He sat through the next silent film, Beyond the Rocks, starring Rudolph Valentino as the lover in a romantic triangle. Should Theodora stay with the man she was obliged to marry or go with the man she truly loved? The whole movie began to make Owen crabby. All he could see on the screen was Sam-the-Damn-Thoughtful, trying to win the hand of his girl.
He closed his eyes during the credits. No, Owen scolded himself. Sadie wasn’t his girl. She was her own woman. Part of him, he hated to admit, wanted to possess her completely and dictate who she could see and not see. Keep her under lock and key. But that was some primitive part of him. His better self—his better angel—didn’t ever want to make someone a slave to his will.
Suddenly, he was back at school, reciting the closing words of Lincoln’s first inaugural address:
I am loath to close.
We are not enemies, but friends.
We must not be enemies.
Though passion may have strained it must not break
our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory,
stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave
to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land,
will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched,
as surely they will be,
by the better angels of our nature.
No, he would never own her.
She would have to choose to be with him, choose to step closer.
A sweetly sickening scent of booze rose up from behind him. The thing about booze, he thought, was that for many, it had a way of becoming master. Owen had always blamed Dad for drinking away the family’s money, but he’d never really considered that Dad had been a slave to something more powerful than himself. It was the booze that had turned him into a monster. And there was Mr. Dressler, brought low as a dog. Yet rumor had it that Dressler had once been a successful Ohio businessman.
He tried to lose himself in the next movie, Nanook of the North, a true story of an Inuk, a member of the Inuit people, and his wife and baby in their grueling search for food and trade. This native family carved out an existence in the deep cold of northern Quebec, but the more Owen watched, the more he scorned himself for getting stuck in the deep cold with the family creamery. Stuck without hope of ever finding out what he might have been capable of. Stuck with a loan to Pengler and crushing debt for a stupid mistake. With his need to get ahead, to make something of himself, he’d taken risks. He scorned himself for the mess he’d made of things.
In the middle of the film, he couldn’t watch anymore. He glanced behind him. A man snored, open-mouthed, and the booze wafted with each exhale.
Owen left.
Outside the theater, the wind had died down. Clouds pressed down upon the buildings along Main Street. Owen felt claustrophobic, as if he was locked between a thin line of earth and sky. He drew a deep breath, trying to clear his head. Then another. Across the street, the sign for Quality Photography was still there, even though Mr. Foxridge was dead.
Owen pulled the flaps of his cap down over his ears and set off along the boardwalk. He’d read enough about the Civil War to know that when you pit two equally passionate sides against each other, the war turns brutal. Abolitionists knew slavery was wrong and could not be tolerated. Slave owners, however, had grown accustomed to a way of life and would defend what they believed were their rights. Prohibition, too, had two passionate sides: those determined to keep booze out of society against those who believed it was their right to make it, sell it, and consume it. With Canada just on the other side of the river, Koochiching County and the Rainy Lake area turned into something like a border state in the Civil War, where fighting had turned especially bloody. Things were heating up locally and the region didn’t show signs of cooling down anytime soon.
Huddled into his jacket, Owen trudged past several taverns, a hotel, restaurant, and drugstore. He stepped into the one place that offered real comfort. And it wasn’t a tavern or local church with a tall spire. He didn’t fault anyone for going to church. He’d gone enough times over the years to know that he wasn’t one to sit in the pew and take guidance from the pulpit. Truth was, he favored Ralph Waldo Emerson’s approach in his essay “Nature.” It made more sense to him to let his own intuition guide him. He didn’t have any answers yet, but he was starting to pay attention. He was starting to listen.
17
AT THE INTERSECTION OF THIRD AND FOURTH, OWEN stood outside the tall building housing a restaurant and soda fountain, along with the new International Falls Public Library.
He turned the handle to the library, but it didn’t budge. Then he saw the closed sign. Just his luck. But it was Sunday—he should have known. As he started to turn away, a shadow stirred behind the door’s frosted window. The door opened and he was met by a woman five to ten years older than him.
