SIGNS OF WINNING
Copyright 2012 Scott Miller
ISBN 9780973455656
Published by Whippoorwill eBooks
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whippoorwillbookspublishing@gmail.com
©Scott Miller 2012
Signs of Winning
ISBN 978-0-9734556-56
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for short passages for review
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Young Adult fiction
Young Adult with different abilities.
SIGNS OF WINNING
Scott Miller
Chapter 1
“Have they started that statue for me yet?
My dad stared at me. “Statue? What statue are you talking about?”
“You said if I beat Little Mike again this year, everyone would build a statue for me at the finish line.”
“His dogs are pretty fast. They’re some of the same ones Big Mike used to win the Apostle Islands race this year.”
“This is the Snowflake Days race, dad. He’s in my backyard now.”
“Well, even in your backyard his dogs will still be fast.”
I knew what dad was trying to do. He was trying to keep things in perspective. I’d heard him say that a thousand times. “We’ve got to keep things in perspective, dear.” I know Mike Burley had beaten me five or six times. I knew it was probably a fluke I'd beaten him last year. But sometimes I just don’t want things put in perspective.
“Dad, you’re supposed to say something like go get him, tiger, or crush him and spread his guts out all over the trail.”
Dad looked at me and shook his head, “If your mother was still around, she’d spread my guts out all over the trail for letting you talk like that.”
Then we both just stood for a moment looking stupid. There were some things we didn’t do too well since mom died. Talking about her was one of them. Finally, dad said, “Well, we better go get the dogs ready.”
The dogs were crazy to run as soon as we took them out of their boxes. They bounced and screamed and chased their tails. They batted at each other with their big paws and playfully bit each other’s ears.
“Dial it back guys,” I shouted. I think that's what I did. I know I can make sounds. “You can’t afford to exhaust yourselves before the race even starts.”
I knew Little Mike’s dogs were faster. He was running two sleek Alaskan huskies. I was running two big, clunky Alaskan Malamutes. It was like racing sports cars against pick up trucks. The only reason I beat him last year was because he got tangled up with a cross-country skier. When the skier saw Little Mike’s dogs coming, she never thought to step off the trail. She tried to outrun them instead.
That triggered the dogs’ chase instinct. When they caught that skier, they didn’t know what to do with her. So they licked her face and tangled her up in their tug lines. She started screaming and hitting the dogs with her ski poles. She even hit Little Mike once. It was quite a mess.
In the end, I beat Little Mike by three minutes. He wasn’t very happy about that. He threw his second place trophy in the garbage before he went home. I guess he didn’t like being beaten by a tall, skinny, deaf girl.
A lot of people in the Minnesota Malamute Club - they sponsor Snowflake Days - were glad I beat Little Mike. The Mikes, Mike Burley Senior and Mike Burley Junior, were really in a different league to everybody else. They weren’t club members and they didn’t even own a Malamute. Unless they fell off their sleds or got tangled up with a cross-country skier, they were pretty much guaranteed to win at Snowflake Days. They’d come, enter a team in every race, collect their trophies at the end of the day and drive off with smirks on their faces. After I beat Little Mike, a lot of people thought the Mikes wouldn’t even come back again.
One club member who named all her dogs after plants said, “They really don’t belong here. Snowflake Days isn’t even really a race. It’s more like a get together with stopwatches.”
Another club member who had gray hair and looked like Bigfoot said, “It’s about time somebody beat those Mikes. They needed to be taught a lesson.”
Another said, “If she beats him again next year we should build a statue of her and her dogs at the finish line.”
Dad handed me down the sled from on top of the truck. I took it around to the front and put a sled bag on it. The dogs stopped playing for a moment and watched me.
“Not yet,” I told them.
They went back to playing. I opened the tailgate and took out the big, plastic bin that held our lines and harnesses. I set it down on the ground beside me and started untangling the knots.
“These lines must get up at night and tangle themselves together,” mom used to say. “There’s no way I put them in there like that.”
I looked up and saw the Mikes pulling into the dog lot. They had a shiny, black truck with fancy aluminum dog boxes on it. They looped around the dog lot once so everybody could see them. Then they parked right next to dad and me.
