"It's my gallbladder," he insisted. "I shouldn't drink coffee. Doc told me years ago to lay off coffee, but how can a man live that way? First it's coffee, next it'll be beer." Karena almost had to fight with the stubborn old man to get him to agree to see a doctor. He looked shockingly ill, and she was afraid he was already dehydrated.
"I see what happens to old people when they can't take care of themselves anymore," he kept saying. "They put you in those homes, that's what they do. I'd rather die right here in my own place." He hobbled off quickly to the outhouse, and when he came back his hands were trembling alarmingly and he could barely walk.
"Gabe, you have to let us take you," Danny begged, close to tears. "We love you, Gabe."
At that, the old man gave in.
Dr. Monroe, at the small clinic in Northome, examined Gabe carefully and suggested he be taken straight to the hospital in Bemidji.
"It's his gallbladder, all right, and he needs an operation. I'll phone ahead."
For the second time that day, she drove to Bemidji.
Gabe's eyes, usually so keen and bright, were sunken and dull and he looked withered and old in the white hospital robe when she and Danny were finally allowed into the cubicle in the emergency room at the hospital. He was being admitted, and he was scheduled for surgery in the morning.
It was all Karena could do to hold back her tears when Gabe squeezed her hand and confided, "Those danged forms, where they want to know next of kin? Well, I wrote you and Danny as well as my sister Ida, hope you don't mind." His voice faded as the drugs began to take effect, and he made an effort to resist.
"Mind now, Danny's to have my guns and all my fishing gear if this overhaul don't go right." His head rolled to the side and he fell asleep before Karena or Danny could answer.
Out in the corridor, Karena put a comforting arm around Danny's shoulders.
"Gabe thinks he's going to die, doesn't he, Mom?" Danny asked fearfully. "I don't want his guns and rods. I only want Gabe to be well."
"He's going to be fine," Karena answered stoutly. "You heard what the doctor said earlier, Gabe's extremely healthy and fit for his age, apart from this one problem. He'll be fine, son."
"But what if—" Danny gulped and tried again. "Wh^t if he's not, Mom? What if—" He started to sob noisily. "Gee, Mom, I need Gabe, y'know? He's my very best friend. Him and Mort. And Logan. Those are all my best friends."
It was an unusual list of best friends for a twelve-year-old boy to have, Karena thought sadly, standing there in the brightly lit waiting room. An old man, a contrary moose, and Logan.
"What about Alex and Lizzie? They're your friends," she reminded him gently. "And you've got friends at school."
"Lizzie's a girl, Mom. Besides, I hardly ever get to see them. Gabe and Logan are men; they're different kinds of friends."
And a boy without a father needed men for friends.
Let Gabe be fine, she silently prayed, for Danny's sake. Because the moose couldn't stay, and she certainly didn't have the heart right now to tell her son that Logan was no longer a part of their lives.
She drove home in a weary, depressed stupor and found that Mort was missing.
"We forgot to put him in the pen when we left," Karena groaned. "He probably started to follow the truck down the road after us like he usually does."
"If he's gone over to the Svensons' again, I'll kill that dumb moose," Danny said passionately, and then turned stricken eyes on his mother. There was a good possibility Ole Svenson might already have managed that.
But when they drove into the Svensons' yard and banged on the door of the dark farmhouse, the outraged farmer insisted he hadn't seen Mort, and he didn't appreciate being awakened to talk about the blamed animal, either. And, he added maliciously, if he did see Mort, the shotgun was loaded.
Back in the truck once again, shaking with impotent anger, Karena wondered if this day was ever going to end. They searched for over an hour, up and down the road, but Mort was nowhere to be found, and Danny was sobbing when at last they gave up.
"He'll probably come back on his own, he did that before, remember?" Karena comforted. Silently, she wondered if it wouldn't just be best if Mort disappeared once and for all. She loved the crazy animal dearly, but he was becoming more of a problem all the time, along with everything else.
When the alarm went off in the morning, she'd slept hardly at all. She slipped in and turned off her son's alarm before it rang. He should go to school today, but he couldn't possibly function half asleep, and he'd be worrying over Gabe and Mort all day anyway. She lit the stove and banked it with wood, so the house would be warm when he awoke, scribbled him a note saying she'd get off work early and they'd visit Gabe and search for Mort if he hadn't turned up, and left a list of instructions.
There were a thousand chores to be done around the house and yard, and it struck her how much responsibility Danny assumed for a boy his age.
She made her lunch and went to work feeling about as bad as she could ever remember feeling, physically, mentally and emotionally.
"You look wrecked," Abigail greeted her when she arrived at work. It was a relief to be able to tell the other woman about Gabe and Mort, and it made Karena aware how much she'd miss Abigail when the training program ended.
"We'll get one of the truck drivers to phone the hospital and find out how Gabe came through the operation," Abigail suggested, reaching out and taking Karena's gloved hand in her own, and squeezing it sympathetically. "If it's not one thing, it's another, huh? First the weekend you had and now this."
Karena felt a bit better. It was good to have a friend, even one as outspoken as Abigail.
The first truck that pulled up to the scale that morning was driven by Pete Unger, a young logger who was a friend of Max's.
He gestured at Karena from the cab of his truck, and she took out her earplugs and hurried over.
"One of the guys from the gypo camp out Wildwood way stopped me on the road to say that your moose calf is over there," he hollered over the noise of the engine. "Somebody was driving home from the pub and saw him trotting down the middle of the road late last night. The moose came right over to the car, and the guy knew he was yours and figured he was going to get run over. He took him over there for the night."
So Mort was safe. But how many more times could he wander like this without a calamity?
A short while later, one of the other drivers arrived with the news that Gabe had come through the operation with flying colors and was resting easily; relief flooded over Karena, leaving her weak and dazed.
