“I took care of it,” he says, eyes darting to and fro.
“Took care of what?”
Those eyes land on the empty mattress next to me. A jolt runs up my spine.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, as the eggs begin to churn in my belly.
“I think you do.”
His tone reads less jovial than usual. Normally Frank has a jester-like appeal, but today he is serious, foreboding.
The trio of missionaries from yesterday glide down the spiral staircase. I cannot look at them even though I feel their burning gazes.
“Last night…” Frank starts to say, but I hiss for him to quiet. “Last night…” he continues.
“Come with me.”
I latch onto Frank and yank him toward the stairs. We pass by the missionaries who regard me with judgmental nods.
When we’re upstairs, the air is full of rotten fish and breakfast keeps making its way back up. I must look green because Frank seems concerned.
“You should lie down,” he says, directing me to a bench.
“Tell me what you meant,” I say, squeezing his collar. “What did you take care of?”
“What did YOU take care of?” he asks, one eyebrow dangling at the top of his forehead. He leans in closer, then in a whisper: “I saw you last night.”
The eggs come up, spraying at my feet.
“Wyatt,” he says, not concerned but insistent. “Get your wits about you.”
“He had the mirror.”
“So you got it back?”
I shake my head. “But I am certain he had it.”
“I believe you, I believe you,” he says, bringing my head to his bosom and rocking me like a mother would. I feel weightless, ready to lift off and float away. “You did what needed to be done. He was a criminal.”
“Yes, yes he was.”
“Go back to sleep for the day. I will come down around suppertime with another plate.”
“You are a true friend.”
His laugh brings up phlegm, which he spits onto the deck. A wretched color. Brown mixed with red and yellow. The rot within. I wonder if I’m only imagining that.
“Come,” he says, directing me back down to the thin mattress. The missionaries have thankfully gone and I am alone in the quarters. He raises the meager sheet up to my neck and tucks me in as much as possible. I almost suspect a kiss upon my forehead.
“Get some rest.”
I hear his heavy feet walking away, but in an instant, I go under again. Powerless to exhaustion.
August 16th, 1898
I sleep through the rest of the day and the night and when I wake it is long past morning and two plates await me. A supper that has turned gray but I nibble on it anyway along with more eggs in cream. I hold my nose just to get it down. Frank is not there but has left this food. I drink a glass of milk, which somewhat settles my stomach, but then the thoughts start plaguing and I relive the horrid last night. I did not mean to stab the thief with the blade, but then I wonder if I’m just deluding myself. I wanted him to pay for his sins.
Luckily, the missionaries are not present so I do not have to worry about their scrutiny.
I doubt I could face them without blurting out my crime. As I finish my glass of milk, I dribble some down my chin. I look for something to mop up the stain on my shirt. While I hadn’t brought a handkerchief, I spy Frank’s pack set on a mattress a few over from mine. Surely, a man so phlegmy as he would have one. There’s only one other man in the quarters whose erupting in a coughing fit and paying no heed to me. I quickly go through the pack. No handkerchief, except to my surprise, I remove my silver mirror!
I’m in disbelief as it sits in my palm, but it is my mirror with a floral pattern etched in-to the back. I close my fist around it and make my way up to the deck. Struggling to maintain foothold, I pursue Frank. I am unsure what I will do when we cross paths. He isn’t in the mess hall or in the lounge area where men play cards and smoke cigars. Sure
enough, I find him by the deck at the exact spot where I threw Carl Finnegan Langford overboard.
“Say you,” Frank says, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You’re alive!”
I grab him by the collar, ready to pick his fat body up and toss him over.
“You liar,” I sneer. “You are the thief.”
He weasels out of my grasp, wheezing as he catches his breath. Before he can question, I thrust the mirror in his face.
“I found this in your pack!”
His countenance changes from the roly-poly jokester I had first met to a devil’s visage.
Reddened eyes, slick mouth, smoke practically steaming from his nostrils.
