Northwest Angle (4 page)

A quarter of an hour into the storm, she saw movement near the broken hull of the boat. Frantic motion. She thought it must be someone caught in the storm, and for a brief, almost joyful moment, she hoped it was her father. She rose almost fully upright and saw that it wasn’t a human being at all but a gray wolf running round and round in blind terror. As she watched, a broken section of evergreen as large as a canoe fell from the sky and crushed the animal. Jenny crouched again and tried to hold to hope for her father’s safety.

For nearly an hour, the world was in upheaval, then as suddenly as it had come the storm passed, the rain turned to drizzle, and the lake lay in a stillness like death.

Jenny stood slowly. The water had calmed. Far to the west, she saw blue sky.

She looked inland at the island where she was now stranded and gasped. The place was devastated, blasted, the forest that had covered it nearly obliterated. The great majority of the trees had been toppled and their trunks lay in jumbled masses on the ground. The ragged tops of stumps jutted up among them, the wood deep at their center exposed, white as bone.

Except in photos of war, Jenny had never seen such destruction. She edged her way from behind the fallen cedar and crossed the rocky beach of the inlet. The smashed boat was pinned beneath a long section of pine that she couldn’t have budged even if she’d wanted to.

At her back, she heard a pitiful whining. And she remembered the wolf. She made her way to where she’d seen the animal go down and began pulling away evergreen branches. Near her hands came a sudden, vicious snarling, and she drew back. More carefully, she removed the remaining cover.

The gray wolf lay under the broken section of pine trunk that had plummeted from the sky. His eyes were milky red. His mouth, as he snapped at her, was a bloody foaming. His front legs fought for purchase, but his hindquarters were absolutely motionless.

Jenny guessed that the poor creature’s back had been broken. Probably his insides were a mess. She knew what she should do but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I’m sorry,” she said and turned away.

She stared across the channel at the maze of islands and realized with a note of panic that she had no idea from which way she’d come. Everything looked the same, none of it familiar. In which channel had she lost her father? If she began to look for him, where would that be?

“Dad!” she screamed. “Dad, where are you?”

Behind her the wolf let out a groan that ended in a high-pitched cry. She could hear his painful, labored breathing.

“Dad!” she yelled again, so loud it threatened to tear her throat.

The only sound in return came from the suffering wolf at her back.

Tears welled up, of frustration, of fear. She wiped them away and turned around. She found a rock roughly the size and shape of a football, lifted it, and walked to where the wolf lay pinned.

All her life her father had pressed upon her the responsibility—any feeling person’s responsibility—for a suffering animal. She looked down into the eyes of the wolf and saw clearly the terror and the agony. She said, “I’m sorry,
ma’iingan,
” using, for some reason she couldn’t have explained, the Ojibwe name for the animal.

When it was done, she threw the bloodied stone into the lake and washed her hands clean, then stood at the water’s edge and stared at the confusion of islands. Out there somewhere was her father. And somewhere, too, were Anne and Stephen and Rose and Mal.

She spoke a prayer: “God, let them be all right. Let them all be alive.”

T
he night before, they’d anchored the houseboat near an island in a huge area of open water north of French Portage. On the chart, the island was roughly crescent-shaped. They’d tied up off the northwestern tip so there would be nothing to block the cooling evening wind or their view of the sunset. The island was heavily wooded, with a steep ridge along its spine. At the other tip of the island, a quarter mile across the curve of a narrow bay, was a small beach where Anne and Stephen had swum in search of blueberries.

Mal had his field glasses out. He looked across a broad span of open water in the direction of the base of the blue-black wall of cloud sweeping toward them, gobbling sky as it came.

“The waves are at least eight feet high,” he said. “The wind out there must be incredible. We’ve got to get into the shelter of the island, Rose.”

“We’ve got to get the kids,” she said.

“We’d never make it. Pull up the stern anchor,” he ordered. “I’ll loose the bow line.”

He started away, but she grabbed his arm. “We can’t just leave them out there, Mal.”

