Now they sat side by side in the booth, eating meatloaf and potatoes with gravy.
“Sit,” Pengler said, motioning to the empty bench. “Bring Owen the meatloaf special,” he called to a waitress.
“Thanks, Mr. Pengler, but I already had dinner.”
“You’re arguing with me? From what I can see, you need a little more meat on your bones.”
“Okay. I admit it. I’m pretty much always hungry.”
“Of course you are. I remember being your age. My folks started clearing the table soon as I lifted my fork. Always worried about having enough leftovers for the next day. That’s probably why I started as a chef. Figured I’d never be hungry.”
Owen nodded. In many ways, he realized he was driven by the same thing. Without enough food on the table in those early years, he was constantly striving toward a life he could control. One in which there would always be enough. And look where that got him. Things were spinning out of his control, all because he’d felt so desperate to build a different life.
The plate of steaming food appeared. Owen obliged, digging in with his fork and knife.
“So what’s on your mind?” Mr. Pengler asked, wiping his chin with a white cloth napkin.
“My first payment is due.”
“You’re right.”
“And I’m a little short.”
“Okay. By how much?” Pengler pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “This?” Then he stretched the space between them. “Or this?”
With reluctance, Owen made a zero with his thumb and middle finger. “This.”
Pengler leaned forward on his elbows with palms together. He rested his chin on the tips of his fingers, as if this situation were most delicate. “Hmmm. Not a good way to do business.”
Owen’s ribs tightened around his lungs. He didn’t really know what Pengler was capable of if he was unhappy.
“I’ll have to charge a late fee.” He shrugged. “But I have an idea. There are just some nights,” Penglar said, “when, as a father to Jimmy, I need a little break. Y’know, some adult time. And truth is, Jimmy could use a little more ‘family time.’”
And so they bartered the late fee for a month of Saturday nights.
When Jimmy stepped away to go use the bathroom, Pengler confided, “Just wish there was an easy way to legally adopt him. But I’m single.”
And running a brothel and a bootlegging operation wasn’t going to help, Owen wanted to add, but instead he said, “It’s simple. Find a gal. Get married.”
Pengler forced a smile. “Not that simple.”
What wasn’t simple, Owen wanted to say, was coming up with a whopping bundle of cash—in less than a month.
The following Saturday, Owen met Jimmy at the kitchen door.
“Come in, come in. We’re expecting you!”
“Hi,” Jimmy said. “Thank you for inviting me to stay overnight,” he added, clearly rehearsed. “But I don’t live here.”
Owen’s mom stepped closer and squatted by Jimmy. “No, of course not. But we are so happy to have you come visit us!” She looked directly into the boy’s eyes, as if saying she understood his real mother had died and in no way was she trying to replace her. “Here, let me help you with your jacket.”
Owen had hoped that he’d be free to leave, maybe see what Jerry was up to that night, but his mother agreed to Jimmy’s overnights as long as he stayed around to help out.
In the small living room, with a fire going in the barrel stove, Owen cracked open the window, just enough to keep out most of the damp and cold, but let in the wild clamoring cries of seagulls. They always returned the last few days of March, soaring above the perpetually open water where the river and lake merged. Once darkness fell, the seagulls were raucous, calling back and forth out on the patch of open water. He had no idea why they made such noise, but he welcomed the sound just the same. It was the first real sign of spring.
On the worn sofa, Owen sat in the middle, surrounded by boys, and read aloud from the children’s book Miss Winnie had forced on him. He would have preferred to play cards, but he was stuck.
Little Jimmy fit right in.
He snuggled between Jake, a year younger, and Johnny, a year older. On the other side of Owen sat Nick, who at ten was trying to act too old for bedtime stories, but Owen knew better. Jimmy leaned into him as Owen read. It was a simple children’s story:
‘‘What is REAL?” the Rabbit asked the Skin Horse one day . . .
“ . . . When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. . . . By the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints, and you get very shabby.”
Owen read on, but he had to admit, there was more truth in the Skin Horse’s answer than little kids could possibly understand.
Just another one of the boys, Jimmy shared a cot that night with Jake.
As Owen drifted toward sleep, he thought of Sadie that Christmas with the Worthingtons. Rather than stay at their Summit Avenue home in St. Paul, the Worthingtons spent the holiday in Ranier. Mrs. Worthington, in a plum velvet dress, had never seemed happier. Senator Worthington, usually overbearing, charmed the group by doing magic tricks and pulling silver dollars out of everyone’s ear. Aasta sang something in Norwegian, and Hans surprised everyone when he produced a fiddle and accompanied her. He wasn’t the best musician in the world, but given that no one knew he played a lick, he won applause and took a bow. And Sadie. Her flapper dress glittered and shimmied with each movement as she swayed, playing the piano. “Something from Scott Joplin,” she said with a glance over her shoulder. Then her fingers flew, dancing over the keys and filling the house with ragtime.
Owen couldn’t keep his eyes off of her.
About the time Owen thought he should head home, Mr. Worthington announced, pointing to a solitary envelope beneath the Christmas tree, “Sadie, one more present. It has your name on it.”
She opened it. Owen expected it would be more money to help with college.
