by Building Fires in the Snow- A Collection of Alaska LGBTQ Short Fiction
Before long, they reached the bend in the stream where Gavin and Cleo were building their homestead in a level glade of young birches. The largest of several buildings was a simple tall frame house with an ample deck, behind which Tierney could see a steeply triangular snow-covered peak. Smaller structures were arrayed on either side of the main house, and Tierney thought she could make out a garden plot between the house and the stream. Even in the semi-darkness, you could tell how tidy everything was, how all the buildings were plumb, unlike the many collapsing, dilapidated structures she’d so far observed in Alaska.
Cleo directed Trish to show Tierney the “guest cottage.” “The bed’s made up with fresh sheets,” she said. “See you in the morning.” With that, she turned at a fork in the footpath and strode toward her house.
When they reached the building they were to sleep in, Trish lit a kerosene lantern that sat on a stump immediately outside the door. Tierney set her pack down on the plywood floor in the entry, which was crammed with equipment: handtools and long-handled gardening implements, two chainsaws, a rototiller, gas cans. An entire wooden crate appeared to contain nothing but work gloves. The place smelled a little damp but the odors of leather and gasoline were familiar, making Tierney think of home. Trish kicked off her muddy sneakers, instructing Tierney to do the same. Then she carried the lantern into the next room, where a large mattress on a low wooden platform lay covered with a blanket and a zipped-open sleeping bag. Several unlit candle stubs lay in saucers on the windowsill above the head of the bed, along with two thick new candles and a box of kitchen matches.
“Is there a bathroom?” Tierney asked, spotting a roll of toilet paper standing on a shelf.
“The biggest one you’ve ever seen.” Trish smiled. “It’s called the great outdoors. There’s an outhouse for pooping, but you can pee anywhere the rain will wash it away. Do you need to poop?”
“No!” Tierney was embarrassed. She tore some sheets of tissue from the roll and stepped back into her damp shoes before heading out the door. “I guess they don’t have a telephone, either?” she said when she returned. “How about a washing machine?”
“No phone, no electricity, no running water,” Trish said. She fished in her sweatshirt pouch for the roach and lit it, almost burning her nose in the process. She inhaled deeply. “Here,” she said, handing it to Tierney, who now wondered if Trish was a stoner. Although she had little interest in getting high, Tierney also didn’t want to argue about it. She figured that one or two hits might even help her to sleep.
“I have to call home pretty soon,” Tierney said. “My dad and his wife get back in a few days. I mean, he’s going to be freaked out enough that I’m gone. I have to at least let him know I’m okay.”
“We can hit a pay phone on our way to Seward.” After Trish had smoked the roach down to nothing, she popped the tiny remnant into her mouth and swallowed it before pulling her sweatshirt over her head and unzipping her jeans. “Wait ’til you taste Cleo’s cooking,” she said. “You’ll flip.” She stepped out of her pants and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove her socks before slipping between the covers.
Trish was so casual about undressing. Tierney had always been shy about taking her clothes off in front of others. She blew out the candle and quickly removed her outer layers. Clad only in T-shirt and undies, she slipped into the chilly bed beside Trish.
Trish immediately rolled toward her. “It’s freezing,” she said, spooning Tierney.
Unused to being touched, let alone held, Tierney tensed. She wasn’t sure if she liked this or not.
“God,” Trish said, wriggling. “That Lance is so sexy! Just thinking about him makes me horny.” She was quiet for a minute. “Don’t you think he’s good looking?”
“I guess so,” Tierney said. “But don’t you already have a boyfriend?”
“Not right now. We broke up. Again.” Trish rolled away and lay on her back. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Ryan. He’s boring.” She didn’t say anything for a minute or two. “I know Lance isn’t a fairy.”
“How do you know?”
Trish laughed. “I wouldn’t be thinking about him like this if he were!” She turned toward Tierney. “Did you and Robert do it? A lot?”
Tierney sat bolt upright. “No! What are you talking about?”
