Hummel rolled and heaved, making Henriette reach out into the room with her hand for balance, and she brought it to rest atop the table. She felt the Swiss cheese, cold like the skin of a corpse, and as she touched it, all movement stopped and the room became dead quiet once again.
Hummel lay heavy on her and she opened her eyes and saw through his hair the stub-wicked candles flicker, shadows grown shorter on the wall. She pushed three fingers through the silly holes of the cheese and brought her hand up in front of her face. Three fingers emerged through the cheese and stood like naked sisters on the floor of a barren room. Beyond them she could see the three last stalks of Hummel's candy, large in the candlelight like sister shadows, and beyond that the scar-shut weave of the canvas flap, making her think of the tent as a belly and of herself as not yet born, and of Hummel as her twin brother, locked like a Siamese inside her. He began to move again, making her see the reverend rolling in his sleep. In her mouth she had the sweet sense of her own blood, given back to her on the tip of Hummel's tongue, and she mistook it for a remnant of the meal, a last bit of pie gone liquid. She brought her hand to her mouth and began to nibble a bit at the edges of the cheese. “It was me,” Hummel said again, excited, and the sound of his voice made her wrap her arms around him one more time.
Periods of daylight grew perceptibly longer. The cold sun lay high in the sky, and on the tundra dead tree trunks still drove icicles down into the snow, but the days were longer. On Topcock Creek Finn got directions from Phil and told the old man in every language he could think of that he was leaving.
“Nome,” he said, pointing off in the direction Phil had shown him.
The old man nodded and repeated the word tiredly as though this were another of Finn's English lessons. “I'll never learn,” he said. “That's why I brought Fujino. I don't understand English.”
The night before, when the old man started his prayer again and when Phil, like a dutiful son, sat in rigid reception mumbling through his teeth in Eskimo, Finn had refused to pour. The old man reached at his regular time through the water-weakened sides of the whiskey box, but when he set the bottle between them, Finn simply removed it from view. He took the tin cups as well, and then sat looking from man to man as they spoke. No one mentioned the whiskey. Neither the old man nor Phil dragged a hand across the fur floor in search of the cups; neither of them cast an eye toward Finn or changed the quality of his monotone in the slightest.
“I'm going back to Nome,” Finn said now, one last time. He took the old man by both shoulders and shook him gently.
“Good-bye,” said the old man. “Thank you for keeping me company. Thank you for telling me of Fujino's
harakiri.”
Finn shook hands with Phil and ducked quickly out of the terrible tent. He had given Phil the mute dog, but the dog pushed through the flap and ran with him, down along the edge of the river a ways, until he realized that this was no firewood run.
Finn carried a light pack with food and a change of clothes. He didn't need the sled or the dog. He would follow Phil's landmarks, expecting to see the river to the northwest of him at all times. He would follow it to the coast and then turn south and take a familiar path into the city. Four days. Five at the most. He'd learned from Phil how to build a shelter of ice and he'd received from the old man the unopened bottle of whiskey that was saved the night before. It was exhilarating, this being away again, heading toward Nome and the warmth of the bath and his friends. Finn took large steps. He could feel his toes, warm in the cage of his boots, and he pulled the strings of his jacket until only his eyes looked out into the cold world. His destiny had led him in so many circles. Maybe this time things would be different. He would see how he felt when he got to Nome. It was time to return to his own kind but for now it was the walking that demanded his attention. Phil had told him to time his steps with his breathing, for that was the only way of telling if he was getting tired. Finn did so now, discovering that he was good for two steps per breath and being satisfied.
Back at the camp on Topcock Creek, both Phil and the old man were awake inside the tent. They felt fine and sober and would spend the day in one more search for small bits of firewood. The old man again took out the photograph of his daughter and thrust it into Phil's hands. He had written her name and age on the back and waited until Phil saw what he'd written and repeated it. They nodded to each other and the old man thought what a fine time they would have together in Tokyo. He was still amazed at how much Phil resembled him. And if Phil and his daughter married he was sure that his grandson would have as great a likeness.