“It wasn’t your right to go through my things,” is all he can say.
He clears his throat and gazes at the waters. We churn more than usual because of the charcoal clouds along the horizon that spell doom.
“You are naïve, Barlow,” he calmly says.
“And you are a criminal!”
“I’d be careful with using that word. For you are a worse kind.”
I taste metal at the back of my mouth as I swallow.
“I did what I thought—”
He holds up his hand, silently telling me it’s not worth continuing.
“I’m not sure a judge would agree.”
“What would a judge think about your thieving ways?”
He yawns. “Listen, you have your mirror again. Let’s not do anything you’d regret.”
“Like telling Captain Thistle of your deceit.”
“I could do the same. I watched you that night. Saw you remove the blade from under your shirt and gut that man like a fish.”
“You told me to!” I scream, and he clamps his dirty hand over my mouth.
“Listen to me, you buffoon. Carl Finnegan Langford is one of the greatest prospectors of his time. Made a fortune in the last days of the California Rush. We would have no chance against him in Alaska.”
“I thought you were headed there to be a fisherman?” I murmur through his palm.
“Wyatt, you have to be a little more aware. I hope this is a lesson learned.”
“So, you duped me into killing him for you?”
“For us. For all of us to stand a fighting chance. And if it helps, he is not an innocent man. There were a bevy of crimes he committed.”
“I never wanted to be an executioner,” I say, a tear trickling down my cheek.
“You should be thanking me, friend,” he says, his hand on my shoulder.
I knock it away. “You are no friend.”
“You were wholly unprepared to enter the beast that is Alaska. Think you met hea-thens down in Cal-i-for-ni-a, well, they ain’t nothing compared to the dregs of society that Alaska will call forth. Men who’d slit your throat for the tiniest bit of gold. Carl Finnegan would have done the same when we arrived.”
“How can I face my family?”
“They are your biggest obstacle, Wyatt. Your wife and child are what’s keeping you soft. I’m gonna rid you of them.”
He whips out the photograph, which flaps in the wind.
“What are you doing? Give me that!”
“You are absolved,” he says, tossing it overboard. I watch it spiral into the waters, the faces of Adalaide and Joe sinking. I grab Frank’s collar again.
“I should kill you.”
“Now you’re becoming worthy,” he says, and I feel the point of a knife pressing into my gut. “But if you try anything, I’ll puncture your spleen.”
“You are a hateful man.”
“Nonsense! I am a realistic man. And you’ll thank me once we get to Alaska, for I have given you a wealth of knowledge.”
“I won’t be speaking to you when we reach Alaska. We part ways as of now.”
“That is a shame. For even if you do not trust me, at least you know where I stand.
That is more than I can say for other men you’ll encounter.”
I spit at his boots. “I’d never alig
n myself with a scoundrel like you.”
“We’ll see about that. You are better off than when you stepped on this ship, but still have much to learn.”
I hear the devil’s laugh rattling as I march away.
August 17th, 1898
We reach our final port of Sitka come nighttime and I make sure to tear out the pages I’d written in my journal connecting me to Carl Finnegan Langford. I’ve avoided Frank since our fight and kept to myself through the course of the day, mentally preparing for the upcoming leg of the journey. I’ve held the silver mirror close to my heart, vowing never to let it out of my sight again. As for the photograph, it was the first casualty of the adventure.
When I leave, Captain Thistle sways by the dock with a hearty handshake waiting.
“I wish ya all the best,” he says, slapping me on the back.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Did you ever find your thief by the way?”
He doesn’t mention the thief by the name, which allows me to reply that I did find him. I show him the mirror as evidence.
“Ah, good, good. And what became of the thief?”
“Judgment still needs to rain upon him,” I say, as Frank strides past us—the devil knowing he’s found his way inside both of us.
“Romans 3:23,” Captain Thistle says. “‘For all have sinned and fall short at the glory of God.’”
“Didn’t take you to be a religious man, Captain.”
