.

“Joseph says you've been doing a lot of fishing and hunting so your dogs have food.”

“Uh-huh,” Jakopie says. “A lot of fishing and hunting. Carving too. Joseph's been teaching me how. He says he might be able to help me sell some of my carvings to this gallery in Quebec City. That'd help pay for dog food when I have trouble getting country food. If I can keep away from cigarettes like I been trying to, I'll save even more money.” Jakopie takes a deep breath, as if he needs to come up for air after all that talking.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Steve tells him. “You must be a pretty good carver if Joseph offered to help you out like that. Those dogs are lucky to have you, Jakopie. Darn lucky.”

This time, Jakopie doesn't say anything. But when he smiles, I notice that one of his front teeth is broken right in half. I run my tongue across my own front teeth. I never realized before that I was lucky to have them.

I hear a popping sound outside, followed by another and then two more, one right after the other. “I guess Lenny and Tom are shooting our lunch,” Steve tells me. “Looks like we need some more wood for the stove. Can I put you in charge of that, Noah?”

“Sure,” I say, though what I'm really thinking is my body hasn't defrosted yet. What I'd really like to do is peel off my wet socks and let them dry on the stove.

“You might have to scrounge around for wood. There'll be some good-sized spruce trees up by the lake, but there's just small shrubs around here,” Steve says.

Now why didn't I think of that?

The skin on my fingers is dry and chapped. I bring my hands to my mouth and blow on them. Then I put my mitts back on, toss on my parka and head out. Before I go, I take one last look at the woodstove.

Outside, the wind whistles past me. I look down at the dogs. They're by the trail, spread out on the hard-packed snow. Only P'tit Eric is still on his feet, sniffing the air. We might have needed a rest, but P'tit Eric looks like he'd have preferred to keep running.

I spot some of the small shrubs Steve was talking about. They're not far from the cabin, but I have to wade through more snow to reach them. I grab whatever twigs I can find. Soon one pocket of my parka is full. This is going to be easier than I thought.

I hear more popping sounds. Some of the dogs start barking. Maybe they're hoping to have ptarmigan for lunch too.

“Hey, Noah!” a voice shouts. It's Tom. “Come see what we got!”

I'm glad Mom isn't around. She loves birds. She keeps a pair of binoculars on the back porch in case any interesting ones come around. She goes nuts if she sees a cardinal or a blue jay, even a yellow finch. Once she woke me up to show me a woodpecker in our backyard. I bet Mom's never even heard of ptarmigan.

Tom and Lenny are standing in a clearing on the other side of the cabin. On the ground in front of them is a long row of dead birds. The boys have laid them out neatly against the snow. The birds have furry-looking feet. Their feathers are white and gray—the colors of the tundra. There's red too, but that's from their blood, which is spattered near them on the snow.

I count the birds. “Ten,” I say. “That was quick.”

Lenny makes a grunting sound. “It's easy. They're stupid birds,” he says. “They don't even try to fly away when they see us coming.”

“Look at this one!” Tom grins as he lifts one of the birds from the snow, picking him up by the neck. “I shot him right through the head. Means I didn't waste any meat.”

Tom plucks three feathers from the bird's tail. “For good luck,” he says, handing Lenny and me each a pale white feather, and keeping one for himself.

I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with the feather. So when Lenny puts his into the front pocket of his parka, I do the same. “Thanks,” I tell Tom.

Lenny points over at the shrubs. The sun's come out and I have to shade my eyes to see. There's a ptarmigan, sunning himself. Lenny hands me his rifle. “Wanna shoot him?”

“But I don't have a license.”

“We're not going to tell anyone. C'mon. Don't you wanna try?”

I can't say no. Not if I don't want Lenny thinking I'm a wuss. I take the rifle. It's lighter than I expected. Then I take a step forward and aim right at the bird. I pull back on the trigger. Just as I shoot, the bird flies off. Soon all I see is a spot of gray and white against the blue sky. I'm part relieved, part disappointed.

I hand the rifle back to Lenny. “I thought you said it was easy.”

“It's easy for us. You got too close,” he mutters.

Tom reaches into the pocket of his snow pants for his knife. Then he kneels down and slices open the bird he's holding. He pulls on the membrane that separates the skin from the meat. The breast meat is deep red, much redder than chicken.

I know I can't look away. I remember how we dissected a pig in biology last year and I nearly puked. I haven't eaten a pork chop since.

