Free The Wind Is Not a River by Brian Payton Page B

others simply stop and stare. When it all comes to an end, he dips her low and stares into her eyes. A slow waltz begins, and they relinquish the floor.
    “Hey. That was something!” He wipes his brow with a handkerchief. “I know we’re not supposed to ask, but—”
    “My husband is in the thick of it. He’s a war correspondent.”
    The private nods to the floor. He takes a half step back, sinks his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. Where’d you say he was?”
    “Alaska Territory. They’re holding off an invasion.”
    His eyes narrow quizzically. “News to me.” He grins. “We should probably let the yellow bastards have the place—then sit back and watch ’em freeze.”
    He has no idea. None. And he is not alone. The military is papering over the war closest to home. And now here she is, dancing with strangers. She feels as if she’s losing her mind. Helen crosses her arms and plants her feet. Glares until the man backs away.
     
    SHE SLIPS INTO THE BATH with relief, eager to rid herself of any trace of the men’s anxious sweat and pomade. The heat of the water penetrates her skin, urging the muscles to release. She reaches down to massage her foot. Downstairs, the murmur of the radio is punctuated now and again with her father’s laugh, which she adores. Particularly the laugh he is doing just now, the kind he attempts to hold inside, mouth closed. The kind he would prefer to share if only someone else were around.
    In the end, the night redeemed itself with the confirmation of this remarkable fact: all kinds of women are being escorted to the edge of battle. Women like Ruth. There is no need for a lonely boat ride to Juneau to fumble from one lie to the next in the dark. She will let the military take her to John. How can her father possibly argue with such a patriotic endeavor? Helen feels the beginnings of a smile.

FIVE
    T HE PAST TWO DAYS WERE SO UNRELATED THEY seemed born of different seasons. One of bright skies, driving wind, and aerial bombardment, one of low cloud and stillness. The birds were unaccountably blasé during the attack, going about their usual routines, but now seem caught by the doldrums, unmotivated, loitering in the grass. Even the sea is calm. Easley had never encountered a place of such profound changeability.
    Hunting had gone poorly. It was as if word of their murderous ways had spread throughout the avian population. Part of the reason, Easley’s sure, was their crude hunting techniques. While the combination of a diversion and a well-aimed rock occasionally worked on the incredibly simple ptarmigan, it was far more difficult to bring down the wily and numerous birds of the shore and sea.
    Together they tried pitching stones baseball-style at gulls and puffins. The boy had superior accuracy, owing to his American childhood. Easley grew up playing hockey, a sport with no obvious correlation to hunting, unless the quarry were dark mice scurrying across a frozen pond. At best, they’d each get a shot or two before the birds packed up and flew farther down the beach. Mussels and seaweed are back on the menu. They dispense with the charade of preparing and sharing meals. They simply consume whatever they find, wherever they find it.
    Two weeks on the run and Easley’s soiled trousers sag from his hips, stiff with salt from sweat and the sea. His ass has gone missing. The speed at which he is wasting away comes as a surprise. Such weight loss is plain on the boy as well: the hollow face, the shrinking neck and thighs. He had much less to lose. And so it is with serious misgivings that they sling packs over their shoulders in the dim morning light.
    “Ready?” The boy stands taller than usual. He wants Easley to believe he is up for adventure.
    They pause, surveying the meager hole that has served as their home. Easley reaches into his pocket for keys, his instinct to somehow lock it all up before they leave. He covers this embarrassing slip by scratching his groin. They walk