The Simple Wild: A Novel(34)

“What are those people doing?” I point to three men in their twenties trudging along the road, two supporting either end of a mattress, the third carrying an awkward-looking box. A woman walks about ten feet ahead with a lamp in one hand and a toddler perched on her hip.

“My guess would be moving.”

“By foot?”

“They’re probably just shifting a block or two. People don’t want to burn gas for that, not at almost seven bucks a gallon.”

“I take it that’s a lot?” I hazard, quickly adding, “We pay in liters.” Not that I could gauge the value in any measurement, but I’m tired of feeling like an idiot in front of Jonah.

Jonah lifts a hand in casual greeting at a passing man on an ATV. “Double the gas price in Anchorage. Almost three times as much as the Lower Forty-eight.”

The Lower Forty-eight? Do I dare ask? Or will that earn me another dry, thinly veiled “you’re so ignorant” response.

I reach for my phone to Google the term, but then my hand freezes as I remember my phone doesn’t work here.

“That’s what we call the rest of America,” Jonah murmurs, as if able to read my mind. “Up here, all our fuel comes in on a barge, and then gets dumped into a fuel farm for storage or carried up the river to the villages in smaller boats. That’s a lot of added cost in transportation and storage. And that’s just to keeping a car going. Every one of these vehicles cost thousands to get here, on top of what they cost to buy. A lot of people around here don’t own one. Those who do take good care of them so they last.”

I guess that explains why my dad is driving a truck that’s at least fifteen years old when it sounds like by normal standards he could afford better.

I quietly take stock of the vehicles we pass as if to prove Jonah’s words. They’re all older, worn models, with plenty of bumps and bruises. Fords, GMCs, Hondas. A lot of pickup trucks. Not a shiny BMW in sight.

A worn white sedan with orange writing on its side that reads TAXI CAB and a phone number drives by, surprising me. “You have cabs here?”

Jonah snorts. “Plenty of those. More per capita than any other US city. Five bucks flat will get you anywhere you want to go in town. Seven to the airport.”

I wish I had known. I would have gladly called one instead of dealing with Jonah. Though, he’s being civil now. More than civil, actually. He’s using full sentences.

Maybe that’s why I dare ask, “Have you lived in Alaska your whole life?”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder if maybe I misread his civility, if maybe I should have shut up while I was ahead.

“I was born in Anchorage. We moved to Vegas when I was twelve. I moved back about ten years ago.”

“Vegas. Really . . .”

Sharp blue eyes glance over at me quickly. “Why do you say it like that?”

“No reason. I’ve never met anyone who actually lived in Vegas.” My only weekend there was a drunken, costly three-day blur with Diana and two other friends for our twenty-first birthdays. By the time I curled up in my seat to fly home, I was more than ready to leave.

“Yeah, well, there’s more to it than the Strip. Most locals won’t be caught dead down there.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Hell, no. Couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“Why?”

He sighs, as if he doesn’t have the energy to answer a question like that. “Too fast, too loud, too materialistic—take your pick.”

The exact opposite of Bangor, I’m quickly gathering. “But why this part of Alaska? I mean, why didn’t you go back to Anchorage, if that’s where you grew up? It looks nice. Peaceful. From what I saw, anyway.” And from what I read, it’s a real city.

“I like it better here.”

I’m sensing he could say a lot more but has no interest to. Still, I’m too curious to stop asking questions. “How’d you end up working for my dad, anyway?”

“One of the pilots was an old friend of my father’s. He hooked me up.”

Mention of Jonah’s father reminds me of what Agnes revealed yesterday. I hesitate. It’s a sensitive topic, but it’s also a connection between us. “I heard your dad had cancer, too.”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something—when his father died, from what type of cancer, how long he suffered, how long he fought. I want to ask if Jonah was close to his father, if it still hurts. Maybe that bit of information will make him seem more human; maybe he’ll soften when he realizes that we have at least one thing in common.

“Yup.”

His hand tightens around the steering wheel and I instantly regret bringing it up. Though, I think I got the answer as to whether it still hurts.

I quickly search for a new, safe topic to switch to.

I find it in the form of a golden-yellow sign. “Hey! You guys have a Subway!” I don’t even like subs and yet I’m excited, for no other reason than it’s something familiar.

He relaxes his grip. “It’s the only chain you’ll find around here.”

“So . . . I guess that means no Starbucks?” I hazard, topping it off with a playful grin.

Icy blue eyes flicker to me a moment before adjusting to the road. “Nope.”

“Is there somewhere I can grab a coffee?”