Wintering (20 page)

“Why?” he said.

“Your family's been here the longest. You teach history at the high school. Everyone respects you.” This was Sarah talking, though I could've said the exact same things.

“And,” I pointed out, “Signe wants you to. She asked about it a long time ago.”

“He'll do it,” Sarah said. “He likes to play hard to get but he will.”

Gus threw his hands up.

I finished the last of my coffee. “Good,” I said. “Everyone will be pleased. Now, Mr. Eide, walk an old lady home?”

He jumped to his feet. “Of course.”

Sarah stood as well. “Let's do this again,” she said, hugging me and kissing my cheek.

“That dinner was about the best I ever had,” I said. “It's a lucky man who gets fed like that.”

Gus was already putting on his coat, but he spoke from across the room. “Lucky in every way,” he said.

Sarah walked me to the door and helped me into my coat and hugged me again. “You'll be okay to walk home with the snow? Gus could drive you.”

“My evening constitutional,” I said. “Thank you. Again. A lovely evening.”

“It was. Thank you.” She turned to Gus. “Be careful in the snow.”

We walked home under the vaulted light of the stars. Hardly a word passed between us, which was strange, given our many conversations that winter. Not that either of us minded. I certainly didn't. All around us I could hear the snow melting. Through the trees above I counted my favorite constellations, stars taught to me by Rebekah Grimm of all people, who had learned of them herself from Hosea Grimm. Here the Pleiades were cupped together. There Canis Minor. It's strange to say, but those stars never seemed so close as they did that night. Maybe it was because of the snow melting and dripping from the trees. Maybe, and perhaps more likely, it was simply that there was order in the sky, and order is always comforting.

When we reached my house we stood for a moment on the deck. Gus looked up at the eaves trough and put his hand on the window frame beside the door. He knocked on the rough-sawn cedar siding and nodded. I could see he was thinking of his father. I was, too.

“How was it he came to you, Berit? My father, I mean.”

“My goodness,” I said.

“We told our story, eh?” He put his hands in his pockets. “I'm curious is all. Don't feel you have to say.”

“It wasn't until your parents divorced. Or nearly divorced.” I had to think back. “After he built this house.”

Gus smiled. “I didn't ask when, Berit. I asked how. I know you're no home wrecker.”

I looked up through the trees again, still thinking. The mere act of calling Harry's young face to mind quickened my beating heart. I'd felt so close to him the entire night without ever allowing myself to picture him plainly that to do so standing on the porch was almost more than I could bear. Gus must have sensed it. Or seen it in my face. In any case, he said, “Save that one for another time, eh?”

“No,” I said, “it's okay.” I looked down from the sky into Gus's eyes, which held stars themselves. “He brought me flowers,” I said, “in a manner of speaking. Brought me butterworts he'd picked right outside the old fish house.”

There came across Gus's face an expression so expectant and curious that it caused us both to look away. I stepped to the railing and continued. “These weren't the sort of flowers meant to last in a vase. I knew that much, was in fact a sort of expert on butterworts. But that's another story.” I closed my eyes against the nighttime, and when I opened them Gus was standing beside me, his hand on mine. I continued without shifting toward him. “I was never so happy in my life. Never. Even without knowing what the flowers meant. Without knowing what his standing there—here, right here, I mean—without knowing what any of it meant.”

“He brought you flowers. Beginning and end of story,” Gus said, as much to himself as to me. Certainly no question was hidden there.

“It was summertime. Early evening. He was still in his work clothes.” I shut my eyes again but what I saw behind them this time was Harry lying in bed all these years later. I opened my eyes quickly and looked up at Gus. “It was the only thing I ever wanted in my life, Gus. The only thing. And there it was. There he was. We were together from that day on.”

“That's the best story I've heard in a long time, Berit.” He took a step back. “I know it wasn't easy for you, coming to dinner tonight. I said so to Sarah but she insisted. It's her way, you know.”

“I was happy to come.”

“We were happy to have you.” He took another step. “I'll see you this week.”

“Very good. Have a good night.”

“Good night.” He smiled and started down the deck steps.

“Gus,” I said.

He stopped and turned back.

“Will you really say a few words at the opening?”

The starlight caught his smile. “Of course. Anything for you.”

Then he walked up the driveway under the same light that lit his smile. His stride was long and easy over the new snow. His hands were deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers.

