He can feel the notebook he found earlier pressed between his heart and coat. He holds it in his filthy fingers, opening the cover for the first time. Pages have been torn out, likely never to be retrieved. At the top of the first page, someone has written 1898 in a callig-raphy script. With a pen attached to the notepad, he rewrites the date, the handwriting exact. It is 1898, he decides. He’s relieved to know the year, a start to unlocking some doors.
“Focus,” he tells himself.
All of his sudden he rushes along a wave, stomach churning and bile dribbling from his lips. The sensation of being on a ship familiar. He has traveled this way many times prior. Have the oceans taken him here? Are they his only chance of returning home?
So he builds this ship in his brain, piece by piece until completion. The sails wave mightily as he sets off for treasure. The waters are rough and hard to traverse. He arrives to land sick and doubled over, vomit crusted in his clothes. He wanders until he reaches the home he remembers. At the door, she stands in an apron, flour on her nose, tiny child in arms.
He’s sucked back from this vision once again, but this time he grabs the pen to illumi-nate his inspiration…
I see my beloved at the door, red hair worn up like a Gibson Girl, all swooshes and poofs. She has been making a cinnamon pie, rather my favorite. I know our time is limited for I am set to travel soon. Where to? This I do not know yet. But I understand that I’ve left her before and will leave her again, in pursuit of mystery. I’ll be leaving a child as well. A bright boy with apple cheeks, prone to fits. Yet my love for him is like a soup pot boiling over, ever simmering.
“But must you go?” my beloved asks. Her voice musical, lilting. She has questioned my pursuits before, but never convinced me to stay. My blood full of adventure, this I am certain.
“It awaits,” I tell her, a glint in my eye.
“But you’ve never…”
Her voice trails off because she can see that these words hurt. As an explorer, I’d searched before, probably came close to my dreams, but always awoke before they coalesced.
What are those dreams? I want to ask. But that is never a conversation she and I actually had, so I am unable to bring it to life with this fine pen. What could possibly have taken me away from my loves, this wicked enough object the devil dangled just out of reach?
“But what about Joseph,” she says, “you missed his first steps, his first words. What more will you miss?”
Finally, a name! A connection to my past. Joseph. Yes, I’ve said this name many, many times. Little Joe, that’s what I called my son. Little Joe with the wide eyes, apple cheeks, and fair swirl of hair. Little Joe who liked to play stick and hoop. Who could keep his hoop rolling longer than anyone. And his toy horse that he’d pull with a string. The one he slept with. The one he called Baby.
“Adalaide,” I say. “I go for us.”
Another name! My sweet Adalaide. Tough woman at home on our farm. Yes, we had a farm! Unafraid of getting dirty with the sheep we raised. Often found by our loom making the most lovely wool clothes she’d sell around town. I can even recall their smell—a touch of lilac perfume just like she wears.
Now I beg that she’ll say my name, give me a sense of self to complete the puzzle. It buzzes on her lips, waiting to be released. Please, my darling, I beg. Please, help me get back to who I used to be.
“No,” she says instead. “You go for you.” She hides her teeth, not giving me that smile I desire so. “You pretend it is for us, but it’s your restlessness. And you’ll never be quenched.”
“This is the last time,” I plead with her. I attempt to hug, but she has no interest. Neither did Joe, she’s turned him against me. They have made it on their own without me and will do so again, for even longer than they can imagine. Days will become months and soon years, a telegram never arriving. She’ll wait by frosted windows and then grow weary of a miracle. I’ll be a memory she’ll keep in a locked box, turning to it when the nights are long and cold. And there aren’t enough logs in the world to stoke the fire and keep her warm.
“Oh, Wyatt,” she’ll proclaim, when she’s old and withered without a husband to replace me. Joe will leave her to start his own family and the nights will become longer and even more fitful, her own restlessness overwhelming, the cause of death being a shattered heart.
I lament.
“Wait…I have written my name! Wyatt. Yes, Wyatt Barlow. It flows so naturally. I am Wyatt Barlow, born 1860, a part of the Civil War generation, old enough then to remember how all the men in town returned as ghosts.
