Northern Lights

by Tim O'Brien

  Perry twisted the gas connection tight. He pulled out of the stove and blinked. “There.” He tested the flame.

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Paul, do you think maybe Harvey should go down to Duluth for a job?”

  “Tired of him?”

  “Paul! Of course not. I was just thinking.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was thinking that … Oh, I don’t know.” Deftly, she took the pliers and kissed him. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too.”

  “I know it.”

  “We ought to take a ski trip,” said Harvey. “I’ve been thinking, and I think that would be good. I’m getting better. See?”

  “You need rest.”

  “Just you and me. What do you say?”

  “I say you’re still looking sick.”

  Christmas decorations were already on the lampposts. They walked up the lighted street. A sputtering tractor, chained tires and lost, came down Broken Axle Road and turned past them, leaving a trail of black smoke. It was almost dark. The snow was hard and permanent. A loudspeaker was playing Christmas music.

  “What do you think?” Harvey said.

  “About what?”

  “What? About taking a ski trip. We could get out together, you and me. I was thinking we could all go up to Grand Marais for the races—you and me and Addie and Grace—then we, just you and me, we could come back by ski.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “No. Look. I’m fine now. See? It’d be good for us, both of us. What do you think?”

  The town was dreary. The tractor, a car and two pickups were the only vehicles moving. There were no people. The car went by with its chained tires biting desperately for traction. Banks of crusted snow blocked the curbs.

  “What do you think?” Harvey said. “Doesn’t it sound good?”

  “It’s something nice to think about,” Perry said.

  The winter days were nights. Outside his office window, the days were neither portentous nor dismal. Merely the same. He had nothing to do. To make it bearable he told himself he could bear it: “I guess I can bear it,” he would murmur. He hung a red Christmas wreath in the window, plugged in the electric candle and admired his handiwork. His sober, slow cast of mind was numbed to a standstill. The window was a kind of magic theatre of holiday bustlings, hailed greetings, and he was a captive one-man audience, listening to the bells of Damascus Lutheran and the music playing from loudspeakers over the bank, a dull and constant saturation of Christmas spirit. He saw on the streets a savage and resolute celebration. “Hark the herald angels sing,” sang the loudspeakers in defiant repetition, and he found himself whistling along, caught up in the hypnotic spell of each note and clang of the bells. “Got to get out of here,” he told himself aloud, sitting still, unable to move. Some days he did not go to work at all. Other days he came in, watched the window shadows and listened to the monotonous peal of his own uneasiness. Other days Harvey or Addie would stop by and they would sit together. And one day before Christmas: Harvey hurried in, slamming the door, pounding his boots on the floor, spreading snow, excited.

  “Well!” he said. “I got ’em! Four reservations. Last two rooms they had, so you can bet we were plenty lucky.” Harvey was healthy. “Are you ready for this? Perk up, brother. Now listen: the races actually start on New Year’s Day, but we should be there the night before. Don’t you think? I wouldn’t put it past that hotel creep to give our rooms to somebody else and take a fiver under the counter. Now. I’ve got us into the first-flight races, that’s all they had open. Doesn’t matter. If somebody scratches then I’ll go for the championship flight.” Overnight, in the space of a single sleep, Harvey was recovered and clear-eyed and erect again. “Now, it’ll cost us twenty bucks each, not including rooms or meals or anything. I guess we can swing that, can’t we? Cost us just as much for a weekend here, darn close anyway. Now … they’ll give us starting times the day of the race. The hotel creep said they’ve got a lot of people entering, all the way down past Duluth, but most of ’em are clowns, so anyway it looks like they’ll have to do the races in heats, you know, six or seven at a time and they’ll time us with stopwatches and then have the fastest times compete in the final race.” Harvey paused for a fast breath. “So. We can all get out of this burg and have a good time. Right? Addie and Grace can watch the races and ski if they want, or ice skate or whatever, and they have some sort of a fashion show, winter fashions, for the women, they can do that, and at night they have parties and movies, it’s all part of the deal. After the races, we can just take our skis back here. You know? We can ski back. Addie and Grace can drive the car down and we’ll come back on our skis. We can take our time and see the forest. How does that sound? It’s wild as the dickens between here and there, but it’s not all that far really, fifty or sixty miles maybe, something like that. Probably take us three days going slow. Bring the sleeping bags and the nylon tarp, that’s all we’d really need. Races, a good time, then come back on our skis. What do you think, brother?”

