It was a portrait, exquisitely rendered, of Jerry, capturing his eyes, so full of life, and his cockeyed smile, the way he was always caught between doing good and mischief. “It’s perfect,” Owen said in the dream.
And then he woke up.
They’d burned through the stash of wood and the fire was dying down to coals. Owen forced himself to stand and checked his trousers and jacket hanging on the back of a chair, but they were still too wet to put back on. In boots and underwear he headed out, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and torso, and gathered an armload of wood from the fire box.
He hurried back in and built the fire up until it blazed. Though most of the heat went up the chimney, the air in the cabin and the braided rug beneath them began to warm. He pulled the chaise lounge closer to the fire, tucked under another blanket, and closed his eyes. The fire snapped and roared. Life was like a fire. All it took was a spark to set off an inferno. Full-of-life Trinity, who dared to jump off the highest cliffs on Rainy Lake. She’d studied art in Paris, had a yacht named after her—the world at her fingertips—and yet she’d come close to taking her own life. Something in her brain went haywire. Jerry, who could charm the horns off a bull, who had a good family, and who could have set up shop as a mechanic—he was that good—needed to take risks. It was something that drove him until, ultimately, he took one risk too many. And for Owen, maybe it was his need to make something of himself, to prove he could be more than his father, that would be his undoing.
His Achilles’ heel.
It took him a moment to register the sheriff’s voice. Vandyke was talking at him. “And so as far as I’m concerned, Owen, you say nothing about last night and we’ll forget this night ever happened.”
Owen sat up, straddled the chaise lounge, leaning forward in disbelief. “My friend’s dead,” the reality of his words falling on him hard. Saying it aloud took it out of the land of dreams.
“I could press charges on you,” the sheriff continued, “but I won’t. You saved our lives. You acted. You led us here. I’ll never be able to repay that debt.”
“You want me to be silent. When folks ask questions, when his parents ask questions, you want me to be silent.” Owen couldn’t believe it. It was terrible enough to lose Jerry, and now he was supposed to lie? Pretend it never happened?
“He went through the ice,” the sheriff replied. “That’s what happened. You survived. That’s the truth. I’m not asking you to lie.”
Owen didn’t know what to say. His gut coiled in anger.
Deputy Kranlin spoke up. “You needn’t tell everything, that’s all he’s saying. Not the whole truth.”
“And if I do?” Owen said.
The sheriff sighed, then said, “Honestly, if I were in your shoes, I would just go home and sleep it off. Last night never happened. Start talking about it and lots of folks might blame me, blame the deputy here, maybe even blame you—for surviving when Jerry did not. They might ask questions, and there would be no good answers.”
Owen felt the snare tightening, holding him there, as much by his own choices and actions as the sheriff’s ultimatum. “He asked you not to handcuff him! You didn’t give him a chance.”
No response.
The fire burned and a red spark landed on the rug. Reflexively, Owen jumped up and ground it out with the heel of his boot.
Finally, the sheriff stared at the fire. “Believe me. I’d do anything to change that decision now.”
From the regret in the sheriff’s voice, Owen believed him.
“Prohibition,” the sheriff continued. “Hell of a thing to enforce.”
“It’s the law,” Kranlin said, as if those words absolved them.
Vandyke said, “When I worked as a timber cruiser, the job was straightforward. Just me and a cook tromping around the woods. My job was to find timber, calculate how much was available for logging, and report back to Ennis. The cold in the winter, the bogs and the bugs in summer, I would never call it easy. But that job was black-and-white. Easy compared to sheriff. Every other Joe and his grandmother has a backyard still, turning normal folks into criminals.”
“It isn’t easy, but you’re doing your job, Sheriff,” Kranlin said. “And I’m doing mine.”
A long silence passed before the sheriff spoke again. When he did, he turned his head to meet Owen’s eyes. “I don’t want to strong-arm you on this, Owen,” he said, “but you know I could send you to prison for bootlegging. You’d get two years, if you’re lucky, ten if you’re not. So I have one more demand.”
