As Nora rounds the house she hears the sound of wind chimes, the wooden kind that sound hollow when they collide, though she doesn’t see where Janelle has hung them. She sets her things at the picnic table and cups her hand around her lighter, her back to the cold wind coming off the lake. “What Next?” it says at the top of the page.
The hollow knocking is coming from the water. Nora sets the pen down and rubs her eyes. She puts her mug on the notebook to keep it from blowing and walks to the edge of the little yard. Out beyond the slanting rock ledge there are chunks of floating ice as big as bathroom mirrors clacking around in a sea of ice chips. They weren’t there the day before.
She smokes and watches. The sound is soothing and it’s pretty the way the ice is glinting. It looks like a giant grey daiquiri. Further out, a gull floats in the swells, and she wonders that it doesn’t freeze to death. Beyond it there’s only open water and a long-lined horizon.
“What Next?” The page looks impossibly blank. “Rebuild,” she writes, though she already knows that her settlement will come in well below the cost of new construction.
1902
Gunnar can hear it in her breathing, short and shallow. He loves knowing her pleasure, knowing that she is now only sensation. No awareness of the coming day, no chores, no worry on her mind. There’s nothing at all between Berit and his tongue.
He starts again, slowly tracing upward, each time reaching a little higher, while his fingers hold the familiar weight of her hips. She’s close so he stops, and then starts in again, snaking his tongue in slow circles until she gasps, her back arching off the bed.
The birds are winding down their predawn ruckus, and sure, he should get out of bed. But he’s feeling lazy and lulled by Berit’s warm skin as his arm rises and falls with her breath. There are two places in the world that he considers home, where he has never questioned belonging. There, with his head close to Berit’s, gathering her body into his arms; and then out on the lake, riding the swells, feeling her in the same way. The sky out the window is still black, and he’d like to stay a bit longer, but reluctantly, quietly, he gets out of bed.
There’s light enough to see, but it’s still before the sun when Gunnar settles into his skiff. He has an anchor setup of smaller twin boulders, split-roped out the first one hundred feet. He figures he can get them over the gunnel in quick succession by himself. It’s important that he add another net to his gang. With prices down from three cents a pound to two, he has to increase his catch to stay even.
The lake is high but not steep or cresting, so he undulates easily over the swells. The first rose light is on the horizon, and Gunnar keeps an eye on the brightest spot as he rows. He loves the particulars of first light, and the slow way that it comes around. The morning has clouds like a mountain range to the east, as if a new continent had risen over night. The sun, though still not showing itself, is turning their bases a deep scarlet.
He has a half a dozen gulls in tow, keeping him company as he rows, and on shore the hills are coming clear, with the tallest pines separating from the sky. The sun comes up, an enormous pink ball, lifting slowly out of the lake, turning the backs of the swells pink, and it’s going to be another fine morning.
Gunnar rows out a net’s length while keeping an eye on his seaward uphauler. It’s anchored at about 240 feet. His new rope is plenty long. He stands now while rowing, aligns himself with his buoys. Everything around him has turned to rose: the sky, the water, even the bobbing seagulls.
Squatting low, he gets his strength below an anchor rock and puts it over the gunnel, the rope whipping. Quickly he lifts the second one, and the lake swells underneath the boat, as if coming up to take it from his hands. Gunnar lets the boulder splash into the lake, and he’s overboard feet first, ice cold engulfing the crown of his head.
His mouth clamps shut. His arms flail. He’s incredulous and reeling with panic as he struggles the knife out of his pocket. The rope is coiled around his leg.
“Stay calm,” a voice says from some corner in his head, but he can’t control his panicked movements as the anchor rock pulls him relentlessly downward.
His rib cage is caught in a giant clamp.
He’s a comet of bubbles dropping into darkness.
He cuts frantically.
The pressure is going to kill him.
Whether he’s sawing at the rope or his leg, he doesn’t know. He can’t even feel his grip on the knife.
The darkness closes in around him, tunneling his vision, encircling. He can’t believe he could be so stupid. His ribs are going to cave in.
His muscles spasm.
His mouth opens.
The lake flows down his windpipe.
When his blade finally makes it through the rope he feels the pressure slowly leave his chest. Feebly, he moves his arms and begins to swim upward. He’s not even cold anymore. Berit will be furious with him for his carelessness.
There’s a strong current swirling around him, and a sound like whispered conversation. It’s beautiful, hushed, Indian maybe, and the wings of the dragonflies pulse in rhythm. He propels himself upward with his arms and one leg. He must have broken the other or pulled it from its socket. He’s looking up through a keyhole at the hull of his boat. It appears like a leaf floating overhead. There’s cold light streaming down, and one oar dangling. Leaves have always pleased him most in the autumn, when they sail and twirl down from the trees. He sees a copper flash, and then a scaly muscled wall of black glides directly in front of his face.
2000
“What smells funny in here?” Nikki asks as the car door groans shut.
“I don’t know. What do you smell?”
“Eeww, it’s this,” she touches the netting of the glass float. “It smells weird.”
Nora backs out of the parking space. “It was in the fire,” she says. “Should we go somewhere?”
“I thought everything got burnt up.”
“Yeah, mostly.”
Nikki holds the float in front of her eyes. “Oooh, It makes everything green. Underwater world,” she sings. “Hey, do you want to go to the agate beach? It’s so fun.”
Nora drives past the gas station, the last thing in what is considered town. “Are you sure you know how to get there, Bun?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there a million times. There’s a sign for it. It’s the beach with the cross. Last year I found the biggest agate ever. Like this,” she says, making a C with her hand the size of a half-dollar. “I’ll show it to you when we get home. It’s an orange one with white and brown rings that make a picture like a cave. Jack tumbled it for me.”