  Jud Harmor was waiting outside his office, holding the mail out for him.

  “Was lying here in the snow,” Jud said. “I’m gonna have to have myself a sit-down talk with that mailman, what’s his name?”

  “Elroy Stjern.”

  “Yep, him. Leavin’ the mail out here like this.”

  “Thanks, Jud.” Perry stacked his skis against the door. Jud handed him the mail.

  “I’ll talk to that mailman Stjern.”

  Grace listened softly. “I half expected it,” Perry explained, “and I don’t feel all that bad about it. It was there in the mail. Xeroxed, not even signed by anyone. I guess they have them ready in the back room someplace in St Paul. I half expected it for a long time.”

  “What exactly does it mean?” Grace was listening and reading the neatly typed and Xeroxed letter. She could take bad news as though it were someone else’s, making the adjustments and calculating the changes.

  “I guess it means pretty much what it says. In a way I’m relieved, hon. Honestly. I thought it was pretty bad at first but not now.”

  She nodded. “But it says you still have your job. Right here.”

  “Yes. That’s right. They’re being polite. You see? I mean, nobody was fooling anyone about the situation around here. Seventeen farms in the whole blessed county, the whole county, and half of them not more than ninety-five acres and the other half going plain broke.”

  “That’s what all these numbers are?”

  “That’s right. They’re not stupid. So plain and simple it means what it says—they’re merging my office with the one in St. Louis County and the whole operation will be run out of Duluth. What it says, politely, is that the office here is inefficient and a waste of taxpayers’ money and plain crazy, and they’re absolutely right. They’re getting rid of it.”

  “What about this part about finding you new employment and working in Duluth if you want? Right here.”

  Perry smiled.

  “Well, doesn’t it say that?”

  “Yes,” he smiled. “It says that.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well, I’ll finally be out of it, won’t I?”

  She frowned and bit her lip. Big wrinkle marks formed on her forehead.

  “I’m happy, hon,” said Perry. “It’s a good thing. Honestly. We have to celebrate.”

  Grace studied the piece of paper as though searching for something just out of reach. “All right then,” she smiled. “I’m sure you know what it’s all about. I’m glad I’m not so smart.”

  “You’re brilliant,” he said.

  “What you’re saying,” said Bishop Markham as they drove home, two Christmas trees in the boot, “what you’re really telling me is that the Federal Government, the nation’s most unsophisticated and gratuitous employer, you’re telling me that they fired you. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “That’s hitting it on the nose, Bish
op.”

  “You must have been some real stink bomb, kid.”

  “I guess so,” Perry smiled. He heard the Christmas trees jostling in the boot. Bishop drove with both hands on the wheel, slowing for each turn, hitting his turn signal, checking the rearview mirror, the perfect driver. It was a year-old Buick. The tire chains ground the snow into fine powder and sent it flying into the ditches.

  “So what will you do when all this happens?”

  “I’ll guess I’ll start a farm.”

  Bishop shot a red-eyed look at him. “You kidding, buddy?”

  “Yes.”

  Bishop looked again. “Seriously. Are you kidding?”

  “I’m kidding. Sure. I don’t know though. That’s about all I was ever trained for, ag science, and it’d be kind of nice to give it a real try. Just dreaming though. Why, you have a job for me?”

  Bishop paused too long to be real. “Tell you what, I’ll look around. I guess if anybody can find you something it’s me, buddy. I’ll have a snoop here and there.”

  “That’s good of you.”

  “Can’t promise anything,” Bishop said. “But I’ll snoop around. Here we are, kid,” He turned the big car into the lane, circled in front of the house. Perry pulled out the Christmas tree and stood it in a bank of snow where it might have been growing on its own. Bishop flashed his taillights driving away.

  “I love you,” said Grace in their bed.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “You don’t know everything then.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Are you glad we’re taking a vacation? I am. It’ll be nice up there.”

  “I guess it will be.”

  “Listen. Harvey’s moving around upstairs.”

  “I hear it every night.”

  “Poor boy.”

  They listened. Grace finally sighed. “Oh, it’ll be a nice vacation, I know it. I like holidays. Did you like decorating the Christmas tree? We really should do those things together all the time, don’t you think?” The ceiling creaked as Harvey moved. “Poor boy. Maybe he’ll get a job in Minneapolis. I hope so. He was talking about it again tonight. I hope so. Do you want a rub?”