He lets out a booming laugh reeking of bourbon. “Far from it. Guess all the missionaries on board these last few days have rubbed off on me.”
“I never listened to God before,” I say, “but I firmly disbelieve in Him now.”
“Ah, maybe that’s best. The chains are snipped then. There’s no borderline as to what you can’t and won’t do.”
These words hit me like a punch to my gut, but I take their abuse, knowing them to be ominous, but likely true.
16
Huddled on a bench as the waves bring in the fishing boats for the day, Wyatt finishes the journal entries, his hand cramping and nearly losing his grip on the pen. He’d left his body while writing, returning to a treacherous past that demonstrated his murderous ways. Since awakening in the wilderness, he knew he had primal urges—no one could’ve mutilated a wolf like he did who hadn’t slain before—but to be responsible for a human’s death shocks his sensibilities. If he killed Carl Finnegan Langford, there’s no telling what else he might have done on the rest of his Alaskan expedition.
He lets this new knowledge settle. No use in lamenting. Better to know one’s demons than to be surprised by them. He looks in the silver mirror to decide if his reflection appears any different, but he decides he’s still the same grizzled man he’s finally getting to know.
The dock soon becomes pink with the blood of gutted fish, each boat proudly displaying their catches. Dusk has arrived with its frigid chill, Alaska not listening to the notion that it’s springtime yet. He blows on brittle fingers that his gloves haven’t kept warm.
Waiting for Trav to arrive but no sign of the boat until it slowly bobs in the dim violet light of the sinking sun.
Trav hops off and reins the boat in, and he and his partner go about gutting until they’re splashed in pink and filled ice boxes with dozens of fish. They pat each other’s shoulders, mirth emblazoned on their faces, satisfied with their hefty haul. Parting ways, Trav ambles toward his pickup.
Butterflies bat their wings in Wyatt’s belly. He stuffs his notepad in a pocket, rises on cracking legs, and bounds toward Trav. Electricity sparks between them, or at least that’s what Wyatt believes, the notion that these two souls who never should meet are being magnetically pulled into each other’s orbit. Wyatt decides he will make eye contact as they pass but not say a word. He fears his mouth might betray his brain if he does.
There’s no one else in the way who could distract from the inevitable happening.
Sweat sops Wyatt’s beard, his bowels churn, limbs noodling. They are only a few feet from each other. Wyatt can smell the sea emanating from his great-great grandson’s body. And then Trav raises his head slightly but enough for them to lock gazes, for the universe to freeze this all-consuming moment enough for the two men to study their counterpart. Trav narrowing his green-gold eyes, eyebrows rising, lines on his forehead deepening, the awe that a doppelgänger can unearth. Two duplicate versions, varying somewhat in age and appearance due to Wyatt’s consuming beard, but seemingly brothers, kin, eras colliding, the Earth off its regular tilt, dizzy with the wonder of no longer relying on logic to fathom the unexplainable.
They pass without lightning striking them down and upending this impossibility. Both swivel back for one final glance, but they are far enough away for it to feel like a trick of the mind. Trav shaking his head, likely dislodging the strange thoughts in his brain leading him astray. The sun has slipped away now, the surroundings colored ink black. All men who pass each other might appear as a twin due to the rolling darkness, and so Trav gets in his pickup, chugging the engine on and peeling out of the lot.
But Wyatt knows this is far from their last encounter.
The thrill of a hard day’s work in Travis’s bones. Something he missed, never realizing how much. What it means to feel worthy again after idling, present in his own body as opposed to being a foreigner. This is how good sore muscles can be. The adrenaline of cash in hand. Of meals bought and not hunted or taken from Callie’s work. Of a man slowly piecing himself together to become whole.
He doesn’t mind the stink of salt and the curdle of fish. Of fingernails lined with guts and clothes painted in shades of red. Of early mornings in the dark and driving home in the dusk. Limbs weary but firm. No more sad tunes crooning from the radio. Of a wife and child he looks forward to seeing rather than feeling shame. A promise of tomorrows rather than a hesitancy. An alarm clock a benevolent rooster, not a daily plague.