“I thought you said you shared his tent.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like that.” Tierney rubbed her face. Unable to see Trish’s expression in the darkness, she nevertheless felt her keen curiosity. “We traveled together because it was convenient, that’s all.”
“He never came on to you?” Trish was leaning on her elbow. “He must have tried to kiss you, right?”
“No.” Tierney hesitated. “He did take off his clothes once, but it wasn’t like that.”
Trish whooped. “Took off his clothes! Sounds like it was like that to me. How about you? Did you take yours off, too? Did you guys fool around?”
Tierney felt confused now, unsure what Trish was after. “I told you it wasn’t like that.”
Trish patted the bed, inviting Tierney to lie down again. “Just trying to make conversation,” she said. “Do you have a boyfriend—back home, I mean?”
“No,” Tierney said after a moment, sliding between the covers again.
“No, never—or no, not right now?”
Geez, she was relentless! “Does seventh grade count?” Tierney couldn’t help laughing when she remembered how persistently Stevie Boyer kept trying to French kiss her that year while she kept her jaw clenched against his probing tongue.
“Depends,” Trish said. “Did you two have sex?”
“Of course not! We were only twelve.”
Trish seemed a little stumped. “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”
“You guys are so focused on sex,” Tierney complained. “Is that all you can think about?” She turned onto her side, away from Trish.
“It’s okay if you are.” Trish paused, but Tierney didn’t speak. “So, are you?”
“I’m going to sleep. Good night.” Tierney’s heart was beating hard, for some reason.
At least Trish knew when to quit. She rubbed Tierney’s back, nuzzling close again. She even kissed the back of her head before wrapping Tierney in her arms. “Sweet dreams.” Tierney tried to sort out what had just happened. Was Trish testing her or something? She wanted the older girl to like her and not think she was a baby, but Tierney wasn’t about to lie about her lack of experience with boys. And anyway, why did it matter if she was a virgin or not? Even though Trish was only three years older, she clearly had a lot more experience than Tierney did. A lot could happen in three years, Tierney thought, but guessed that no matter how much time went by, she was never going to be the kind of person who liked to talk about sex.
When she awoke in full daylight to the crowing of a rooster, Trish was still spooning her. The bird’s raucous, slightly hysterical cries sounded as if they came from the other side of the wall, directly behind their heads, but despite his continuing urgent proclamations, Trish slumbered on even as Tierney extricated herself from her embrace. Dressing quickly, Tierney stepped outside. There was that amazing fragrance again. After she’d emptied her bladder, she wandered around the storybook setting and in the daylight could fully appreciate how much work had gone into creating this picture-perfect homestead: in addition to the assorted buildings, one of which appeared to be under construction, there was a sizeable garden, newly planted and entirely surrounded by a really tall fence. The bases of many if not most of the birch trees were for some reason wrapped with chicken wire. Rounds of firewood were stacked almost as high as Tierney was tall in various locations close to the main house, and many cords of split wood formed a kind of wall cornering the wide deck. It was a heck of a lot of firewood, making Tierney marvel that the Alaska winter might pose an even more daunting challenge than North Dakota’s. She noticed a black VW bug parked in a clearing beside the house, a narrow dirt road parting the bu
shes behind it. Across from the toolshed where she and Trish had slept, in a stand of large-trunked trees, several handmade benches and an assortment of folding lawn chairs surrounded a fire pit. A long, wide plank that upon closer examination appeared to have been milled from a single tree rested on a pair of sawhorses, serving as a table. The incomparable heady perfume that suffused the valley smelled particularly potent here.
“Good morning,” Cleo greeted her from a short distance away. When Tierney turned, she saw the older woman carrying a small wire basket of chicken eggs. “Are you hungry?” Cleo was wearing knee-high rubber boots, last night’s schoolmarm outfit replaced by worn denim overalls and a flowered blouse. A different headband encircled her forehead this morning, this one a thin strap of suede decorated with a pattern of red-and-blue beadwork. Tierney wondered if the headband was Cleo’s signature fashion accessory; with her dark hair in twin braids today, she bore a distinct resemblance to Pocahontas.
