The Wild Inside

by Jamey Bradbury

  I picked up speed. If I kept up a brisk run all the next day, I could be back home sometime the following night. Just like Dad, I didn’t have all the information I needed. But I intended to get it.

  The yard, full of moonlight as I come off the trail. Everything still and silent, no smoke curling from the chimney, no light in the kitchen window. I had been gone four whole days by my count, long enough that Dad had probably suspected this wasn’t just me blowing off steam, that maybe I meant to stay gone this time. His truck was in the drive, he was inside, sleeping, or maybe he couldn’t sleep for worrying. He would be awful mad. Time being, though, I had another problem.

  The problem roused himself when the dogs woke and barked a greeting to me. I cut across the yard like a blade on ice. I heard the shed door open and close before I seen him come round the corner of the small building.

  Tracy?

  The distance between us halved, quartered.

  Jesus Christ. Your dad’s going to—

  I only hit him once. My fist against his mouth, his lips crushed against his teeth, his jaw hard under my hand, the next day my knuckles would be bruised.

  He stumbled back, his hand over his mouth. Fuck. When he took his hand away, his mouth was red.

  I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to me. My lips on his. He shoved at me, but I had been right, I was stronger than he was. I licked at him, swallowed. His hands on me, pushing, scratching, struggling, till I let him go. The taste of him inside me.

  The truth of him inside me.

  9

  A clear, daytime sky. A bird cutting its way across the cloudless blue. A red building, a mound of hay. The warmth of sun on my skin, grass tickling the backs of my legs. The rake, abandoned from my chores, propped against the wall nearby.

  Then the weight of another body on mine, a hand in my hair. His breath in my face.

  Stop. Stop it—

  The words come out strangled, I am crushed under him. His hands grabbing.

  Tracy.

  I push at him, it’s Jesse’s voice I hear but the shape I see belongs to Tom Hatch.

  Stop it, I holler and stumble over my own feet, fall to the ground. It’s Jesse standing over me, not Hatch. Jesse who holds a hand out to me, concern and surprise on his face. His lip still bleeding.

  Are you okay? he asked.

  Panic and confusion, and me unable to tell if it was my own or if it belonged to him. Invisible fingers tugging at my clothes, a sun that hadn’t yet rose touching the parts of me usually hidden. The sight of the rake, caught from the corner of my eye.

  I spat on the ground, wiped at my mouth. But it was too late. A piece of Jesse inside me, and I couldn’t get rid of it. He still held his hand out. I ignored it and got to my feet on my own. I couldn’t look at him without feeling what he’d felt.

  I’m sorry, I managed. My legs wobbly as I turned from him.

  Where were you? he asked. Wait, Tracy—

  His hand on my arm. I wrenched myself away, but he followed, his voice more concerned than angry. I couldn’t bear to look at him, look with him anymore, so I searched inside myself for the thing that would make him stop.

  I heard Hatch’s voice, felt his breath in my ear. Heard him speak a name that didn’t make no sense, that made perfect sense at the same time. The way Jesse’s body felt for the brief second I let myself understand him.

  Just wait, Jesse said again.

  I spun round and shoved him away. Leave me alone, Jessica, I said.

  He let go, all the color gone from his face. I had noticed early on how he never grew even a shadow of a beard, but it hadn’t meant nothing to me before. In the moonlight now that face was soft. Girlish.

  The house was dark. At first I could only see the hunched figure at the table with Jesse’s eyes, and it stood, taller and broader than me, it come toward me, and the fear that rose up in me then was my own because it wasn’t Hatch, it was Dad, a look on his face I never seen before.

  Where the hell have you been?

  I couldn’t catch my breath. I’m sorry wheezed out of me again, but I was still on the grass, under the sun, under Hatch. My clothes on the ground, and the feeling of wearing Jesse’s thoughts. His body—her body?—struggling. Eyeballing the rake only an arm’s length away.

  I went to the sink, drunk straight from the faucet. Splashed water on my face. Dad’s eyes on me till I finally turned.

  I’m sorry, I said again. I was just in the woods—

  Just in the woods, he said.