The Mikes looked so professional, so organized. They never wasted time looking for something or untangling things. They’d open a door and a dog would jump out and run right to its spot on the picket. Their harnesses were all color-coded. Their lines were clipped to steel loops that kept them from getting snarled. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t even deserve to run dogs when I watched them. That’s when I have to remind myself of what mom said after my first race. “Yes, Kaitlin, but have you ever seen them pet one of their dogs?”
Little Mike must have sensed me staring at him. He made eye contact with me while he was taking his dogs out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a marker. On the side of an empty dog food bag he wrote, “Watch the corners, Kaitlin.”
He set the bag down and looked me squarely in the eyes. “Watch the corners, Kaitlin,” he mouthed slowly. “Watch the corners.”
I never thought Mike Burley was a bad guy. He was thirteen like me. He was chubby and short like a chess piece. He had fingers like sausages and picked his nose when he thought no one was looking. He was pretty much harmless, though. He just hated losing the same way most people hate having teeth pulled. I don’t think mean came naturally to him. He only acted that way because he wanted to be like his father.
"Jerk" was the word most people used to describe Big Mike. Actually, the word was usually a little worse than that. Big Mike didn’t have any neck. His head was big and round and bald. It looked like someone painted a face on a big melon and screwed it onto his shoulders. He would puff out his chest and strut around like he owned the place. Worst of all, he liked making people feel small. I’m not sure why he raced. Winning didn’t seem to make him happy and losing sure made him mad.
Big Mike didn’t even notice me untangling lines when he got out of his truck. After his dogs were out, he marched right up to my dad.
“Andrew,” Big Mike said, “I don’t think it’s wise for a deaf girl to be racing a dog team. She puts herself and the other mushers, and their dogs in danger.”
Dad translated everything he said. Big Mike got all red faced. I guess he didn’t think dad should share his concerns with someone as dangerous as I.
“She’s not a danger to anyone,” dad said. “She’s been doing this race for years.”
“Well, I beg to differ. A lot of things can happen out there.” Big Mike pointed down the trail. “A person needs all five senses. Four ain’t enough to make a safe musher. I’m just not comfortable with my boy out there on the same trail as her.”
“Well, don’t let him race then.”
“Are you telling me you’re going to let her run?” Mike put his face right up to my dad’s.
“Yes, Kaitlin is running. If you have a problem with that you can take it up with me. I’m the race marshal this year.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what Mr. Race Marshal.” He jabbed his finger into my dad’s chest. “If anything happens to my boy or my dogs, I’ll be lodging a lot more than a complaint in your face.”
“Yeah,” Little Mike said. “If anything happens, my dad will lodge a lot more than a complaint in your face.”
Dad brushed Big Mike’s finger aside. “Your starting time is ten o’clock sharp. If you’re late you'll be moved to the end of the line, with your time starting when you were originally scheduled to leave.”
Mike glared down at dad. He turned to one side and spit.
“Gotta bad taste in my mouth.” He spun on his heel and stalked back to his truck.
Dad watched him leave then turned to me. “I guess his pants are too tight or something.”
Most people think being deaf in a hearing world would be awful, but I’m proud of being deaf. If there was a chance for me to hear, I would turn it down. I wouldn’t even need to think about it. One time a teacher asked me what was the worst part about being deaf. He wanted to know if it was not hearing birds sing or the wind in the trees or my parents’ voices. I told him the worst part about being deaf didn’t have anything to do with hearing. I told him it was trying to prove to people that the deaf aren’t stupid. We are as strong and smart and as full of life as anybody.
Dad and I harnessed the dogs. I pushed the sled over to a tree near the starting line and tied it off with a slipknot. I was going out second. Little Mike was going out first, two minutes ahead of me.
Back at the truck I grabbed Isis. Dad got hold of Nusukti, and we took them down to the sled and clipped them in line. They started jumping up and down and lunging into their harnesses. I could sense their wild-eyed excitement work its way down the lines and up through the handlebar of the sled.
I watched the Mikes lead their team into the starting chute. Their dogs were long and skinny with muscles showing under their thin black coats. Someone once told me that Big Mike could get a thousand dollars for one of his dogs. In the starting chute, they didn’t jump around like giant puppies. They stared straight down the trail. They didn’t look around or back at Mike. They were like Ninja masters preparing for battle.