“I think I could eat a horse,” Tierney said as she followed Cleo back to the house on a low wooden boardwalk that crossed a small side-creek. A kind of dock halfway along the boardwalk extended to a rock-encircled pool. Tierney saw the brightly painted tops and glass shoulders of what turned out to be maybe fifteen jars of various sizes standing in the shallow pool. “What is this?” she asked.
“My refrigerator,” Cleo said, squatting to pluck out an orange-lidded pint jar containing a creamlike liquid. “Orange is for dairy. Half and half—for our coffee.” Wiping water from the bottom of the jar with her hand, she led the way to the house and showed Tierney the rack outside the door where she was to leave her shoes.
Stepping inside in her socks, Tierney smelled fried potatoes and bacon—her favorite meat. Her stomach growled loudly in response. Cleo laughed. “I guess you really are hungry.”
Directly opposite the thick wooden front door was a very tall arched window that perfectly framed the triangular snowy spire behind the house. Cleo and Gavin had apparently cleared the trees from the back of their home to channel this dramatic view, like a living work of art. Tierney could see a waterfall plummeting over a cliff halfway down the mountain. A barrel woodstove sat in the middle of the open floor plan, emitting just enough heat to take the chill off the morning. On one side of the house, the kitchen blended into a dining area where the table, situated beneath another window that overlooked the rambunctious creek and the morning sun, was already set for three. The sitting room opposite ended in a short staircase in the corner that evidently led to the den-like bedroom; Tierney glimpsed fabric-covered walls and ceiling, an avocado-colored shag carpet covering the floor. The overall effect of what she could see there reminded her of magazine pictures of the kinds of homes that nomadic people created.
The high-ceilinged house felt a little like a museum. Most of the window ledges and a number of shelves displayed baubles, decorative items, and things brought in from out of doors: a piece of driftwood, sea shells, an empty bird’s nest. Photos literally covered the walls of the sitting space, a few in frames, but most of them snapshots thumbtacked directly into the painted drywall. Cleo was saying something about the heat loss from the height of the ceiling, explaining that they’d used a “double-wall” construction to compensate because they had really wanted the airiness. When she realized that Tierney was either too distracted to understand or just plain didn’t know what she was talking about, Cleo stopped in mid-sentence and instead tied a red apron around her waist and set to work breaking eggs into a bowl in the kitchen.
Tierney continued to gaze about in wonderment. The interior of the house was painted in some pastel color that the morning light rendered golden, and the thick walls gave the space a feeling of silent sanctity, like a church. She heard Cleo whisking the eggs before pouring them into a preheated frying pan with a soft sizzle.
“Smells good,” Tierney said, shaking herself out of her trance. “How can I help?”
“Nothing yet.” Cleo smiled. “I’ve got a list of chores as long as my arm, but not ’til after breakfast, so make yourself at home.”
Tierney found herself gravitating to the bookcase that formed one wall of the short staircase. She recognized about half the titles as being the kinds of books her dad would read, Norman Mailer, Alistair McLean, and Ian Fleming among them, but there were also lots of books by authors she’d never heard of: Woolf, Vonnegut, LeGuin, and Didion. One title particularly caught her eye. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Tierney slipped the worn paperback from between its neighbors and looked at the cover, which had an old-timey photo of an American Indian on it. The author’s name was Dee Brown. Was that a man or a woman? She knew she’d heard of this book—possibly from Mr. Palmer, her history teacher—but couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. She carried the volume over to the drop-leaf table, where Cleo was setting down two plates containing home fries and bacon strips.
“You like to read?” Cleo said, turning back to the kitchen.
“As long as it’s not for school.”
Cleo returned with a cast iron skillet of scrambled eggs flecked with some kind of vegetable. “I added some spinach to keep us strong,” she said. “Green eggs and ham.” After fetching a plate of thick slices of buttered toast that looked like they were cut from a loaf of homemade bread, she pulled out her chair. “Sit,” she said to Tierney, reaching across the table to set small spoons into three opened jelly jars, each one containing a different vividly colored preserve.
