Owen asked more questions. The more the whiskey radiated through his body, the more his fears eased, and the more he found himself getting charged up about Jerry’s plan.
“So whaddya say?” Jerry whispered.
Owen rounded some kind of bend. “Folks think I’m bootlegging anyway,” he said.
“Well, you were a few summers ago, weren’tcha?”
“That was different. I was seventeen when I found those cases. I turned a little profit. And then I backed off when I realized it was a bigger game—”
“When you got the crap knocked out of you.”
“Yeah, to put it mildly.”
Jerry laid out details of the plan. “Top-shelf whiskey, the kind Capone wants on his own serving table. We pick it up, we deliver it. We come back. Easy.”
Late March, the seagulls return, followed by trumpeter swans, Canada geese, and pelicans . . . And cormorants, mergansers, golden-eyes, mallards, wood ducks, and loons. They make their long trek north from somewhere warmer, only to wait. They wait for the ice to come off Rainy Lake, wait for winter to lose its final grip so they can begin their nesting season. They wait at the bay in Ranier, where all that lake water eventually flows into a tiny funnel called the source of Rainy River. From there it flows west. West to Lake of the Woods up to Hudson Bay and beyond to the ocean.
Seagulls float on small ice chunks, under the lift bridge dividing the river from the lake. Seagulls float down the narrow, turbulent channel between two shores, between Canada and the United States. And as the sun drops beneath the black and amber horizon, seagulls gather on the big lake, on the edge of ice. Thousands of ’em. Every night in the darkness, they’re out there, raucous with carrying on. They call and scream at an indecent volume, as if what they were up to couldn’t possibly be legal.
20
OWEN SLOGGED THROUGH THE NEXT MORNING’S ROUNDS. His head felt as if a pileated woodpecker were perched top and center, pounding away. His mouth was dry. It was a good day to go slow. Some guys could pound down great quantities of hard liquor and get up and go to work each day. Eventually, it caught up with them the way it did with Owen’s father. But Owen hadn’t joined those ranks yet. Three or four drinks and he’d practically crawled home. Daylight pained his eyes. It was time to go back to quitting booze altogether.
When Erling returned from school and suggested they go ice fishing, Owen jumped at the chance. The fresh air might help clear his head.
They hiked past Johnson Boatworks, a brick building with a boat motor repair shop below and an apartment above. Outside the building, wooden boats lined up on wooden supports, waiting to roll down the steel rails into the lake when it opened up.
Erling and Owen walked onto the frozen lake. They followed the shore around the eastern point. “Here,” Erling said. With an auger, he hand-churned a ten-inch-wide fishing hole in the ice, its sides glowing blue. “Still over a foot thick,” he pronounced, removing his cap. Steam rose from his head.
Eyes on their lines, they sat on their haunches, jigging their baited lines into the black hole as shadows deepened around them and the sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds.
“You miss Dad?” Erling asked.
“Yeah, some,” Owen said.
“We used to have some good talks,” Erling said. “Sometimes I hung around the creamery just to get him talking.”
“Yeah?” The only talking Owen remembered pitted him and his father against each other. Whatever Owen wanted, like college and moving out of the area, Dad wanted something else for him. Yet he always seemed softer on Erling, probably because he wasn’t the firstborn.
“Yeah, we talked about baseball teams, and when I told him I want to try out for a team someday and be a professional player, he always made me feel like I could do it.”
“Did he say you have to finish school first?”
“No.”
“Well, you do. School’s gotta come first.”
They got a strike, then another. Pretty soon, they’d hauled in two walleyes, one northern pike, and one bass. Things were looking up.
“Y’know,” Erling said, “everyone’s saying the sheriff and deputy went too far. Do you buy that stuff about the shot bumping off the water?”
“No,” Owen said. “They shot him in the back. Nothing about that bootlegger’s death was accidental.”
“Yeah,” Erling agreed. “I’d cry ‘foul ball.’”
When they returned home, Erling announced, “Fish dinner!”
Mom, who had dropped to a bird’s weight since Dad died, filled a basin of water at the sink with the hand pump. She handed it to Owen.
