The Simple Wild_A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  “And people either like that way of life or they don’t; there’s no real in-between. People like Wren and Jonah, they find they can’t stay away from it for too long. And people like Susan, well . . . they never warm up to it. They fight the challenges instead of embracing them, or at least learning to adapt to them.” Agnes pauses, her mouth open as if weighing whether she should continue. “I don’t agree with the choices Wren made where you’re concerned, but I know it was never a matter of him not caring about you. And if you want to blame people for not trying, there’s plenty of it to go around.” Agnes turns to smile at me then. “Or you could focus on the here-and-now, and not on what you can’t change.”

  I get what she’s saying. That maybe the demise of my parents’ marriage doesn’t fall just on my dad’s shoulders, that maybe my mother never really tried, either, despite what she claims.

  The small white-and-black-striped plane grows closer, descending in the sky, lining up with the short runway below, its wings teeter-tottering from side to side. “Do they always look so unstable coming in?” I ask, warily.

  “Depends on the crosswinds. Don’t worry, though. Wren could land that thing in his sleep.”

  I distract myself from my growing anxiety with a gaze around the lot. Several of the planes that were being loaded when I arrived are now closed up and appear ready to go. “What are those planes carrying? I saw the guys loading up boxes.”

  “Cargo. Lots and lots of packages and other mail to the villages.”

  “Wild delivers mail?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’ve had a contract with USPS for years. We fly out thousands of pounds of cargo every day. Letters, online orders, food, fuel. Water treatment chemicals. Two weeks ago we flew two ATVs up to Barrow on the Sherpa.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize the scope of the business,” I admit sheepishly.

  She nods knowingly. “It’s quite an operation. There are a lot of people working here, between all the locations. Used to be even more, but our competition has been poaching our hunt camps and tour guide companies away from us. Even the private one-off bookings coming in from the Lower Forty-eight are less and less.” She snorts. “There was one day when Wren made me call all our lines to make sure they were working, the phones had been so quiet. But . . . we’ll manage.” She says it almost airily, but the tightness I see in her profile tells me it’s nothing to take lightly. She smiles with assurance when she sees the worry in my face. “It’s nothing for you to think about, Calla.”

  We watch quietly as the wheels of my dad’s plane touch down on the gravel runway, bouncing twice before sticking. I traipse after Agnes as she strolls forward to where my dad coasts in, guided by the same short, stocky guy with the glow sticks from the night I arrived.

  My dad slides out of the plane with surprising ease for a fifty-three-year-old man. We reach him as his boots hit the ground.

  “How’d it go up there?” Agnes calls out.

  “Rain’s still leaking in the back corner and the guys seem more interested in taking their lunch break than figuring it out. I’ll need to send Jonah up there to bark at them in a few days.” His soft gray eyes flicker to me. “You been up a while?”

  “Since sunrise,” I admit. Though there’s no sun.

  “It’ll take a few more days to adjust.”

  “Just in time for me to head back home.”

  “That’s how it usually goes,” he murmurs, frowning up at the sky as rain begins to spit. “Hopefully we’ll have some good weather for you before then.”

  “She came to check out Alaska Wild and see her dad fly a plane,” Agnes says, winking at me. “Maybe we should get her up in the air, so she can see more than Bangor.”

  “Today?” My stomach instantly tightens with nerves. It’s one thing to watch a plane land. It’s another to hop in and fly off with no mental preparation, after my last horrendous experience.

  My dad seems to sense my panic. He chuckles. “I think Jonah may have scarred the poor girl.”

  “She’ll be fine. You and Jonah can take her out in Betty,” she urges.

  I frown. Betty?

  “Can’t,” the grounds worker pipes up from behind us, unloading my dad’s plane. “Betty’s in the hangar.”

  His gaze wanders to the big warehouse, where a banana-yellow plane sits. Two men stand next to it, talking. One is tall, with gray hair and a potbelly; the other a small man in denim-blue coveralls, holding a tool. A mechanic, I’m guessing.

  “Sonny!” a deep voice booms, pulling my attention to the left, to the looming figure that marches toward us. “Did you remember the supplies from the fridge?”

  “Shit,” the grounds guy—Sonny, I assume—whispers. He steals a glance at me and then scurries off, the panicked look on his face saying that he indeed forgot whatever Jonah is referring to.

  “There’s a strong downwind and rain north of us. Better get going,” my dad warns by way of greeting.

  “I’ll be in the air in five.” Jonah comes to a halt beside me. “I called River Co. and shook their tree. They said they’ll pay the bill by the end of the week.”

  My dad nods. “Good. That’ll help. I know they’re busy as hell, but that’s no reason not to pay.”

  “Yeah, busy pushing all their clients to use Jerry,” Jonah grumbles. “If they’re not gonna pay on time, we need to cut ties.”

  “Can’t afford to lose them,” Agnes adds in gentle warning.

  “We already pretty much have,” Jonah throws back.

  Dad sighs wearily, as if they’ve had this conversation too many times already. His gaze heads back toward the hangar. “What’s going on with her?”

  “George said she felt funny up there today.”

  “Funny? Like how, funny?”