A
FTER GUS
turned down the road, I walked around my deck and stood at the railing listening to the purling river. If I studied the distance hard enough I could make out snow terraces alongshore. Under the light of the night sky everything looked to be keeping secrets.

I wondered, standing there, why I had become so intent on lives of no relation to me. I tried to picture myself standing there in the night but could not. The next morning or the one after, if I passed myself on the Lighthouse Road, would I recognize myself then? Or was I only this now: an old lady alone in the middle of the woods with nothing but starlight and the quiet river? Who would I call if I had to? Who would hold my hand if I needed to be consoled? Those letters stacked on Gus's counter? Had anyone ever written one to me? Had I ever sent one?

I closed my eyes against the night. There was Rebekah sitting in her rocker. Gus's grandmother. My charge. All that time with her and I had what to show for it beyond some modest financial security? Hardly even any memories of my own. And of those I did have, how many were tethered to the Eides? Did any of them belong to me alone? Even this long winter now, all the hours spent with Gus and his reckoning, how much of it had truly been mine? Though it's true I wanted to hear his story—for a thousand different reasons—it was also true I was listening to his stories rather than recalling any of my own.

Motherless. Fatherless. Husbandless. Childless. I was all of these things. If I hadn't chosen my fate, I'd at least—over the years—made peace with it. But to live a life without so much as a story of my own? My God, it seemed nigh impossible. I had my years with Harry, yes, true. And they were good years, to be sure. And happy. Very. But even that epoch of my life closed without a proper ending. Love just vanished into the woods. All the nights I'd stood at this same railing since, shivering against the bitter cold, I'd wept for his absence by myself.
Alone.
I'd never told another living soul of my sadness. I could hardly admit it to myself. Someday—likely someday soon—when I went the way of Harry and before him Rebekah and before her Odd Eide, who would weep at my passing? Who would listen to stories about me? Who would tell one?

I opened my eyes. Clouds had scuttled in and the river was now gone to darkness. Gone but for its murmuring. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Was it warmer even than it had been on the walk home? Was this winter finally breaking?

I turned to face the house. I caught no reflection in the sliding glass door, not in the darkness, not even as I stepped to it and pulled it open. Inside, I sat and took off my boots and wiped my eyes again in hopes of righting myself.

Gus would call in a day or two. We would meet for coffee or lunch and he would tell me how it ended. Once he finished, I would tell him why his father had done all the things he'd done. I would tell Gus things he didn't know because I loved him, I could see that now. I loved him because I loved his father, and because his father never told him where all this started, I would do so myself.

T
HEY WALKED BACK
from the northern end of the lake and entered the bay and passed the smoldering remains. Inside the shack Harry stoked the stove and put water on for breakfast. It was unfathomable to Gus that his father could think of food, or of anything except the men who'd come in the night.

“Who was with him?” Gus asked.

Harry stood over the stove. “Probably Len Dodj. Maybe Len and Matti Haula.”

“Matti Haula's an old man.”

“An old man without a pension. I reckon Charlie's offered him a fair price for his time and effort.”

“What does he have against you?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

Gus wanted his father to turn around. He wanted to see his face. “Len Dodj?”

Now Harry did turn. “Len isn't much more than a wood tick what climbed up Charlie's shorts.” He poured oatmeal into their bowls, brought them to the table, and sat down. With his foot he nudged the second chair out, but Gus stayed on his bunk. His father's face had given nothing away.

“We're gonna need to hunt,” Harry said. “See about getting a deer. This”—he gestured at their meager provender on the shelf behind him—“won't keep us fed for long.”

“Hunt?”

“Or fish.”

“How about getting the hell out of here?”

“And going where?”

“Home.”

“Home.” Harry shook his head slowly. “Right.”

“We can't stay here.”

“Where are we?” Harry said, maybe too sharply.

Gus reached under his sleeping sack and felt the book of maps, both his father's and his own. He thought of the days he'd spent alone in the wilderness, charting what he could of it for the express purpose of escaping this place when the time came. It seemed hardly possible that it now had arrived. But it had.

Gus almost pulled the maps from under his bedding but stopped. He and his father stared at each other for a full minute. Too long. So long they looked away simultaneously and spoke at the very same moment. Harry started to say, “We have to think clearly,” as Gus said, “I know where we are.” Their eyes met and there lapsed another moment of strained silence.

