Ice Island (2 page)

“Two tired dogs is all,” he told the vet.

The vet nodded, checking the dropped dogs first.

Tatum looked down the long, dark street. Her friend should have passed through Safety by now. It was only twenty miles away.

Only?

Yeah, right
.

• • •

Back inside the small apartment, the smell of grease and cigarette smoke had worked its way up from the restaurant downstairs. It was too cold out to crack a window. Tatum quietly shrugged her outer clothes off. She nearly jumped out of her long johns when the light flicked on.

Her mom looked mad enough to spit nails. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Sorry. But I knew you had the early shift this morning.”

“It’s pitch dark out there, Tatum.” Then her mom looked more worried than mad. “When I said you could meet the teams coming in, I didn’t mean in the middle of the night.”

“Sorry,” Tatum repeated quietly, and slipped into bed.

Her mom stood there awhile, like she didn’t know what to say next. Finally, she turned off the light. “Beryl get in yet?”

“Huh-uh.”

The ancient bedsprings squeaked loudly. “Don’t worry,” her mom said. “She’ll come in soon.”

Tatum pulled up the scratchy blanket. “Hope so.”

Come on, Beryl
, she pleaded silently.
Come on, Bandit
.

Tatum got up and rummaged around for clean socks. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains. “Mom!” she hollered, then remembered her mother would be at the café handling the breakfast crowd.

Her mom took whatever job she could get during the winter months when Dad was away. She never complained, though, no matter how seedy their accommodations.

Tatum found a pair of socks stiff with dried sweat. Good enough for another day. She got dressed quickly, wondering how many sirens she’d slept through. Beryl had probably come in hours ago.

She rushed downstairs, stepping into nature’s freezer. It was easy to spot tourists here for the race. They were bundled up head to toe. Locals had a different internal thermometer. They wore light jackets and walked with their faces turned up to the sun, like it was some kind of god.

Tatum shivered, wondering if she’d ever get used to the
weather. Even in March it was so cold her breath made little dandelion puffs. She hurried along Front Street, where the Bering Sea butted up against a concrete wall.

Nome was below the Arctic Circle, but the sea closest to shore froze solid in winter. Somewhere she’d read that saltwater ice was stronger than freshwater ice. She stopped to look farther out, where ice buckled into pale blue ridges.

Tides and driving wind shattered ice as they moved it, shoving one frozen block up against another. Crack, thaw, refreeze, break. Sea ice was always on the move. Yesterday Tatum had seen two pickups out there spinning doughnuts.
Crazy!

She made her way to the dog yard—a temporary fence set up around a parking lot—on the far side of town. On the other side of the fence, mushers were hauling buckets of food and water from a supply trailer. Most wore jeans and sneakers. Sweatshirts replaced parkas, and knit beanies were worn instead of fur. Their faces were windburned, sunburned, scraped, bruised. Fishermen, lawyers, doctors, teachers, miners, artists, and natives had all taken time away from regular jobs to race.

Tatum’s dad was born in Alaska and had run in the Jr. Iditarod before his family moved to Oregon. It sounded unbelievable, but he’d once fallen asleep on a training run. “Getting knocked off a sled by a sharp tree limb is an instant wake-up call!” he’d said, laughing.

Another time he’d nearly sliced off his thumb while changing a cracked sled runner. “No big deal,” he’d told her. “My buddy lost his pinkie finger.”

There were endless stories of mushers taking risks. In
1985, Libby Riddles had crossed Norton Sound during a blizzard, heading into the face of a blinding storm and cutting winds—winds that fired ice bullets.

Foot by foot, from one marker to the next, she’d left the rest of the field behind. Tatum knew that sometimes taking a chance paid off. That year Libby became the first woman to win the Iditarod. Then Susan Butcher snagged the title three years running—1986, 1987, 1988—and again in 1990. Tatum had read Riddles’s
Race Across Alaska
so many times the pages were falling out.

Two days ago, Tatum and her mom had climbed onto barrels and cheered J.M. across the finish line. People crowded onto balconies, packed rooftops, and hung out windows. Snowmobiles raced up and down the narrow street. A special area was roped off for video, film and TV news crews, and wire services. Tatum had strained to see around the mob, listening for the sound of dogs.

Iditarod fever was contagious as ever.

What a drag, she thought, that the crowds dwindled after the first day.

