and probably Bunny would believe that, too.
When Selma’s mom asked me to describe how I felt about winning the Ice Classic, how I felt was that it was none of her goddamn business. If she chopped open my body, she might have been surprised that there were no dollar bills hanging off my clavicle or flapping from my rib cage.
In the end, though, I said nothing, because the interview was interrupted by a white van flying into the parking lot, tires screeching and dust blowing everywhere. Its bumper hung at a crooked angle—like a half-smile on a drunk man—and I knew before the door even opened who was going to fall out of that van. And then he did, still in an orange jumpsuit, fresh from the Fairbanks Correctional Center. I knew he’d get out of jail sometime, and of course it had to be right then, because it is my life, after all.
Dumpling looked horrified. Abigail Flowers looked surprised. From inside the fogged-up car, Selma just looked scared.
“Dora, you get over here!” he yelled, stopping a few feet from us and looking at the notebook in Selma’s mom’s hand. I saw a flicker of recognition dart across her face. She was most likely the reporter who did the story on my dad shooting up the Sno-Go, too. It’s not like Fairbanks has a million reporters. She must know everything about everyone. Was this what she meant about doing a “feel-good” story? Yeah, there’s a twist: the girl whose father shot up the Sno-Go just happened to win the Ice Classic.
“Mr. Peters,” she said, and instantly I knew she’d gone too far. She’d meant to sound polite, but his lip curled at the word Mr. as if she was mocking him.
“You don’t want to break your parole in the first hour you’re out now, do you?”
“Get away from my daughter!” he shouted.
But instead of stepping away, like a sane person, she actually turned and put herself between me and my dad; Dumpling, too, as if her bony frame could protect us all.
Selma’s terrified eyes were wide and unblinking in the front seat of the car.
“Don’t make me call the police,” Abigail said.
“No, it’s okay.” I tried to step around her. You’d think a reporter would at least know the rules. If she called the police, things would get even worse for me than they already were.
“That’s right, Dora. Whaddya think? That you’d get to keep all that money for yerself?” he said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dumpling’s father coming out of their house. He made a beeline straight toward my dad, his hand extended in greeting, as if he were actually glad to see him.
“Welcome back, Bumpo; let’s go have a chat down at the diner.”
“If that little slut daughter of mine thinks she’s hoarding that money…”
Dumpling’s dad winced at the word slut, but he put his arm around my father as if they were old pals and said, “Let’s discuss it with the brothers.”
Hills Bros. coffee is just called “the brothers” around here. But I’m sure my dad would’ve preferred something stiffer. He must’ve been pretty thirsty if he really did just get out of jail.
Behind his back, Dumpling’s father motioned with his hand that Dumpling and I should go inside the house. Nobody had to tell me twice.
—
We leave for Dumpling’s fish camp that very night when Dumpling’s father gets back. Nobody asks him where my dad is or what happened; we just load everything into their station wagon and drive through the bright reddish-orange night, up past the White Mountains and to the edge of the mighty Yukon River.
Nobody says one word about my dad or the white van or Selma’s mom asking me questions. We drive farther and farther north, the single-lane road dipping like a roller coaster where beneath it the ground has frozen and thawed—like it does every year—ripping apart asphalt that needs to be redone every single summer.
I breathe easier with each green mile marker we pass on the side of the road. For most people, these numbers just mark the location of someone’s cabin, or gold mine, or a spot where they once shot a moose. But for me it means putting more and more distance between me and my dad.
We drive for hours to the banks of the Yukon, then unload everything into the boat that Dumpling’s dad leaves here every fall—pulling off the not-so-white tarp and shaking off the debris that’s built up over the year.