I stood on the brake and undid the slipknot. Dad led us up to the starting area. We parked behind Little Mike’s team and waited for them to leave.
When they took off, his dogs were all tongues and legs rocketing away from the starting line. Isis and Nusukti lunged forward and were snapped back. They looked at me like, “Come on. Let’s get going! They’re getting away!”
With Mike gone it was our turn to head into the starting chute. Dad led us in and two club members grabbed the sled to hold it in place. I planted the snow hook as deep as I could. Then I went up and checked the dogs’ lines once more.
We had to wait two minutes before we could take off. That’s the longest two minutes of each year. Time seems to slow down in the starting chute. Then when you think it can’t get much slower, it stops all together. That’s when I start worrying about things, dumb things. I worry Isis and Nusukti will get a hundred yards down the trail and forget what they were so excited about. I worry about Little Mike getting too far ahead. I worry about loose dogs and squirrels and skiers out on the trail. I worry about Suicide Corner. Then I worry about Suicide Corner some more.
Suicide Corner is a short, steep hill with a ninety-degree turn at the bottom that cuts through a clump of oaks. There have been lots of mushers who went into Suicide Corner too fast. Their sleds go up on one runner, hangs there for a moment and then never comes back down. They end up on their butts or wrapped around a tree with a broken sled while their team continues down the trail without them.
I tried to pet the dogs but they just ducked away. Their thoughts were on the trail. They understood a race. They didn’t understand waiting.
Finally, time shook itself loose and the countdown started again. Dad signed, “Three, two, one.” I pulled the snow hook. The sled took off with a yank that nearly left me flat on my back at the starting line.
At first I was scared. I'm always scared at the start of a race. I was nothing more than a piece of meat on the back of the sled. The dogs didn’t care if I was there. They weren’t running for me. They didn’t care if we beat Little Mike. They didn’t even care if we finished the race. They were running to run. They were running to celebrate the simple joy of being alive and being a dog.
They were loping in unison. Their lines were tight as guitar strings. I was smiling and laughing. The dogs were smiling and laughing too. When we got Suicide Corner, the dogs found a little more speed. They threw themselves over the crest of the hill. The sled pitched sideways, and the dogs tore into the turn. I slid wide around the corner in a hail of snow and ice. One runner bit into the snow while the other tipped up and hung uselessly in the air. Ahead of me a hungry oak tree smiled. I thought of Little Mike’s message.
Chapter 2
I knew I was alive and whole and happy. I shifted my weight. The runner fell back onto the snow. I brushed past the oak tree. For a moment I forgot that I was deaf, and that my mother was dead and that my dad might just as well have been. I forgot that my only friends were dogs. I even forgot that none of those things would ever change.
My hat blew off and landed behind me in the middle of the trail. My ears got cold but I urged the dogs on. I know when I’m making sounds and words. I can feel the vibrations in my throat. I don’t know if they’re coming out right, but the dogs seem to understand. Mom said the first word I said with my voice was "dad". Naturally, I didn't hear it.
As I stormed toward the finish line, I imagined the first place trophy sitting on my dresser at home. I saw Mike tossing his second place trophy aside like an empty pop can. I saw everyone saying how glad they were that I beat him and how they hoped the Mikes never came back. At the finish line, I saw people were calling my dogs and doing the deaf cheer, arms in the air, shaking their hands.
It didn’t work out that way, though. There were only three people at the finish line and none of them were cheering. Dad was calling the dogs. Ralph was there with a stopwatch and a clipboard, recording times. Little Mike was there too. He had a can of pop and a half a sandwich in his hand.
I stopped a little way beyond the finish line, planted the snow hook and gave the dogs' furry necks a big hug. I led them to the truck and clipped their lines to the eye bolts dad had drilled into the bumpers. I gave them water and some foul smelling liver stuff that only a dog would eat. Then I stood back and studied them. Nusukti sat back on his haunches with his ears pricked forward and watched my hands. There was always a chance I had a treat in my pocket. Isis lay curled up licking the pads of her feet. Her big plume of a tail thumped against a tire as she kept a half an eye on me for the same reason. They were perfectly happy but I wasn’t.
“Good job,” Dad signed as he hurried past.