  “Couldn’t say exactly. Just didn’t like it.”

  “Twenty-seven years flying planes and all he has is ‘it felt funny’?”

  “You know how George gets with his ‘feelings.’ ” Jonah gives my dad a look. “Who knows. Maybe he didn’t rub his lucky rabbit foot three times before takeoff. Anyway, she was due for her maintenance check soon, so I’ve got Bart doing a full look-over.”

  Something familiar finally jogs in my mind. “You name all your planes,” I say slowly. He used to talk about them like they were actual people—family members.

  They turn to look at me and a wistful smile slowly stretches across my dad’s face.

  “Wasn’t there a . . . Beckett?” I struggle to recall the exact name as memories flood back to me now. I flew so-and-so up to the North Pole today. He even made me ask my mom to show me where the North Pole was on the map. Apparently, it’s in Alaska.

  “Becker. After George Becker, the geologist. That’s one of the Beavers.” My dad is full-out beaming now. “Your grandfather named the planes after Alaskan explorers. We have an Otter called Moser. And a Stockton, and Turner. Those are Pipers. We had to retire Cook a few years ago after one of our pilots hit a moose in a white-out landing. He was fine.” My dad waves off my cringe. He’s suddenly alive with names and facts. “Bering, after Vitus Bering, is getting an engine overhaul. Huh . . .” My dad scratches the thin layer of stubble on his chin. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “Neither can I.” I’d also forgotten how easy it is to talk to my dad when it has anything to do with planes. “So Betty was an explorer, too?”

  All three of them chuckle.

  “I may have strayed a little off course,” my dad admits with a sheepish grin. “We now have Betty, who’s in the hangar. And this is Veronica. She’s a Cessna. She’s my special girl.” He raps his knuckles against the plane he just flew in, then points to the larger ­orange-and-white plane not far away. “That one’s Archie.” He pauses, looking expectantly at me.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Wren. I doubt she’s ever read a comic book,” Jonah butts in, and I can
sense that condescending smirk from beneath his bushy face without being able to see it.

  This is one time he won’t get the better of me. I stroll past the smug bastard and stop in front of a white plane with a navy-blue nose and a row of portal windows on either side. “So this is Jughead, then?” I steal a glance at Jonah to see the surprise in his icy blue eyes. A wave of triumph rushes over me, and I let my own smug smile blossom over my face.

  There’s no way in hell I’m admitting that not only is Jonah right and I’ve never so much as held any comic book—because they’re pointless and I’m not a seven-year-old boy—but I wouldn’t be able to name a single Archie comic character including the namesake, had it not been for Netflix.

  The point is, I’ve proven Jonah wrong and I’m feeling way too much satisfaction over something so petty.

  My dad wanders over to smooth his hand over Jughead’s blue nose. “He’s our school sports team workhorse. He does a lot of back-and-forth between the villages through the year, shuttling the kids to their games.”

  “Students fly to all their games?”

  “You should see the school travel budgets.” A knowing smile crinkles his eyes. “It’s a very different way of life up here.”

  “Speaking of budgets . . . James ran the numbers for how much we lost when we were grounded last week,” Agnes says in a low, serious tone. “You’ve got a few things to figure out.”

  The lightness fades from my dad’s face as he nods solemnly.

  And unease grows inside me.

  First, Agnes’s offhand comment about the competition, and now this. Is Alaska Wild having money issues? It’s bad enough that my dad has his health to worry about, but does he have his family’s business to stress over, too?

  Sonny’s back, running awkwardly across the pavement toward a nearby waiting plane, his short arms hugging a sizeable white Styrofoam cooler. “Just the one, right, Jonah?”

  “Yup. Alright. I’m off,” Jonah announces, dragging his feet with the first steps toward his plane, as if reluctant.

  “Why don’t you take Calla with you?” Agnes says suddenly.

  I can’t help the glare I shoot at her. “No, thanks.” Is she insane? As if I’m going to get into a plane with Jonah alone ever again.

  Jonah chuckles, slipping on his sunglasses, hiding his heavy gaze from my view. “That’s okay. Maybe Wren can teach you how to drive while I’m gone.” He turns and saunters toward his plane.

  “Have a great flight!” I holler, my blood simmering with annoyance. Shithead.

  “Make sure you call in when you land,” Agnes adds.

  “Always do.”

  “Sooner.” She sounds like a doting mother asking her children to check in.

  “Yup.”

  She sighs softly, the only sign that she could be frustrated with him, and then turns back to us. “Why don’t you go talk to James and I’ll take Calla into town to get some Benadryl for those bites. It looks like she’s having a reaction.”

  “That’d be great.” I punctuate it with a scratch against my arm.

  “Yeah.” My dad frowns in thought. “What did he mean about the driving thing, anyway?” His gaze searches the parking lot, no doubt for his truck.

  I sigh.

  Thanks a lot, Jonah.

  Chapter 12

  “What about ‘Leisure Looks for the Wild.’ That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, not bad,” I murmur as I scroll through Alaska Aviator’s website. They claim to be the best charter plane company in Alaska. I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m guessing any tourist planning a trip here would take them for their word.

