The Wolves of Winter

He looked at me like he was trying to understand the question.

“No” was all he said.

Then he turned his back to me and started walking.

He scared the hell out of me. A lone man, surviving on his own. How rough would he have to be to survive out here by himself? How desperate? I pictured Conrad, his face too close to mine, his body flattened against me. But I couldn’t let this man go. Couldn’t let him get away. He was a link to the world beyond our little settlement, the only link I’d seen in years and years. I had to trap him, ensnare him. I reached out with the only thing I had to offer.

“You hungry?” He stopped. The dog had given up on me and was sniffing at a tree. “You should come with me.”

The man appraised me. He was used to being alone, to surviving on his own. But he had to be hungry. Everyone was hungry.

“Okay,” he said.

6 (#ulink_80da719b-e2a2-5d69-898b-df842d52ceb6)

In the life before, in Alaska, Mom was a librarian. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her now. The hardened eyes, the dirt under her nails, the pinch of her lips. Crevices of survival, of suffering, of endless winter, not of a librarian in an elementary school, handing out Dr. Seuss to kids.

But she did that, once, and she loved it.

She loved my dad too. We all did. But his death had more of an impact on her than it did on me or Ken. Before, she was something like shy. She didn’t have friends or any real social life, and she’d let Dad make almost all the decisions. Sure, she had her temper, but for the most part, she was a kind, quiet, unassuming woman. After his death, I think she felt the burden of the world on her shoulders. The burden of me and Ken. She became a strong-willed, outspoken, zealous woman full of fire and a will to survive. It’s probably what’s kept her alive so long. That and the fact that Jeryl showed up and nearly shoved us out the door. He saved us. Saved us from the town, which was rotting at the seams from flu, being torn apart by looters, and freezing in the plummeting temperatures. Our heater was broken, and the fires we had each night barely warmed our living room, let alone the whole house. I remember falling asleep, watching my breath gathering in front of my face and disappearing toward the ceiling. But Mom had refused to leave. Even after half the town was dead or on the move, she held tight to the walls of our house like they were the living, breathing reincarnation of Dad. Maybe if Walt Whitman had anything to say about it, they were.

Jeryl came over one morning with his animals all packed up and ready to go. “Mary, time to leave.”

She fought him, screamed at him, told him to get the hell out of her house. He wouldn’t budge. He started packing things up for her, and she got violent. Pushing and punching, but he just shoved her away. That’s when she ran to the basement, came up with a pistol in her hands.

“Get out.” Her voice was shaking.

Jeryl stopped what he was doing, and Ken and I watched from the living room. Deep down, I knew she’d never do it. But that’s when everything changed with Mom. My vision of her altered. She was the same, but she was different. More feral. Protective. We were still in Alaska, but that was the moment Yukon Mom was born.

Uncle Jeryl walked up to her, calm as ever, as she held that gun out to him, telling him she’d do it, she didn’t care. He reached out, took the gun right out of her hands, and she crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut loose. Jeryl knelt down, helped her back to her feet.

“Pack your things,” he said again.

We left with Jeryl’s animals in tow, with what we could bring of our lives packed on their backs. The goats, the musk ox, the donkey, and the horse. Wouldn’t you know it? The damn donkey and horse were the ones to bite the dust. The donkey on the way through the Yukon, the horse two years after. But Hector, Helen, and Stankbutt, don’t you worry, they’ll probably outlive us all.

Anyway, it’s hard to picture my mom like she used to be. From before. My before-mom. Handing out books to kids. Stamping the due date onto the little insert inside the cover of each book. That mom’s gone. Gone like chocolate, cartoons, balloons, bananas, cars, planes, buses, bus stamps, food stamps, government, gum—the sour apple kind I loved so much—commercials, sports, school, sunglasses, and summer.

Good-bye, summer.

Hello, chilly spring. Hello, long, frozen winter.

The man came closer. He had a dark brown beard and bright blue eyes that looked almost white, even against the snow. He might have been attractive once, but it was hard to tell beneath all that beard. A funny thing to wonder about someone—whether they were attractive. I couldn’t remember the last time I wondered that.

He followed me up the hill at a steady and healthy distance while the dog jumped around me, excited as a kid on Halloween. I kept glancing back at him—waiting for him to pull a knife and attack—and noticed that he was limping on his left leg. I slowed my pace just a little.

“What’s his name?” I asked, calling over my shoulder.

“Uh, just Wolf. Found him a few years back. Gave him some food. Been following me ever since.”

I looked down at the husky trotting by my side. “You know he’s not, right?”

“Not what?”

“A wolf.”

The man’s eyes dropped to the dog.

“He’s a Siberian husky. Probably a sled dog,” I said.

For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing and the dog’s feet puncturing the snow. The man mumbled something, I wasn’t sure what, but it sounded like: “Looked like a wolf to me.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Long pause like he was thinking about it. “Jax,” he said. Seemed like a lie, but why would he lie about his name? Something was off about this man. I knew the potential danger I was in. Alone with a strange man, in the middle of nowhere, too far away to call for help. What a stupid idea it was to invite him back to the cabins. Why had I done that? God, it was so exciting.

“Lynn,” I said, not that he’d bothered to ask my name. He still didn’t say anything. “Short for Gwendolynn. Gwendolynn McBride. It’s Scottish.” Why was I still talking? Maybe because he wasn’t.

“It’s a nice name,” he said.

We continued the rest of the way in silence, the sun a ball of flame beneath cotton clouds.

Ken, Jeryl, and Ramsey were all out when we made it to the cabins. Probably hunting, or fishing, in Ramsey’s case. Mom was coming from the animal pens, with a feed bucket for Hector, Helen, and Stankbutt in her arms. She took one look at the man and his dog and her body went stiff, her face as blank as I’d ever seen. She was wearing her brown Carhartts, black gloves, and heavy blue jacket with the fake fur lining. Her hood was pulled up, and her freckled cheeks were red.

“Lynn,” she said. The word froze in the air. I once saw a video of a woman tossing scalding-hot coffee out of her window in winter in northern Alaska. Minus-whatever temperatures. As the liquid hit the air, it puffed into white mist. The sound of my name on Mom’s lips was something like that. Lynn—puff.

“Mom, this is Jax. Found him by the river. Told him that we could spare a bite to eat.”

There was panic in her eyes as she turned to our cabin and rushed through the door, not bothering to close it behind her.

“Mom?”

I looked back at Jax. He didn’t look surprised.

“Maybe I should go,” he said. “Don’t want to upset anyone.”

Then Mom came bursting through the wooden door, shotgun in hand, pointing at Jax. Jax raised his hands.

“Mom!”

“You sick? Any fever, sniffles, cough?” Mom asked.

“Mom, he’s fine,” I said at the same time that Jax said, “No, ma’am.”

“Any weapons on you?”

He shook his head. “Had a bow. It broke when I took a spill in the snow a few days ago.”

“What do you do for food?”