Something of a Kind

chapter 2 | NOAH

Like most things at Yazzie’s, the f luorescents were in extreme need of replacement. Though hardly noticeable in daylight, the predawn flicker was a severe contrast to the black sky splashed across the windows.

Akin to the high pitched squeal of his sister’s sneakers, the disturbance was forgotten amongst the fluid routine of clearing each table. Work moved fast, and Noah had grown accustomed to maneuvering around Sarah’s clumsy quest to refill napkins and tend to empty shakers.

At eighteen, he knew working the family business was a light task compared to manning his father’s fishery or dealing with the man’s temper. Easy peace of mind usually gave way to the music, anyway.

Noah lost himself in the muffled pounding of kitchen speakers. He followed the throaty howls as they drifted between the radiating partnership of guitar and bass. Even with electrics, he could almost catch the cords by ear before getting caught up in the song again.

Catching motion in his peripheral, he grinned. Despite Sarah insisting she was only dedicated to country-pop, her ponytail flailed with a vicious head bang as her fingers curled into an attempt at ‘Rock On’devil horns.

“Nice moves, Sar’.” He laughed, unable to contain the amusement slipping through his smile.

“You never dance,” she accused, shaking off a startled freeze as she twirled across the restaurant.

“Not true,” he defended. “Remember when I had to spend an entire year of gym partnered to Caitlyn Mariano for ballroom?”

“Ew!” She sniggered, wrinkling her nose and blinking, as though the sight could be forced away.

“I did a show for Tribe last summer, too.” Noah reminded, flexing his arms into sunbird formation, which he had always thought looked more like a bad rendition of ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’.

“Until the monsters chased away the crow,” she teased, dumping mop water into the barrel sink.

“That might’ve been me,” he kidded, remembering the elders’ erratic behavior. It was caused by their paralyzing fear of the beast of the woods. They had warned the people of Gigit and Omah, escorting every womanto their homes and canceling the day’s events.

Her snorting giggles fell flat, replaced by an angry flush beneath her cheeks.

Bells clanged as John shoved through the front doors, leaving a trail of mud over the scrubbed floors. The stains followed his boots to his thighs, a blaring sign he had already been at the decks this morning.

Of Noah’s four older brothers, John was the most unpleasant. He had adopted Mark’s ridiculous use of man-braids and AbrahamLincolnstyle facial hair, Isaac’s moping sulk, and Andrew’s miserable disposition. Combined with a doublewide fisherman’s build and an antagonistic sneer, he had a naturally aggressive presence.

“You been running around in the rain?” John jerked his head forward, as though Noah’s damp hair was personally offensive.

“It’s four in the morning. I just showered.” Noah replied robotically, refusing to alter his passive tone.

“Thought you blew it with the girls.”

“You tracked all this crap in – allover the floors. The sign’s up, I clearly justmopped.” Her teeth clenched.

“Clearly!” John hollered, lip curling. His chest inflated as he raised his chin, crossing his arms. Meaty hands balled into fists as he stuffed them into his elbows.

“Wow, two syllables,” Sarah snapped, her shoulders heaving with a deep breath. Rolling teary eyes, she spun on her ankle and returned to the sink, unearthing piles of supplies from the cabinets below.

“So how’s that blatant disrespect for human beings been working for you? You know, I hear harassing fifteen year old girls looks really great on college applications. Not that you’ll ever see one, of course,” Noah seethed.

The fact John had intentionally gotten a reaction from Sarah was infuriating, and Noah felt the anger swelling in his chest. His knuckles were pulled white, heat flashed across the back of his neck.

John’s jaw set as he reached across the counter. Nearly knocking napkin holders to the floor, he slapped a sugar jar across the drying surface. As though the explosion of white wasn't enough damage, he flicked the crystals in various directions.

"What the hell, John!" Noah yelled, dropping the cloth and throwing up his hands in frustration.

"Watch your mouth, punk." "Punk? You're kidding. You do realize you are the world's most stereotypical bully, right? You are literally a goon. Nineteen seventies mafia, right there."

"Shut your mouth!"