  I needed to get away for a while, is all.

  I thought you were dead.

  My cheeks burned. I said I was—

  Yeah, you said. You say whatever you like, then you run off again, and I don’t see you for hours. Days. Just like your mother. That’s going to stop, you hear? No more.

  This ain’t the same.

  Dammit, Tracy!

  Just listen to me! I hollered back. I’m just trying— But I didn’t finish, my head rocked before I understood what happened. Stars flaring before my eyes, then fading. My cheek stinging. Dad’s hand fell to his side, and he stared at me, his mouth hanging open.

  I touched my face, but the whole side of my head was numb.

  Dad’s voice barely a whisper. Go to your room.

  I did. Upstairs, I crawled into my bed without bothering to take off clothes that stunk of my own sweat and grime from all my time outdoors. After a time, Old Su nosed her way into my room, and I motioned for her to jump on the bed. She circled once, twice, then settled near my head, her musky breath in my face. Her fur was grayer than I remembered, her eyes milkier. I stroked her and watched how quickly she found sleep, the sound of her steady breathing almost drowning out Jesse’s voice inside my head. Stop, Tom.

  I worried that if I slept, I would dream Jesse’s dreams. That I would see what must of happened after Tom Hatch attacked him.

  Her. I said the word aloud and it grated against the silence in my room, tasted wrong on my tongue. I understood what I’d seen and felt, Jesse’s body more familiar than not. But even as I recognized the truth of him, a knowing coursed through me. A certainty that was stronger than skin and hair and bone. Jesse’s body told one story, but the inside of him told a different one. I thought of the taste of his blood on my lips, the shock of uncovering his secret. Once the shock faded, it seemed to me all that mattered was what Jesse knew about himself. What I now knew about him. It was a kind of knowledge that went bone deep, something you couldn’t even question because it was part of you, the way brown eyes or stubby toes is part of you.

  I looked for other parts of Jesse’s story, but I couldn’t get away from the weight of Tom on top of me, of the desperation that must of forced Jesse to reach for the rake nearby. I couldn’t find the rest of that memory, but I imagined what must of happened next, Jesse swinging the rake, the ribbons of blood that must of bloomed across Hatch’s face, the scars the wound had left. And then what? Had Jesse started his way north that very moment? I looked for an answer inside myself, but only come up with the same scene behind the red building, the barn, over and over.

  When I woke a few hours later, though, Scott was the one on my mind. A memory of springtime, the world gone gray and drizzly, the only bright thing a sparrow on my windowsill, calling to its own reflection. Scott’s strange sadness welling up inside me.

  I pushed my blankets back and scoured my bookshelf till I found what I wanted.

  Scott was sitting on his bed, papers and colored pencils scattered over his quilt. From the doorway I could see how he’d got the coloring on the sparrow’s feathers just right.

  You’re back, he said.

  Was you looking for this the other day? I asked and held out A Guide to Common Birds.

  He nodded.

  Can I come in?

  He lifted one shoulder. I sat down on his bed and opened the book to the page on sparrows. It’s this one, I told him. An American tree sparrow. The beak is black on top, like you’ve got it, but yellow on
the bottom. See?

  He give me a funny look, and I steeled myself, waiting for him to ask how I knew. Instead, he grabbed his eraser. I watched as he made the change, and when he was done, the sparrow he’d drew was almost like a photograph. Like it could fly off the page if it wanted.

  Where’d you learn to draw like that? I asked.

  You can have it, he said and pushed the picture across the quilt to me.

  Thanks, I said. Then, How’s your head? I reached out, and he flinched.

  I’m not going to do anything, I told him. I’m sorry I pushed you.

  I heard you and Dad yelling, he said.

  Yeah.

  Why’d you run off?

  I shook my head.

  Because of Flash? Scott guessed.

  It was as good a reason as any. Yeah, I said.

  Downstairs, the coffeemaker hissed and spat. Bacon sizzled, the scent of it coming up through the floorboards. I wondered if it was Dad already down there, cooking for us. Or if Jesse was the one making breakfast. My stomach knotted at the thought of him.