“He beat me didn’t he.”
“Probably, he had a clean run this year.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“Sorry.”
Then dad left to go take care of some business. That’s how things worked with me and him. He spends his time taking care of business. I spend mine with the dogs. When mom died, dad somehow went with her. I was old enough to know mom wasn’t coming back. But I was young enough to dream that dad would remember we still belonged to each other.
When I went down to check the times, I met Little Mike. He pointed to me and held up two fingers. He pointed to himself and held up one. Big Mike came by and put his hands on his son's shoulders. Our eyes met and locked. I could read them as looked at me. They said, “Poor, silly, little deaf girl.” After that, the Mikes took home their three first place trophies. Nobody told me what a good job I had done. Nobody talked about building a statue. I felt like everyone was thinking to themselves, “Poor, silly, little deaf girl.”
My feelings were getting all mixed up. The more I tried unmixing them the worse they got. Whenever that happened, the only thing that could straighten them out was my mom. I doubted she would float down from heaven. She had never come down before when I needed her. The only thing to do was let enough days pass over my feelings to wear them away. So I hunkered down between Nusukti and Isis to wait it out. I spent a lot of time with the dogs waiting things out. Mom said the first word I learned to sign was "dog".
After the race it was traditional to go out to eat at a nearby restaurant. It was a buffet place that changed its name every year. There was a stuffed moose head on the wall above the cash register. There was a fake pine tree and lots of stuffed ducks that watched you as you worked your way past the piles of food. Dad called it the trough and pushed his nose up like a pig’s when we went there. I took a half dozen shrimp and some ravioli that was dry as a fart. I couldn’t choke either down so I set my plate on another table and got some macaroni and cheese.
The macaroni and cheese probably would have tasted okay if I could have shut my mind off. But it kept swinging from one sad thought to another. I’d think about how my world started to disappear after mom died. Then I’d start thinking about how more and more of it kept breaking away. Some nights a little piece would fall off before I went to sleep. Some days, like at Christmas and the first day of summer vacation, huge chunks tumbled away.
When dad and I got home, I stayed out with the dogs after we were done feeding them. Dad kept peeking out the window to see how I was. He was afraid I’d get hypothermic if I stayed out too long. Maybe he was afraid I'd fall asleep and the dogs would think I was a dead thing. There’s nothing a Malamute likes to eat more than a dead thing.
Dad finally came out in his bathrobe and slippers. He said, “I’m not asking you any more. I’m telling you it’s time to come in.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m not even cold.”
“It’s time to come in. We have a big day. We have to get up early tomorrow for the second day of the race.”
“Why do parents think a big day always requires a lot of sleep the night before?”
“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. Let’s get going.”
“I’m going to sleep out here with the dogs tonight.”
He stomped his foot and pointed to the door. “Get in that house right now!”
“You’ll have to drag me out of here,” I said. I didn’t want to be a rebel. I was just missing mom. I couldn’t miss her properly sitting inside the house with the TV on and Dad lolling around in his robe. Outside with the dogs it was easier to talk to her and tell her about the race and my world falling apart and the ravioli that was too dry to eat.
Dad came into the kennel enclosure to get me, so I crawled inside one of the doghouses. Nusukti and Isis ran up to the gate to greet dad. I felt totally alone. I don’t know if he yelled at me or not to get my butt into the house. I closed my eyes and he was gone.
Eventually Nusukti and Isis came inside the doghouse and licked me. I laughed because they looked so confused. Finally, we all curled up and slept.
The next morning I awoke in my own bed under my own covers. I was furious. How dare dad have moved me? He lost that right when he missed mom more than he missed me. I stormed into the kitchen where he was making oatmeal.
“Good morning,” he signed.
“I wish you had died instead of mom,” I said back. The doorbell rang before he could reply. I trailed him to the front door. When he opened it my life seemed to change forever. A short, stocky man with an unshaven face stood on the step. His red and yellow parka gave him the appearance of a walking fire hydrant. The hydrant came in and gripped dad in a bear hug. He squeezed him so hard, I thought dad was going to pop. The stranger kicked off his boots, peeled off his jacket and threw it on the floor. Then he noticed me standing next to dad.
