The Simple Wild: A Novel(41)

I wave my hand, still gripping the bouquet of overripe daisies, at him. “Are you available?”

He dips his head once—yes—and then takes a long drag.

Are cabbies allowed to smoke in their cars around here?

Holding my head high—I won’t give Jonah the satisfaction of knowing his words cut me—I stroll over to the taxi and climb in the backseat, trying my best to ignore the waft of tobacco smoke that lingers.

An engine revs and I glance over to meet Jonah’s cold gaze, glaring at me through his windshield. We stay locked like that for three . . . four . . . five seconds before he peels off, his wheels kicking up dust clouds and stones as he leaves the parking lot. Good riddance.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks, his dark eyes peering at me through the rearview mirror.

Crap. How do I get back to my dad’s again? Where did Jonah turn? Was it before or after that sketchy coffee shop? “Do you know where Wren Fletcher lives?”

He shakes his head, and for a moment I panic. I’m about to tell him to take me to the airport, but then I remember that I have my dad’s address in an email from Agnes. I quickly find it and read it out loud for the man. And then sink into the cracked, tobacco--scented leather with a sigh of relief. I don’t need Jonah at all. “How much for the scenic way there?”





Chapter 8




“I still can’t believe you have six kids,” I murmur.

“Seven, come December.” Michael chuckles as he turns into my dad’s driveway. “I told you, I was eighteen when my oldest was born.”

“Still.”

He grins mischievously, flashing nicotine-tinged teeth and a slight overbite. “What can I say? I’m lucky my wife likes babies.”

I can’t recall the last time I offered more than a polite hello and nod when seated in a cab or Uber, intent on getting to my destination, my attention glued to my phone. And, truth be told, if I had a phone to use, and if I wasn’t trying to avoid Jonah, I probably wouldn’t even know this guy’s name.

But, forty-five minutes after climbing into this taxi, I’m more familiar with Michael than with anyone else in the entire state of Alaska.

Michael is only three years older than me, which is mind--boggling. He mostly lives with his brother, and the two of them run a thriving cab company in Bangor together. Meanwhile his wife and kids live up the river in a village of about three hundred, with his parents and her sister. His wife wants nothing to do with Bangor and this way of life. She claims it’s too loud and busy. Ironically, she must not think that having seven children is too loud and busy, because she’s been popping them out like a Pez dispenser.

Michael gave me a tour around Bangor, stopping by a lively riverfront, teeming with villager boats, and a landmark church—the first structure ever to be built in the town. He even agreed to play cameraman and took a few posed pictures of me while we were there, and the results aren’t half-bad.

“You must miss your kids a lot.”

He shrugs. “I see them when I go back.”

“And how often is that?”

“Depends on the season. It gets harder when we’re waiting for the river to freeze over, or thaw. Can’t take the boat through, and it’s not safe to drive. Sometimes I have to wait weeks.” His voice has an easy, unhurried way about it. Much like Agnes’s does.

“Must be hard.” But what’s it like compared with not seeing your child for twenty-four years, I wonder.

“I can provide for my family better this way. Here.” He passes a business card over the seat to me. “Call me anytime you need a ride. I’m always working. Even when I’m sleeping.”

“Cool. Thanks.” I frown at the name. “Wait, I thought your name was Michael.”

“Michael is my kass’aq name.”

“Your what name?”

He chuckles. “My kass’aq name. ‘Kass’aq’ is what we call white people.”

“Oh. But this is your real name? This . . .” I frown at the spelling, sounding out cautiously, “Yakulpak?”

“Ya-gush-buck,” he corrects, emphasizing each syllable.

“Ya-gush-buck,” I repeat slowly. Coming from a city as diverse as Toronto, it’s not the first time I’ve struggled with—and -butchered—a name. “So . . . not at all how it’s spelled, then?”

“Not for a kass’aq.” He grins. “Stick with ‘Michael.’ ”

“Sounds good.” Scooping up the bouquet of flowers, I hand him the thirty bucks we agreed on, plus a tip he more than earned. “Thanks for being my tour guide.” I slide out of the back of the car, noting with relief that Jonah’s Escape is nowhere to be seen.

“No problem,” Michael says with a wave, his brakes squeaking as his car begins to roll away. He didn’t ask about that scene with Jonah in the Meyer’s parking lot, for which I’m glad.

The moment I step through the door and into my dad’s eerily quiet, dark house, my phone picks up the Wi-Fi connection and begins chirping with a string of text messages and voice mails from my mom and Diana. I sigh, knowing I can’t avoid calling home much longer.

Right after I eat.

Two paper bags lie on the counter, empty and folded. When I open the fridge, I find to my surprise that my groceries have been tucked away, lined up much too neatly for a man who was chucking vegetables on the checkout belt only an hour ago. And here I was, expecting my salad supplies to be strewn across the front lawn.