Owen waited.
“I need you to tell me what you know. About Pengler’s operations. About bootlegging that’s going on in the area. You hear something, I want you to tell me.”
Owen clenched his fists. He wasn’t about to be a squealer and play both sides of the fence. He struggled for air, his chest in a vise. “And if I don’t?”
“Let’s just say, what good will serving prison time do anyone? What would that do to your creamery, your dealership? Oh, and when Pengler learns that you were busted because you and Jerry went off on your own—you think he’s going to support your mom and brothers then?”
What a damn fool he’d been! The sheriff had him bound and gagged, but he was caught in a trap of his own making. He chose to go out with Jerry, ignoring his own misgivings. He chose to go for the extra cash opportunity. He’d take the secret about Jerry with him to the grave.
There wasn’t anything more to say on the subject.
Silence was his answer, and the sheriff didn’t mention it again.
Owen drifted to sleep, waking once to hear the door open and close as someone stoked the fire again.
When his eyes next opened, a pale light filled the cabin.
Three words clanged in his head: Jerry was gone . . .
How had he slept when his friend was somewhere beneath the ice? Guilt caught in his throat. Why had he survived when Jerry had not? Why didn’t he put up a fight with the sheriff and insist that Jerry not be handcuffed? And what would he say to the Melnyks when they asked about their son’s whereabouts?
The cabin was almost too warm. Owen checked his long johns, now nearly dry. He put them on, clenching his jaw against an overwhelming swirl of emotions. As if he were right there, Dad’s voice sounded in his head: Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Owen pulled the cotton curtain back from a window. Throat aching, he looked to the southeast. Five wolves traveled in single file across the ice between islands, their tails outstretched, their bodies dark silhouettes. They trotted north, oblivious to the international border between two countries. Likely in pursuit of deer, they disappeared. Owen felt a kinship with them and hoped they’d escape a trapper’s snare or hunter’s bullet.
He’d seen as many as thirty pelts tacked to a shack’s outer walls. Wolves, like people, are driven to eat, to mate, to feed their young. They live in packs, with leaders and followers, much like families. On occasion, they take livestock, to the outrage of farmers, who in turn shoot the wolves to protect their livelihood. He understood that. Still, he wished people and wolves could find a way to coexist. There was a hefty bounty on the wolf, paid out by the state of Minnesota for every shot, poisoned, or trapped animal.
He’d heard trappers’ stories. Caught in a trap’s steel jaws, a wolf will chew off its own paw, trying to escape. He squeezed his eyes shut. Right now, he’d do just about anything to escape last night’s events.
The sheriff and deputy stirred behind him, waking up.
The day was about to unfold.
Owen opened his eyes.
Dawn broke in a rim of red, a glowing orb behind the tops of pines.
Owen dreaded every moment of what lay ahead, unsure how he could possibly put one foot in front of the other.
Part III
Dreams of Summer
Unlike other signs of spring, the mass of ice on the big lake hangs on.
New growth of pale green paints spruce and balsam, aspen, birch, and maple. Pol
len floats on a warm southerly wind. On the north side of buildings, boulders, and towering pines, the last snowdrifts melt into puddles. Water trickles into rivulets, streams, and rivers that flow into the lake.
You wait an eternity for the actual event, and then one day in late April or the first or second week of May, it happens.
An arctic air mass rushes in.
Clouds blacken.
Lightning flashes.
Winds howl and gust.
Where the ice has melted along the shoreline, ripples turn to waves, and waves turn to whitecaps that wash over the ice and push from beneath. Water sloshes into hairline cracks, softening them until they widen and the surface of the lake breaks into giant fields of ice.
All night long, violent wind drives ice downstream.
An act of nature, and afterward—everything is changed.
25
NIGHTS, OWEN DREAMED OF JERRY.
