Something of a Kind

chapter 3 | ALYSON

Aly was reluctant to accompany her father into town. Greg was unpleasant in his finest moments, and the experience of driving to Ashland was uncomfortable at best. She had no desire to repeat it.

Waking to a ravenous stomach, she realized she had little choice in the matter. Having worked in town for years, her father had moved into the house only weeks before her arrival. Still, finding something edible was impossible.

Greg had mentioned his ‘hearty reserve’ between irritable complaints. Though he seemed pleased with his inventory, a quick survey of the kitchen only revealed frozen elk and doggy-bagged salmon reeking of aged garlic. When he noticed her discontent, he demanded a visit to the grocer.

With her back pressed against the Velcro of Greg’s seat covers, she fought the urge to dose. Since Greg insisted it be an early one, she had battled fatigue all morning. Constantly awoken by vicious nightmares, she accumulated three hours before his muffled shouts from the bottom of the stairs roused her at six.

Throughout her childhood, her mother had always crooned from the doorway. Vanessa had a gentle way of waking Aly during the summer, singing of the sunrise hours after dawn.

A thought that at one time could bring a smile to her face was now embittering. To rely on anyone else for the trivial task felt wrong. Greg was no exception.

Aly labored to concentrate on the greenery flying past the windows. It was hardly an escape from thinking, but it battled the lulling baritone of a ballad as it struggled through static.

Once losing hope in the station’s clari ty, her father silenced the radio. A relaxed hand sent the Chevy rolling across the lane. Alarmed horns and the squeal of a passing truck snapped her attention to the road. Greg veered left, pulling into a sloping driveway.

He glared at the intersection; the only remnant of the other vehicle was the exhaust cloud. After a moment of indecision, he slid an overstuffed binder from his lap to his feet. From the dirt caked across the cover, she assumed the careless discard was habitual.

He shuffled out of the vehicle with a lack of ease and lingered by the hood as she caught up. Gesturing across the street, Greg pointed at their destination.

A grand porch spanned the front of the building. Stippled with woodcarvings of bears and black-tailed deer, a rusting bench and neon welcome mat became peculiar outliers. Imitating a log cabin, the arrangement embraced the faux rustic theme of the town.

Having been raised in a lakeside Adirondack city, Aly had little difficulty recognizing tourist traps. From an understanding based on curious web searches, there weren’t many. Despite the flourishing fishing docks, the undeveloped bay made the area inaccessible to large fairies. Even the most unconventional vacationers avoided the archipelago’s mainland, preferring Prince of Wales and other islands.

Climbing the steps and crossing the threshold, tinkering bells announced her entrance. The art indoors was a far cry from the backwoods paraphernalia strung across the storefront. The space seemed limited for all its adornments.

Miniature totem poles flanked the sides of the shelves like bookends. Though the taxidermy lining the walls turned her stomach, Alyson admired the masks mounted between. A closer look revealed wheedled wood and visible brushstrokes, suggesting the region’s renowned native talent.

As she meandered through the space, she realized most of the store resembled her father’s cabinets. The thought of instant coffee, assorted jerky, or an iced slab of marked-down salmon was nauseating.

Aly sighed. She never thought of herself as difficult to please.

Maybe I just left this all up to Mom.

Nourishing was an undertaking her mother enjoyed. Between full-time waitressing, third-shift baking at Martha’s, and eventual culinary school, Vanessa seldom required kitchen assistance. She offered lessons, but detested assigning the maternal chore to her only daughter. Even as the cancer progressed, she preferred to orderin rather than send Aly to the cafeteria. Wrapped in a homemade afghan and sipping Ginger Ale, Vanessa religiously followed cooking networks well into the worst of her condition.

Until nausea forbade it.

Aly’s stomach rolled. Having thoroughly scavenged for alternatives, she settled with the basics. Frozen vegetables, overpriced berries, fundamentals. While and sparkling water were time-honored perusing the scattered aisles, she avoided

ominous flavorings and regional delicacies.

Leaving Kingsley is plenty adventurous for one week.

With the low shelving, a quick glance across the room revealed Greg’s absence. Swallowing the treachery of being left alone in a strange place, Aly located the checkout. She wasn’t overly fond of her father’s company, but it was almost becoming familiar.

Ashland suddenly seemed far too foreign.