Harry said, “You know where we are, eh?”

Gus kept staring at him.

“You've been out scouting, is that it? In the middle of all this country, you've put us on the map?”

“I don't think you're one to talk about maps.”

“No?”

“Right now I don't think you should talk about anything.”

Harry nodded his head as though to admit this truth.

“I don't think you have any idea what you're doing. I think you're crazy.” The truth was coming out fast as a spring freshet. Gus felt no control over the things he wanted to say. Or what he said. “You've made a fool out of me.”

“Tell me one thing that's happened that I didn't say would.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Were you surprised Charlie showed up?”

“Was I—”

“Were you surprised it got cold? That it snowed?”

“You can't be serious.”

“Are you snug as a goddamn bug in your bunk over there?”

“It was a miracle we found this place. A miracle
I
found it.”

“Don't throw that word around.”

“ ‘Miracle'?” Gus was incredulous. “There're more miracles up here than there are trees. The biggest miracle of all—if that's the word—is that you don't see any of it. The danger you've put us in. How pointless this all is. You're blind. None of this is worth dying for.” He thought he might suffocate, his breath was coming so short. “You can give up if you want, but I'm not gonna. I don't want to die. I won't.” He went back to his bunk and collapsed, burying his face in his hands to dam the flood.

When he looked up some minutes later his father had his own face in his hands. Gus surveyed the shack, making a quick inventory of their supplies. Charlie and his boys had burned a hundred or more pounds of meat out on the lake. All that remained of their larder sat on the shelf behind Harry. Rice and oats and coffee and half a sack of dried fruit. Some sugar and salt and chocolate bars. Enough to last them a month on starvation rations. Their cookware. Buckets. Tools. Guns. The packs and rope and their clothes, still dirty. Shabby socks and long johns and three shirts, worn hard and missing buttons.

Now Gus looked under his arm at where the maps were bunched up under his sleeping sack. He closed his eyes and traveled in his darkness down the lake and through the woods and for two days beyond. He could picture the clearing in the woods along that creek where he'd twice strung up his canvas and stoked fires. A day and a half south, half a day east, and where was he? Still camped between two spruce trees. Still a long way from home.

Gus looked over at the bearskin on his father's bunk. The moose antlers he'd found across the lake. The Duluth packs hanging from nails on the wall, almost swaying over a draft coming through the shack's pathetic walls. He looked at his father sitting there like a fool. He gritted his teeth against his anger.

And what if Gus had a paved highway between this godforsaken hovel and their house on the river? A full tank of gas and a sack of warm donuts and a thermos of hot coffee in the cab? He could drive home in three hours. But where would he be then?

His anger seemed almost flushed away by a sudden and very heavy weariness. He got up and gathered some of his clothes and laid them on his sleeping sack. He took one of the Duluth packs from the wall and put it there as well. The pot of water on the stove whistled, and Gus took it from the heat and set it on the table. His father still hadn't moved.

He would take the handgun and a pack with the tent and his sleeping sack and enough food for a week. He would strap on the hatchet and saw. He would travel on snowshoes but bring skis, too. A change of clothes. The field glasses. He looked around the shack again. He would leave behind his mandolin and the books and cribbage board. Also the maul. Travel light. Leave right away.

He moved about the shack heavyhearted and slow of foot. Before he packed food he paused to eat the oatmeal Harry had poured earlier. The water just warm. He mixed both bowls and brought the second to his father, who merely set it on the floor between his feet.

What could have been going through his mind? What decisions were left to make? The notion that a fight in the wilderness would be fair no longer had any purchase. They were marked and immobile. Charlie had the eyes and means of an owl. They were moles.

Gus put his empty bowl aside and took another inventory of his provisions laid across his bunk. He'd need a canteen. And a lantern? Not essential, he thought. He rolled his sleeping sack and tied it off, which reminded him to bring rope. Glimpsing the maps now sitting on his bunk, he remembered once more the days he'd spent making them. It was the only thing he'd done up here. Make the maps and stack the wood and kill the bear. It was hard to believe that the night of the bear was only—what?—six or seven weeks before. Hard to believe how much he'd changed since then. He pictured himself in the woods, lifting the compass to check his direction.

The compass. The goddamn compass.