He took it and headed outside.
It used to be Dad’s job to fillet fish—no one could do it better—but now it was his. Owen headed out to the fish house, not much bigger than an outhouse, and cut open the fish one by one on the wooden board. He did his best to pare flesh away from bone, but he wasn’t perfect at it. He put the fillets in the bowl of cold water.
As he finished up, Owen thought about how he didn’t mind having lost his old job to Erling: cleaning up guts, scales, and bones; wrapping up the remains in old newspapers before adding them to the burn barrel.
In the kitchen, Mom hummed as she dipped fillets in a bowl of eggs and then a mixture of flour, salt, and pepper. Then she added them to the cast-iron skillet, hot and sizzling with lard, until the fillets were browned lightly on both sides and the flesh fell apart with a fork.
To top it off, Mom presented a prized can of peaches from the pantry. “Dessert tonight,” she said with a genuine smile—the first Owen had seen in months. “Peaches and cream.”
21
“HELLO, MR. AND MRS. JOHANNSEN!” OWEN SAID FROM behind the counter, as Aasta entered the creamery with Hans behind her.
“We want to buy Studebaker,” Aasta said, removing her red mittens.
Owen was taken aback by the sudden announcement. “At the races, when you said you were interested, I didn’t think you meant so soon.”
“Ja?” Hans said with a slight grin. “Then you got another think coming.”
“Okay then,” Owen said. “I’ll be just a minute.”
He asked Mom to cover out front and headed to the back room. He threw on his jacket, found his wooden lockbox at the back of his locker, then headed with his first official customers over to the lot. The Johannsens walked straight to the cheapest model, a Light Six in deep blue.
The Johannsens sat in the front seat. They sat in the back. They stroked the leather. They patted the steering wheel. They asked Owen to start it up and then show them how. It started like a dream.
But they said very little.
Salesmen, selling anything from hair tonic to a circus act, usually talked on and on to make a sale, as if that was the way to keep their customers on the hook. But Owen felt each Studebaker should almost speak for itself. It was a work of art that would take Aasta and Hans as far as St. Paul to visit their granddaughter when they wanted to. She might be adopted now by the Worthingtons, but she was the Johannsens’ flesh and blood. He held his tongue. Under a light falling snow, they circled the car several times.
Finally, Aasta said, “This will do!” Then a smile spread across her face and lit up her blue eyes.
When Hans started to pull a wad of bills from his trouser pocket, Owen held up his hand.
He grabbed the wooden box, which held all the keys and sales papers. “Wonderful! But let’s finish this up inside.”
Owen ducked under the stuffed moose and led them into the hotel’s restaurant.
“We scrimp and save,” Aasta said, taking a seat at the table.
“Our first car,” Hans added. “Better do this before we get too old.”
“You two have plenty of years left,” Owen said, and he meant it. And then he needed to be honest. “You know,” he said, “if you’re buying this to help Sadie—help me in some way—I have to tell you, I don’t know if we’re together anymore . . .”
They waited.
“I appreciate that you want to make this purchase. As long as you know, with Sadie Rose . . . We’re not as close as . . . not that I don’t want us to be. But nothing is for sure.”
Hans nodded. “Ja, that’s for sure, especially with women,” he said, breaking through the tension. “A fellow never knows one day to the next.”
Aasta reached out and put her hand on top of Owen’s, stilling his hand. He hadn’t realized he was turning the pen over and over in his fingers until she stopped him. “You are miles from each other. No need you worry. I see how she look at you.”
He met her eyes, so full of hope and knowing, but poor Aasta really had no idea how far apart they’d grown.
“Thanks,” he said.
After they drove off, Owen found Pengler in the blind pig. From the sale, he paid off his late payment, his current payment, and next month’s payment in cash.
“Your first official sale! Time to celebrate! It’s on me.”
“Thanks, Mr. Pengler, but I’ll pass. I still have work to finish at the creamery.”
“Harvey,” he said, clapping Owen’s shoulder as he rose to leave. “You call me Harvey from now on. I insist.”