Once he finishes, he and Smitty say their goodbyes and he takes in a landscape view of the docks. Imagining his fish shack like a lighthouse calling the fishermen in after a long day on the waters. How many runs would it take to get him there? Even if it’s five years from now, or ten, the idea of a goal better than nothing at all. So he keeps the vision sturdy, somehow it will materialize.
There’s a man walking toward him. No chance they won’t pass each other by. Likely another fisherman since he’s still new and does not know everyone. The light has dimmed so squinting becomes necessary. He no longer has the perfect vision he used to but not quite ready for glasses. The man has a sprawling beard, one that has taken some time to perfect. He lifts his own gaze ready to give this man a friendly nod. Nothing could prepare him for what he was about to see.
He’s heard the term bizarro before. That some alternate universe exists with a bizarre version of yourself. Seemingly alike but with a few slight differences, enough to set the two apart from being duplicates. That is this man. Equal in build: stocky and muscular but not large or imposing. Emerald eyes, like Cora used to describe his, two little jewels.
And of course—that nose. Big as a doorknob but one he always thought brought character to an otherwise handsome face. A smaller nose would have made him look dainty; his made him into a gladiator. And sure, this strange man has a swirling beard and Travis kept his trim, but he’s grown a giant beard before.
He thinks all this as he and the man whip by each other. By the time he spirals back to Earth, they’re far enough away for it to seem like an inebriated dream. The sun has settled, darkness ablaze, and the two men stand apart as nothing more than shadows. The shadows stare at one another for one more isolated moment before parting. He swings into his pickup, shaking his head, still alive in this fantasy as it seeps from his consciousness. But he’s aware it will revive again, for if he’s meant to know this double, Laner is small enough that there’s no way they won’t collide again.
17
At night, Travis keeps the encounter with his double from Callie, no
t to be secretive but because he’s unable to put it into words. This man was another version of me, he could say. Or even , he reminded me of Bobby. Because Bobby had a great, sweeping beard the day he died. Bobby liked hiding his face as much as possible.
Callie brings pizzas home from the Joint, making Eli ecstatic. Eli stretching the cheese as much as possible until it plops in his lap and then giggling until his face turns red. He talks of Miss Evelyn and learning how to count animal cards, being most excited when he got to the caribou card with nine of them. Nine boos in a row.
Travis reads him a picture book in bed. Immediately after finishing, Eli wants it read again. Travis’s eyes are starting to close but Eli begs and he gives in. Halfway through, Eli’s snoring so Travis tucks him in tight, kisses the top of his head, and shuts out the light.
Callie has a glass of red wine and listens to music on the couch with Chinook. Travis tries to worm his way between them but Chinook’s decided to be a cock block.
“C’mon, Chinook, let me at my wife.”
Chinook sighs and eventually moves over. Travis clinks his beer with her glass.
“How’s my girl?”
“Your girl is wine flushed.”
“That’s how I like her.”
He blows a raspberry into her neck and the two paw at each other before exhaustion sets in.
“Oh, I’m meeting Grayson at Elson’s after work tomorrow. That cool?”
“I’ll save you dinner,” she says, tracing a finger around her glass and creating a hum.
“How’s he doing?”
“Lousy. Lorinda was the love of his life.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“She give any indication she might take him back?”
“Not really. She’s embarrassed, like any woman would be.”
“Put in a good word for him.”
“I don’t have that kind of power.”
She leans against his shoulder and soon she’s asleep, so he picks her up and carries her to bed. Takes off her socks and her jeans, tucks her in tight too. Crawls into bed as well and thinks of how much luckier he is than that duplicate man—no way does he sleep next to someone as wonderful as Callie. During the night, they stay locked together, both twisted into the shape of a question mark.
The Ancestor Page 10
