by David Haynes
He hovered a finger over one and then the other before settling on the pouch on the right.
“Careful,” whispered Grandpa.
Scott closed the lid and put the pouch on it. He felt like he did on Christmas morning. He pulled the two ends of the string and watched the opening of the pouch gape. Inside was dark, just as the box had been down in the cellar. He lifted it to his eyes and put his thumb and forefinger inside. There were three hard lumps in the pouch but he couldn’t see what they were.
He turned to look at Grandpa who was biting his lip. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“Can I tip it out?” he asked.
Grandpa nodded but didn’t say a word.
Scott shook the bag and heard a strange rattle, almost like dice crashing into each other. He tipped it upside down and watched as the three finger-bones tumbled out onto the table. He recognized them immediately and stepped away with a gasp.
“I lied when I told you he lost three fingers. He didn’t exactly lose them.” Grandpa was laughing so hard it set him off on a coughing fit.
One of them, it might have been a thumb, looked like a cigar nub. He didn’t want to look too closely at it in case the brownies came spilling out of his guts.
“You... you...” Scott couldn’t find the words, especially when Grandpa was laughing so hard. “You let me touch them!” he cried but he didn’t feel angry. How could he? He play-punched Grandpa on the arm.
“I didn’t know which one they were in. Honest!” Grandpa faked an injury but he was still chuckling. “I wish you could’ve seen your face when you tipped them out. That was some expression!”
Scott laughed and dropped the pouch over the cigar-nub thumb. Were there traces of skin still on there? He shivered.
“Try the other one.” Grandpa pointed at the other pouch.
“I’m not sure I want to after that.”
“Go on, you’ll like this one much better, I promise.” He took a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wiped his brow. “Not laughed like that in years.”
“What’s in there? His toes?” Scott asked.
“Just open her up and have a look.”
Scott looked at Grandpa for a sign that he was playing with him again but he saw nothing to suggest trickery. “If it’s anything gruesome, I’ll take the brownies back with me.”
He lifted the pouch but this time he didn’t put his fingers inside, he undid the cord and tipped it into his hand. This time his eyes opened wide, not in horror but in disbelief.
He turned back to Grandpa who was smiling at him. “Once you’ve held a nugget in your hands, you’ll never forget the feeling. Two ounces of Klondike gold there.”
Scott turned it over in his fingers, feeling every part of it, reveling in its weight and texture. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
“Two years after my grandpa died, a man turned up at the door with all of this in a burlap sack and gave it to Grandma. I don’t believe she ever opened it but when she passed on, it was handed down to my dad and he passed it on to me.”
“She never opened it?”
“Didn’t want reminding, I guess.”
Scott nodded and touched the nugget to his cheek. “Is it worth a lot?”
“Coupla grand, I guess. Prices go up and down all the time, but there or thereabouts.”
“Wow!” That sounded like a big pile of cash to Scott.
“Put it back in the pouch, Scott and I’ll make you a deal.”
He did as he was asked, although it pained him to do so. He carefully laid it back inside the box and closed the lid. Grandpa pulled out two chairs and sat on one. He motioned for Scott to sit on the other.
“You want to hold it again, don’t you son?”
Scott nodded. He could still feel the weight in his palm and his flesh felt cold where it had sat.
“Well, you can. I’ll let you keep it on one condition.”
“Keep it! For real? Anything, just name it!” Brushing the yard, cutting the grass, washing the car, fetching groceries… he would have done anything to get his hands on a nugget of gold again.
“Go to college,” Grandpa said.
Scott’s heart sank. College was years away. How could he be expected to wait that long?
“College?”
“Yup, that’s the deal. I’ll put it in your hand on the day you graduate.” Grandpa held his hand out.
Scott looked at the box and thought about it for a while before he reached out and took Grandpa’s hand. “Deal!” he said.
“Really we should smoke a cigar to seal it, but I gave up years ago and I don’t think your dad would be too happy with me now, would he?”
Scott laughed.
“We’ve got to have something though.” He looked about the kitchen. “I know – milk and brownies. That’ll do it.”
4
Draper crossed the Alcan border at Beaver Creek and headed north on the Alaskan Highway. The ever-present cloud cover lifted for a while and gave way to a deep blue sky marked only by the occasional fluffy white cloud. The temperature rose steadily, telling him summer was in full swing. Despite the good weather, it depressed him because it meant the season was halfway over and he was already playing catch-up.
The clouds soon came back, hovering just above the highway. He pulled over at Tetlin Junction to get gas and something to eat. The last cinnamon roll had disappeared an hour ago and his belly was rumbling. The gas station had a souvenir store next door and it was decorated with the antlers of moose and caribou. There was also a blue and red neon sign above the door that flashed the words ‘Gold Rush!’ every second or so. Beneath it was a set of ‘Authentic Antique Snow Shoes’. Draper had a feeling he might find a label with ‘Made in China’ on them if he looked closely enough.