Outside the creamery and under a confetti-tossed sky, Owen waited for Jerry. He gazed up at the brightest point—Venus making her debut. For the first time in forever, Owen felt something different. Something like faith, a belief that things could begin to turn around for him.
Owen felt it deep in his being.
This was an end and a beginning.
Spring was just around the corner, and with it would come renewed hope.
Three stars stood out from the others. The Belt of Orion, the great hunter.
He’d spent enough energy fretting and worrying. Tonight’s opportunity with Jerry seemed golden. The constellations had shifted.
Things couldn’t possibly go wrong.
When Jerry showed up a half hour past midnight, he rolled down the window of a Whiskey Six. “Didn’t plan on a flat tire,” he said. “But I got it going again.”
“Wait,” Owen said. “That’s one of the cars I sold Pengler.”
“So? I work for him. He hands me keys for a Whiskey Six, then that’s what I drive. Happens all the time.”
“But you said this job wasn’t connected to him.”
“It’s not. Is that a problem?”
“Could be a big problem,” Owen said. “If he finds out. He may not like you working for yourself with his wheels. And the truck that went through? We’re deep enough in debt as it is.”
“Tonight it all changes. But okay. Then we take one of yours.” Jerry motioned to beyond the tracks and Owen’s lot of vehicles.
“Jerry, I have to say, I’m having serious second thoughts about this whole thing. I shouldn’t have agreed to this after a few drinks. And I’m not using my inventory to—”
Jerry stopped him. “Forget it. Let’s just head out. We’ll be back before anyone knows we left.” Jerry adjusted his hat, then gave a cocky smile. “It’s going to go slicker than butter on hot toast. You have my word.”
They drove past the driveway to Pengler’s farmstead and traveled east to the boat landing. When they drove onto the ice, Owen snapped off the headlights.
“Okay, so tell me how to get to Nugget Island. You know the lake better than I do.”
At first, darkness wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, but soon Owen’s eyes adjusted to the frozen lake, the mainland, and scattered islands.
Owen rolled down his window.
“Isn’t it cold enough?” Jerry complained.
“If we’re unlucky and go through, I want to escape quickly.” The brittle breeze produced drops of moisture at the edges of Owen’s eyes. No matter.
“Sheesh,” Jerry said. “You could knit a sweater with your worries.”
“And I don’t get how you can’t be worried.”
They drove across bumpy whiteness, farther from shore. They weren’t that far from the mainland, but Owen knew the currents could be strong between clusters of islands.
Unpredictable.
As they followed a plowed path beyond the tip of a peninsula, the sky began to brighten, as if a city had suddenly sprung up to the north. In minutes, the sky changed. Like lightning after resounding thunder, the sky was alive with energy, but this wasn’t a flash here or there. The whole sky radiated pale green pulses across to the north, then shifted and danced to the east, then flashed back north again. Against a dark stage, curtains of light moved as if they were alive. The northern lights, or aurora borealis as he’d learned in science class, now shifted to strips of pink, then green, then white, like ribbon candy.
“Incredible,” Jerry said. “I could live to a hundred and never get tired of seeing the sky like this.”
“Like ancient spirits,” Owen agreed. “Ojibwa call them ‘Wawatay,’ and believe they’re a gift from the Great Spirit.”
Jerry laughed. “Whaddya s’pose they’re sayin’? Keep an eye out for feds?”
Ahead, the tiny island was a silhouette with a few pines dotting its half-moon shape. “There,” Owen said, with a nod.
As they neared the island and the small shack, Jerry thumped the steering wheel as if it were a drum. At the shore, he stopped the Whiskey Six and put it in park. “I’ll leave the motor running,” he said. “If everything’s in order, I’ll signal. You can help load up. But if things go wrong, take off.” Then he trotted off carrying a lighted gas lamp by its handle.
Owen climbed into the driver’s seat, glanced behind, and saw no lights or shadows of being followed. Studeys offered deep and comfy seats and engines that purred like cats lapping cream. But unlike his fresh-from-the-factory automobiles, this Studebaker already smelled of hard use: cigarettes, cigars, and sweat.