•  •  •

Tatum watched an Alaska Airlines truck rumble through the entrance of the dog yard. The driver got out and started unloading kennels the size of industrial washing machines. Tatum had been doing odd jobs around town so she could buy a ticket to the Mushers Awards Banquet.

She knew J.M. would get a cash prize and a trophy, plus keys to a new pickup. The Red Lantern award went to the
last musher to finish, no matter how long it took. Years ago, a guy spent more than a month on the trail. By then, the banquet was over and done with. Her bet was on Mack for Rookie of the Year.

The day after the banquet, mushers would crowd onto commercial airplanes—dogs, sled, gear, stinky clothes, and all—and fly back to Anchorage. Some mushers paid to have their dogs in the plane’s cabin, where they were kept in an area separated from passengers.

Tatum laughed, remembering the story about dogs getting loose. Flight attendants chased them up and down the aisles, unable to corral them. She’d have loved to see that!

Tatum stopped at the gate. “Has Beryl Webb checked in?”

The guard lowered his two-way radio. “Couple of hours ago.”

“Which part of the yard?” she asked.

He fiddled with the radio. “You got a pass?”

“Uh, I forgot it.”

“No one gets in without a pass.”

“I work for her.” She kept at him. “And I’m late.”

“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t sound it.

Tatum hurried around the outside of the fence, wishing Beryl had arranged clearance. She peeked through the fence slats. Inside, mushers were taking care of their teams. “Wait till next year,” a stocky guy told a chocolate-colored dog that looked more Lab than husky.

Someone else was singing, “We all live in a yellow submarine.…”

Tatum spotted Beryl’s team by a cargo container,
sprawled out in shades of black, brown, and yellow. A breeze played across their ruffs. They looked ready to run another thousand miles. One year a musher did just that—turned his team around and mushed back to Anchorage.

“Beryl!” she hollered.

“Hey!” Beryl called back. Her brick-red hair was matted into a braid. Sunglasses held a piece of cardboard over her nose. She didn’t look half as good as her dogs, more like she could sleep for a week. She’d lost a bunch of weight too.

Tatum leaned into the fence. “Everything okay?”

“Nothing a hot shower won’t cure.” Beryl said it like a hot shower was a luxury. “Now get in here!”

“I don’t have a pass,” Tatum said.

“Climb the dang fence!”

Tatum found a slot wide enough for her boot. She pulled herself up, dropping down on the other side. When Bandit saw Tatum, she made a beeline for her. Bandit was black and cinnamon, except for her white muzzle and belly and a dark patch around one eye, which made her look like she was winking.

The rest of the team circled Tatum at about a hundred miles an hour, yipping happily. Tatum hugged them all, then squatted beside Bandit. “Guess you missed me!”

Bandit crawled all over her, licking her face. She wagged her tail so hard her back end shook.

Tatum wrapped her arms around the dog, kissing her on the nose. Bandit licked her whole face at once. She must’ve smelled last night’s cheeseburger. “I’ve missed you too!” Tatum told her.

Tatum massaged Bandit’s shoulders, which the dog
loved. Even though mushers used padded harnesses, the dogs’ shoulders sometimes got sore.

“It was a long, hard haul, but they never gave up,” Beryl said, cooing to her dogs constantly. “Dropped Calico and Boots early on. Upset stomachs. Bandit got us through the gorge before she tired out. Cried like a baby when I put her in the sled, even though it was only for twenty miles.”

“Where did you come in?”

“Twenty-third,” Beryl said. “Not bad in a field of sixty-seven.”

If Beryl was okay with her finish, then so was Tatum.

Tatum helped rub ointment on the dogs’ feet. Race rules said mushers had to carry enough booties to last more than a thousand miles. Even so, snow could work its way through the material and rub against the dogs’ toe pads. The dogs licked her face the whole time, tails thumping the ground.

“You have the best dogs!” Tatum said.

Beryl smiled. “They’re all team players.”

Part of Tatum’s summer job had been cleaning up after them. Just shovel their business into a wheelbarrow, right?
Wrong
. It froze to the ground hard as lead. First she had to chop it loose with an ax.

“Wish I could sweat through the pads of my feet and nose,” Beryl said. “Save a fortune on deodorant.”

Tatum laughed at that one.

“You know, sweat is the leading cause of—”

“—dehydration.” Tatum finished the sentence. She knew it was a real danger on the trail, for both mushers and dogs.

“You’re a great student,” Beryl said. “It was so hot in Knik I wore my boots without socks.”