Thumbing a card from her pocket, she heaved the basket onto a sticky countertop. Behind the cash register, a portly woman clad in khakis rummaged through bins, knocking stacks of paper across the floor.

Politely feigning patience, Aly skimmed the underwhelming displays of postcards and lighters. Prints of bears and wolves mimicked the gift shops laced throughout the mountains of upstate New York.

Jams from neighborhood canners and stacks of books describing native legends and local wildlife sat within a fiberglass case. Aly smiled at Alaska’s Hairy Man in Ketchikan. As she waited, she observed the sketch of what appeared to be a pot-bellied Ewok embossed on the cover.

The cashier jostled to the counter, dumping the contents of the crate between them. After dragging the items across a scanner, she scribbled onto a strip of pink paper. Stuffing round fingers into a canister labeled “.99” she dropped a wax wrapped slice into the bag.

“Greg’s got a tab,” she noted gruffly. “It’s the best o’ the best.”

Aly nodded as the odor of teriyaki salmon jerky prickled her nose. Grabbing the brown paper bag, she fled the building, stepping into a pleasant breeze.

A series of chants drew her attention across the street. In an enclosed lot, attached to portables, men and women danced across a wooden platform.

As an audience of children observed the presentation, they fidgeted and cast glances amongst their peers. Aly couldn’t remove her gaze. With cloaks draped across their backs, the performers spun in unison. Their coordination resembled the formation of migrating flocks.

A fierce array of colors whirred together as they moved. The troupe had seamlessly timed pauses, granting viewers a moment to absorb the details woven into the fabrics. Natural curvature brought dimension to the animalistic features. The cloth on their backs became wings and paws. Each time they turned a new mask claimed their faces.

With a thunderous clap, they concurrently dropped onto one foot. Gloved hands collided, and they balanced one another throughout the chain. With whispered prompts from chaperones, the small spectators applauded. Trading bows, the group shuffled from the stage.

Withdrawing an enraptured stare, Aly returned to the parking lot. She found Greg leaning against the hood, engrossed in an array of papers. As she approached the vehicle, he scribbled a final sentence. Whipping the binder shut, he shoved the evidence into the duffle at his feet.

“Did Terri give you a hard time?” he coughed, an accent choking his self-conscious stutter.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me to run in alone.” Unspoken accusations tainted her tone.

“There was a call from an elder,” he mumbled, as though the vague title justified him. The set of his jaw suggested irritation. It was the same expression he used with her mother before spitting, ‘I am a grown man,’ like it was a threat, a sentence, and a rationalization. She wondered if he really felt he was so untouchable, like he had single-handedly earned the right not to be questioned.

An elder?

Aly suppressed a startled smile. She could only imagine Greg sprinting towards the towering chapel in Kingsley, or even pulling on the lab coat tossed over the basement door and secretively descending into the Ministry of Magic. Despite the series of guest rooms upstairs, he insisted on dragging a futon into the cellar and constructing a slapdash man cave.

Just one more unnecessary means of isolation.

After pausing, Greg added, “I have business with Lee Locklear. You hungry?”

He nodded down the street. She resisted the urge study the elaborate murals along the raised foundation of the building. Squinting to distinguish the letters wrapped around the hook of a thrown line, she made out the faded title ofYazzie’s Seafood and Dining.

“I figure we’ll get some food, since you wouldn’t eat anything earlier.”

That’s the most you’ve said to me all morning.

“Okay,” she murmured, pausing to evaluate her snarling stomach.

Adding the groceries to containers in the trunk, she labored to ignore Greg’s glare. His behavior reminded Aly of her mother’s when sharing lanes with an oil rig: as though something unremarkable was on the verge of an explosion. It altered his motions, posture – even speech. The agitation, and uneasiness was disturbing. raw mixture of distrust,

If not insulting.

She distracted herself with the seaside horizon until she could shake off the observation. As she followed his hurried gait, she focused on beachside couples picking through tidal debris until they were out of sight.

Her fingertips trailed a corkboard coated with event flyers as they ascended the ramp wound around the building. She felt archaic paint chipping beneath her feet until they stepped inside.

As she entered the diner, glass doors swung shut and amplified murmurs of jovial chatter. Weaving around an easel-mounted chalkboard, they obeyed the handwritten direction to seat themselves.

