Free Correcting the Landscape by Marjorie Kowalski Cole Page B

altered acres, this artificial set. That was it—a movie set without the movie. Action to be provided by the customers.
    I looked at Gayle, and she pressed her mouth together firmly so that her tattoo lines rippled.
    Compared to the tremendous energy of disposable income, of investment capital or whatever that flows across Alaska, what’s a weekly paper? I thought. We have to stay alive. We can’t come down on our best patrons for minor offenses. Who’s going to watchdog the big problems?
    â€œTourism is the future,” I muttered. “They need somewhere to sleep, those people.”
    â€œWhat you get used to,” said Gayle. Blunt, not explaining herself. I didn’t ask her to explain, either.
    Instead, I threw a meal at the problem. When we got back to the Mercury I coaxed her next door to the Palate for a vegetarian burrito. In the parking lot of the sporting goods store, we studied a huge ice carving of a man and a dog skijoring. Ice art, excuseme, not ice carving. The skier bulged with crystal muscles. The dog leaped forward against the towline.
    Now there was an idea. Why not take a short break from this forestry activism and get on down to the World Ice Art championships next week? Gayle could get Jack inside the Ice Park with her press pass. A dose of beauty would cheer us up. Jack would love all those medieval fantasies made larger than life. Tad Suliman had bragged that Judy Finch was carving a griffin; I said I couldn’t remember what a griffin was, and he admitted to the same ignorance.
    â€œI didn’t tell her, but I went to the library and looked it up,” he said. “Body of a lion, head and front claws of an eagle. Soon as I saw the picture I remembered. Alice in Wonderland .”
    â€œA soft topic, not hard news,” I said to Gayle over our lunch. “But we owe it to ourselves. Ice art sells copies, too.”
    â€œJack would like that,” she agreed. “I don’t let him roam around much.” Did she look a little stressed?
    â€œIt must be very difficult sometimes. How is everything going?” I said.
    â€œIt’s not like when we were kids and on our own all the time. I can’t let that happen, especially not these days, in Fairbanks. Too dangerous. I’m on him like a hawk. I’m sure that’s not good for him, Mom hovering all the time. But I can’t bear to take a chance. I know what can happen.”
    I had no knowledge of this—how it would be to watch out for someone else.
    â€œWhat I see, Gayle, I think you’re doing a good job with a tough situation.”
    â€œIt’s not so tough. But it’s a little crowded at my house right now. My cousin moved out from Allakaket to stay with us for a bit, and she’s still a kid. She likes to have a good time—doesn’t have that out of her system yet. It makes me very nervous…I knowit’s important for Jack to have these ties to the village, but she’s not the kind of girl you want to look after your children, either.”
    â€œCan she stay somewhere else?”
    â€œI don’t want to push her out. Eventually, she will.”
    â€œGayle, are you overloaded? Don’t let this get to be too much for you,” I said.
    She finished her burrito, scraped up the last of the sauce and the cheese, licked her fork.
    â€œI like to keep busy,” she said, “while I’m thinking about things. I like myself better, when I’m working.”
    With that remark, a door slid partway open. I didn’t know what to say in response, but it seemed I’d been invited to know her a little bit better.
    I paid for the lunch and we walked back to the office, past the skijoring pair, taking our time.

SIX
    T HE NEXT FRIDAY, THE FIRST MORNING OF the big-block competition, Gayle and I went down to the Ice Park, where she intended to interview the sculptors at work. She would take Jack with her on Saturday, using her press