“I am Wyatt Barlow,” I say, under my breath as if it’s a secret. Then I shout it out loud and proud, “I am Wyatt Barlow!” I tell the earth, and the sky, and the hidden stars, and the hide-and-go-seek sun, and any woodland creatures who have come to witness my awakening. I have woken in so many ways these past few days, but this one the most revolutionary. No longer a specter of a human, a hollow shell clanging around. A man with a strong and true name. A man who must get back to his family by whatever means possible.
A black dog surges from the house rushing after a Glaucous gull, tongue dancing in its mouth.
“Chinook!” a voice calls after it. One that Wyatt recognizes as Trav’s.
Wyatt leaps to his feet, a great charge of energy. He hightails it out of there before any reunion could occur, not ready for whatever outcome may arise. He whips his head back and can see his duplicate watching his flight through a thicket of thin trees, unaware how the two are connected.
“C’mon, Chinook,” he can hear Trav saying, but by then he gets far enough away.
He will come back for more windows into who he was.
Their address burns across his forehead. 201 Elk Road.
“I am Wyatt Barlow, I am Wyatt Barlow,” he says, over and over, in case his broken mind decides to lose it again.
5
Elson’s Pub. The doors just opened for the day, cool breaths of flurries winding their way inside. The town not much more than a long street with slender pathways shooting off from the main artery. A Pizza Joint simply called that. Feed Store. Bait and Tackle. Grocery. Clothes Mart. Hunting & Ammo. Docks running parallel with a few lolling boats.
Ice-capped mountains cutting off the distance. And Elson’s, the name ringing a fine bell for Wyatt since he heard it being mentioned by his doppelgänger.
Midday and it’s already pretty packed, only room at the bar. Sawdust on the floor. On a hanging screen, there are blurring images of tiny men shooting across ice with sticks.
Stink lines may be rising from Wyatt’s body, but Elson’s is full of fishermen stopping in for lunch with their own sour smells. He wedges between two of them, their eyes reddened from a few empties surrounding their finished plates.
There’s music in the air. Where it comes from he does not know. Sounds like it’s playing from the heavens. Some singer saying he’s “Got Friends in Lowly Places,” whatever that means. A rounded man with a beard down to his chest cleans a glass with a towel and asks him, “What you want?”
Wyatt blinks in confusion. It’s the first human contact he’s had and he’s not quite comfortable with using his voice box yet. He tries but remains unsuccessful so the man tosses him a menu.
He attempts to read the words. A good a chunk of them don’t seem like actual words.
“Go with the burger,” one of the fisherman says. The one with two chins. “Elson’s known for his burger.”
The fisherman pokes the menu with his plump finger under the words, Mondo Hamburger.
“Comes with chili cheese fries,” the other fisherman says, skinny as a fishing pole, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “You from around here? Feel like you remind me of someone.”
Wyatt shakes his head.
“Elson,” the fishing pole says, to the man behind the bar. “One Mondo and a tall Molson.”
“Ale?” Wyatt manages to ask.
The larger one rubs his stomach in a circle. “Yes, ale.”
“Much obliged,” Wyatt says.
“So, where you from?” the fishing pole asks.
“Yonder,” Wyatt replies, waving at the distance as if he actually knows.
The two look at each other and then burst out laughing.
“You sure talk funny.”
Wyatt begins laughing too, since he doesn’t know what else to do. The beer arrives in a stein, sweet foam spilling from the sides. He takes a hearty gulp and can’t stop.
“Slow down there,” the larger one says.
Wyatt finally lowers the beer after it’s half empty.
“Good.” He blinks at them. “Wyatt.” He extends his hand, his cheeks turning rosy from saying his actual name.
“I’m Tuck and that’s Jesse,” the larger one says and they shake. “We fish wild coho.
The morning was a windfall so we celebrating.”
“Our boat is full of pink,” Jesse says.
Wyatt has no idea what they mean but he nods.
“So what brings you to Laner?” Tuck asks.