“Rose, this boat is nothing more than a cigar box on a couple of aluminum cans. If we don’t get into the lee of that ridge, we’re dead. What help would we be to the kids then?”

“But Stephen and Annie,” she protested.

“Pull up that anchor!”

She did as he told her, but her eyes seldom left the far tip of the island where the kids had gone. She was terrified, her throat closed so tightly she could barely swallow. Which didn’t matter because her mouth was suddenly and absolutely parched. Without thinking, she prayed as she hauled in the anchor line, prayed desperately. Mal quickly finished drawing in the bow line and jumped to the control station in the main room. Rose joined him there. He kicked the two outboards into action and started the houseboat toward the shoreline that lay in the shadow of the island’s ridge. The craft was ungainly on the water. It moved at a crawl across the lake surface, which had turned black with the shadow of what was looming.

Then Rose saw them. Stephen and Anne. They stood on the beach across the little bay, dressed only in their swimsuits, Stephen holding the nylon bag he’d taken for the blueberries they would pick. Rose knew they could see what was coming and could see that the houseboat was leaving them. She raced from the cabin onto the bow platform and stood at the rail and tried to call out to them, to explain and to warn them to seek their own shelter. But the monster wind was suddenly on her, all around her and over her, and her words were lost in the howling.

She was thrown against the railing. The force knocked the breath out of her and she fell. For a minute, she was stunned and felt only the great heave of the decking beneath her.

When she could think, she realized they were in the lee of the island, which had been Mal’s intent. The ridge offered modest protection. Even though the wind was still fierce, she could now stand. She felt the pontoons scrape rock. Mal left the control station, and a moment later, Rose saw him at the stern, tossing the anchor. Then he ran through the houseboat and burst through the door to the forward deck, where she stood. Without a word, he grabbed the bow line and leaped into the shallow water. The houseboat had begun to swing sideways in the wind, moving away from the island. As Rose watched, the anchor line started to play out quickly. Mal splashed ashore and secured the
bow rope to the horizontal trunk of a fallen tree. He dashed to the stern line, lifted the anchor, and dropped it between two rocks that jutted from the shore. Just as he finished, the lines played out fully and snapped taut. Mal leaped into the waves, waded to the steps of the swim platform located aft, and climbed aboard. He stumbled into the cabin, where Rose met him.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“Yes. You?”

“I’m fine.” She looked toward the two rope lines pulled stiff and vibrating from the pressure. “Will they hold?”

“God, I hope so.”

She turned to the windows that looked north toward the other end of the island. The little bay was a rage of tall whitecaps, and the beach where Anne and Stephen had stood was flooded from the surge.

“Lord,” she prayed aloud, “let them be all right.”

The houseboat rocked and the lines jerked as if tied to wild bulls, but for the moment they held. Mal pulled out life jackets, and they put them on and huddled together in the cabin. Rain fell in sheets so thick that everything across the bay became obscured. Hail beat on the roof in a great din. Pines along the crest of the island’s ridge bent as easily as prairie grass and began to snap. Soon their trunks littered the slope below.

After nearly an hour of battering, the wind finally won. The stern anchor line broke and the bow line followed. The houseboat began to drift rapidly into the bay.

“What now?” Rose said.

“Get to shore,” Mal told her and pushed her toward the cabin door.

“But the boat—”

“Forget the boat, Rose! Get moving!”

They went out onto the bow platform. Twenty yards of angry water separated them from the shore, and the distance was rapidly increasing. Waves swept over the decking under their feet and rain peppered them hard as pebbles.

Inexplicably Mal stripped himself of his life jacket. “Take my hand!” he cried.

She did and they hit the water together. She was surprised to find that her feet touched the rocky lake bottom, but they didn’t stay there long. The next wave lifted her and threatened to carry her out. Mal gripped her hand. Freed from the buoyancy of his own vest, he was able to hold himself against the waves, and he pulled her with him as he slogged to shore. They grabbed on to the pair of rocks where the stern anchor still sat wedged, and they watched the houseboat spin into the bay. A limb the size and thickness of an elephant’s leg flew from the island and crashed through the window next to the helm station. In the next instant, with a sinking heart, Rose saw the houseboat suddenly rise up in the grip of the storm. The windward pontoon cleared the water, and the boat began to flip.