Above the sound of the motor came Jerry’s voice. “Hey, c’mon!” A stone’s throw onto the island, Jerry was leaning halfway out the door of the small shack. The lantern in his hand threw light up onto his face.
Owen slipped from the Whiskey Six. The plan was that they would pick up a dozen cases of premium Scotch whiskey, avoid the rails out of Ranier, and drive sixty miles south to the depot in Orr, where it would get loaded for Chicago. Jerry said they would get paid cash on delivery.
Owen broke through ice-crusted snow as he headed to the cabin door. Jerry’s lamp had gone out, but he wagged his head. “Of all the luck,” he said, disappearing inside, as if he couldn’t believe their good fortune.
A wave of stale air greeted Owen.
The shack was dark enough for roosting bats. How could they load up cases if they couldn’t see anything? “Light your lamp, Jer,” Owen said as he stepped in. “How are we gonna load up if—”
Cold steel pressed against his temple.
A gun barrel clicked in warning.
“Yeah, light the lamp, Jer.” A familiar voice, but Owen couldn’t place it. “Light it so we can all say hello.”
22
OWEN WANTED TO FREEZE TIME. SAME AS A FILM THAT gets hung up on its metal wheel, he wanted to stop on the frame. Stop it and rewind.
A match struck twice.
The tang of sulfur filled the air.
A small flame broke the darkness, illuminating Jerry’s face and hands as he lit the base of the gas lamp.
The wick caught and glowed and the small room brightened.
Just inside the door, Sheriff Vandyke held a gun at Jerry’s back. “Close the door, Owen,” he said.
Owen did so. Dread coursed through his veins as he turned slowly toward Deputy Kranlin, who lowered his pistol to his side, his eyes fixed on Owen like a robin after an earthworm.
“Go ahead,” the sheriff said, motioning to the crates. “You boys pick up what you came for.”
“We were just out cruising,” Jerry said. “Thought we’d stop here. Make a fire. Play cards. Hey, Sheriff, you guys play cards?”
They might have had a chance if Jerry would quit talking.
“Pick up the crates
,” the sheriff ordered. His jaw muscle knotted.
“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” Jerry said, in the overly nonchalant voice that had always gotten him in trouble in school. “Hey, they’ll make extra chairs at the table.”
Deputy Kranlin motioned Owen with the gun toward the crates. He saw no reason not to oblige. He followed Jerry toward the stacked crates. He lifted one. Jerry did the same. Their eyes met, and Owen shook his head as the weight of their situation hit him.
“Busted,” the sheriff said. “You boys are under arrest for bootlegging.”
“You baited us!” Jerry said accusingly. “That ain’t right.”
The sheriff nodded. “Way I see it, you two came here for an alleged shipment of booze. Is that how you see it, Deputy Kranlin?”
“That’s exactly how I see it!” the round-faced deputy said, as if this were the biggest joke ever. “Sometimes, you gotta go fishin’ and here you are. Hook, line, and sinker. A federal offense. You’ll get a quick trial, then spend, oh, anywhere from two to ten years behind bars.”
Two to ten? Owen felt sick. He might be twenty-nine by the time he got out. His life would be half over before he even got started. “Sheriff, please,” Owen pleaded. “We’re local boys. You know our families. My dad’s gone. It’s just my mom and brothers now, and if I’m behind bars, there’s no telling what will happen to them.”
“Yeah,” Jerry added. “My folks rely on my help on their farm. When the tractor breaks down, I’m the only one who can fix it up again.”
“Well,” the sheriff said, “too bad you didn’t consider the consequences. I could go easy on you, let you go . . .”
“Oh, Sheriff,” Jerry said, dramatically dropping to his knees, his hands pressed together like an altar boy’s. “Thank you. We promise, we won’t ever get into this spot again.”
“Coming from you, Jerry, that doesn’t mean much. Now Owen, you should have known better.” He stared at Owen, as if seeing right through him. “This isn’t a game. You two can set an example for other boys who are tempted to bootleg.”
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