  He rolled on to his stomach, kicked away the sheets.

  “There,” she whispered. “Isn’t that better.” She sat up to rub him. “Poor boy. I hope you don’t worry about that stupid job. You won’t, will you? Really, I don’t think it’s so terrible, now that I’ve thought about it. And if … I don’t know. It’s not so terrible, is it?” Everything was whispered interrogatory, gently probing. “Stupid job, anyway. There, there. And going on the trip up to the Winter Carnival, we’ll get to be alone for a while and maybe take some walks, won’t we? Don’t you think?”

  “Mmmmm,” he said.

  “Harvey’s moving again. I wish … He told me he’s thinking, I shouldn’t say. I promised I wouldn’t. He said he’s thinking about marrying Addie. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She stopped rubbing him, poising for response, letting it linger. Then she probed at his neck muscles. “You can’t tell when he’s serious, of course. I think he should find a decent job first, don’t you? I suppose he has money saved from the army, though. That’s what he says. He seems to have enough money, I suppose. He talked tonight about maybe going to Minneapolis for a job. Does that feel good? Good. Am I talking too much?”

  “No. Rub a little lower.”

  “Anyway. It would be nice to have the house alone, wouldn’t it? I was just thinking. I liked it while we were all alone. Wasn’t it nice that way? She moved down, rubbing his butt and then his thighs and then his calves. “I suppose that’s being spoiled, isn’t it? It’s Harvey’s house as much as ours, yours. But I still liked it being alone. I don’t know. I guess I’m spoiled. But I liked it tonight putting the decorations on the Christmas tree. I can’t help it, but I do enjoy that, don’t you? Harvey’s feelings can get hurt, too. He isn’t so … such a great hero as he pretends. I don’t think for a minute he fools Addie, do you? I think she’s good for him and I know, I know he likes her a lot because he told me. He talks to me more than you think. Sometimes he surprises me. I think it would be very good for him. Marrying Addie or someone, and it would be good to have this house alone. I was just thinking, we ought to paint it next summer. The wood needs a good paint, don’t you think? And … I’ve been thinking. I don’t mind about the closing down of the office, not anymore. At first it kind of bothered me, mainly because I thought it would make you unhappy, more unhappy, I mean. But now I think it’s all right because … because, well, you don’t seem to mind and it would be something new, wouldn’t it? So don’t worry about it, and I’ll keep on teaching, of course. I like teaching, I like kids. I was just thinking. Someday, I don’t mean right away or anything, someday don’t you think it would be nice to have kids? I guess it’s just the mothering instinct, but I can’t help that, but it would be kind of nice, don’t you think? Certainly, certainly there’s plenty enough room for one or two kids in this big old house and I think it would be kind of neat and all. Addie told me she wants to have kids too someday, but not right away. I asked her how many and she said a litter, can you believe that? A litter! She was joking, I’ll bet. Isn’t she always joking? Does that feel good? Oh … the tree looked good. I thought we did a good job on it. Tomorrow after school I’m going to buy some new bulbs for it, I know just what I want, just what that tree needs. I saw them at Woolworth’s, great big giant green ones. I wish Harvey would have helped us decorate. The way he just sat and watched like he wanted to help but was embarrassed or something. And I still wish he’d go to a doctor about his eye, it’s looking so bad. Anyway. Oh, did I tell you? Paul? At the church they’re having the Christmas pageant early this year, next Tuesday. I forgot to tell you. You don’t have to go. I know you don’t like going, but almost all the children, all except for the little baby they’ve got to be Jesus, all the rest are in my class this year and I really ought to go. You don’t have to go if you don’t want. It would be nice. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? If you don’t go it’s all right. Don’t worry about it. It just would be kind of nice. Maybe after our vacation to Grand Marais you’ll feel better. I hope so. Does that feel good? My hands are getting a little tired. We never get to just talk to each other, do we? I mean, nobody around here just talks and says everything they think, do they? Have you noticed that? We all ought to just talk and say exactly what we think, that’s what I think. You’ll hate me, but I think Harvey ought to move out of this house and leave us be. Sometimes he just gives me the willies, I can’t help it. I can’t help feeling the way I do. Sometimes he can be very nice. I know that. But I don’t for a minute … Oh, did you know that Bishop Markham’s little boy’s going to be Joseph in the pageant? It’s true! And his name is Joseph, I mean that’s his real name. I like it when we talk, Paul. Do you remember … when Joey Markham was