"Me? You're an idiot, no, seriously, you are. Lee’s wallet earns every pound of sugar in this damn place. You’re just biting the hand that feeds you. Chomp freaking chomp. Just wait.”

"Noah," Sarah warned.

"Are you threatening me, little boy? You talk about your father like he’s trash on the street.”

"He's not the one I have a problem with."

"Gut it out," Lee growled as the kitchen doors flew open. "Outside, like men. Go 'head. Gut it."

"Not interested," Noah muttered. Even though the kitchen’s CD track had slowed to a stop, his voice was barely audible as he struggled to control his tone.

The sun hadn't risen, the work day barely started, and his father had already begun drinking. Stains of morning coffee and ketchup from the abuse of a scrambled omelet coated his plaid shirt. The close stretching between buttons over the bulge of his belly left Lee looking ten years too pregnant. Propped in the kitchen’s entrance, his cheap bolo tie reflected the metal panels of the double doors as one swung in his wake, the other propped by his arthritic hip.

Behind small, rimless glasses, Lee’s eyes were both flashing and unfocused. It was almost worse when he was both angry and inattentive. Quiet apologies could be misheard as brooding insults blaming everyone else’s failure to communicate, while explanations were taken for smart-mouths or back-talk. It was typically better to cower in silence and wait for Lee’s slurred dismissal.

“What’d you say?” his father demanded.

“I didn’t.”

“No, no, he’s been running his mouth,” John answered.

“You ruined food,” Noah refuted.

Noah saw the lazy slap coming before it connected with his skull. He resisted a flinch, unable to prevent a stiffening reflex.

It’s worse when they miss.

The contact throbbed, pulsating in the wake of his father’s hand. Noah moved with the blow, lessening the collision.

The stronger the barrier, the harder the impact.

He refused to bounce back into place for the second assault, waiting for Lee to slow his hiccupping breaths. His father stood too close, reeking of alcohol. The fleshy skin of his bloated stomach protruded beside where Noah rigidly cradled his head.

“Watch the mouth,” Lee snapped. “I decide who eats.”

Anger rose in his chest. The temptation to scream burned. There were a thousand ways to retaliate. It would be easy to shove his father through the slamming doors.

Noah lifted hundreds of pounds of fish, dozens upon dozens of frozen trays of pre- and post-jerky meats, and unloaded trucks weekly. He worked the docks when too many of Lee’s staff were sick or out and being a part of small crew lifting several-thousandpound nets brimming with the convulsing strength of pure Alaskan salmon from vegetation-choked waters certainly wasn’t busywork.

Lee had aged beyond help, adding more and more workers in the path of his uselessness. If the area wasn’t so desperate for employment, his underpaid and understaffed business would have fallen through the rotting wood years ago. He would have, and be, nothing.

It was predictable that his brother, John, would join his father if a conflict ever emerged, but not him. He wasn’t like them. Noah hated fighting. He hated cruelty. He hated the lack of control, the instinct, the consequences, the hostility. It would to stay alien in his life. Like alcohol, it would be one more thing from his past he would leave behind. Something he would refuse to pass on. Something forbidden in a farsighted haven.

He could run. At eighteen, he was legally able to drop out of high school. Last year, unpredictable work hours made it impossible to add in enough electives to meet the prerequisites for early graduation. Senior year was approaching fast, but impressive SAT scores were enough hope for an aced GED. He’d bet his truck could handle an extensive commute, and his minimal savings were enough for the ferry to Seattle, a few hotels, some food, and another prepaid phone card. There were jobs somewhere, and he had experience all over Ashland. Townie Tony Gabriel would offer help, even if hesitantly.

But that was no life, and certainly not one he could make for Sarah. His sister told him his music would get them out of Ashland, but without an education he knew the craft was a joke. Playing on a random park bench sounded homeless and hungry. Even in the biggest city, he’d manage a rundown flat and starving-artist level at best. If he was ever caught, he’d lose wages for the mandatory work until graduation, with a few bruises to show for it.