Without making a production of it, Abigail took over most of the work that day, illustrating how much she'd learned and how well she'd learned it, and Karena was able to book off early.
She drove the truck over the winding road to the gypo camp, wondering how she was going to transport Mort, but anticipating Danny's joy at having the calf home again.
The camp was a collection of trailers set randomly in a clearing, and she saw Mort immediately, and immediately wished she'd never laid eyes on the calf. She considered turning around and simply leaving the animal where he was, but with a groan, she pulled to a stop and got out reluctantly.
"You lamebrained son of a drunken asshole idiot--"
The language coming from the apron-clad cook was the most colorful she'd heard in a while. The tall, thin cook was red in the face and furiously angry. He was trying his best to whack Mort with a broom handle, but Mort was keeping out of his way.
The moose calf was powdery white from the neck to the tips of his ears, and around his muzzle was a suspicious sticky ring of what had to be strawberry jam.
Mort spied Karena immediately, and with his ungainly, comical gait, he hurried over to her for protection, rubbing his sticky muzzle up and down her jacket before she could stop him.
"Darn you, Mort, what have you been into this time?" she groaned, trying in vain to shove the large, affectionate animal behind her before the cook could brain him with the broom.
The cook sputtered, "I'll tell you what he's been into, lady. He got into the storeroom and ate a week's worth of oranges, he broke open a hundred-pound sack of flour and spread it all over hell's half acre, and then he got his filthy nose in a ten pound jar of strawberry jam. Now, the men said this—this—" words failed him, and he aimed a blow at Mort.
Mort put his ears back and made a rumble in his throat, and the cook moved expediently away, centering his fury on Karena. "They said this thing was a kid's pet, that it was raised on a bottle and was harmless and friendly. If this is your idea of a harmless pet, lady, you better try raising a boa constrictor next time. At least they only eat meat."
Karena ended up writing a substantial check for the food Mort had destroyed, and abjectly apologizing to the cook. It took another hour and a half to get the calf home. He alternately ran close behind the truck, trying his best to sniff the exhaust, or wandered into the foliage beside the road and stood aimlessly looking around.
"This is the last straw, Mort. This is the final straw, something's got to be done about you," she mumbled over and over, struggling with the animal every mile of the route, and remembering against her will the other time she and Logan had struggled home with Mort, the way they'd laughed together over the calf's exploits. Today she felt like crying.
To complete the fiasco, her father's car was parked in front of the cabin, and he and Danny came out of the house when they heard her arrive. She told him the good news about Gabe, and Danny gave a delighted shout and ran over to hug Mort, and the two of them went off toward the moose pen.
Karena slowly climbed out of the truck, so tired she thought she'd collapse on the spot, and before she'd even said hello to her father, Otis started in.
"I see that moose got away on you again. Where was he doing damage this time, eh? Well, daughter, you won't take a tellin', will you? What's gonna happen when he starts growing horns next spring, tell me that? I read about a bull moose up in Alaska, killed a woman inside a Volkswagen."
"Pop, Mort isn't about to attack anyone right at the moment." But uneasily she remembered how he'd acted with the cook. She couldn't deal with any more problems today, she just couldn't. She forced one foot in front of the other, and walked past Otis and into the house. Danny had the fire going, and he'd opened several tins of soup and was warming them, obviously making an effort for her. Otis had followed her inside.
"You missed church again Sunday, Danny says you were in St. Paul with that professor of yours. People are talking, girl. Never thought you'd start carrying on like this, a daughter of mine. It's shameful, that's what it is."
Karena turned and gave him a level stare. "I'm not ashamed of anything, Pop, and there's no reason for you to be, either. Are you staying for soup and a sandwich?"
She could have told him right then that Logan was gone from her life, but she didn't. She couldn't stand having him pleased about a thing that hurt her so badly. Instead, she deliberately tried to change the subject.
"Did Danny tell you Gabe is in the hospital? We drove him in last night. He had a gallbladder operation and we're going to visit him as soon as we've eaten." She moved to the bread box to find a loaf and cut sandwiches to go with the soup.
Her father didn't say a word about Gabe and it suddenly bothered her deeply. The two men had been friends long ago, and now they were both approaching the end of their lives, and Otis went on allowing some old quarrel to come between them.
She was so tired, tired of the strain her father placed on her, tired of his perpetual harping. She sliced the bread carelessly, in thick chunks, and jabbed a knife into the tub of margarine.
"Why not come with us and visit Gabe tonight? It would mean a lot to him, and it would make Danny and me happy. Let bygones be bygones, Pop," she pleaded earnestly.
Her father harumphed loudly. "That would be the day. I'm not going running to him, just because he's sick now. I don't bend my principles that easy."
Karena slammed the knife down on the counter and whirled to face him. In a trembling voice, she heard herself say, "You don't bend at all, that's what's wrong. You're getting old, just like Gabe, and if you go on this way, Pop, you'll die a lonely old man. You'll end up driving your family away. All you do is lecture and disapprove and complain. Logan Baxter was someone I cared for, and instead of being happy for me or even polite to him, you were nasty. Danny loves Mort, and all you do is make threats and predict disaster. Gabe was your friend once, the two of you were close, and you won't bend an inch to mend things with him. I'm not a child; I'm nearly thirty years old. This is my house and Danny is my son. Can't you be a little easier on us, and on Mort, and on Gabe?" Her tirade was winding down, and now she saw the real tragedy of it all. "Easier on yourself, Pop."
The words tumbled out as if she'd rehearsed them, and she knew they'd been inside her for a long time, building, waiting to be voiced. Her father's face set in familiar angry lines, and she braced herself for an explosion, but all he did was make a halfhearted humph of disgust deep in his throat, and as was becoming usual on his visits, he marched stiffly out the door without another word.