Wyatt points at the floor like he’s questioning if this is Laner.
“Shit, man, this guy doesn’t even know where he’s at,” Tuck says. “We’re closest to Nome. That’s where most out-of-towners want to go. About thirty miles east. Is that where you wanna be?”
“Nome.”
“Well, might as well get some grub in ya before you go there. Gonna be cheaper here at Elson’s.”
The Mondo Hamburger arrives, a fat patty dripping with grease. A side of chili cheese fries stacked high. Wyatt digs in. Tuck and Jesse are still talking but he doesn’t care. His world being that burger. With each bite, his energy skyrockets. He practically licks the plate clean.
“Holy moly,” Jesse says. “You should enter Elson’s eatin’ competitions. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a fellow swallow food that fast.”
Wyatt replies with a truncated belch. His stomach spasms, the massive amount of food working its way through.
“I got it,” Tuck says, snapping his fingers. “He looks like Stu’s son…the other son.”
Jesse nods, but Wyatt can’t see straight.
“Outhouse?” Wyatt asks, and the two reply with a guffaw. They motion to a hallway.
Wyatt fumbles his way to the bathroom. Luckily, it’s empty. He sees a white porcelain seat and sits down, lets out a flood. There’s a ream of thin white towels he assumes to be better than leaves. As he rises, he feels full and empty at the same time.
When he returns, another man has joined the fisherman. Wyatt recognizes him as Trav’s hunting friend. He’s in a uniform and appears to be a man of the law. As Wyatt sits, Tuck pats his shoulder.
“Wyatt, this is Deputy Grayson Hucks. Stopped by to have a tall one…or five with us after his early shift ended.”
Wyatt extends his hand, but when Grayson shakes it the deputy asserts his dominance.
Grayson’s eyes seem to narrow, untrusting this new vagrant who has stumbled into town.
Grayson’s drunk to the point of rocking on his heels.
“Haven’t ever seen you before,” Grayson says, slightly crushing Wyatt’s fingers.
Wyatt doesn’t know if he’s relieved or saddened that this man doesn’t see the resemblance between him and Trav. Might be the beard. Or that Grayson seems pickled.
“I’m an explorer,” Wyatt says, puffing out his chest.
“What are you exploring in Alaska?”
“Alaska,” Wyatt repeats quietly. The frigid terrain finally making sense. High up north at the edge of civilization. What could have possibly brought him here?
“Gold?” Tuck cackles, and all three of them laugh.
This triggers a twitching in Wyatt’s good eye. Could gold be what brought him all this way? A quest that pulled many men of his generation. And does it mean that everyone else in the bar hunts the same shiny prize?
He reaches into a pocket and discovers two tiny nuggets. Leaving one, he pulls out the other, holding it in his dirt-caked palm.
“Well, fuck me. That is gold,” Grayson says. He rips the gold piece out of Wyatt’s hand to inspect it in the light. Out of instinct, Wyatt grabs the deputy’s wrist forcibly. The two eye each other like they’re about to enter a duel.
“Here, here,” Grayson says, giving it back. “I ain’t after your nugget.”
“Did you find that nearby?” Jesse asks. “Damn, people haven’t been searching for gold in these parts since the turn of the century. Last century.”
The three of them begin talking about their ancestors who came to the area in the hopes of finding fortune. Wyatt tunes them out, goes far within. Too much of this Alaska doesn’t match up with any recollection of the place where he’d traveled. He doesn’t have memories of it yet, but this new flashy world seems far from where he came from. Like he’d stepped in some time machine.
“Newspaper,” Wyatt says, not to anyone in particular. “What’s the date?”
Tuck removes the newspaper from under his plate that’s covered in grease stains.
With shaking hands, Wyatt reads the date. April 4th, 2020.
2020!
He nearly faints, the room cants, his feet unsolid on the ground. He holds his arms out for balance, almost comes crashing down. He clutches the newspaper as if it’s a life preserver.
“No, no, no,” he says, turning toward the door.
“Hey, hey, where you going?” Grayson asks. “Hey, you gotta pay.”