The dog was ready and the two men pushed off toward a place where they believed they would be able to find wood. They carried axes and ran behind the sled, taking turns leaping on and off the runners. When they arrived at the area the old man was panting and sat on the sled to rest while Phil began cutting. The high, clipped sound of the axe shot far down the river and into Finn's ears. The old man was satisfied and felt at home. He liked Phil so much better than Finn, better even than Fujino. He stood and offered to take the axe for a while and was surprised when Phil stood back to give him room.
“Now that Finn is gone I will tell the best story of all,” he said. “It was easily Finn's favorite but I didn't want to repeat it while he was here.”
The old man began chopping and then stopped and leaned heavily on the handle of the axe.
“Tonight I will tell the story of Hideyoshi,” he said. “It is exciting and humorous. You are in for a great surprise.” He stood back lost for a moment in his decision as to just how he would begin the story. He would tell it better to his future son-in-law than he had to Finn. He got the idea for a new rhythm for the story from the sound that he heard snapping at the air around him. Phil had begun chopping again. What a good boy. He had seen in a moment that it was not right to let an old man work.
Ellen stood outside, at the city's center, and shook her head. Did the town not know what a monopoly was? Assayer, tax collector; rich man, mayor. It was too much for the fragile honesty of these men. Still, she could imagine a wide town before her, the tents gone, a city laid out in its finery like a section of Seattle. Her bath would still be second to none, could stand next to anything these builders might put up. It was strong and attractive. And it was a money maker as well.
Ellen gauged the speed of the coming spring by the amount of time she could spend standing in one place and by the look of the ground under her feet once she moved. As she stepped aside there was moisture and she could see it now turning hard again. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to spin in loose clothing on the sand once more, to watch the heavy ships pushing the salt sea into a froth? In the spring she would be kinder. She would buy fresh foods and give them to her friends. She'd buy clothing for Henriette though she was still angry with her, and she'd buy a fine cherrywood pipe for Finn. And she would conjure correctly the desires and needs of the reverend and of Phil and of Mr. Kaneda if she ever saw him again. As for Fujino, he would have a headstone. She had boxes of money, was making more each day. What could be more honorable than keeping people clean?
And Ellen would find time for herself, come spring. More than wanting a husband she wanted to be a mother, and if she was not such a fine catch for the way she looked she was certainly no bad bargain. She had a business and an ordered mind and she was strong. She'd been a fool to expect a man to come along who was exactly the man she supposed he should be. Let the man alone, let him be himself, within limits. Still, she'd not have a drinker, no pubman who'd cast his hat for the home hook every night at midnight or later, leaving her to the care of the house. She'd not have a drinker or a politician; otherwise he could follow his natural impulses and she'd love him for it. A man with the fine side of her father would do nicely. A lovely man who would wrap his children in his greatcoat and hoist them high. It is enough to give a child wings, that kind of attention. And a man who would need his time alone, who would sit by the fire with the wrath of God for whoever might interrupt him. Ellen would tiptoe around, she swore she would. Oh, she laughed at the image, herself all big-boned and tiptoeing around the house. And he would have a soft hand for her and a word or two to set on the floor of her bedtime ear, all private like there were only the two of them scratching the surface of the earth. Was that too much to ask? For a man like that?
The cold came through her greatcoat as if to say that it was, that she ought to settle for the first man who'd have her. Had there ever been a longer winter to make the promise of spring seem so great? Ellen didn't know. She was a daydreamer so could survive the winter well. And would she take a daydreamer for a husband then? She could see the two of them, bodies back to back yet worlds apart.
But for now, still winter, it was time to get back to the bath. She'd let Henriette work alone from the earliest part of the morning as punishment. It was back-breaking work, lugging those liquid buckets about. Maybe after today there'd be no more asking for an evening off to go running to the tent of that bleeder.