  That sucks, Scott was saying. He should just let you train. At least then it would be— He shrugged.

  Normal? I said.

  Yeah.

  I slung my arm round him and give him a squeeze. It was easy to forget sometimes that even though he wasn’t keen on racing the way I was, the dogs was still a big part of his life. He helped feed and water them and clean the dog yard as much as I done, and he’d gone to every race start with me and Mom over the years. It took a lot of hands to pack gear bags for the Iditarod and sew booties for the dogs’ feet, and soon as he was old enough, Scott was right there alongside the rest of us, pitching in. I forgot sometimes that I wasn’t the only one with a hole in my life.

  I left him starting on a new drawing and went downstairs. Dad’s eyes following me as I paused to give the house dogs a good scratch then poured myself a cup of coffee. I snagged a slice of bacon from the plate next to the stove.

  Been a long time since we had bacon, I said.

  Been a long time since we had any extra money, Dad said.

  I moved for the table but he stopped me. Put his hand on my cheek. It was tender but there wasn’t no bruise, just an angry red spot. I’m sorry, he said.

  It’s okay.

  No, it’s not, he said.

  We sat down and got after our breakfast, Scott joined us before long. But the table seemed oddly empty. You seen Jesse this morning? I asked.

  He poked his head in before you come down, Dad said round a mouthful of pancake. Said he wasn’t feeling too good. He’s going to lay low today, I reckon.

  I frowned. When we ventured out to feed the dogs, I took note of the shed, the curtain drawn and a finger of smoke curling up from the chimney. All day long I went about my chores, jobs Dad give me to do and my own little projects. I still had dozens of dog booties to sew or mend. When I got out Mom’s old sewing things, I glanced at Dad, certain he would remind me I wasn’t supposed to be training or even going near the dogs. But he only shrugged. I sat near the door of the kennel while Dad run his saw. Pricked my finger over and over, my attention on the shed.

  I thought about knocking on the door. Just to check on him. To say I was sorry. But each time, I seen his face go pale at the name I’d called him. And I felt an urge to run. I seen myself, himself, grabbing a comb, a harmonica, a wad of clothes and stuffing them into my pack, then jumping from a window onto hardpacked dirt. Images, experiences, that come to me on the taste of his blood, they played themselves over and over in my head. His legs, my legs, tired as we come to a slow-moving train, leaped into a car. He had run from trouble, would run again. I sewed booties, chipped piss from the doghouses, split wood, each job brung me closer to the shed till I stood just outside the door, working up the nerve to knock.

  But the squelch of tires on soft snow turned me toward the drive. A familiar-looking Jeep rolled in and stopped next to Dad’s truck. The door opened, and I seen it was Helen, the nurse from the clinic. I couldn’t help the way my stomach plunged at the sight of her, even though my head reminded me that Tom Hatch was likely still miles away, still in Fairbanks or back where he belonged, somewhere in the lower forty-eight.

  Hi there, Tracy, Helen called out and I nodded. Didn’t make no sense for her to be here, nobody was sick.

  Dad was already making his way across the yard, jogging a little. When he reached her, he give her a peck on the cheek.

  She glanced at me. Everything all right? she asked.

  We’re fine now, Dad said, then called over to me, Trace, come say hi to Helen.

  I took my time. Leaned the axe against the stump, wiped my hands against the front of my coat. Watching the two of them grin at each other.

  Hi, Tracy, Helen said. Heard you had an adventure. Glad you’re back safe.

  Hi, I mumbled.

  Come on inside, Dad said to Helen. We’ll rustle up some lunch.

  I know you said not to bring anything, she said. But I may have accidentally made brownies, and there was no way I was eating them all myself.

  Accidentally? Dad give her a grin.

  I’m not real hungry, I said, but they was already ambling toward the house, walking side by side. Not touching but familiar, easy with each other.

  Come inside, Dad said over his shoulder. He wasn’t asking.

  Scott had put out sandwich stuff for lunch. When we come in he rushed over to give Helen a hug. Any more lynx sightings? he asked.