“You must be Kaitlin. Your dad’s kept you hidden for a while. Better watch him or he’ll lock you up like a nun.” He looked at me then back to dad and signed, “Tall, good teeth, guess she was worth the wait.” He slapped dad on the back and said, “You done good, Andrew. You done real good.”
Chapter 3
“Kaitlin, meet George,” dad said, “he’s an old friend of mine.”
George gave me a formal bow after dad introduced us, and that was it. I immediately fell in love with him. He’d hardly said more to me than “Look what the cat dragged in” and I liked him. I was thrilled that he knew my name. I was thrilled that he talked to me in sign. I was thrilled that he thought I had good teeth.
He spilled great, green waves of energy all over the living room, waves that oozed out over the front steps and into the yard. Dad was caught up in his energy too. Caught up in George’s enthusiasm, dad too seemed to be filling back up with life.
“Are you deaf?” I asked. I knew he wasn’t as soon as I asked. I could tell by the way he talked to dad.
“No, I can hear.”
“Where did you learn to sign?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.” Hearing people didn’t learn sign for fun. They learn things like square dancing and cross-stitch for fun. A lot of parents with deaf kids never even learn sign. I say they’re being lazy. Dad says they’re being optimistic.
“Tell me, where did you learn sign?”
George grinned at dad. “The little lady knows what she wants.”
Dad frowned. “What she wants is never in doubt around here.”
“She’s like her mother.”He turned to me, “I learned it so I could drop by and talk to you some day.”
“You’re teasing me.”.
“Teasing you? Is that any way to talk to a long lost friend? Is that any way to talk to a man who drove 150 miles out of his way after he spent the last three days and nights on the runners of a sled?”
I ran to the window and saw a truck with a dog transporter on the back parked in the drive. “Are those sled dogs?”
George looked over his shoulder then turned back to me and asked, “Who wants to know?”
“Are they yours?”
“Actually, it’s more accurate to say I belong to them.”
“Can I see them?”
He tipped his head and laughed. “I do have to unload them so they can - how shall I say? - purge themselves in your driveway. I could use some help if you’re interested.”
For once in my life I didn’t need to be asked twice. “Hang on a minute. Let me get my boots and jacket.”
George’s truck was a pickup in the front and a two-story dog apartment in the back. It had twenty dog apartments altogether, ten on the top floor, and ten more on the bottom floor. Each apartment had its own door, a straw bed and best of all, a dog.
“First we hook up the outriggers,” George said.
He took four lengths of pipe from a storage area in the back of his truck. He stuck each one into a slightly larger piece of pipe that was bolted to the bumpers on each corner of his truck.
“Now we string the cable by clipping one end of this cable to the pipe in front of the truck and the other end to the pipe in the back. This makes what’s called a picket line. These smaller lines with the snaps on the end that hang from picket line are called drop lines. That’s where the dogs go.”
I knew all about picket lines but I didn’t say anything. I liked watching him explain things.
He took a dog out of a box and hooked it to a drop line. Before hooking up the next, he used his hands to sign, “You have to make sure you get the same number of dogs hooked up on each side of the truck.”
“Why?”
“Otherwise the side with more dogs starts dragging the truck. If the truck gets caught in a rut or one of the wheels hits a rock the whole thing will tip over. I had a friend who lost ten dogs and a handler that way.”
He pulled another dog out of the truck and I thought about what he had said.
“Just kidding. But I tell you, I’d be awfully proud of them if they did tip the truck over.”
George’s dogs were long and leggy with narrow chests. They looked nothing like Nusukti and Isis. They looked more like the Mikes’ dogs. Instead of fluffy tails that plumed over their backs, they had small whip-like tails that wagged in tight circles or hung down and pointed behind them. Their heads were skinny and pointy. Their ears were wedge shaped but they were thin, some so thin they couldn’t stand up. They flopped down and bounced around. Instead of big, wintry coats like Nusukti and Isis, they had short coats. They looked like fall jackets. I was sort of disappointed in them. They looked more like farm mutts than sled dogs.
“What are these?” I asked pointing at the dogs the same way I’d point to a broccoli hot dish.
“They look more like they came from a dog pound than a dog sled race.”
