Free The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall Page B

drifts; the forestdisappears under white cataracts. Bannisters of ice form along the stacked roadside timber. The sky is iron-grey and unforgiving. Idaho exists in a delirium of cold, the number of old people dying soars. The neighbouring states, too, report record snowfalls. The Snoqualmie and Lolo passes remain closed. Avalanches in the Cascades.
    Rachel misses the funeral. She does not send a wreath. She does not supply words of remembrance for the service. Communication has ceased between her and Lawrence, that is to say, between her and Emily, who has assumed control of the proceedings, and after a huge argument on the phone about duty and emotional incapacity, excludes her. She is now fully a criminal in exile. Another hard layer forms around her heart against her brother’s wife. The end ceremony is irrelevant, she tells herself. It is meaningless. What matters is the relationship through life. Would Binny care if she attended? She would not. She tells herself this, pours a drink, opens the cabin window, and leaves it wide until the cold is unbearable.
    The centre winds along at its winter speed. In the evenings the workers play cards, watch DVDs, are sequestered in their cabins reading. Rachel tries to continue with her book chapter, but cannot concentrate. Her mind drifts back to her mother, and New Year’s Eve. Bereavement has displaced any initial awkwardness with Kyle that might have occurred. He is kind to her, gives her space, does not raise the subject. She tries to write a letter to her brother, but she hasn’t the skills, emotional or linguistic, and she is full of bile. Something massive and primary feels as if it has broken. Their connection always seemed pinioned by their mother. So what, she tells herself. Let it go.
    The snow keeps coming, blanking everything. When shewalks out in it she can barely see. Days pass, weeks. Thoughts of her childhood: high-stakes weather in the Lowther valley, almost legendary in her imagination, helicopters flying over Lakeland carrying new electricity pylons after storms had brought the others down. She and Lawrence, clad in woollens and wet boots, watching them cut the cables and lay the poles down on the moors, like a game of matchsticks. In the mornings she feels sick and tired, viral; her body knows the wrongness of what has occurred even if her mind won’t metabolise it.
    When the thaw comes, she and Kyle venture out to reposition the cameras by the den site. They drive into the Reservation and then hike seven miles, sharing water, saying little. The ground is turgid, swamp-like. The hardwoods are scarred by black frost, their bark sodden, their deepest membranes still rigid with ice. They labour over the winter debris. There are small new lakes in the forest, melt-water runoff. In the brush a loon stumbles about, lost, directionless. It eyes them, panics, flaps and trips over twigs. Kyle steps away, quietly. Rachel watches the bird for a moment, then follows after him.
    And still, they have not talked about what happened. She is grateful not to have to. It’s her call, she knows; he will wait, perhaps indefinitely, he will not push, and she does not have to think about the meaning of what happened. She could tell herself it was a dream, an altered state, brought on by the moonshine brandy. Nor has Kyle criticised her for not attending the funeral. The only assistance he offered:
    I can get you over to Spokane on the old silver road, if you want to go.
    As if it were simply the snow preventing her. No doubt he would have found a way to the airport, but when she said no, henodded and left the subject alone, intuiting, perhaps, the difficult navigation of families. His brother has written to him, asking for money to support his girlfriend and baby while he is incarcerated.
    Will you give it? Rachel asks.
    She’s still dealing from the house, he says. Yeah, I’ll give it.
    The Clearwater River is in spate, hauling debris down from the