Northern Bite

It’s winter of 1985, and the town of Whittier, Alaska is as bitter, cold and desolate as Jack’s heart. Nestled between the glaciers and the mountains, the sun barely rises in Whittier, casting only a few hours of sickly, pale light over the snow-covered mountains. 

Jack is a man whose character and temper have been forged by the trickster hands of time. Seconds had turned into hours and minutes had dragged on for days. Time didn’t heal or erase a darn thing. It had been over a decade, yet the bitter taste of exile was excruciatingly fresh in Jack’s mouth. He flicks his half smoked cigarette out the open car window and comes to a stop.

Jack has reached the Northern Bite. It’s a cozy place, the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee spilling out onto the frozen street. Locals flock here for Martin Grave’s famous reindeer stew.  A rich and hearty dish promising to warm up even the coldest Alaskan winter. 

In Whittier time has stopped. As Jack peers through the diner’s windows, his mind plays back a trailer of yesteryears, fast forwarding through three decades in 30 seconds, good and bad memories cutting through time and ripping open old wounds, never healed.

For Jack, the Northern Bite was a place of betrayal. It was where Martin had spun his contorted web of lies, whispering into the ears of the townsfolk, over cups of coffee and steaming stew, convincing them that their brother Tom’s death had been an unfortunate accident and that Jack had been too reckless to be trusted. Afterward, Martin had taken over the family land and business, the diner and hotel thriving whereas Tom had lost his life and Jack’s place in the world had been erased by blood.

Jack steps out of the howling wind and into the Northern Bite. It is late at night, the diner nearly empty.  Martin is sitting behind the counter, a plate of reindeer stew in front of him, savoring the meal, taking slow, deliberate bites, as if each spoonful were a victory.

Jack’s presence stops him mid-bite.

“Jack,” Martin says, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t expect to see you back here.”

Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls up a stool at the counter and stares at the bowl of stew. “Still making Tom’s recipe, I see.”

Martin’s grin is cold. “I perfected it, actually. Made it better than Tom ever did.”

Jack feels the familiar anger rising in his chest, but he keeps his voice calm. “Mind if I try a bowl?”

Martin hesitates, but he’s too proud to say no. He ladles some of the stew into a bowl, setting it down in front of Jack with a smug smile. “You’ll find it’s even better than you remember.”

Jack takes a spoonful, letting the rich broth linger on his tongue. The flavor is as good as he remembers, though there is a bitterness to it now. But tonight wasn’t about enjoying the meal

“What did I tell you, even better than Tom’s recipe, right?” Martin cheerily boasts as he bounces around the counter towards the door. 

He  flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED, as the last customer exits the diner, “See you tomorrow Bill, drive safely.” 

Martin turns back just as Jack slides an empty vial into his side pocket.. “How’s it taste?” Martin asks, oblivious.

“Not bad,” Jack says, “not bad at all.

Martin chuckles, satisfied. “Told you. That stew has kept me in business for years.”

Jack gives him a small, humorless smile. “Yeah. It’s going to be your legacy.”

They sit silently for a few more minutes, the tension between them thicker than the stew. Jack finishes his bowl and stands, tossing a few crumpled bills onto the counter. 

“You should eat more, Martin. It’s a cold night,” Jack says as he turns to leave, his voice calm, steady. “The stew will warm you up.”

Martin shrugs, “Don’t mind if I do”.

Jack steps into the freezing night, the wind biting at his face. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. Martin wouldn’t feel a thing until it was too late. 

Revenge, like the stew, had been served hot, but the satisfaction Jack feels is as cold as the Alaskan winter.

Story and artwork by Maddalena Di Gregorio