George chuckled. “These are Alaskan huskies. I guess they may look like mutts to you, but they’re what you might call purebred. They’ve been bred to pull. Pull fast. Pull far. Just pull, pull, pull, pull, pull and pull some more.”
“They don’t look big enough to pull, pull, pull, pull, pull. ”
This time he laughed out loud. “A bit of a skeptic, huh? We’ll see what we can do to change that.”
We gave each dog a bowl of baited water. That’s water mixed with fat or food so the dog will drink it. Then we gave each dog a fist-sized chunk of meat. “Beaver,” George said, “the ultimate dog fuel.” The dogs scratched and peed and sniffed and played as George introduced me to each one.
“Were you at a race?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about it. Did you win? Was it fun? How many teams were there? What was it like?”
“I finished seventh. For a rather stout old man with a knee that always hurts, that’s kind of like winning.”
“How far was it?”
“Three hundred miles give or take a few.”
“Three hundred miles?” I couldn’t believe it. My Snowflake race was only three miles.
“What’s it like running a three hundred mile race? Is it scary? Is it awesome?”
“What’s it like?” George reflected for a moment and scratched the head of a tall, black dog. She had floppy ears and two brown dots over her eyes. He looked down at her. “Hoot, old girl, how would you describe it?”
Hoot leaned into him, looked up and kept wagging her tail
“It’s cold,” George said. For the first time he was subdued. He was signing at regular speed instead of fast forward. “Sometimes your fingers and toes get so cold they feel heavy as a sock full of pennies and fragile as a china cup. Sometimes it’s so cold it feels like you’re breathing broken glass. And it’s dark. You always end up running at night because the sun shines for a few hours and then just gives up and goes away. And you’re tired. Your mind starts to leave your body because your body is too tired to hold it in. Then there’s the routine. That numbs you even more. Run, rest, feed, check feet. Run, rest, feed, check feet. It’s awful. It’s probably worse than giving birth to a rhinoceros.”
That wasn’t the answer I was really expecting. He hadn’t said anything about fireworks or tears of joy or people building statues for you when you finished. “Why do you do it then?”
“Well, you reach that point in the race where you know the finish line is up there. It’s out of sight but you know it’s just ahead. My foot always drifts toward the brake and I end up stopping. Something inside me wants to turn around and go back where I just came from. Back there with the dogs, back there with the miles ahead of you, you’re part of something bigger. Up ahead, across that finish line, you can’t imagine the daily routine being anything but hollow.”
“Do you ever turn around?”
“No, the dogs aren’t so existential. They’re as happy curled up in the straw in their boxes as they are pounding down the trail. Life is never hollow for them.”
Right then I knew what I was going to do. I wanted to step on the runners of a sled, to get so cold my fingers would feel heavy as a sock full of pennies and as fragile as a china cup. I wanted to breathe in the broken glass air and get so tired my mind would leave me and I wouldn’t try to get it back. I longed to run a team of dogs through a world where the sun just gave up after a couple of hours. When the finish line was in sight, I would turn around and go back there. I’d go back to where I had just been. I’d keep the dogs and the miles in front of me. I’d be a part of something bigger, where I wouldn’t miss mom or dad. I wouldn’t be the silly little deaf girl. My world would stop falling apart.
After a while, it was time to load up the dogs. I thought George would have a hard time getting them back in their boxes. But as soon as he put the first one back, the others started screaming to get put in too. Peer pressure, I guess. They were as happy to get into their boxes as they were to get out. George would pick a dog up and it would leap from his arms into its box. It would spin around two times and stop with its toes sticking just outside the door. George would scratch its head and say something to it. The dog would slide back. George would gently close and lock its door.
Dad ordered a couple of pizzas and George stayed for supper. He asked me about school and Nusukti and Isis and my races. When I was too modest, dad would prop me up a little more. Before I even finished my second piece of pizza, the dining room stopped being a dining room. The kitchen stopped being just a place to cook and store food. The house stopped being just floors and walls and ceilings. It was like a home again. It felt warm and my head started to tingle. Even the corners seemed bright. I let it soak in.
I asked George the real reason he’d learned sign. He went into his serious mode, slow motion, like when he was talking about racing. “Now there’s a story,” he said. “There’s a story.”