The thought of his sister defenseless was sickening. Noah was well aware he was a strong reason Yazzie’s was still afloat. It seemed like his mother cared less and less about managing her diabetes each day and her self-monitoring had become downright suicidal. She offered a big-bosomed hug type of affection, but between alcohol abuse and extreme junk intake, he knew his time with Mary-Agnes was limited.

Mark dreamed of moving to Ketchikan and working with woodcarvers, considering himself a craftsman before fisherman. Andrew was engaged. Isaac was on the verge of impulsively ditching town. John had always been a mess. Lee had suffered rehabilitation through two heart-attacks. Each was a shocking recovery considering the remoteness of the town. Noah had fearfully heard three was the charm. Sometimes he even wished for it.

The school year was a mere 180 days, the summer barely three months. His life in Ashland was unstable and his future was unidentified, but it was all he had. Change tainted the air, an unknowing variable haunting every plan and every thought. It was bitter and impossible to dismiss, like the commercial taste of waxen oranges.

He was convinced things were in motion, or at least in the calm before the storm. His situation was hackneyed and trite, but he swore it could get better in an instant.

What’s one more day?

As Noah coaxed himself into composure, he kept his gaze averted. Lee and John murmured back and forth, trading excuses and meaningless, half-hearted scolding. He kept his breathing level and his head turned away from the exchange. Tuning them out, he held still, eyes focused on Sarah.

She swallowed repeatedly, lower lip trembling, glassy eyes brimming with tears. In the midst of summer, the day was warm, and the air conditioners wouldn’t kick on for hours. Still, she looked cold and stricken. The arms of her pink hoodie were crossed tightly as she hugged herself. As though she couldn’t look away from something horrible, like watching an accident, a spectator made a witness.

He knew the feeling.

We’re powerless.

She stiffened when John grabbed Noah’s shoulder, jerking him upright. Lee’s eyes swiped across the space above his son’s head, looking to see if there were visible wounds. As a child, they made him stay home from school, even going over stories and false explanations. After a while, Lee stopped caring about what he believed to be a fragile reputation. Noah supposed his father realized no one cared that much anyway.

At one point, Noah was the talk of the town, a change-of-life baby for the ever-blessed Locklears. Sarah was a shock three years later, but everything seemed less surprising at that point. It’s sad and cruel,they’d say, since Mar’ and Lee will be old or dead when they’re grown. But they were elders’ kids. No one worried, everyone trusted. Don’t ask and don’t tell was unspoken ritual to natives, practically religion.

Of course they knew. Elder’s respect, Elder’s secrets.

Folk gossiped well enough, but once Tony Gabriel rode into town with a backpack and a cherry coke on a Harley like an unwanted queen in her gilded chariot, rumors gave way to a series of more fascinating ploys that required a lot less guilt and inaction.

“Go on. Bed, now.” Lee sniffed, shoving Noah’s unresisting shoulder towards the cabinet.

Sarah sunk away, backing out of his peripheral.

He moved through a silent challenge between Lee and John, parting the doors and sprinting across the kitchen. As he stepped out of the building's connecting foyer, his feet hit the carpet with a thud.

His mother, Mary-Agnes, was unbothered. The tight bun that had mysteriously migrated from the nape of her neck to the crown of her skull bobbed as she rocked in the tweed recliner, rolling into a post-hangover slumber. It was almost disturbing to think he had become so desensitized, unwilling to summon human disgust.

She would sleep it off in a few hours. Sarah would open, MaryAgnes would shower with coffee and aspirin, and he would show up like a saving grace at the last minute. They’d work alone until Kennedy and Aaron would clock in, or until their mother could function with the run-down, industrialstrength appliances. He’d pray she didn’t burn the place down. They’d crack open the doors to hungry locals and starry-eyed tourists, all while wearing a plastered on smile no different than the Joker’s crayon lipstick.

His chucks seemed to be a step ahead of him as he raced up the creaking steps of the winding staircase. An unbearable desire to escape twitched in his shoes, pulling him forward as he reached his room. Slamming the door behind him, he locked the self-installed deadbolt.