Her eyes drew close as she read. “Oh!” she exclaimed.
“Our only regret,” Mrs. Worthington said, “is that we hadn’t done this sooner.”
“It’s official,” Mr. Worthington announced, as if to a gathering at the state capitol. “Sadie Rose is our daughter. We signed adoption papers! If she’ll have us, that is.”
Her smile was ear to ear. Seeing her get the one thing she’d dreamed about since her own mother died melted Owen like wax. How could he not love her? Moments later, champagne appeared; a round of toasting, followed by an arranged ride in a six-seat sleigh. They sat in the last row stealing kisses under horsehair blankets and stars.
19
THE NEXT MORNING, HE LEFT THE POST OFFICE WITH A letter from Sadie clutched in his hand. He climbed into the driver’s seat and pressed the envelope to his nose, trying to conjure up her image. But the plain envelope with the St. Peter postmark smelled merely as if it had been stuffed into a canvas mailbag, loaded into a boxcar, and traveled miles north to the border.
Tipper shoved his wet snout up under Owen’s right palm—hard—and Owen dropped the letter on the floorboards. “Hey, that’s rude.”
Tipper thumped his tail. He tilted his head, looking at Owen.
“Yeah,” Owen said nonchalantly. “It’s from her.”
Truth was, his heart dashed around in his chest, the way Tipper raced crazy circles when he was happy. But another part of him was cautious. Wait and see. He picked it up.
Owen had finished his rounds and the creamery truck was brimming with full metal cans and stacks of egg crates. He would return to the creamery after he read the letter in the privacy of the truck.
He ran his finger under the edge of the envelope, ripping it open. The letter was short. Two short tepid, cautious, polite paragraphs. He read those quickly. But the last two sentences—he read those over and over.
“I think we should take a br
eak from each other. Let’s see what May brings when I return North.”
A raven swooped beyond the truck, followed by another in chase. Late winter was breeding season for ravens and eagles. Even though there would be a few snowstorms to come before spring truly arrived, they were following their purpose. They didn’t just turn to one another and say, “Hey, let’s take a break this spring, shall we?”
Owen smacked the steering wheel and swore.
Tipper whined, as if he’d done something wrong.
“I blew it,” Owen said, his voice softer. He stroked Tipper’s floppy ears. And then, before anyone could stop by and put their head in his window and make small talk, he drew a deep and heavy breath, turned the creamery truck around, and decided a short drive would do him good. Besides, he thought, glancing at the library books in a paper bag beside his seat, he had books to return.
This time, the library was officially open. Owen hoped there would be other patrons using the library this morning. He didn’t want to be forced to talk to anyone, even Miss Winnie.
But when he walked in, she was on a step stool, a cream-colored wool skirt falling midcalf. She turned her head and greeted him with a big smile. “Why hello, Owen Jensen!” Then her lips turned down in exaggeration. “But I had hoped you’d bring your little brothers with you.”
“Next time,” Owen said. He set the books on the wooden desk. “Thanks.” But before he reached the door, she stopped him.
“But tell me—what did you think of The Velveteen Rabbit?”
His shoulders rose and fell. The story, about the high cost of love, had made him think of Dad’s last efforts to keep Owen from making disastrous choices. It was his way of showing love, though Owen was only beginning to see that now. The price of love was high. It demanded everything, and in the end, we lose those we love, or they lose us. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—spill all that here in the library. “Fine,” he said. “The boys liked it.”
She nodded, stepped down from her wooden stool, and walked over to her desk. She sat, drawing the books toward her, as if it were urgent she record them “returned” as soon as possible. “I guess the story touched me,” she said, without looking up at him, her forefinger resting on the cover of the children’s book. She was stalling him. Irritating him. He glanced at the curtain hiding her secret sleeping spot. Or was she looking for something more?
“I’m in a hurry,” he said.
“When a person has experienced love and loss,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard a word he said, “stories are sometimes the best way of making sense of it all, don’t you think?”
Her eyes met his.
And then, before he could edit himself, he blurted, “Yeah, I’m worn down to nubs today.”
She waited.
“My girlfriend dropped me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She picked up a pencil, turned it between her fingers, as if considering her next words. “I lost my boyfriend before coming out here,” she said. “It’s painful. But sometimes it’s for the best.”
Tick, tick, tick. The mantel clock on the shelf behind her desk marked off the seconds, as if listening in.
“His loss, Miss Winnie,” Owen said.
She nodded. “Thanks. But . . . he was married.”
Owen was taken aback. That wasn’t the kind of thing people said so openly. But she was new here and probably incredibly lonely.
“I don’t know why I told you that,” she said quickly, and stood up, smoothing her skirt. “It’s just . . . well, please don’t spread that around, will you?”
Owen shook his head. “No, of course I won’t. You know, everyone has their secrets.” He didn’t tell her about his debts to a bootlegger.
And then they fell into conversation, and she told him about her socialite family. “‘You’ll be a spinster if you don’t get your nose out of those books!’ they said. So what did I do? Spent more time at the nearby library and fell in love with the head librarian.”
“Who was married,” Owen added.