Chapter 4
“I used to be a teacher,” George said. “One day this bright, young girl moved into the district. She was deaf like you. Her parents didn’t want her to learn sign. They insisted she learn to read lips and talk like a normal person. That way she could be a normal kid and they could have normal holidays. I insisted that she was normal except for the fact her ears were merely decorative. Her parents didn’t buy that. They made the school district hire some fancy speech therapist to teach her to speak a language she’d never heard.”
“You mean they wouldn’t let her learn sign?”
“Nope, they tried to make her talk by holding her lips and tongue in the right spot and having her force air past them. They tried to make her hear by teaching her what B’s and K’s and F’s looked like when somebody said them.
“The other kids liked her, but the language barrier kept her isolated. She was bright, energetic. She needed to be able to say more to people than “hi” and “pass the potatoes.” She started to withdraw. One day, I smelled alcohol on her breath when she came to class. I made her promise to stop drinking if I got her parents to let her take sign and accept that she was deaf.”
“Did they?”
“Not exactly. Her parents were pretty obstinate. I told them I would take her to a community college myself to learn sign. I said if they tried to stop me, I’d call the county and file neglect charges against them. It was a nasty evening and we didn’t behave much like adults. In the end, though, they let me take her to a sign class.”
“George even paid,” dad said.
I glanced at George.
He shrugged, “So I’ve done one admirable thing in my life. That hardly makes me a saint.”
“Where is she now?”
“She lives in the city and is a hot-shot computer programmer. She has a fiancé and they visit me once in a while.”
“Did her parents ever thank you?”
“No, they claimed I took their daughter away from them. I tell them I got her back and they just need to find her. The fact that the fiancé is also deaf sealed their hatred toward me, though.”
“They were probably mad because you were a better parent than they were.”
After we demolished the pizza, we played a couple games of cribbage. George won all of them. Dad got up to get ice cream and George stood up to look out the window.
“The dogs were howling,” he said. “I think they’re getting ready to head home.”
“So, what’s the hardest race you’ve ever done?” I was trying to keep him from leaving.
“That’s an easy one. It’s that cursed Moccasin Run. Particularly the six-dog class.”
“Moccasin Run, that sounds kind of easy. What’s so hard about it?”
“Everything conspires against you. The temperature always drops and the wind always picks up. There’s river ice that forgets to freeze and big ravines that will swallow you whole and not spit you up until spring.”
“Why do people do it?”
“The only ones who do it have something to prove to themselves or somebody else.”
After the ice cream, George started to get restless. He put on his coat and boots. After that, we all stood at the door saying, things like “Thanks,” “Great to see you,” “I should be going now,” over and over again. Then George put on his hat and lit up the evening with his smile. He signed, “Why don’t you guys come up to my place some weekend. We’ll do a little sledding and eat some unhealthy food.”
I nearly exploded with excitement. I didn’t want the chance to pass and let it just slip away like grown-ups usually do. “When?” I demanded to know. I grabbed dad by the sleeve. I didn’t plead. I didn’t beg. I willed him to say yes and pick a date.
George saw all this and laughed. “How about the weekend after next?”
Dad hesitated then nodded his head.
“Do you still know the way?”
Dad nodded his head again.
“Good.” George slapped dad on the back. “In which case I don’t need to send a formal invitation.”
***
I liked the ride up to George’s. It made sense. I could look on a map and see what little towns were coming up. Then I could look out my window and watch them slide past. It was nothing like my life. In my life nothing slides past. It all gets stuck. It can be getting an envelope or magazine in the mail with mom’s name on it. It can be finding one of her old socks between the cushions of the couch. Sometimes, it’s sitting in the cafeteria with a couple of hundred other kids my age and feeling alone. Sometimes, it’s guys like Mike Burly telling everyone I’m too dangerous to race because I’m just a silly, little deaf girl.
Once we passed Forest Lake, I watched the little towns slip by in perfect order. Wyoming, Stacy, North Branch, Rush City, Rock Creek, Pine City, Hinckley, and into Tobie’s for cinnamon rolls. Dad has a weakness for cinnamon rolls. Someday he’s going to write travel guide and call it Great Cinnamon Rolls of North America.
Then it was back on the road with sticky fingers and full stomachs. We rolled past many more towns and then down into Duluth.