It was impossible for Ellen to enter her bath without noticing the round-topped mule's feet. Weren't they more hideous than the entire frozen mule, rider and all? And each time she saw them she thought of Hummel, and each time she thought of him she found him sitting in some corner of the bath's front room, tying his eyes to the moving figure of Henriette or talking to Ellen if she stood still for it.
Today he was perched atop the counter, examining in his hot palm the marble egg given her by Finn.
“Unhand my egg and get off the counter,” she said. “There are chairs all about you if you'd care to look.”
Hummel slid to his feet but held the egg up in the air between them.
“How much do you want for it?” he asked. “It's a silly thing but I'll take it off your hands.”
“We sell baths, no longer eggs,” she said. “Besides, it's not something you can sink your teeth into.”
Ellen took the egg and placed it back where it belonged, rolling about the floor of one of the empty chicken coops. She could hear Henriette in the back and could tell from the sound that there were no customers.
“I believe you're next, Mr. Hummel, if you've come for a bath.”
Henriette came out when she heard Ellen's voice. “The baths are clean and the last of the morning crowd is gone,” she said. She took Ellen's hand and shook it. “Did you know, Ellen, that Mr. Hummel plans to bring his mother to live with him? As soon as he gets his house built.”
Ellen looked from Hummel to Henriette. No doubt he'll be needing a wife for his mother to browbeat, she thought.
“Did he feed you as properly as he claimed he would?” she asked.
“Ptarmigan,” said Henriette. “It was fowl where I expected fish.”
Ellen put her arm around Henriette. “Lord knows we've had enough of fish this winter,” she said. “It would be a pleasure for anyone to have a taste of something else.”
This was the time of day when there was a chance for one of them to rest before the afternoon rush began. People cleaned themselves in the morning or just before supper, or just before bed. One of them always stayed downstairs, but the other took a real nap, stretched out on a bed above. Hummel's habit was to come every other day, when it was Henriette's turn to tend the bath.
“Go ahead on up,” Ellen said to Henriette. “You didn't get your proper sleep last night and I've a mind to stay down anyway.”
Henriette nodded and turned toward the stairs without looking at Hummel. “I thought you'd stay down today,” he said, but Henriette didn't answer. She merely motioned with her free hand, trailing a sweater behind her in the other.
Hummel walked to the bottom of the stairs and put his hand on the railing, his foot on the lower step.
“Feel free to sit upon the steps, Mr. Hummel,” said Ellen. “Walking on them, however, is reserved for the employees.”
“We had such a good time last night. I came here today especially to talk to her.”
“Well,” said Ellen, “what's another day in winter? If you want me out of the way Henriette will be running the shop alone this time tomorrow, I can guarantee you.”
Hummel lowered himself foot and head, then turned back toward Ellen as she stood behind the counter.
“It was you who told everyone about my beach strike,” he said evenly. “You're the one I should have blamed.”
“It was the assayer, not I,” she said. “The man you've all appointed tax collector. And you were not so ill treated as you think. It was no real strike and it was municipal property. Consider yourself lucky to have found it first.”
Hummel wiped his sweaty palms on the top of a stack of bath towels and then looked up quickly to see if Ellen had seen him do it. He picked up his heavy coat and stepped toward the door.
“I'll draw you a map to your murdered man's grave soon. To the snow mound where we've dumped him.”
Ellen stared up from her counter but said simply, “Suicide.”
With the soft closing of the door Ellen was left alone once again. While Hummel had hovered about her she'd pretended to count the morning's receipts three times and still had little idea how much they'd taken in. She tried to think of what it was she needed to supply herself with and where she might be able to get her hands on it. She needed soap, that was one thing, but there'd be no soap until the ice broke and the ships could come into the bay once again. She turned around and looked at the barren shelves and empty chicken coops behind her. Next winter, if she lived so long, she'd triple her stock and stay up nights, if she had to, to keep them alive.