Carrier Pigeon

A strange sound broke the silence, disturbing my thoughts as I loaded the wood stove, carefully stacking the logs for maximum heating efficiency. What’s that? I wondered. Having lived here, many miles north of Fairbanks, for most of my life, I’m used to most of the sounds in the area. This definitely wasn’t one of them. It was distinctly . . . metallic.

I paused in the middle of placing a log. The sound was coming nearer–a whirring noise, just at the edge of my hearing. Uncertainly, I stood and grabbed my hunting rifle, leaving the stove door ajar, a tendril of smoke rising from the slightly smoldering coals.

Perhaps it was a helicopter in the distance. They flew over occasionally, en route to some distant dry cabin in the wilderness. Something about it seemed odd though, something not quite right. Perhaps, on the other hand, it was something much more sinister.

I cocked my head to listen. A soft thunk! sounded at my door, and I turned quickly, ready to defend myself against whatever may be on the other side. I waited, straining my ears for any unusual sounds, but all I could hear was that soft whirring, diminishing now into a distant hum, and the noise of snow shifting on the cabin roof. Slowly, as quietly as possible, I approached the door.

Ripping the door open as quickly as I could, I immediately moved my hand back to my rifle, bringing it to the ready. My heart raced, my head pounding along with its rapid beat as I faced the empty, snow-covered ground outside my door. On the porch lay a brown box, waiting for me.

All my senses on high alert, I ran my eyes over the ground nearby, searching for footprints. To my surprise, there were none. I stood in thought, considering my options as a chill wind blew through the door, and the coals flamed to life behind me, devouring my tinder as it licked the edges of my carefully chosen logs.

Finally, I leaned my rifle against the wall, took a step forward, and retrieved the box, bringing it into my home for further study. Shutting the door against the wind, I turned it over in my hands, examining it more closely. It was clearly a lightweight box, wrapped in plain brown paper. No words were written upon it, no evidence of who sent it or from whence it came.

Who could have sent this? I wondered. And why? I had requested no gifts, nor would such a gift have been delivered in this manner even if I had. And who was left to send it anyway?

Everyone who had ever been here, to this lonely cabin in the middle of nowhere, was dead. It made no sense. Should I simply put it back? Leave it on the porch and walk away? Surely, whatever its contents may be, they were not for me. Yet a sense of curiosity overwhelmed my better judgment, and I found my hands unwrapping the package even as I wondered if I should.

Inside the paper was, as I had suspected, a simple, brown cardboard box. I shook it, but nothing seemed to move inside. Finally, I carefully removed the tape and slowly opened the lid, bracing myself for I knew not what. An explosion, perhaps?

Instead, I was greeted with a plain, manila envelope. Intrigued, I opened it, revealing a Polaroid photograph with the words, “Remember this?”, written in red marker in the white space beneath. I drew in a sharp breath as I studied the photo and recognized a younger, nearly naked version of myself alongside a very young girl. Much too young. Younger me’s arm snaked around the girl’s waist, drawing her into my lap. I shook my head in denial. “I don’t even know her,” I whispered, panic rising in my breast.

In horror, I threw the photo down, back in the box, back into the darkness within, closing the flaps and locking them in place, one under another. Running back to the door, I threw it back into the snow, desperately yelling into the wilderness, “I don’t even know her!” I slammed the door behind it and drew the bar to lock it securely in place. This thing had no place in my carefully ordered life. How could it?

My breath came in great heaves, one after another in quick succession. I paced back and forth across my small living room, running my fingers through my graying brown hair and then down my face, pressing firmly against my skin to assure myself that I, at least, was real. This, though? This must be a dream. A nightmare, surely. Nothing else made sense.

“Okay,” I said to myself, my voice loud in the still air. “It’s just a mistake. Just a joke, maybe. Some kid probably found a picture of me online, messed around with it and . . . what do they call it? Shoop? They shooped it? Maybe. Whatever. It doesn’t matter, just a prank.” Somewhat mollified, I began to feel calmer.

My breathing and heartbeat slowed, and after a while, I noticed the haze in the air, the stifling smell of smoke, and the crackling of the fire. I returned to the stove. The fire was blazing now, the flames beginning to devour the logs in earnest. Using the tongs, I placed a few more logs on the fire, then adjusted the flue and closed the door.

By the time I finished, I had half convinced myself that it had, in fact, been a dream. What a crazy idea, to have received a package like that, and at this time of year! I laughed quietly at the thought. On a normal day, I would go out and break the ice in the nearby river now, reopening a hole I had kept open all winter long. But something held me back today.

The idea of walking outside, walking out and seeing that box, knowing its contents, filled me with dread. No, taking a quick nap seemed like a better idea. And perhaps, I would wake to find that all of this really was a dream after all. I lay down on my cot and watched the flames flicker through the soot-covered window of the wood stove. I would have to clean it again soon, I reflected. But not today. I pulled the blankets closer around me and tried to find peace in the darkness behind my eyelids.

Finally, I drifted on the verge of sleep, and memories stirred within me of a time when I hadn’t lived in this desolate place. Of a time when I was surrounded by other people, dancing and singing, sparkling glasses held loosely in drunken hands. Oh, how the stream of alcohol had flowed in those days! I haven’t touched a drop since I left, I reflected. A dark cloud fell over me at the thought, and I stirred in my almost-sleep.

And why did I leave? I asked myself. Why, in fact, could I not seem to remember anything about those last few weeks in the Lower 48? The question seemed too difficult to think about, so I rose from the cot, needing to move again, needing to pace those handful of steps from one side of my cabin to the other. There was a darkness there that I wasn’t ready to face. So I paced, wearing a trail into that familiar stretch of floor. And in the distance, I heard a soft metallic hum approaching.

