Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,6
shoulder through the hole before sliding out his torso. He cracked the small door with a garden rock, painted like an adult hare for his mother’s collection of stone leverets.
Careful to avoid rotten and waterlogged patches of wood, he pulled on his sweatshirt and eased his bag over his arms. Taking a deep breath, he slid down the porch roof as it bounced against his back. The straps met loosely between his shoulder blades but fit tight enough as to avoid dropping it. In the window’s blind spot, he scaled the worn side of the tool shack.
Noah resisted the urge to run to his pickup. As long as it wasn’t gone, Lee would leave his bedroom door locked if he came looking. Instead, he bolted for the thick tree line. Sliding through the brush, he moved along the edge of the bay, making his way towards the dirt backstreets.
Yazzie's originally closed in the eighties. The entire Alexander Archipelago was hitby brutal recession, and when Lee’s father, Yazzie, died after a massive pulmonary embolism, he hadn’t been overly thrilled with the concept. Jobs outsourced and drained Ashland dry, and unemployment was unacceptable for an elder family. Noah was immediately enlisted.
When Yazzie's re-opened, it was difficult. A ten-year-old, serving meals when he hadn't been allowed food for a day or two had never been an easy place to be. It got easier when other businesses in the Ashland Harbor Marina strip foreclosed. At that point the years of hand-me-downs faded and four bi-monthly drives to Anchorage were enough to fix a toothy gap in his front teeth.
When Tony Gabriel migrated back to town, Noah discovered an escapism in guitar and spent a year paying off and fixing up a reasonably attractive pick up.
The lapse between providing a better life and affording to add pricey liquors to it was peaceful. The time didn’t last, and when cut- backs came around, habits proved which had become a priority. The westernized cultures brought guns, disease, and religion, alongside self-indulgence and instant gratification. Going without school supplies or vehicle repairs were an unforeseen consequence after a moment’s splurge.
They could upkeep Yazzie’s stock, employee paychecks, the fishery’s materials, and food in the kitchen. Provided Andrew and Mark continued to live with friends and Noah provided for his own needs or occasionally Sarah’s. Clothes, gasoline, soda – they didn’t come from home anymore.
That was life with the lush.
Noah’s friends were hardly mature, but they understood. Half the adults in Ashland were drunks, and the levy had smashed through to parts of the small town’s limited underage party. The Elders were no exception, Lee included.
It’s funny how in Ashland, your secrets belong to everyone.
Owen and Luke’s families were more financially stable than the Locklears. Owen had an extra bunk, Luke boasted a loft. As long as Noah seemed to respect his father’s privacy and made himself scarce, they paid no mind. They claimed Noah had a place there, and he returned the favor when it was necessary. None of the safe houses were perfectly sober, but one of three was a fair enough most days. When the stars didn’t align, the rocky beach front had a series of pavilions and unattended lean-tos. Ashland was suffocating and damp, but there were options.
He didn't expect to be bothered. Sober outsiders were never antagonistic and natives were evasive. Being the son of an elder was a tempting target, but with older brothers towering around six-footfive and carrying the title as the vilest tormentors on the res, no one was stupid enough to bother him.
The problem is there's nowhere to hide.
CHAPTER 3 | ALYSON
Aly was reluctant to accompany her father into town. Greg was unpleasant in his finest moments, and the experience of driving to Ashland was uncomfortable at best. She had no desire to repeat it.
Waking to a ravenous stomach, she realized she had little choice in the matter. Having worked in town for years, her father had moved into the house only weeks before her arrival. Still, finding something edible was impossible.
Greg had mentioned his ‘hearty reserve’ between irritable complaints. Though he seemed pleased with his inventory, a quick survey of the kitchen only revealed frozen elk and doggy-bagged salmon reeking of aged garlic. When he noticed her discontent, he demanded a visit to the grocer.
With her back pressed against the Velcro of Greg’s seat covers, she fought the urge to dose. Since Greg insisted it be an early one, she had battled fatigue all morning. Constantly awoken by vicious nightmares,