The first thing he noticed were her stockinged legs, which started in shiny navy shoes and tiny ankles and rose to curved calves and ended beneath her knees at the hem of her gray and white polka-dot dress. He tried to look at her eyes, but he couldn’t help noticing the way she filled out her dress—in just the right places.
“We’re closed, you know,” the woman said. Her red hair was fashionably shaped in tight waves on either side of her pale face. “Come back tomorrow. The hours are posted on the door.”
“Yes, sorry. I always mean to get here, but my work gets in the way.”
“Oh, gosh, perhaps this once I can make an exception,” the woman said, stepping back. “If you’d like to look around . . . I’m here catching up on some work.”
“That would be swell,” Owen said, smiling for the first time that day. He closed the door behind him. Here, in this one-room space, the bookcases and walls were filled floor to ceiling with books. Here, though the space might make another guy feel closed in, Owen felt himself float up. He roamed, running his fingers down the spines of books. Here were ideas. Here was a wealth of learning, open to whoever wanted to learn. If he couldn’t go to college, he could at least read everything in this room, cover to cover.
He was suddenly aware of the librarian watching him. He turned.
“I’m sorry, I forgot my manners,” he said, walking back to her desk and extending his hand. “I’m Owen Jensen. My family owns the creamery in Ranier.” He thought of adding something about the dealership, maybe to impress her, but he held his tongue. “I appreciate you letting me look around.”
“It’s really no bother. I’m pretty new here, and it’s nice to have a little company.”
“What’s your name? Where are you from?”
“I’m Miss Hamilton. Miss Winnie Hamilton,” she added. “I finished school back East, and well, I wanted some adventure. This position became available, and everyone’s been very kind and I’m told it will warm up here eventually.”
“Don’t hold your breath. We’ll have several snowstorms before spring arrives.”
Her smile dropped. “Several? Oh, I’ve never been so cold as—”
“Wool,” Owen said. “Wear lots of wool and layers.” And then he laughed. He tried to picture himself as she saw him just then: wool scarf still wrapped around his neck, wool cap, wool long johns covered by wool trousers, wool hand-knit sweater, with wool-lined leather mitts and wool socks inside his boots.
Miss Winnie Hamilton forced a smile. Over her stockings and dress, she wore a thin navy sweater with tiny white buttons.
Owen shook his head at himself. “Well, if you work outdoors, you gotta dress for it. You look just fine the way you are. But you know, some women work at the paper mill. They wear dungarees and wool, just like the men. Have to, y’know, to stay warm.”
The librarian returned to a file of library cards she was apparently updating with pencil. Without looking up, she said, “Well, if I ever take such a position, I’ll remember that. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Just one,” Owen said. “What college did you go to?”
“A women’s
college. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Try me.”
“Smith.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Owen said, though it was only a vague reference from somewhere out East.
Miss Winnie nodded. “It’s in Massachusetts. Northampton, to be precise. When I received my degree, there were as many students at school as there are residents in this whole town. Isn’t that stupendous? And here I am, trying to extend civilization to the farthest reaches, or at least that’s what I thought when I first decided to take this position.”
“And now?”
“And now what?” she replied, holding her pencil midair. Her nails were trimmed short and perfectly shaped.
“Are you extending civilization?”
“I opened up on a Sunday, just for you, didn’t I?” She tilted her head and smiled, though there was a reserve about her.
“Yes, that’s so.” Owen turned to look at the collection. “Thanks.”
He found a small shelf with the label “Newly published books!” and looked at the brightly colored spines and fresh, white pages, waiting to be discovered. He pulled out One of Ours, by Willa Cather, one of Sadie Rose’s favorite authors, and tucked it under his arm. When he next saw her, it would give them something to talk about.