He spotted it on the shelf behind the stove.
One
compass. Another sitting at the bottom of that stream way back where they started getting lost. One compass and two men, one intent to stay, the other to go.

Maybe he could get home without it. For all the time he'd spent facing south and east, maybe he could tell those directions by sniffing them out and get home by instinct, with help from the sun and the stars. Maybe. But what about those wide-open spaces? The ten-mile lakes and deep rivers and streams winding through the cold and relentless woods? All of those places came back to him as a terrifying memory, and he knew that without the compass he was little better than a blind man.

Gus sat down on the bunk again and looked over at his father. “We only have one compass. I'm going to take it when I leave.” Harry still did not look up. “I'm going to finish getting my things together and go this morning. I don't see any reason to wait around here.”

Finally, his father's face fixed on him. “Okay,” he said, “we can go. But I think we ought to wait till tomorrow. We need to put ourselves right. Make sure we take only what we need.”

“I've already figured that out. One light pack. Skis and snowshoes. I'm leaving today.”

“Listen, Charlie won't come back so soon. The reason he burned all our meat is because he wants us to suffer. To panic. He's taunting us.”

Gus just stared at him for a moment. “I don't really care when Charlie's coming back or what he's doing. I just want to leave. Today.”

“We've gone long enough without a plan. That's my fault, I know it. And I'm sorry. But let's put the right packs together and think carefully about what we're doing. About how we're going to get home. We can leave tomorrow morning, the minute the sun comes up.”

When Gus didn't respond, Harry stood up, took the pot from the table, and added water for more coffee, then said, “Let's have a look at those maps you've been drawing.”

There was little to plan or do. They studied Gus's maps and compared them with the ones Harry had drawn months and years earlier, the books opened like two songs being sung, each over the other. For different reasons both of them worried Gus, but neither as much as the days that surely lay before them.

Harry cleaned and oiled the Remington and the pistol before gathering his own kit. They were both packed and ready before lunch without so much as a word between them. After they ate—rice and dried fruit, a chocolate bar for Gus—Harry brought the maul in from outside. He lined up the moose antlers on the floor, then stood there and looked at them for a long time. What he was pondering was something Gus never even guessed about, but he himself could not imagine those beasts' anguish as their antlers locked. The horrible dance they must have enacted before tripping over each other and falling onto the shore, their eyes just a foot apart. What was one seeing in the other? How hotly did their breath mix in the small space between them? Gus scrutinized the antlers, and what a miracle it was how perfectly they were interwoven, how strong the fibers were that held together the symmetry of their entanglement. More than anything he wondered at their fear when the wolves finally came. For surely they would have come.

Harry swung the maul almost in concert with Gus's final thought. Three swings it took to splinter the antlers apart. Their skulls cracked and rotten teeth scattered across the wood floor. The bone plates at their base split like logs. His father picked the pieces up and laid them into the stove, where the marrow hissed deliciously.

Harry set the maul beside the door and readied a fishing line, then put on his coat and grabbed the wooden bucket and went outside. Gus watched him go to the hole he'd cut in the lake ice, pull off the covering, sit down on the upturned bucket, and drop his line in the water, as if this were just another day of fishing. He stood at the window and watched for an hour, maybe two, until his father came in without anything to show for his effort but two gallons of frigid water.

Gus could not have imagined the depths of his father's thoughts as he sat out there fishing in the cold. Nor the expanse of his memory, nor the horrible things held within it. It was no fault of Gus's that this was true. No fault at all.

Instead, Gus reckoned how impossible it seemed that his father could have spent all these hours and days and weeks up here without giving a single thought to how they would get out. To have left as they did, Gus could see that. Harry had been betrayed and cuckolded, so his anger was explanation enough. But to have had all the time in the world to parse things out and come up with nothing, to have failed to see how he'd endangered them in so many different ways, that seemed—and always would, even with the benefit of thirty-odd years—the most intractable, unforgivable fact of their misbegotten adventure. And then there were all the years afterward, with hardly ever a word between them about their time up on the borderlands. What had those decades of silence actually meant?

They ate an early dinner of rice and Gus filled the stove with wood he'd cut. Before it was dark, they turned in for the last time in the shack. Gus did not dream, at least not that he remembered. But every night after, for years and even sometimes still, he dreamt of fire.