He hands the gold nugget to Grayson, his eyes pleading to let him go.
“What a nutter,” Wyatt hears Tuck say, but he’s already at the door, the brilliant cold slapping him in the face.
He stares down at the date on the newspaper again. Running his finger across the print as if he’s trying to erase and see if it’s been a prank. But the date stays firm. 2020. One hundred and twenty-two years past the date he wrote in his journal.
He can barely catch his breath, the universe spinning. Falling to the ground with trickling tears, he asks the snow bed as if it might hold the answer, “Where’s the dratted time machine?”
Managing to scurry to the back of Elson’s, Wyatt works to get his bearings. The newspaper hasn’t left his hands, joints locked, tears still flowing like mad. The year 2020 etched into his skull. No chance of it being untrue. If he weren’t from the past, how come none of this new future makes any sense? Nothing seems familiar. And if it’s all true, it means that Adalaide and Little Joe are long dead. What had propelled him before was to find them by any means possible, now only their graveyard a destination.
He punches his leg, curses at himself for being weak. He must seek answers. Even if Adalaide and Joe are gone, he needs to discover everything he can about them. Could the date written in the journal be a mistake? No. He knows too many facts from that era. Wil-liam McKinley was president. The City of Greater New York had recently been created.
The Spanish-American War was being fought. Joshua Slocum completed a three-year solo circumnavigation of the world. All these facts are easily accessible where everything afterwards remains a blank.
But what does this mean? Had he chased a golden fortune in the wilds of Alaska and somehow frozen in time for over a hundred years? That doesn’t make any logical sense.
However, it does explain why his twin Trav wasn’t at all concerned with his disappearance. But if Trav isn’t his twin, who he is then?
“I’m his ancestor,” Wyatt decides, his mouth wide in the shape of an O. He sucks in a hit of icy air. This revelation sits with him, earns its place in his mind until it swears to settle in for good. His grandson? No…his great grandson? He starts counting out the years on his fingers, reaching the conclusion that it’s likely his great- great grandson. This brings him a flash of unabashed glee—that his surname has stuck for four generations.
But that mirth soon gets zapped with unbearable melancholy taking its place. All the life moments that passed by while he was trapped in ice. The unfairness of this plague.
A lonesome howl bellowing through the afternoon, continuing until night drops its dark and heavy cloak.
6
Callie’s been preparing caribou stew all day in the slow cooker. The lean meat diced medium, Holy Trinity of carrots, onions, and celery along with potatoes, tomatoes, garlic, a bay leaf, beef stock, flour, thyme, rosemary, and butter. Practically everything they have in their pantry, most of the goods taken from Pizza Joint. Lorinda never minded, although that might change now that she has it out with Grayson. Selfish to think this, but money has been so tight and Travis too stubborn, proud, or whatever to take a job beneath him.
She’d mentioned to Stu and Cora about hinting at fishing work on a boat. If she brought it up, Travis would refuse, but Stu has a way of shutting down any arguments fast.
She’s been into crystals for some time, always believing in energies but never practicing. She’s learned to tell the crystals what she wants. Back in California, she used to wish for success as an actress. A childhood dream like other Los Angelans before its improba-bility reared its head. Now a healthy family always comes first. She’s wanted the crystals to watch over Papa Clifford for some time since his health started declining. She doesn’t have to worry about her own folks because they had her so young. And health-wise, Eli and Travis are all right, although mentally Travis has been slipping into a belabored funk.
Travis enters the kitchen splattered with blood from carving the caribou. Startled, she swivels around, some freshly diced onions drop to the floor.
“Five second rule,” Travis says, swiping a beer from the refrigerator.
“I just mopped, the onions would be covered in Mr. Clean.”
She scoops them into the trash.
“I imagine you’re gonna wash up before your folks come,” she says, eyeing the blood.
“Nah, I was hoping to give them a horror show.”
She chuckles but it’s stilted. She finds herself doing this more, forcing things between them. What used to come easy now feeling like they’re acting out roles. Something her parents had warned her about.
The Ancestor Page 3