Tom reaches into the bird's guts to pull out the heart and liver. The heart is small and bright red; the liver, almost black. The heat they give off makes the air misty. Just a few minutes ago, that heart was pumping inside the ptarmigan, and the liver was doing whatever it is livers do.

Tom slices the heart and liver into three pieces each. He pops his share into his mouth, then passes Lenny his share.

My turn's next. Tom passes me the two small slivers of meat. Bright red ptarmigan blood drips from his lips.

I want to close my eyes, but I know I can't. So I take the two pieces of meat and pop them into my mouth. I try thinking of a Big Mac—the tangy sauce, the soggy bun.

Lenny rolls his eyes. “You've got to chew on it, man,” he says.

So I do. I chew hard. The heart goes down okay. At first, I don't think I'll mind the liver either. I try to enjoy the warm sensation in my mouth. But then I taste blood— sharp and metallic.

Thinking about a Big Mac isn't working now. Instead, all I can think about is that I'm eating raw bird's liver. And even though I'm not looking at Tom anymore, I can still picture the blood dripping from his lips.

That's when I puke.

Tom claps my back and offers to get me some water. “There's some on Steve's
qamutik
,” he says.

Lenny laughs so hard he falls over in the snow.

TWELVE

T
he others eat ptarmigan for lunch. I wait for my stomach to settle. Then I have half a cheese sandwich and a few bites of a granola bar with chocolate chips.
Small bites. Chew well!
I can almost hear Mom's voice.

The cabin, which was ice cold when we came in, has warmed up quickly, thanks to the fire and our body heat. At first, I leave my parka and mitts on, but soon I take them off. My wet socks are already hanging on a makeshift clothesline over the stove. The smoke from the fire stings my eyes.

Lenny is roasting chunks of breast meat over the fire. “You sure you don't want to try some more?” he asks me.

“I'm sure.”

“You still look a little green, Noah,” Steve says, shaking his head.

The cabin we've come to belongs to a guy named Jean. It turns out he was senior English teacher at the school before Dad came to George River. The cabin's pretty simple. There's only one room. It smells musty, and you can't really call what's in it furniture. The couch is the backseat of someone's truck, only it has two orange-and-yellow crocheted pillows on it, which you don't usually find in a truck. The table's a plywood box and the bookshelves are made from pink plastic milk crates. There are a lot of books in those crates: a dusty encyclopedia, a collection of fairy tales from around the world and a pile of how-to books.
How to Build a
Garage: 12 Easy Steps
.
How to Do Your Own Plumbing
. Since the cabin doesn't have either a garage or plumbing, I figure Jean never got around to reading those two.

There are photographs, too, on the crates and on the plywood box. A bare-chested man in shorts with a small kid on either side. Pictures of him with the same kids looking more grown-up. The man, grinning, with his arms around the kids' shoulders.

“Where's Jean now?” I ask Steve.

“Went back to Toronto. Too bad. He was a lot of fun. When we used to stop here on our way to camp, he'd be waiting for us. The fire would be roaring, and he'd have a pot of tomato soup going. He always said it was homemade, his secret recipe. The funny thing is, after he left we found a whole pile of soup cans out back. Campbell's Tomato.” The memory makes Steve chuckle.

“If he liked it so much up here, why'd he leave?” I ask.

“Maybe he ran out of Campbell's Tomato,” Tom jokes.

“Nah, that's not why,” Steve says. “Jean missed his kids too much to stay up north for good. Said he didn't feel right being so far away from them.”

I bite my lip. The vomit has left a sour taste in my mouth. Water helped, but not enough.

Steve must know what I'm thinking. “I'm sure it's hard for your dad too.”

I unwrap the second half of the cheese sandwich from the waxed paper it's packed in. “I guess we never lived together long enough for him to miss me,” I say.

“That must've been tough for both of you,” Steve says.

Lenny's sitting on the floor at the other end of the room, eating roast ptarmigan. But he's listening. I know, because he mutters, “At least you've got a dad.”

Does that mean Lenny doesn't? But when I turn to look at him, he's concentrating on his ptarmigan, gnawing the last slivers of meat off the bone. The Inuit sure don't let a thing go to waste.

Etua pulls at the sleeve of the fleece jacket I wore under my parka. “Can you play yet? I'll be Spiderman. You try to catch me, okay?”

“Give Noah some time to let his belly settle,” Steve tells Etua.

Etua is quiet for about three seconds. “Is your belly settled yet?” he asks me.