  Everything I could possibly want to know is listed—their history, their types of planes, their excursions, their pilots. Safety records, rates, recommendations for lodging and camps—the list goes on. And they have proof in pictures, too! A gallery of picturesque Alaskan landscape and wildlife, taken in every season, meant to lure people in.

  If I were a tourist looking to book an excursion, this Alaska Aviator company would likely be at the top of my list. And if not them, then one of the ten other companies I’ve spent the past several hours perusing from my rickety chair on the porch.

  It would certainly not be Alaska Wild, which was far down the screen on the search results and didn’t offer me any information besides a directory listing.

  “You’re not paying attention to me, are you?” Diana snaps.

  “I am! I swear,” I lie. “I think it’s great. Except it’ll be ‘How to Stretch One Leisure Look for an Entire Trip in the Wild ’ if I don’t get the rest of my clothes. I guess that’d be good for backpackers,” I add, half-heartedly.

  “You still haven’t gotten your suitcases? That’s madness.”

  “Should be today.” Hopefully.

  “Okay, so you’ll still have four days to put something together.”

  “I guess.”

  “Calla! What is your problem? It’s like you don’t care.”

  “I don’t know. I’m tired, I guess. I took Benadryl for these bites and it’s making me sleepy.” I wince as I inspect the giant, red welts on my calf. “I don’t think it’s working, either. My skin is all hot, too.”

  “Oh . . . that’s not good. I hope that doesn’t turn into cellulitis.”

  “Cellulite what?” I squawk, panicked.

  “Not cellulite. Cellulitis. It’s an infection. Get a pen and draw a circle around the outside edge. If the redness spreads outside it, you probably need antibiotics.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Hi, have we met? Because my mom’s a nurse.”

  “Right,” I murmur.

  “But I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’ll take another dose or two probably, and then you’ll be good to go. Oh! I was also thinking we could do a post on . . .”

  My attention wavers as Diana prattles on, something about Viking braids and hot springs. The truth is, I don’t think my lack of enthusiasm has anything to do with my missing clothes or antihistamines. It’s more that Calla & Dee seems so . . . trivial right now.

  “What about the yeti?” she asks suddenly, instantly pulling me in.

  “What about him?” Diana has heard the gory details of my first and second encounters with Jonah, the text conversation littered with four-letter words and hopes for an unfortunate sexual encounter with a feral animal.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we can do a second round of ‘Bushman to Gentleman.’ Alaska edition.”

  I snort. “Believe me, it would take a whole lot more than a pair of shears to uncover anything gentlemanly about him. Plus, I think he likes that look.” He must. Why else would he allow it to go so long?

  “Crap. I’ve gotta go. Beef Stick’s waving me over,” Diana mutters. “It’s like I’m his personal secretary or something.”

  “He does own the firm,” I remind her. The fact that Diana’s boss lives off those long, skinny meat sticks you find at convenience store counters doesn’t change that.

  “Man, I’ve gotta find a new job. Talk to you later,” she says in a rushed whisper, and then hangs up.

  I stick my earbuds back in, turn on my music, and return to my research, picking at the ham sandwich I made for lunch while I read up on Alaska Wild’s competitors, until I decide that a sandwich is not what I feel like after all. So I head into the house to fix myself a plate of hummus and carrots, and a glass of a ready-made green smoothie.

  I step back out through the sliding door.

  And yelp. There’s a raccoon perched atop the table, its busy paws pulling apart the slices of bread.

  “Shoo! Go on!” I yell, expecting it to hightail out the cracked porch door where it clearly snuck through.

  But it merely glares at me with its beady eyes before turning back to my sandwich.

  I give a nearby plastic
bin a kick. “Get out of here!”

  The raccoon chatters at me, that odd squeaking sound grating on my nerves.

  And then it scampers forward.

  I take several stumbling steps back, losing half my plate of food to the floor and spilling my smoothie all over my jeans as I try to get away from it.

  It’s temporarily distracted by a rolling carrot, picking it up in its nimble paws, flipping it this way and that.

  Are Alaskan raccoons different from Toronto raccoons?

  Will this one attack?

  There’s a straw broom perched in the corner. I dump the plate and glass on a nearby ledge and grab the handle, getting a good grip with two hands, ready to take a swing.

  “Bandit!” a deep voice calls.

  The raccoon stands on its hind legs and turns toward the voice, pausing to listen.

  “Bandit! Get over here!”

  It takes off, squeezing through the ajar porch door. I watch, with the broom handle still gripped within my fists, as the animal trots across the lawn toward Jonah, to stop a mere foot away. It stands on its hind legs and reaches up into the air.

  “Hey, buddy. You getting into trouble?” Jonah gives the raccoon’s head an affectionate scratch, to which it chatters back excitedly.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” My face twists in horror as realization sinks in. “He’s your pet?”

  “No. You’re not allowed to have raccoons as pets in the state of Alaska,” Jonah says matter-of-factly.

  “So, what is he, then? Because he sure looks like a pet.”

  “He’s a raccoon that likes to hang out around my house.” Jonah’s gaze narrows at the broom in my hand. “What were you planning on doing with that?”

  “Chase him out of here before he bit me.”