Then a miracle happened. Or what, afterward, Rose always thought of as a miracle. As quickly as it had come, the wind died. With a great splash, the lifted pontoon fell back onto the water, and the houseboat continued a placid drift into the lake.

In the quiet that followed, Mal said, “Rose, I’m hurt.”

“Where?”

“My ankle. I turned it when we came in.”

“Let me see.”

She helped him lift his leg from the water. He wore shorts, and his feet, like hers, were bare. She saw the swelling immediately.

“Does it hurt much?”

“Like hell. But that’s not important. You need to get the boat, and we need to find the kids.”

She looked toward the open water. The houseboat was already a hundred yards distant and drifting farther as she watched.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

“I’m counting on it.” He managed a brief smile.

She hated to leave him but knew he was right. She kissed him once, then began to swim.

I
t had been a hard year and she’d needed this vacation. She’d been content to let her father and Mal control where they were and where they were going. Lake of the Woods? Fine. One of the largest lakes in North America? No problem. In the middle of fucking nowhere? Terrific. No, I don’t want to know anything about the charts or the lake channels or the islands more numerous than the stars. I just want to relax.

Until now,
Jenny thought, staring at the lumps of wilderness she could see from the rocky beach where she stood. Now she wished she’d listened and taken note.

Great journalist I am,
she thought bitterly.
All that useful information, in one ear and out the other.

She had no idea where she was on that vast lake. No idea which direction she’d been going with her father or from which direction they’d come. She’d been too deep in her own goddamn worries to let go and be a real part of the gathering.

And now she was lost. And her father was out there somewhere. Lost, too?

She almost thought,
Lost forever?
but wouldn’t let herself go there. They weren’t lost, none of them. Not her father or Anne or Stephen or Rose or Mal. They were somewhere out there, safe.

“But that’s exactly what you thought about Mom, and she’s dead.”

She said this out loud, startled at the sound of her voice in all that numbed stillness. The effect was devastating. Her legs went weak, and she sat down on the little beach and didn’t feel at all the sharpness of the stones beneath her. She stared dumbly at the water, which was calm now and choked with debris.

Yeah, she’d hoped along with everyone else—
believed
along with everyone else—that after her mother disappeared she would be found and she would be safe. But it hadn’t been that way. All their hoping, all their praying, all their believing had been in vain. From almost the moment she’d vanished, her mother had been dead.

“Dad,” she said hopelessly, speaking toward the devastation of the lake. “Annie. Stephen.”

And then she began to cry, deep, racking sobs that went on and on.

In the end, she had no choice but to pull herself together. She wiped away her tears, forced her legs to lift her upward, beat her brain into thinking clearly. She had no idea how widespread the devastation of the storm might be, but judging from the islands around her, all of which looked like they’d been at the epicenter of a nuclear blast, the area was large. The lake water was full of uprooted trees and shattered trunks and sheared off limbs and strips of bark. A boat trying to get through that mess would have to move at a snail’s pace. It would be a long time before anybody got to her, if anybody ever did.

“Dad!” she tried again, calling his name a dozen times as she turned in a complete circle. She got nothing in return.

“You’re alone, kiddo,” she said to herself. “You’ve got only you.”

She walked to the place where the dinghy lay under a fallen pine. She worked her way through the mesh of branch and needle and groped beneath the crumpled seat in the bow of the
wreckage. Her fingers found wet nylon. She gripped the material and pulled it with her as she eased herself free.

The knapsack was stained with pine resin and pungent with the scent of evergreen. She dug inside and pulled out packages of cheese and crackers and some trail mix and two bottled waters, completely smashed and emptied of their contents. She found her camera intact, then her cell phone, which was also undamaged.