He paid for the gas and bought a hot dog and a bottle of water. The dog looked like it had lived through all four seasons in the cabinet but it tasted better than it looked. Just. Draper sat in the Ford and checked his cell again. Wherever Mercer was, he had to have listened to the message by now. That’s if the number was correct. He pushed the thought aside and crunched out of the gas station.
Mercer could run a claim better than anybody. He could drive any of the bulldozers, excavators or rock trucks, and he could fix them all with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. If it wasn’t for the fact that every now and again he left the camp and didn’t come back for three days, he could have had his pick of jobs, probably his own claim too. When he did come back, he was always a couple of hundred dollars lighter in his pocket and a few pounds heavier in his skull. Draper turned a blind eye to it because Mercer could do in two days what took another man six.
There were other foremen, he had a list of them, but with the season just about up and running the half-decent ones would already be signed up somewhere else. Besides, if he could get Mercer, a crew would follow on behind. Draper’s own collateral was rock-bottom but Ray Mercer’s was, and always had been, sky-high.
There were signs up along the side of the road stating that Taylor Highway would be closed in the winter. This was the road that would take him into Chicken. Although it was early afternoon, all thoughts of summer were gone. The fog clung to the road like a blanket and the Ford’s headlights flicked on automatically. For a long stretch, all along the side of the highway were dead or dying pine trees. Their blackened, withered branches were like the skeletal remains of some petrified tribe. It was depressing and a wave of tiredness fell over him.
He had been on the road for over nine hours with only the occasional stop. His back ached from sitting so long, and every now and again it threatened to throw a spasm and take him off the road. He reached into the duffel and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol. He fumbled with the lid but tipped two into his mouth, washing them down with the water. He knew now that driving there and back in twenty-four hours would be a mistake. If he couldn’t find somewhere to stay in Chicken, he was going to spend a very cold night
in the cab.
Another hour crept by. The sky grew darker and the fog denser. The road signs counted down the miles like a clock that was running out of batteries. The numbers seemed to decrease ever more slowly until he felt he would never get there and the fog would gobble him up completely. It was a lonely road, even in the summer. In the winter it was dead. Literally.
In places the highway turned into little more that a rutted track, barely wide enough for one vehicle let alone two. There were holes everywhere, some appearing like cavernous craters, black and unfathomable. But the Ford barely noticed and cruised across them, crushing the darkness beneath its wheels.
Finally, to his right, a clearing opened up in the pine trees. A crane had been driven into it along with the remnants of an old wash-plant and an ancient excavator. The crane looked the newest thing there, and that had to be at least seventy years old.
A collection of signs had been attached to the rig, proudly stating that the town of Chicken was the next left. There was gas, a store, an RV park and of course, a gold-panning gift shop. It looked pretty bleak but to Draper it was the best thing he’d seen all day.
He pulled off the gravel highway and drove across the dirt toward the town. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen buildings but one dominated the others by its size – The Goldpanner Gift Shop.
He pulled up in front of the store and killed the engine. He was relieved to get here but it wasn’t the end of the journey. There was possibly another three hours to reach Black Pine Creek. Draper rubbed and then rotated his neck. There was no way he was driving up there today. Pretty soon, what was already a gloomy day would grow darker and he didn’t relish the idea of getting lost.
He reached over to his bag and took the map out. Just on the other side of town was the turn-off to the claim. He knew the Ford would have a tougher workout on the track getting up there than the one it just had. They both would. He’d driven roads like that hundreds of times over the years and none of them liked to be taken anything but seriously.
To the side of the gift shop was a row of other wooden buildings. A cafe, a store and a saloon. None of them mentioned rooms but there was an RV park beyond the shop. He’d seen it on the way in. There were a few summer tourists parked up in Airstreams; their shiny silver flanks caught what little brightness was in the day and winked at him. He cursed himself for not planning things better, but he’d been excited and giddy at the thought of what was waiting for him at Black Pine Creek. He looked over his shoulder at the back seat. No sign of any blankets back there.
He checked his phone again and saw the signal bars were high and strong, so no problem if Mercer wanted to get through. He pushed it into his pocket anyway and slid his aching body out of the truck.
The Goldpanner Gift Shop had just about everything a tourist could want from a shop in gold-mining country. There were t-shirts, baseball caps, pins, hoodies, shot glasses and a pile of ‘I Got Laid in Chicken’ stickers. He couldn’t see any blankets though.
He walked around the shop to the counter where a man was reading a book. He looked up and smiled at Draper.
“Couldn’t find what you wanted, sir?”
Over his shoulder, Draper saw the tariff for the RV park and beneath that was a list of cabins.
“I’ll take one of those please.” He pointed at the bottom line. “Just for tonight.” He felt a surge of relief. He’d slept in all sorts of places over the years and ten years ago sleeping in the cab of his Ford wouldn’t have been a problem. Things were different now; he valued his bed.
“No problem. Good thing you’ve come early, we’re just about booked up the next few weeks.”
Draper handed over the cash. He was already thinking about having a long hot shower and a beer.
The man handed back the change, a coupon and a room key. “That’ll get you a discount breakfast. And just out there you’ll find downtown. They serve a pretty good steak in the cafe.”