The most animated groups were dispersed amongst the booths. Along the bar, hunched coffee drinkers stirred their brew. The aroma pierced the greasy odors of morning comfort foods.

As they eased into beige seats, the awkwardness of their lack relationship continued to be discomforting. Despite the close proximity, neither made attempts to converse. Furrowing a bushy brow, Greg shielded paperwork in his lap.

Aly faked captivation with the table setting. Painted coasters bearing reindeer and caribou, framed coffee cup stains, were strung across the table. Pinned beneath each was a tattered card stating the restaurant had proudly supported local fisheries since 1968. The backs listed the contents of the to-go freezer, composed of Siberian sausage and pepper sticks.

A flash of a black tee and jeans announced the approach of the waiter as he slipped out of the kitchen. His tan skin paled as four men exploded through the entrance with thunderous hoots and booted footfalls. The boy stiffened as they receded into an unmarked hallway in the back.

In their wake, an older man, clad in fishermen’s rubber and plaid flannel, met Aly’s gaze. His shoulders straightened as Greg exited the booth. With a firm pat on the shoulder, they led one another to an empty table.

Aly tightened her jacket, surprised to feel unprepared. Alone again, business was becoming a synonym for desertion.

The same choice he made seventeen years ago.

Smacking Moosetard: Alaska’s Finest Mustard on the table and balancing a tray on Greg’s abandoned seat, the server pulled a notebook from the apron at his waist.

“Welcome to Yazzie’s, I’m Noah and-” he paused, glancing up during the habitual introduction, “-you’re new.”

“Alyson Glass,” Aly revised, meeting a striking set of chestnut eyes. He appeared to have fully recovered from the disturbance, his faltered smirk now a relaxed grin.

Sporting tousled chocolate brown hair, Noah was put together in a seemingly accidental way. Handsome features flattered a strong, clean-shaven jaw, and a fitted tee stretched across strong shoulders and muscular build. Paired with a charming smile, his gaze was both cautious and curious.

“Glass…” he mused, biting his lower lip. “Like the doctor?”

Wow.

Dazed, she smiled and quickly nodded.

She thought of her father’s profession, something along the lines of researcher and field biologist. It was amusing to imagine Greg, with his flannel and hiking boots and permanently attached baseball cap, introducing himself as ‘Doctor Glass’. She couldn’t recall if his degree was high enough for the scholarly title, but she had heard him toss around the term before.

“So Greg Glass is your dad?” Noah raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem much like him.”

“He’s lived here for a while. You’ve probably seen him more than I have,” she confessed, tucking a stray tress behind her ear.

“Wow. Where are you from?”

“Kingsley, New York.”

“That’s a bit far,” he agreed, laughing. “So what do you think of Alaska? Were you expecting twentyfour hour darkness?”

“No,” she said, “sunlight.”

“Right,” he breathed. His amused half-smile twisted into an eyeshining grin. “Are you an Alyson-Alyson or AlyAlyson?”

“Just Aly.” “Understatement of the year,” he smirked. Squinting, his expression was unreadable.

A burst of air ruffled her hair, drawing her attention to the table at her back. One of the dancers from the school had lifted and flattened a cloak across the table, showing another woman a frayed seam.

“Their performance was beautiful,” Aly confided, meeting his gaze.

“You saw their show?”

“Some. The masks, the totem poles, the murals… The arts – the culturehere is amazing.”

“You noticed all of that?” Noah asked, surprised. “That’s awesome. You know, if you’re interested in it, there’s these murals inside the old train tunnels up byGrimsby’s. Every year the teens here go up and add to it– there’s all sorts of stuff about the legends. A few of us are taking some ATVs on the trails up that way tomorrow night. You in?”

“Definitely,” Aly agreed, unable to control the smile flooding her face.

“Cool. Anyway,” he continued, waving a pack of order slips, “What can I get you?”

“Something normal, boring… that has nothing to do with fish.”

A burst of laughter erupted from his chest, receiving pleased looks from other high-spirited patrons who seemed to find him wellliked.

Me too.

“I’m pretty sure they have omelets in the lower forty-eight, Aly.” He offered a knowing grin.

“Sounds wonderful.” She sighed.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Alright,” he smiled, “I’ll be back.”