  Not since the one that came pawing at my window, Helen said. Next time you come over, I’ll show you the shots I took. There’s one, he’d been drinking from the creek, and you can see drops of water still clinging to his whiskers.

  No kidding!

  While Helen and Dad got their lunch, I pulled Scott aside, hissed at him, You been to her house?

  Like a million times, he said. She lives right outside the village.

  How long has this been going on?

  He rolled his eyes. Do you ever pay attention to anything other than your traps?

  All through the meal, he and Helen talked like old friends, about the books they was reading and the pictures they’d took, they said things like aperture and overexposure, the words like a code between them. I tuned them out and thought about what Scott had said. A whole autumn of barely heard conversation coming back to me. Weeks I’d spent scheming on how to sneak out of the house at night and worrying about whether Tom Hatch had come back, while Dad had stood nearby and told me about the nurse at the clinic who’d struck up a conversation and laughed at the things he said, it reminded him of how easy it used to be to get Mom to laugh. In the barn, in the yard, I worked and planned and budgeted the money I’d stole off the trail, divided it up among race fees as Dad remarked how sweet it was of Helen to bring him a loaf of the bread she’d baked over the weekend. He’d have her out sometime, he’d said as we cleaned the dog yard, we could all have a nice dinner together, get to know each other. But I was only listening to myself.

  I folded my arms when I’d finished eating, glowered at them, then put my plate in the sink. Glimpsed the shed, so silent and still, Jesse might of slipped away when we wasn’t looking. All at once I was certain he was gone. My chest ached and a heavy loneliness settled over me.

  Dad looked on while Helen and Scott talked, a small smile on his face. For once, I could feel what he felt, even without drinking. How this, the four of us sharing a meal, must of felt familiar to him. Like home.

  I pulled my chair out again, sat back down. Dad glanced at me, and his smile got bigger.

  Helen lingered all that afternoon and evening, she pitched in with chores and took it on herself to shovel the front walk, then showed Scott how to make a meringue. She had Jesse’s knack for quick learning, it seemed, she’d watch you do something long enough to understand, then jump in, wrangling a dog on her own or resetting a deadfall near the frozen creek. Dad had practically pushed me toward the trailhead when Helen asked about my hunting and trapping
. We come back to the yard with an ermine and a squirrel and Helen took out her own knife to help clean our catch.

  That’s a nice blade, I told her when we’d finished skinning the bodies.

  She wiped her knife clean. Thanks, she said. When I moved up here, back when I was a little older than you, my dad gave it to me. Said a girl on her own ought to know how to use a knife.

  We stood outside the kennel at opposite ends of the little butchering table. Dad was up at the house, getting dinner together. Every few seconds the shape of him haunted the window, once or twice our eyes met and even from a distance I could see the eagerness in his.

  You and Bill remind me a little of me and my pop, Helen went on. Back in Montana, when it came to knowing your way around the farm, Dad didn’t make much distinction between boys and girls. He taught us all how to milk a cow. Drive a tractor, shoot a gun.

  I cleaned the blade of my knife, then folded and pocketed it. Mom and I had cleaned dozens of critters together, had hunted for hours side by side, and I could of come up with maybe a handful of facts about her history, a few details about her childhood, and nothing at all about the time just before she met Dad. She had stood behind a wall all my life, one I never could scale.

  Isn’t Jesse from Montana? Helen asked.

  Just passed through, I heard myself say. The words echoed in my head, in Jesse’s voice.

  It’s a shame he’s not feeling well, Helen said. Maybe we should check on him? See if he’s up to dinner tonight.

  No, I said too fast. Then added, He’s probably asleep.

  I hope he’s not running a fever. There’s a nasty bug going around. You know, I have my travel bag with me, I really ought to—

  I’ll check on him, I cut her off.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  Later, I said and slipped the ermine skin on the wooden stretcher.

  Helen smiled. You like him?

  My cheeks flushed. I tacked the legs down and spread the stretcher. After a few hours the skin would be dry and ready to work to softness so Dad could take it into the village and sell it.