Mr. Numerology. Nora rolls her eyes. “Thank God your mother sent him packing.”
“Nanny!” Nikki’s mouth drops open, but then she giggles. “He was kinda weird.”
Nora nods with a cigarette between her lips. “Kinda.” She puts the lighter to its end.
“Ick. Peeuw.” Nikki makes a face.
“Open your window. There’s plenty of air.”
Nikki rolls down the window and leans her head over.
“You look like a dog sticking your head out like that.”
“I am,” she laughs, and starts barking at everything.
The sun, falling toward the ridge, shines on the surface of the lake, but the long arc of beach where they stand is already sunk in shadow. Nora looks out over the grey water. There’s no chime-ice anywhere.
“What was that cross about?” she asks. They’d taken a short path to the mouth of a river, where a big cement cross had been erected. But Nikki was anxious to get down to the beach, so they’d just stayed a second and turned around.
“We had to learn about it in school,” Nikki says, bent over searching the rocks.
“So, what happened? Is someone buried there?”
“No. It’s about this missionary guy.” She picks up a rock and examines it, then tosses it disappointedly back to the ground. “You want to know the story?”
“Sure. Tell me.”
“Well, you see, there was this missionary.” Nikki straightens up and looks at her. “They wore these long black coats,” she slices her hand at her ankle. “Anyway, he came here to save the Indians because they didn’t believe in God. So once he had to go in a boat to help this one, and he got caught in a big storm. But then, what happened, just when his boat was going to crash into the rocks, it went into that river instead.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. It was supposed to be a miracle.” She starts searching for agates again.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a miracle.”
“Hey, a perfect skipper.” Nikki beams, holding out a smooth flat stone.
“Don’t go so close, Bun,” Nora warns, but Nikki runs down to the water and side-arms the rock into the lake. It skips across the surface four times, then drops in and disappears. Nikki raises her arms, victorious, her small body in front of the great grey lake.
In that instant, Nora feels the full force of her love.
“Gorgeous, Bun. Absolutely.”
It’s after four when Nora glances at her watch. Nikki had been sitting out on the rock ledge, staring at the water for a long time. “It’s my special place,” she said. All that’s visible are her head and shoulders. Nora couldn’t begin to guess what’s been going through her mind while she sits and stares. The water looks cold, dark, and unwelcoming.
“Can we go somewhere for a snack?” Nikki asks, climbing back down to the stone beach.
“Sure. A quick one. Any ideas?”
“There’s a Dairy Queen.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Well, it’s kind of far away. Grand Marais.”
“Nikki, we’re not driving all the way up there. Think of somewhere between here and home.”
“There’s nothing good.”
“What about that place we passed with the sign for pie?” Nikki pouts.
“Come on, it might be great. Let’s find out.”
Nora pulls in at the Windigo Resort, wondering if it’s even open. There are only two cars and the place looks sleepy. Inside, the dining room is dark and cordoned off. “It’s only open weekends this time of year,” a teenage boy informs them from behind the front desk.
“Oh, Nanny. I’m so hungry, I’m gonna die.”
“You can eat in the bar,” the boy offers, “but it’s not the full menu.”
Nikki climbs onto a bar stool, her eyes widening at the giant moose head that’s mounted over the register. There’s a young couple watching TV from a booth, a pitcher of beer and a full ashtray between them. No one seems to be tending bar, until the kid from the front desk appears again. He hands them a menu in a plastic sheath. “Something to drink?”
Nora wonders if he’s old enough to serve. “What kind of pie do you have?”
“Apple and lemon meringue.”
“Yuck.” Nikki drops her head to the bar.
“I’ll have a vodka rocks.” She pats Nikki on the back. “Isn’t there anything else that looks good? They have french fries, onion rings, chicken wings.”
“Gross.”
“How about ice cream. Do you have ice cream?” she asks the boy.
“Vanilla.”
Nikki makes a bored face.
“What about a root-beer float?” Nora suggests.
“Yeah.” Nikki perks up.
The boy sets Nora’s drink on the bar. “Sorry. No root beer.” “Ohhh.” Nikki hangs her head.
“Listen, you got a pint glass?” Nora lights a cigarette.
“Sure.”
“Three-fourths 7UP, splash of red grenadine, ice cream, whipped cream, and two maraschinos.”
Nikki’s not entirely convinced, but when the boy adds the grenadine and the drink turns bright red, she’s grinning and kicking her feet in anticipation. “Wow, Nanny. What’s it called?”
“Well, I used to make them for your mom. I think she called it a cherry jubilee.”
“Juuu ba leeee,” Nikki sings to the moose.
1902
The world is composed of rose light, its softness held within the walls of the cabin. It lies over the chairs, spreads across the tabletop, surrounds the tall jar of pussy willows. Berit pulls the bedcovers to her chin. It’s beautiful, tranquil, and somehow so full. It would be enough to capture even a hint of it in a picture. She could draw the shapes of the furniture, use shadow to create the illusion of depth. But what of the fullness, if that’s even the word. None of those things alone are creating it. It’s something else, ungraspable. She’s seen it accomplished with oil paints. It is something about the layering of the pigment that allows the color itself to emanate light. Berit draws her legs up and wraps her arms around them. Already, the soft pink light is fading.
Usually she rises with Gunnar, but this morning he had left without waking her. Of course he’s capable of getting his own breakfast, but he only heats the dregs of the previous night’s coffee and then takes whatever is cold and handy instead of sitting to a good hot meal. It never feels right, but he doesn’t believe her when she says that she’d rather be awakened. She hadn’t meant to fall back to sleep after—well, she had.