“All right, ladies and gents,” Dad says, shaking the snow off his parka before hanging it over the back of his chair, “let’s see what progress you’ve made on those compositions.” Dad’s voice sounds forced, and I can tell from the fine lines at the outside corners of his eyes that he’s worried.
I want to know how Tarksalik is doing, but I can’t ask in front of everyone. Especially not after what Lenny just said. Besides, Dad and I have this arrangement: for the next five months, I’m just another student in room 218. Students don’t go asking their teachers personal questions in the middle of class.
I try catching Dad’s eye, but he’s already working his way around the circle of students, checking topic sentences and saying how important it is to find just the right words to express your thoughts. “There’s no point saying ‘very cold,’” I hear him tell Lenny, “if what you mean to say is ‘freezing.’”
I can hear Lenny scratching out the words. “Okay, I get it,” he says. “Freezing.”
“Very good,” Dad tells him.
Lenny nudges my dad and makes a loud guffawing sound. “Hey, Bill, you just said ‘very’!”
It’s weird hearing Dad’s students call him Bill. Dad only has eight students—nine, if you count me—and the atmosphere in room 218 is way more relaxed than in any classroom I’ve ever been in. Dad’s class is a mix of grades ten and eleven. “The reason my group is so small,” Dad had explained over dinner last night, “is because many kids in George River drop out by grade ten.”
“By grade ten?” Most kids I know in Montreal at least finish high school.
“What do they do all day?” I asked, looking out the window and seeing nothing except a lot of snow and a few houses with satellite dishes.
“Some of them go hunting or fishing. But most of them stay home and watch tv. Too many of them drink and do drugs,” Dad said, shaking his head. “The ones in my class are the cream of the crop.” Dad looked up at me. “I’m lucky to be their teacher. They’re good kids. Decent kids.”
Lenny’s head is back on his desk, and now he’s started to snore. The sound reminds me of an old radiator. It’s hard to think of Lenny as the cream of anybody’s crop. I expect Dad to say something, but when he passes Lenny’s spot, all Dad does is pat Lenny’s shoulder.
Small classes are one of the things that attracted Dad to the North. But Mom says it wasn’t just that. “Your father’s always had a restless soul—all that traveling he used to do. He’s always looking for the next adventure,” she told me. “It’s one of the reasons we didn’t last. I’m the sort of person who likes to stay in one place. I think you’re a mix of the two of us. You know, Noah, you might end up enjoying this adventure more than you expect to.”
If it weren’t for Roland Ipkins, I’d have been perfectly happy staying in Montreal and having Dad visit at Christmas and for a few weeks in the summer. Mom’s the one who pushed me to come up here. I think she was looking forward to having the house to herself. Not that she ever said so, but I got the feeling. What she did say was that she thought it was important for a guy my age to know his father. “You’re a young man now, and you need a role model. Even if your dad and I didn’t get along, he’s a good man. And it’s high time you got to know him better.”
Which is how she talked me into doing a school term in George River. Of course, now that I’m here, I realize what a huge mistake it was. I don’t fit in, and so far all I’ve done is cause trouble. If it weren’t for me, Tarksalik would be running around outside, happy and healthy. I should never have let Mom talk me into coming up here.
It isn’t till Dad gets to my side of the circle that I finally get to ask about Tarksalik. “How’s she doing?” I whisper. Then I ask the question I’ve been thinking ever since I left Mathilde’s house. “Do you think she’s gonna make it?”
Dad sucks in his breath. I suck mine in too. I don’t think I’ll be able to live with myself if Tarksalik dies. When he speaks, Dad’s voice is really low. I can tell he doesn’t want the others to hear. Maybe he knows how they feel about injured animals. “I hope so, Son,” he says. “I sure hope so.”
I can feel my chest tighten. Tarksalik’s not out of the woods yet. I remember what Mathilde said about the first few hours being critical. Does that mean if Tarksalik makes it through today, she’ll be okay? And will she ever be able to run again? For a second, I remember how she looked running on the tundra with the early morning sun shining on her. She looked like she was made to run.
It’s only when I am standing at the lockers, putting on my coat before recess, that I realize Dad didn’t ask how I was doing. What happened to Tarksalik is horrible, but hey, I’m in pretty rough shape too. And he is my dad, isn’t he?
It’s a short walk from the school to Dad’s apartment. I could take the road, but there’s a path that’s quicker and goes right by Dad’s back door. There are huge snowdrifts on either side of the path, and the wind is picking up. I can see the town straight ahead. The satellite dishes look like flying saucers against the pale blue sky. tv, I figure, is one way people can escape this place. Can’t say I blame them.