The man had read Draper’s mind. Shower, beer and steak. Perfect.
He thanked the man, maybe a little too much, but after the long journey he felt good about things again. The excitement was coming back.
He hauled the duffel out of the cab and found his way to the cabin. It was small inside but clean and it smelled of freshly milled pine. Out the back, he was surprised to find a small porch which overlooked the creek. The water flowed quickly over its rocky bed. It was another sign that the ice was melting; that time was rushing along, leaving him standing. Nevertheless the porch was the type of place that needed a beer, a sliver of moon and pan full of gold to bring it to life. He looked at the swirling block of gray above his head. If he was lucky he might get one of those three tonight.
*
The steak was good, the beer even better. He sat in the corner to eat with the bore-hole maps stretched out before him. When the waitress brought the food, he saw her glance at the maps before he had a chance to move them out of the way.
“You’re gonna need to get up there before the ground thaws completely,” she said. “Mustard?”
Draper nodded. “You know this road?” He tapped the route on his map.
She laughed. “If you’re going up there to mine, you’ll need to go in the next two weeks or you’ll be rafting up there.”
“That bad, huh?”
She placed the mustard on the table and shrugged. She looked about the same age as his daughter, Megan; not as pretty but with the same short blonde hair.
“Not as bad as some,” she said and walked back to the counter.
Draper looked back at his maps. Bad road or not, she was right, he needed to get started in the next few weeks if he was to have any hope of finding gold.
He ate quickly, ordered two beers to take away and walked back to his cabin. The temperature had dropped, but it was a comfortable temperature for sitting outside. Even though it wasn’t eight o’clock yet, Draper felt exhausted. The monotony of hours spent driving along the gray highway with nothing but the clinging melancholy fog for company was more tiring than any form of physical labor he knew about. He had a feeling he might not drink both beers tonight.
The porch had two wooden chairs on it. They faced each other so he turned one toward the creek. It rumbled and grumbled its way across the land just like it always had. Just like it always would. He sipped the beer and listened to it for a while. The beer was cool and his head buzzed with alcohol and fatigue but he didn’t want to move, couldn’t move.
The waitress had looked like Megan, a lot like her. He knew what the feeling in his guts meant when he realized that. It was sadness mixed with guilt. He’d learned to cope with the emotions, to keep working through the pangs but he didn’t enjoy them. Not one bit.
He drained the first bottle and opened the next one. Megan wasn’t a baby anymore, she was a grown woman, a strong one too. She knew what she wanted in life and what was excess. He fell into the latter category. She wouldn’t take the money he’d spent a lifetime saving to send her to college. She said the gold had been dug out of a hole the same shape as the coffin he’d put Mom in. Twenty-five years of having an absent father will do that to a girl.
He checked his cell, the screen a dazzling star in the darkness. Nothing from Mercer. Should he call him again? He found the contacts and hovered over Mercer’s number. Desperate, that’s how it would seem if he called again. He swiped the name away. He was desperate, that was the problem.
He swallowed half of the last beer and wiped his mouth. He’d called Meg at least once a week for the last year. And what had he got back? A cold stony silence. She got that from her mom. She could give him a shoulder as cold as a frozen creek for weeks. This, though, this was different. Back then he’d always known there was a way back in. He just had to be patient.
Megan didn’t want to know him. She didn’t know him, so why would she return his calls? He finished the beer and found her number. Maybe this time would be different.
It rang and rang as it always did, and then her voic
e came through, loud and clear.
“Hey, it’s Meg, I’m not around so leave a message.”
“It’s Dad checking in, again. I’m up in Alaska at the moment, in Chicken. I’ve got a claim up here and hopefully Ray is coming in on it too. It looks pretty good... So... I wondered how you were, Meg? What you been up to, that kind of thing. Maybe I’ll catch up with you another time.” He paused. “I love you.”
He ended the call and stared at the screen until it dimmed then darkened completely. He dreaded the day he called and there was not even the sound of her voice on an answerphone, just an eternal nothingness. Final and irrevocable separation. That would be a bad day, a very bad day.
5
Draper checked out of the cabin and threw the his bag into the cab. Despite being exhausted, he hadn’t slept well last night. Talking to the waitress who reminded him of Meg had started it all off, planted the seed, and then the beer had gently watered it until his thoughts shot off in all directions like tangled roots.
He had to put her to the back of his mind right now. He had to concentrate on what he was doing for the next few hours and not worry about how he was ever going to repair the relationship with her. Setting up a claim was easier by far. It always had been.
He drove out of Chicken with a full stomach and two bottles of water. Two miles out of town, he took a right turn onto a dirt track. Huge potholes pitted the road like traps and each one was filled with dark, murky water. The fog had barely lifted overnight and his mood was heavy.
A little farther along the track a rock truck loomed out of the gloom, yellow and bright against the somber backdrop. He glimpsed the truck’s bed as he drove past. It was full of paydirt. Full of gold. The map was open, balancing on the dashboard and he glanced at it to make sure he was on the right path. He veered away to the left, the yellow flash of another piece of machinery momentarily caught in the rear-view mirror.