He pulled out The Beautiful and Damned, by the rising star from St. Paul, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Mrs. Worthington called him “Scottie,” but Sadie Rose claimed her adoptive mother didn’t really know the author as well as she let on. The Worthingtons, with their connections to politics, business, and the arts, tended to show off their collection of acquaintances like expensive jewels. On the other hand, Sadie had never let on how well she knew the young author. She’d said only that she ran into him from time to time.
Another unexpected wave of jealousy swept over Owen. He had no reason to be suspicious or angry with her. She’d done nothing wrong. But he felt helpless. F. Scott Fitzgerald. The mere name of an author she may or may not know, and his gut felt hot with suspicion. He had no control over his own emotions. He was adrift, as if the winds were blowing him off course and he was powerless to get to his true destination. He hated the feeling. He wandered to the back corner of the library and drew a breath to get his heart back to normal, when he noticed the dark curtain partitioning off an area. He stepped closer, peered around it, and spotted a small cot with bedding and a coatrack with women’s garments. He withdrew quickly, feeling a mix of desire and guilt, as if he’d stumbled upon her stark naked.
“Oh, I know it looks like I live here,” Miss Winnie said from her desk, “but not technically. I have an apartment upstairs, but . . . well . . . with the soda fountain operating all hours of the night, I’m sure you can imagine . . . it’s not the quietest—or even safest—place to sleep.”
“I wondered,” he said, feeling the need to leave, “but it’s not really any of my business.”
She clamped her hand over her lips for a moment, then dropped her hand and blurted. “Did you read the editorial?”
“What?”
She exhaled through her nose. “Someone wrote to the newspaper last week. Said the library was a fine addition to the town and added, ‘but kill the pig.’” She pulled the newspaper out of her desk drawer and held it up as evidence. Her eyes brimmed with emotion as she set the newspaper down and crossed her arms over her chest. Her lower lip trembled. “You’re from here. Why would someone say such a thing?”
Her eyebrows twitched with worry, and she reminded him of a skittish red chicken, ready to flee.
“Oh, Miss Winnie. They’re not writing about you. They’re talking about the blind pig that operates here. I mean, a soda fountain—everyone knows they’re fronts for ‘blind pigs.’ Like speakeasies, just not as fancy.”
“You mean, it wasn’t against me at all?”
“I can’t imagine so,” he said.
“Oh!” She placed her hand at the base of her throat, and her breasts rose and fell beneath her sweater with her deep breaths. “I’m so relieved! I was ready to resign and take the next train back East.”
“That would have been too bad,” Owen said, and he meant it. He was coming to appreciate Miss Winnie. He felt alone with her in this sanctuary, and her feminine presence stirred him. But his desire for companionship had its limits. He was still a slave—a willing slave—to Sadie Rose. Whether she wanted him or not.
With purpose, he set the books down on the desk. “I’ll start with these two.”
Miss Winnie nodded. “Fine writers.” Then she pulled a slim children’s book from a stack of books on the desk beside her. “And this one?”
Owen looked at the thin book with a rabbit illustrated on its cover. It was a book for kids. Did she think he wasn’t capable of reading the novels? That, because he grew up in a frontier area, he was intellectually stunted? “I am capable of reading bigger books, Miss Winnie.”
Her petite nose, red with cold, stood out against her pale face. The air in the library wasn’t much warmer than outdoors. “It’s for children, yes, but it’s brand new and shows great promise. I just read it last night and it speaks to adults, too.”
With reluctance, he took the book. “I’ll read it to my little brothers.”
“Oh, good idea!” She smiled. “And bring them with you when you return your books. I have my mission, remember.”
“Right,” Owen said, as he headed to the door. “To bring civilization to the farthest reaches of the world.”
It’s easy this time of year for folks to start tilting off center. You see it in people’s eyes, as if they’re trying not to lose a grip on a saner part of themselves.
We call it cabin fever.
The dictionary says: A state of being, characterized by anxiety, restlessness, and boredom, arising from being isolated or sharing cramped quarters in the wilderness, especially during the long northern winter.