just a toddler, he couldn’t have been more than five years old, and we were at the church picnic and he came up to me, I guess he thought I was his mother, I don’t know why, and he wrapped around my leg and just held it and bawled and bawled. That was so sweet. I felt so good. He thought I was his mother. Can you imagine that? He was … really, he thought that. He was crying mommy, mommy and holding on to my leg. I tell you, I think Karen Markham was upset by it. She never said anything, she’s sweet herself, but I think so, I think so. I remember that. It was like the time down in Ames, in college, when you thought I was somebody else, I can’t remember who, and you were calling for me and I answered the phone, remember, and you said is Grace there and I said no, but my name is Rhonda and you started talking, all different, such charm you were putting on. You were so embarrassed when you found out. I don’t know … wouldn’t it be nice? I don’t want a litter like Addie—I’m sure she’s only joking anyway—but I think it would be neat to have a child. Really, there’s plenty enough room here, we could paint the room Harvey’s staying in, of course he’ll have to move out first, and we could use some of the old furnitu
re you stored away. Well. It’s something nice that I think about. You don’t know everything I think about, you know. Sometimes I’m thinking about things and you don’t even know I’m thinking at all. But I like Addie. I do like her. She talks to me sometimes, too. She’s very different, an entirely different person when you talk to her without lots of people around, she’s kind and isn’t always joking. Sometimes. She talks to me more than you think … Of course I’ll keep Harvey’s secret about Addie, getting married to her. I hope it works out, you can never tell, can you? Oh, Addie is nice. She talks to me more than … She told me something. You know how pretty she is, don’t you? She’s certainly very pretty, but she told me, she told me she’s always been upset because she didn’t have bigger boobs … breasts. I don’t know why she said that, and she might have been joking. She said she used to cry about it, can you believe that? I didn’t know what to say. I told her I used to feel funny having such large breasts, and she thought that was very funny. I didn’t tell her everything, of course. She never asks about you so I guess she knows some things are private. I told her that in college everybody used to call me Boob because of … and she thought that was very funny, but I told her that at the time it made me upset, thinking I was a mutant or something. I hope she doesn’t tell Harvey. Harvey will start calling me Boob again, I’m sure of it. I’m glad you never called me Boob. It sounds like a dummy’s name, doesn’t it? Boob-Head or something. I don’t know. My arms are tired. Is that enough? Does that feel good? I hope you can sleep now. Everything’s so changing. When you hit that poor rat I was so mad. It really wasn’t like you, Paul. I don’t know why you did it. Why did you do it? It was just a poor little rat and I’ve never known you before to … But I guess it’s all right. I shouldn’t say anything because I set traps in the basement and catch mice and don’t think a thing about it. I love you. I’m sure our vacation to Grand Marais will be such fun and we’ll be alone together and have some time. Next year I hope we can go down to Iowa, though. I know you don’t like to go but I think it would be okay. My family is really pretty nice if you get to know them. But … I hope you don’t take that dumb ski trip back to Sawmill Landing. Can’t it be dangerous? Harvey sometimes plans the most stupid and dangerous things. And Addie! They can both be so nice sometimes and other times they can be … I guess they’re made for each other. I talked to Jud Harmor after school last week and he was saying that they’re made for each other, then he laughed like he knew something special I didn’t know, but he said to be careful of Harvey and then just laughed again. I guess Harvey’s war … experiences … you know, he never talks about them. Yesterday he was talking about his training but he never talked about the war. I think it would be good for him to just talk about it. Don’t you ever wonder if he killed anyone? Does that feel good there? I wonder about that. But I’m sure if he did kill somebody then he just had to do it. I wish he’d see a doctor about that eye, it sometimes looks awful. He never talks about that either. Nobody ever talks about anything really. I can never talk about anything either. Oh. I’ve got to stop now, I’m tired. I’ll put some Ben-Gay on your neck but then I have to stop. Doesn’t that smell good? I love the smell of it. I wonder what they put in it. It feels so warm and tingly. Hmmm. It seems so good, I wonder if it really does anything for the muscles, I don’t know. I guess it’s psychological mostly because it smells like it should feel good and help the muscles relax. Are you tired now? I’ve got to stop. There, is that good? Are you asleep? I love you.”