With a pause, she inhaled, then exhaled one word. “Indeed.”
“So it wasn’t just about bringing civilization to the uneducated . . . but running away from something, yes?”
“Both,” she said. “You know Andrew Carnegie?”
Owen nodded.
“Well, he wasn’t always a philanthropist. He started as a steel tycoon, putting money above everything, until a bad choice led to the unnecessary deaths of many townspeople. Carnegie could have kept on making money at any cost. Or he could have run away. He had a change of heart. After that, he used his money to help people.”
“And built a zillion libraries around the country,” Owen said.
Miss Winnie nodded. “Speaking of libraries—and education—are you planning on college?”
“No.”
“Lack of money?”
“Right.”
“You’re bright,” she said. “Good grades?”
He nodded.
“There are scholarships.”
What help would a little extra money do if he couldn’t come up with the balance for college expenses? And who would run the creamery? Who would pay off the loan for his automobiles? For the lost sugar truck?
“If a college truly wants you, they’ll pay your full freight.”
“Why would they do that?”
“A student with promise is a feather in a collegiate cap. You rise—they rise.”
Her words hung there, challenging him.
He suddenly felt the need to get back to the creamery. He grabbed three random books, turned to her desk with them. “I’ll take these ones, please.”
She stamped the books on the inside covers. “If you ever apply, you must use proper English and grammar. ‘These,’ not ‘these ones.’ You’ll have to write an essay. I’ll proofread it, if you’d like me to.”
“Maybe.” Then he headed out the door.
Despite Miss Winnie’s encouragement to apply to college, Owen dragged through the day. Every push of the broom took effort. Crates and cans felt heavier than usual. At dinner—over a plate of canned garden peas, salt pork, and beans—his brothers’ bantering got on his nerves.
“You stole my socks, Knut, just admit it,” Jake said.
“Did not.”
“You stinkin’ did so.”
“Jake and Knut! Shut it!” Owen yelled, something he rarely did.
Everyone around the table fell silent. His brothers looked at each other. With his fork, Jimmy pushed his peas around in circles on his plate. In the uneasy quiet, Mom rose from the table, refastening her apron strings, and returned with a loaf of bread. And for a moment, Owen felt as if he’d just replayed one of Dad’s angry outbursts.
All that talk of college and scholarships had gotten under his skin. Who was going to offer him enough money to go to college?
And Sadie’s letter.
It was over.
He’d been so consumed by her declaration that he’d nearly forgotten Jerry’s words during rounds at Melnyks’. “Something important,” he’d said. “Meet me at Callahan’s at seven thirty. We need to talk.”
Callahan’s “soda fountain” was bustling with customers. The tavern was dimly lit, and Owen spotted Jerry sitting alone at a corner booth in back. His bowler hat was listing as he beamed his disarming smile. “Hey, a sight for sore eyes!”
The bartender called over. “Jensen? Whaddya have?”
Before he could answer, Jerry held up his glass. “Same thing I’m having, and it’s on me.”
“I’m not drinking anymore, Jer, since my dad died.”
“Yeah, I figured. But you look like shit.”
When the drink arrived, Jerry said, “You either have a drink or I’m going to have to wrestle you to the floor and pour it down your gullet. Think of it as medicine.”
Owen tried, but he couldn’t muster up a simple laugh.
“That bad, huh?” Jerry said, leaning forward studying him. “Sadie?”
Ow
en nodded. “Got her letter today.”
“No, she didn’t,” Jerry said, guessing.
Owen nodded. “She’s done.”
Jerry moved the whiskey-filled tumbler into Owen’s limp hand. Owen wrapped his hand around it, lifted it.
“To better days ahead!” Jerry toasted. “There are more fish in the big, wide sea, my friend.”
Owen buckled. He threw back the shot. It coursed hot down his throat.
Jerry nodded toward the woman in a red, low-cut dress at the counter. “There,” he whispered. “Her dress’s sole purpose, my friend, is to contain those two hundred pounds until some wild lover like you helps ease her out of it.”
Owen reached across the table and slugged Jerry in the shoulder.
One drink became two, then three. Owen’s tongue loosened up, thoughts of Sadie Rose dimmed, as Jerry lowered his voice. “Now we gotta get serious. I got a lead on a shipment from Canada.”
“Jeez, Jer! Haven’t we learned our lesson?”
Jerry held up his hand. “Hear me out. This could be the break we need. What’s gonna save us. And it has nothing to do with Pengler, so don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. It’s just you and me. So, do you want to hear more?”
Owen closed his eyes and exhaled in a huff.
“Aren’t you at least curious?”
Owen looked at Jerry, whose eyes were wide with confidence and belief that this time could be different. “Curious? No. Desperate? Yeah. Okay, tell me.”
“We pick up at an island this side of Jackfish—and from there we get it deeper into the States. We make a drop an hour, maybe two, south of here and get cash.”
“Enough to pay back Pengler?”
Jerry grinned. “And then some.”
Owen whispered, “Pengler finds out we’re working on our own, we’re dead.”
“Yeah, but that’s probably our fate anyway if we don’t come up with the money. So what have we got to lose?”
Ice-Out Page 11