Everyone talks about how many snowstorms are yet to come. One night, temperatures drop to seven degrees below zero, and the winds blow in from North Dakota and strike with gale forces, turning a mere seven below to something like seventy below. Mom is coping by scrubbing every floor and crevice until her hands are red and chapped.
When cabin fever is in full swing, taverns don’t lose a drop of business.
18
TIPPER INVESTIGATED THE FAR SIDE OF A WOODPILE while Owen hoisted cans full of fresh milk at the Torgeson farm into the truck.
Suddenly, his dog let out a pitiful yelp, followed by sharp whining. Owen spun in the direction of the sound. Three likely causes, he figured: skunk, trap, or porcupine.
The porcupine climbed up a nearby birch tree as Tipper raced out from behind the woodpile, shaking his head, as if he were trying to figure out what happened.
“Dang it! You poor boy! Come here.”
A dozen quills decorated Tipper’s black nose, golden snout, neck, and ears. One quill protruded a half inch above his right eye.
Tipper held back, tail between his legs, whining.
“Come on now.” When Owen was four or five, he’d watched Dad pull quills once from a stray. The quills were barbed and you had to pull them out at exactly the same angle they went in or they’d catch on flesh, break, and cause infection. The stray nipped Dad in the process, but when it was over, it licked Dad’s hand before running off into the woods.
Tipper dropped to the snow in front of Owen’s feet. He pawed at the quills, shook his head, pawed again, and with no success of ridding them, grew quiet. It was as if he knew he’d made a big mistake and he wasn’t going to get out of his predicament alone. He was going to need help.
In the toolbox behind the driver’s seat, Owen found the flat-head pliers. He closed the doors of the creamery truck and braced himself for the task ahead. “You’re gonna have to be brave, Tipper.”
He coaxed his dog closer, then cradled him between his outstretched legs, with Tipper’s head resting on his thigh. “I need you to be still, boy. It’s gonna hurt, but you’ll feel better after. If w
e do nothing, you’ll swell up. You won’t be able to eat. And you’ll die.”
Tipper groaned.
With the first pull, Tipper growled. Owen wrapped a leg over Tipper’s back, securing him in place. Then he worked rapidly, assessing the angle of each quill’s entry and pulling it out—just so—and quickly, despite the whimpering.
“Good boy,” he said soothingly, over and over. “You’re such a good boy.”
As he worked, the Torgeson family, one by one, hovered and watched and talked in soft murmurs. From the farmhouse, a dog barked as Owen continued to work.
He pulled one from Tipper’s lip, then lifted the lip to make sure the point of the quill hadn’t been left behind in the pink gums.
He left the one above the eye for last, praying he could pull it whole and not leave anything behind that might cause eye or brain problems.
When he finished, he was drenched with sweat as he released Tipper. His dog went directly to the truck and waited at the driver’s door.
“You bet,” Owen said. “Now we can go home. It’s all over.”
As they drove away from the Torgeson farm, a gunshot echoed. Owen couldn’t blame them. Porcupines, unless cornered, aren’t generally aggressive, but apparently the Torgesons weren’t taking any chances.
When his first loan payment came due, Owen found Pengler in the White Turtle restaurant with cherub-faced Jimmy, who had been sledding earlier with Owen’s brothers.
“Hi, Jimmy,” Owen said. “How old are you, big guy?”
Jimmy, sipping a chocolate soda, held up fingers on both hands.
“No kidding? Seven?”
Jimmy nodded, lips still around the straw. He was large for his age, making it easy to think he was much older. He was born to Pengler’s housekeeper, who had passed away. And from what Pengler had explained, the woman had been married in Duluth and was originally from there, but when her husband abandoned her, so did her family. She moved with her child to Ranier and took what work she could find. Pengler had hired her to keep house at his farm, providing room and board to her and her son. Over time, she’d become more to him. When she got sick and died, Pengler treated Jimmy as his very own.
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