There’s one huge satellite dish mounted on a tall metal tower in the center of town. That’s the dish that lets people here have Internet access.
Outside a small bungalow, I spot something hanging on a clothesline. At first, I think it’s a pair of jeans. Why would anyone hang jeans outside in the dead of winter? It’s not as if they’re going to dry out here. But as I get closer, I realize it’s not jeans; it’s a sealskin pelt. Seeing the pelt reminds me again how far I am from Montreal.
Earl Etok is walking with me, which isn’t the same as us walking together. He was behind me when we left school, and since he’s more used to trudging through heavy snow than I am, he’s caught up with me.
I hear the loud click-click of a truck shifting into reverse. At first, the noise startles me. I’m a little skittish around trucks today. But when I look out toward the street, I see it isn’t a pickup truck. It’s way bigger and it’s got a huge yellow cylinder on the back. There’s writing under the driver’s window, but because it’s in Inuktitut, all I see are a bunch of weird lines and squiggles.
When Earl waves at the driver, he waves back.
“That’s my ataata,” Earl tells me. “I mean my dad,” he adds, once he realizes I have no idea what he’s talking about. From the way he says it, I get the feeling Earl is proud of his ataata for driving what must be the biggest truck in town. It’s a weird beginning to a conversation, but hey, who am I to complain? I’m glad for the company.
“Cool truck,” I say. The truck has pulled up alongside Dad’s apartment, and now Earl’s dad is jumping down from the cab. He’s wearing heavy work gloves, and his parka has dark streaks on it. He attaches a long thick hose to a metal box on the side of the building. The equipment makes sucking sounds.
It’s only when Earl’s dad is nearly done that I notice the awful stench. It’s worse than anything I’ve ever smelled, and the cold air is making the smell even stronger. I can taste the stink at the back of my throat.
“Very cool truck,” Earl says. He seems oblivious to the odor. “My ataata’s got a real good job. One of the best jobs in George River. Pays real well, I’ll tell you that.”
By then, I’ve figured out what the Inuktitut words on Earl’s dad’s truck must say: Kangiqsualujjuaq Sewage Department. There’s no citywide plumbing system up here; the thick layer of permafrost means underground pipes would freeze. Every house must have its own septic tank, and someone has to empty those tanks. That someone is Earl’s dad.
I can’t help thinking how in Montreal, a kid probably wouldn’t boast about how his dad collects shit. “That’s great,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. I don’t ask whether Mr. Etok gets danger pay because of his exposure to some pretty toxic fumes.
“Sure is,” Earl says, grinning. “My
ataata’s a good guy. He shows up for work real reliable,
five days a week. And when I’m done school, he says he’s gonna try
to get me a job on the truck too.”
Dad is home before me. He, Mathilde and Steve have already brought Tarksalik back to the apartment, and she’s sprawled on a blanket in front of the tv. Usually she lifts her head or barks when someone comes to the door, but she doesn’t do either of those things when I let myself in. At least, I tell myself, she’s still alive. That’s something, anyway.
“It’s probably the medication,” Dad says, watching her from his corduroy armchair. “She’s pretty zonked out.”
I help Dad tear open some green garbage bags and spread them out under Tarksalik’s blanket. It’s tricky, because we don’t want her to move. We try our best to get the garbage bags under where her rump is. That way she won’t soak through the carpet if she has to pee.
“Listen,” Dad says, “there’s a storytelling event at the community center tonight. I don’t want to leave Tarksalik alone. Not tonight. But you should go, Noah. The Inuit, especially the elders, are wonderful storytellers. You’ll have a good time. Besides, it’s a way for you to learn a little about George River and the people who live here.”
That’s another thing that’s always bugged me about Dad. Even when I was little and he still lived with us, he had this way of turning everything into a learning opportunity. Doesn’t he ever quit being a teacher?
But in the end, I don’t object to going to the talk at the community center. Some old coot is going to be telling an Inuit legend. I tell Dad how eager I am to learn about Inuit culture.
Dad laps that up. “I know George River may not seem like much at first, Noah, but it’s a fascinating place. And the people who live here, well, they’re deep. Deeper than a lot of people I know from the city. I’m really glad you’re open to this new experience.”
That’s all bull. I’m not open. No way. What I am is trapped in this frozen hellhole for the next five months. I’m about as interested in Inuit culture as I am in collecting rare stamps. But, truth is, with Tarksalik lying zonked out on her blanket, Dad hovering over her and the whole apartment beginning to reek of dog pee, I can’t wait to get out of here. Even if it means listening to some lame old legend.