Jerry floated, facedown, amid sheets of ice. “Jerry!” Owen called out to him, and Jerry lifted his head and started swimming toward shore. Owen was beyond relief. He broke out crying, “I thought you were dead!”
“Can’t keep a good guy down,” Jerry said, laughing, and then, as if he were a dog, he shook off the icy water in a blast. Instantly dry.
“Hey, that was good. Tipper can’t even dry off that fast. You’re a magician!” Owen felt such happiness at seeing his friend. He wanted to wrap his arms around him in a bear hug. “I just can’t believe it.”
He dreamed of going through the ice, clawing at anything to keep from sinking into the utter darkness.
He dreamed of Sadie Rose, handcuffed by some outrageous mistake in the back of the sheriff’s Model T. She called out for Owen, and though he tried to reach her, his legs wouldn’t budge from the ice and the vehicle slipped out of sight before he could save her.
When he woke, the real nightmare always returned.
He turned on his light, pulled a book from his bookshelf, and read “A Scandal in Bohemia,” about the only woman who challenged Sherlock Holmes intellectually. For Holmes, she is always the woman.
And for Owen, there could only be Sadie.
Enough. He sat up and slapped his hands down on either side of him, startling Tipper out of a deep sleep. Tipper jumped up on all fours and started yipping.
“It’s okay, fella,” Owen dropped his voice. He wrapped his arms around the golden dog. Tipper leaned closer into Owen’s side, then he snuck a quick lick across Owen’s chin.
“Gee, thanks.” Owen wiped it away.
He got up and went down to the kitchen. The hands on the wall clock read three fifteen, about the same time he found himself in the kitchen every night since . . .
His gut churned in anger. Anger at the government and the Volstead Act that made Prohibition the law of the land. Anger at Dad for leaving him to figure everything out on his own. Anger at Sadie Rose for being distant. But more than anything, he was angry at the needless loss of Jerry.
In his coat pocket, he found his flask, took off its cap, and put the flask of brandy to his lips. Deadening the pain would feel good. He could drink and drink until a numbness settled over his whole being. It would be like running away from everything. Only problem was—when he sobered up, he’d have to face his life. Sure, he might handle booze now, but over time, he might not be so lucky. Some families grew alcoholics the way a field sprouted buttercups. He screwed the cap on and put the flask away.
He opened the icebox, pulled out a jug of milk, and poured himself a tall glass. He found fresh sugar cookies in the ceramic cookie jar he’d bought last Christmas for his mother. It was a round, smiling, red-aproned man with a white chef’s hat. Maybe that’s how Pengler dressed when he worked as a chef in Chicago, before starting a new life up north. At the Palmer House, known as a top-shelf restaurant, Pengler must have met all kinds of powerful people in Chicago. What made an ambitious guy leave all that behind? Was he running from trouble? Or had he simply wanted to strike out on his own and be his own boss?
Convinced that he couldn’t go back to sleep or, worse yet, that sleep would only bring more nightmares, Owen grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the damp air and cacophony of seagulls calling from ice floes.
As if they hadn’t a care in the world, cows produced milk right on schedule. Day in and day out. Owen forced himself to keep his foot on the gas pedal and turn the wheel into Melnyks’ long driveway.
When Mr. Melnyk flagged him down from his blacksmith shop’s open doors, Owen slowed the truck and rolled down his window. His throat went dry. He swallowed hard and forced the words out: “Good morning.”
With blackened gloves and a knee-length heavy apron, Mr. Melnyk stepped up to the truck. Behind him, coals glowed red within his shop. Smoke curled around the door frame and rose toward the gray sky.
The sight of Mr. Melnyk was almost too much. Owen liked Jerry’s father, who always carried a raw potato in his pocket to ease his stiff joints. Jerry used to laugh about many of his father’s “Old World” superstitions, which included burying a strip of raw bacon near the house as a remedy for getting rid of warts. If only there was a remedy for bringing back sons. Mr. Melnyk lost one son already in the trenches between France and Germany; it was beyond comprehension that he would lose a second son. And he didn’t even know.