Noah worried about Sarah, but it was comforting to know they shared predictable instincts. He had found her countless times hiding out in her bedroom with the faux-iPod radio she got on sale out of a book order. In the heat of summer, she draped the extra comforters rendered unnecessary over the posters of her bed. Curled into a fetal position, she would pretend she was somewhere as far away as her dreams.

It was best to leave her there untouched. No one bothered her if she was to work on time and Sarah never missed a day. If he offered to take her with him, she’d beg him not to go. It would drag her down to earth, and she had no business there. It was too dark, too frightening, shadowed and cold. She belonged in the light, with the sun thieves.

He slid the navy gym bag from beneath his bed. Tucking it under an arm, he grabbed a hoodie. His friends called it the bug-out.

They all had one. It carried clothes for work and school, a toothbrush, a comb, plus money and deodorant. He kept it light. The temptation for it being a more than temporary solution was too high and he found that it lost practicality after a few too many experimentations.

Pulling open the ceiling hatch, he tossed his haul through the opening. As he climbed the narrow ladder to the widow’s walk, Noah elbowed each broad shoulder through the hole before sliding out his torso. He cracked the small door with a garden rock, painted like an adult hare for his mother’s collection of stone leverets.

Careful to avoid rotten and waterlogged patches of wood, he pulled on his sweatshirt and eased his bag over his arms. Taking a deep breath, he slid down the porch roof as it bounced against his back. The straps met loosely between his shoulder blades but fit tight enough as to avoid dropping it. In the window’s blind spot, he scaled the worn side of the tool shack.

Noah resisted the urge to run to his pickup. As long as it wasn’t gone, Lee would leave his bedroom door locked if he came looking. Instead, he bolted for the thick tree line. Sliding through the brush, he moved along the edge of the bay, making his way towards the dirt backstreets.

Yazzie's originally closed in the eighties. The entire Alexander Archipelago was hitby brutal recession, and when Lee’s father, Yazzie, died after a massive pulmonary embolism, he hadn’t been overly thrilled with the concept. Jobs outsourced and drained Ashland dry, and unemployment was unacceptable for an elder family. Noah was immediately enlisted.

When Yazzie's re-opened, it was difficult. A ten-year-old, serving meals when he hadn't been allowed food for a day or two had never been an easy place to be. It got easier when other businesses in the Ashland Harbor Marina strip foreclosed. At that point the years of hand-me-downs faded and four bi-monthly drives to Anchorage were enough to fix a toothy gap in his front teeth.

When Tony Gabriel migrated back to town, Noah discovered an escapism in guitar and spent a year paying off and fixing up a reasonably attractive pick up.

The lapse between providing a better life and affording to add pricey liquors to it was peaceful. The time didn’t last, and when cut- backs came around, habits proved which had become a priority. The westernized cultures brought guns, disease, and religion, alongside self-indulgence and instant gratification. Going without school supplies or vehicle repairs were an unforeseen consequence after a moment’s splurge.

They could upkeep Yazzie’s stock, employee paychecks, the fishery’s materials, and food in the kitchen. Provided Andrew and Mark continued to live with friends and Noah provided for his own needs or occasionally Sarah’s. Clothes, gasoline, soda – they didn’t come from home anymore.

That was life with the lush.

Noah’s friends were hardly mature, but they understood. Half the adults in Ashland were drunks, and the levy had smashed through to parts of the small town’s limited underage party. The Elders were no exception, Lee included.

It’s funny how in Ashland, your secrets belong to everyone.

Owen and Luke’s families were more financially stable than the Locklears. Owen had an extra bunk, Luke boasted a loft. As long as Noah seemed to respect his father’s privacy and made himself scarce, they paid no mind. They claimed Noah had a place there, and he returned the favor when it was necessary. None of the safe houses were perfectly sober, but one of three was a fair enough most days. When the stars didn’t align, the rocky beach front had a series of pavilions and unattended lean-tos. Ashland was suffocating and damp, but there were options.

He didn't expect to be bothered. Sober outsiders were never antagonistic and natives were evasive. Being the son of an elder was a tempting target, but with older brothers towering around six-footfive and carrying the title as the vilest tormentors on the res, no one was stupid enough to bother him.

The problem is there's nowhere to hide.