Tatum knew “hot” could mean twenty degrees.

“One musher used a turkey baster to squirt water down a dog’s throat,” Beryl said.

“To keep it hydrated?”

Beryl nodded. “You have to be creative to be a musher.”

Tatum’s dad called it ingenuity.

Beryl filled an ice chest with warm water. Her sneakers crunched the snow while she bashed frozen meat into smaller chunks. “I’m heading off to teach a wilderness survival course to a group of kids in Wyoming,” she said. “My flight leaves this afternoon.”

Tatum dropped the meat into the ice chest to thaw. “What about the banquet? And who’ll take care of your dogs?”

“I’ve been to a million banquets.” Beryl stirred the chunks so they’d thaw faster, then scooped the doggie stew into metal bowls. “The dogs are staying here with a friend.”

“What about Bandit?”

Beryl sighed, sitting back on her heels. “I haven’t told her yet, but this was her last race.”

“You’re retiring Bandit?” Tatum couldn’t believe it. “But why?”

“She’ll be nine next year. Besides, she’s led our team into the top twenty more than once. That’s something.” Beryl sounded like a proud mother. “It’s time to let her younger brother take over.”

Tatum buried her face in Bandit’s ruff. “I’ll take her,” she said.

“Oh, Tatum. You know how much trouble and expense these dogs can be. Tons of exercise. And …” Beryl paused. “Bandit hasn’t been herself lately, kinda sluggish. Maybe it’s the race. But if it’s something else, it could mean vet bills.”

Tatum didn’t hesitate. “I have a savings account.” She didn’t mention that it was a college fund. Or that she’d spend every cent on Bandit if she had to.

“What about your parents?” Beryl asked. “Shouldn’t you run it by them first?”

“Dad’ll be thrilled I’m getting a dog,” Tatum said, not mentioning her mom’s feelings about it.

Beryl nodded as if that sounded reasonable. She poured a twenty-five-pound sack of dry dog food into a plastic garbage bag and added Bandit’s bowl, harness, and a handful of booties. “I’ll mail you her vet record.”

“Great.”

Beryl knelt down and gave her lead dog a warm hug.

Tatum looked on quietly, knowing how hard this was for her friend.

Beryl held Bandit’s ears and kissed her on the nose. Then she stood up and pulled a T-shirt from her sled. “I brought this for you.”

Tatum nearly cried reading the slogan:
ALASKA—WHERE MEN ARE MEN AND WOMEN WIN THE IDITAROD
.

Tatum led Bandit down the street, towing the heavy bag over her shoulder. Her mom was going to be mad, real mad, and quick to point out her “no dogs until we’re settled in one place” rule.

Worse still, the apartment they were bunking in didn’t allow pets. And besides, it was too cramped for a dog. Tatum had a lot to figure out.

Bandit stayed at her heels, nuzzling her thigh. Halfway down the block her dog stopped, looking back at the dog yard. “It’s okay, girl,” Tatum said, feeling sad and excited at the same time. She’d never imagined she’d have a dog like this of her own.

She bent down and looked directly into Bandit’s eyes. “I’ll take real good care of you,” she promised. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Bandit licked her cheek.

The glare of sunlight on the frozen sea drew Tatum’s gaze to a green circle a hundred yards out. Then she saw the pin and flag. Astroturf. Guys in ridiculous costumes were hitting red golf balls off the deck of a tavern. People did silly things to entertain themselves during the long winter.

Tatum stopped at the Arctic entrance to the Polar Café—a small space between two heavy doors that kept cold from seeping into the main part of the building. “Not a sound, Bandit, okay?”

Bandit cocked her head, licking the air.

Tatum hugged her neck. “Mom won’t be able to resist you!”

She led Bandit through the back door into the kitchen. “Nice dog,” the cook said, scratching Bandit behind her ear.

“Bandit,” Tatum said, “meet Jake.”

Bandit sniffed Jake’s shoe.

Tatum set down the bag and peeked into the dining room, searching for her mom. Mismatched tables and chairs were tightly packed. Snowsuits and parkas hung on hooks. Boot liners littered the floor.

“Looks busy,” she said.

Jake grunted, flipping two bloody slabs of meat. “As a hound in flea season.”

Steaks, fried eggs, and sourdough pancakes filled plates set out under a heat lamp. Between exercise and subzero temperatures, some mushers lost more weight than was healthy. A body burned thousands of calories to keep from freezing to death.