“No!” I shouted to the four walls. “Whatever you have, I don’t want it!” I strode to the door, grabbing my rifle on my way out. As soon as I spotted the black messenger of despair, its blades whirring as it accused me with its beady eyes, I shot it and watched it fall dead on the snow, its package almost, but not quite, delivered. “There!” I said. “Now we’ll have no more of that.” Not quite satisfied, I walked to its prone body and kicked snow over it. I ignored the package as best I could, pretending for the moment that there was no package. My enemy was dead, and there was no package.

Now I was free. Free to go to the river and break the ice. Free to fill my five-gallon bucket with water and carry it back to my cabin. Free to walk into the house without looking at either package or the dead drone in the clearing. I smiled to myself and hummed a tune. Something catchy that I hadn’t heard in years. In fact, I realized as I placed the water bucket in its accustomed place on my floor, I hadn’t heard it since I lived in Seattle. I frowned. Something nagged at me. Some memory clamoring for my attention through the cobwebs of my mind.

I pulled off my gloves and jacket and sat down on the bed. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to think of it. An image of the package in the snow outside rose unbidden to my mind, but I shoved it away. It was replaced by the girl’s face, so young and tender and somehow so familiar, although no name came to mind. I shook my head to clear it. Then, leaving my winter wear behind, I rose and strode back out the door to retrieve the first package. In spite of my horror, in spite of my denial, I needed to see her again.

I grabbed the box and brought it back in, snow crystals clinging to my hands. Fortunately, no new snow had fallen this morning, and the picture inside was dry and undamaged. I took it out and inspected it closely. Inspected her closely, trying to remember, trying to reassure myself that everything was okay. Because something was stirring within me, and I knew now that I must have known her, that this picture was, in fact, real. But how could that be true? I would never have done what this picture implied. But why did I leave Seattle? Why did the idea of taking a drink fill me with dread?

I studied her auburn hair, her green eyes framed by long eyelashes, her delicate jaw, and as I examined her full, pink lips, a name came into my mind: Lisa. Then a flood of memories made my head spin, and I reached out to the wall to steady myself. Yes, I did remember. Not everything, just flashes here and there. Passionate kisses in the dark, my hands running through that long, thick hair. A small perky breast cupped in my hand, her hips straddling me. I felt my gorge rise and ran outside, watching my breakfast spew forth and lie steaming on the white snow where once the package had lain.

Even now, it felt unreal–hazy and indistinct. Dread and panic took over my thoughts once more, and for some time, I lost the ability to form rational thoughts. What if she was coming for me now? Would the police show up any minute, a loudspeaker calling my name from a black helicopter above? Or was she trying to blackmail me? Perhaps I had time to escape before she reported me to the police. After all, I had no money to speak of, no way to pay her off. I would have to move, go deeper into the forest. How far would I have to go? And how had she found me?

Fear overwhelmed me, and I pulled on my gloves and jacket, intending to simply run as far as I could for as long as I could. As soon as I walked back outside, the cold wind hit my face and brought me back to reality. No, I couldn’t live in the Alaskan wilderness, fighting every day simply to survive. Life was already hard enough, and I was too old. Better to accept my sentence gracefully than that. My eyes fell on the drone and its undelivered package. What was in that package? I wondered. What could possibly be in there that could be worse than what I had already seen?

Slowly, one foot in front of another, I approached the second package. I stood over it, staring at it, reluctant to even hold it in my hand. My stomach turned, and I thought I might vomit again. In the end, I picked it up, ripping it open there in the clearing, the brown paper wrapping falling from my hands and flying, borne by the wind, to lie tangled in a lover’s caress around the remains of the one who had brought it to this desolate place. One strip flapped mournfully in the wind.

And I, standing mournfully in the snow, looked upon the face of my tormentor once more as I saw the next picture and read the next message and everything–all the rest of that sordid mess, all the rest of my time in Seattle, all the rest of my life, everything that was truly mine–came flooding back to me in a tide of grief and despair.

My jaw dropped as I remembered how she had first begun to try to seduce me, offering me her body and complimenting me on mine. I began to hear a keening sound as I recalled her voice assuring me that it would be okay, that no one–not even my wife–would ever have to know, and I became aware that the high-pitched sound was coming from some broken part of me. I gripped the photo hard in my hand, crumpling it into my fist as I recalled rebuffing her time and time again until at last, she appeared at that fateful party (Why was she even there? She was much too young to be there!) where I left my glass unattended, and when once more I drank, it was so much more than alcohol inside.

I howled as I remembered her reaction to that final rejection, her eyes as hard as her nipples had been moments before, as she finally understood that even naked, even drunk and drugged beyond reason, even with my body raging with desire, the answer was still no. The woods soaked up my screams as I relived those last moments of clarity, walking inside my house and seeing what I saw. My wife–no, the pieces of what had once been my wife–strewn about my living room, and Lisa sitting calmly on my couch, wearing my wife’s apron. And that’s when the blackness came.

I don’t know what happened then exactly. I know the police came. I know they took her away. I know they buried my wife–no open casket for her, of course. And I know I came home. Home to the silence; home to the peace; home to the simple acts of survival; home, in short, to Alaska.

I went back inside, and very carefully cleaned my rifle. Somewhere outside, blowing on an errant wind perhaps, a photograph depicted a middle-aged woman in a heavy coat, a knitted hat, and a scarf, standing by a road sign in Fairbanks, Alaska. Written underneath in red marker was a message: “Let’s try again.”

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