“Owen, I am wondering. Have you seen Jeremiah?”
Owen pretended to wipe sleep from his eyes. “No, haven’t seen him in over a week. Why?”
“This is not the first time he go away, you know.” He nodded to himself. “He will come back. I am sure. You have good day.” And then Mr. Melnyk turned back to his anvil and continued hammering.
No, he won’t come back, Owen wanted to say. He wanted to tell Mr. Melnyk everything about what happened. Jerry’s father would fly into a rage and go directly to the sheriff to give him a piece of his mind, and the sheriff would draw up charges on Owen, maybe make him an accomplice in Jerry’s death. Who knows how the truth might get braided with falsehoods?
Holding back a dam of emotions, Owen drove on.
Later that day, as he worked in the back of the creamery, topping off glass quart bottles with fresh milk, the entry door chimed.
“Owen here?” Harvey Pengler boomed.
“Yep, he’s in back. I’ll get him,” Mom replied.
With the push of the swinging door, Harvey swept in, removing his fedora. “You’re here. Good. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but you’ve been hard to track down.”
“Harvey,” Owen said with a nod of greeting. “I’ve been awfully busy.”
Harvey eyed the creamery. “You do a good job here. Neat as a pin. Your dad would be happy to see the way you’ve kept things going.”
Owen waited.
Harvey eyed the wooden stool by a worktable. “May I?”
He hadn’t come by for a simple chitchat.
“Help yourself,” Owen replied, as casually as he could manage, but the nauseous feeling returned. Sooner or later, he would be asked about Jerry.
Pengler sat down, legs wide in gray trousers, elbows to his knees as he turned his fedora around and around in his hands.
Owen braced himself. He’d give anything to be able to spill the truth. But telling the truth to Pengler? There was no telling how Pengler would react if he learned he and Jerry had decided to bootleg on their own. Not to mention that in the process, they’d lost one of Pengler’s brand-new Whiskey Sixes—along with Jerry.
“Have you seen our friend Jerry?” Pengler asked, his voice low.
Owen swallowed, forcing out words. “Not for a while.” He turned from Pengler’s gaze and began filling jars from the vat of buttermilk.
“It’s not like him to disappear. He had a job last night. Never showed up. Haven’t heard a word from him. Haven’t seen my Studebaker, either. He had keys. I trusted him.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. That’s what I say. I like Jerry, so I don’t want to start being suspicious. But some guys, they see
all this booze and bucks and they get ideas. So I’m wondering. Did he take off and try to start a little bootlegging on his own?”
Owen shrugged and raised his eyebrows. Had Pengler caught wind of their activities?
“He doesn’t seem like the type to put a knife in a guy’s back. I figure you might know. If he skipped out, he might have said something. Might drop you a line. Make a phone call.”
Owen shook his head.
“Unless he was out driving on the lake and went through somewhere, where the ice was—” He stretched out a hand, fingers splayed, and tilted it back and forth. “That would be the craps.”
The memory burned. Owen’s eyes felt hot. His throat closed up. The emotion must have shown on his face, because Pengler stood up and clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you. Anyone who can ride bareback, crash, and nearly win a race has more lives than a cat.”
Then he put on his hat, tilting it slightly over his right eye. “Y’know, I worry already about Jimmy. Just a few years and he could be doing stupid things. I know I sure did when I was a kid.” He laughed. “But you. You’re different. You got a real level head on your shoulders. Like you actually use the brains God gave you. That’s good.” Then he stood, gave a nod, and added, “You hear from Jerry, just let me know. And if not, guess I’m going to be forced to buy another one of your Studeys. A good deal for you. Not for me. This time, I s’pose I’ll have to pay full price.”
And then he left.
Owen’s stomach churned. Sure, he wanted to move his inventory. No doubt about it. But he didn’t want to make a sale because of Jerry’s death.
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