“This looks incredible,” Tierney said. “Thank you so much.” She could barely taste the spinach in the eggs, which were surely the freshest she’d ever eaten. She silently counted her blessings. The setting here was like something out of a dream, Cleo had to be one of the most interesting ladies she’d ever met, and for once Tierney wasn’t facing the prospect of yet another day of hitchhiking to yet another new place.
Cleo wanted to know Tierney’s “story,” so she filled her in on her dad and Helen, how her mom had died from an infection after surgery for “some female-related kind of thing.” Despite the fact that she was doing all the talking, Tierney was embarrassed that she had completely cleaned her plate while Cleo was still only halfway through her meal. The older woman didn’t seem to mind. “I guess you weren’t kidding about being hungry,” she said, indicating the stack of buttered toast. “Try some of my prize-winning preserves. The rose-petal won a blue ribbon last year at the state fair.”
Rose-petal jelly? Tierney had never heard of such a thing. She stared at the light-pink contents of the jar closest to her before picking it up to hold under her nose. Sure enough, it smelled exactly like a big bouquet of roses. “Peach?” she guessed, pointing to the jar filled with orange jam.
“Apricot,” Cleo said.
“What’s this one?” Tierney asked, picking up the last jar to marvel at its deep red color, through which the morning sunlight smoldered.
“Salmonberry.”
“From fish? Really?”
“Just try it.” Cleo set her silverware on her plate. “So you decided to fly the coop and head north. Good for you. You made the right choice. Our country’s getting crazier and crazier what with Tricky Dick’s Watergate shenanigans.”
“My dad calls him that, too!”
“He’s got a screw loose, that man. Talk about abuse of power.”
In the end, Tierney ate three slices of toast, each spread with a different jelly. “It doesn’t taste fishy at all,” she said of her final slice. “They’re all delicious.”
“Later in the summer, I’ll show you what salmonberries are.”
Again, Tierney liked it that Cleo talked as if Tierney would be around for a while. Cleo handed her a small wooden coffee grinder that reminded Tierney of a music box and asked her to grind the beans while she put a kettle of water on to boil. She showed Tierney how to empty the ground coffee from a little drawer in the box into the filter paper and red plastic funnel she’d set over a ceramic pitcher.
“I forgot how much Trish likes to sleep in,�
� Cleo said as she poured boiling water into the filter, unleashing a familiar bitter aroma. Tierney’s dad loved fresh-brewed coffee; she had to be sure to remember to make that phone call.
“You better go wake her so she doesn’t sleep all day,” Cleo said.
Tierney discovered Trish still fast asleep. She shook her shoulder, explaining that Cleo wanted them to get to work soon.
“That’s the only trouble with this place,” Trish grumbled as she set her feet on the floor. “You can never just relax and enjoy it.”
Tierney hovered while Trish dressed, even following her when she stepped outside to pee. She heard herself burbling about how “magical” everything was.
“Just wait ’til your hands are covered in blisters and you’re so tired you don’t even want to eat,” Trish said drily.
When they pushed open the door to the house, Cleo was sipping from a cup of creamed coffee and browsing Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. “Nice of you to join us,” Cleo said to Trish. “There’s a plate of food for you on top of the stove.”
“Thank you,” Trish mumbled.
“Are you going to read this?” Cleo asked Tierney, closing the book and setting it down on the table.
“Could I borrow it from you?”
“If you want to. It’s pretty heavy.” When Tierney reached to heft the paperback in her hand as if to weigh it, Cleo said, “I mean it’s really intense. But probably every American should read it. I think what we did to the Indians is even worse than slavery. Well, as bad as, anyway.” She peered into Tierney’s face. “You’ve got some Indian blood, don’t you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You don’t know?” Trish had carried her plate to the table and was crumbling her bacon over her scrambled eggs. “How can you not know something like that?”
“Well, I’m one-eighth Cherokee. Or is it Chippewa?” Cleo said. “I get the two of them confused.”