Duluth is the biggest inland harbor on the world’s biggest lake. I always liked things that were the biggest, the fastest, the coldest, the highest. I like any kind of -est. Middle ground and gray area makes things confusing.
Duluth always seemed so alive. There were the iron ore trains on big overhead tracks hauling taconite in from the Iron Range. There were factories belching out smoke and making who knows what. There were ships from all around the world loading and unloading.
On the way out of town, we drove through a bunch of tunnels. At each one dad and I held our breath until we were through it. I never knew why we did it. It was just a game Dad started when mom was still alive.
Once we left Duluth, the parade of towns continued until we reached Grand Marais. There we took a left on the Gunflint Trail and began the climb into the Sawtooth Mountains. They’re mountains by Minnesota standards at least.
Then we took a right off the Gunflint Trail onto a narrower road. When we saw the signs that said “Dog Sled Crossing”, I knew we were close. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what George’s place would be like. I couldn’t keep them closed very long. I was too excited.
“Dad,” I asked, “why did George call and tell me to practice holding on to things?”
Dad smiled, “You’ll see when you climb into the sled.”
I grabbed the door handle and squeezed as hard as I could.
Chapter 5
George’s place was just what I expected. It was a log cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney. The snow on the roof was two feet deep and brittle teeth of icicles hung over the eaves. There was a big stack of firewood on one side of the cabin. On the other side there was an outhouse and a trail that disappeared into the woods.
And there were dogs, dogs everywhere. Some were barking. Some were lunging at the ends of their chains. Some were doing both. There were dogs hiding in houses made of big, plastic barrels and dogs running around in circles like crazy clown clocks.
George came out onto the covered porch. “Well I’m glad you made it. I really didn’t think you’d get here so early. Why don’t you come in and have some breakfast? There’s no better way to start a day of mushing than a plate of eggs all scrambled up with onions, green peppers and ham.”
“Let’s run some dogs then eat,” I said. I wanted to get on the trail before something happened. If dad choked on a piece of ham or George burned his hand on a frying pan I knew the mushing would be over.
George laughed and said, “Then we’ll eat when we get back. Nothing like a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with a bowl of tomato soup after a serious morning of mushing. I’m planning to run a bigger team of dogs because you and your dad are going to ride along in the sled. I reckon fourteen would be a good number. Just like Goldilocks, not too big, not too small.
“Fourteen dogs pulling one sled?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it.
“Fourteen is my lucky number. It’s twice as lucky as seven.”
“Will they go fast?” The only time I had seen fourteen dogs in one place was at Snowflake Days. The only time I had seen fourteen dogs hooked up to one sled was on TV.
“George studied the thermometer attached to one of the porch supports. “Minus ten degrees. It’s cold enough. The dogs should do just fine.” He grabbed a sled by its handlebar and pointed it down the trail I had noticed earlier. Using a slipknot, he tied it off to the white trunk of a birch tree. Sled dogs get excited to go. They can’t be trusted to stand there and wait until the musher is ready.
Next he hooked all the lines up to the sled. First came a thick red and black gang line that he attached to the sled. Onto it, he fastened twenty-eight thinner red lines. The necklines were fourteen short ones that clipped onto the dogs’ collars. The longer ones, the tug lines, clipped onto the dogs’ harnesses. Then George broke out a colorful assortment of harnesses and asked the dogs if they wanted to work. I couldn’t hear their reply, but I could see their excitement.
The gangline seemed to stretch for a mile in front of the sled. I paced out the length of it. The lead dog and the musher might well find themselves in two different time zones. One by one, dad and George harnessed the dogs and hooked them in place, starting with the lead dogs, Tug and Pull. Their job was to keep the line stretched out and not turn around while the other dogs were hooked up. Behind them were the swing dogs, Fred and Wilma. Behind them was a pair of pure white dogs named Pongo and Spot. Spark Plug, Lug Nut, Hubcap and Blinker were next. I later learned that George named them when he was having car problems. Nessie and Yeti were behind them. They were two solid black dogs that George said were real monsters.
Dad and George kept hooking dogs in place until there was only one dog left, Houdini. Houdini was a little brown and black dog with a coat that looked blue in the sun. He had an innocent face, but George said that was just a brilliant disguise.