Pengler hadn’t said a word about the big sum of money due in a few weeks. And it certainly couldn’t have slipped his mind.
26
OWEN WAS SWEEPING FLOORS WHEN ERLING BURST through the creamery door.
“I’m gettin’ tickets!”
He yanked off his raincoat, sending a shower of sleet across the floorboards. Then he raced to the back room, calling out from behind the swinging doors, “I’m gonna see Babe Ruth play!” When he emerged, he ran his hands through his hair, which he’d recently trimmed short along the sides, leaving the top long and wavy, much like Owen’s. He was turning into a pretty handsome young man, with Dad’s squarish face.
“When?” Owen asked, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.
“Not ’til August, but boy oh boy—I can’t wait! They just announced their tour and I bought tickets over the phone. All I have to do is send a check! I mean, to see the Babe in action, even if it’s a promotional tour, the Babe—playing against local folks. Still, he’s a legend, and—oh, just about forgot.” He disappeared in the back and returned with an envelope. “Stopped by the post office. This is for you.”
Like a bird riding an updraft, Owen’s heart rose in his chest. A letter from Sadie. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. “Thanks.”
The envelope was damp, and the ink on the return address was smeared, but he managed to make it out. The letter wasn’t from Sadie but from Trinity Baird. He exhaled in disappointment, wondering why Trinity might be writing to him. It was a first.
He finished up the floors, then found the letter opener and read her words:
Dear Owen,
It has been much too long since I last saw you. I wanted to let you know that Sadie Rose and I will be arriving soon by train for the summer. She plans to stay at Worthingtons’, and I will head to the island. But I will get there two days before my parents arrive. Could you be a sweetheart and take me out to the island by boat? I hope your answer is yes, because I’m counting on you already.
Your forever friend,
Trinity
The mention of the island—Baird’s Island—set off an avalanche of memories: peeling off stiff and frozen clothes; the mindless dark tunnel of hypothermia; the lifesaving fire in the hearth; Jerry at the bottom of the lake. Suddenly, with this round of memories, his body went haywire.
His heart kicked into high gear, racing in his chest. His ears rang and everything seemed muffled. He felt sick, as if someone were turning a wood auger into his gut. He had to get outside. He had to get some fresh air before a customer walked through the door. He wondered if he was having a heart attack. “Erling, cover for me.”
“What’d she say? Is she in love with you? Is something wrong with Sadie?”
Without answering, without grabbing a raincoat or umbrella, Owen hurried outside. He stood there, face into the driving rain and sleet. Through blinking eyes, he watched wind chase slate-gray blankets of freezing rain across the open bay. He gulped in breath after breath. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t head home. Mom would pester him. But he couldn’t stand in the sleet either. He shivered, wet to the skin, and headed across the tracks to the White Turtle.
Haloed by a cloud of smoke, Izzy nodded at Owen as he stepped in. She held her cigarette holder between two fingers and waved her cigarette in greeting, before taking another puff. Owen nodded back, then headed into the hotel’s restaurant. He could use a drink to calm him—a hard drink—but he stayed on this side of the soda fountain. He found an empty table and ordered coffee.
Seconds after his first sip, a screech of automobile brakes sounded outside, doors slammed, and the lobby filled with the voices of men.
Sheriff Vandyke’s voice rang out. “Where’s Harvey? Where’s the boy?”
“Should be here soon, Sheriff,” Izzy answered. “We’ve got a swell breakfast special this morning, fellas. Switching over to lunch in an hour.”
Vandyke and Kranlin took seats at the table nearest the entrance. The sheriff glanced around the restaurant at the few tables of patrons, then spotted Owen a few tables away.
“Owen,” the sheriff said.
“Sheriff.”
And that was it. If they’d been friends, they would have sat together, leaned in and talked about the recent night out on the lake, how they’d barely survived. But instead, they’d pretend that night never happened . . . Owen realized his right leg was vibrating from the ball of his foot to his kneecap, bouncing up and down beneath the table. He forced his foot flat on the floor and willed himself to be still. He drank his coffee, added an extra teaspoonful of sugar, and tried to focus on the newspaper someone had left behind.
He tried to read, but his thoughts were on Jimmy. He wasn’t just “the boy” to Pengler; he was his son.
With a clatter of chairs, the sheriff and deputy shot up from their seats as Harvey entered the restaurant. Jimmy was at his side: red plaid jacket, collar turned up; windburn patches on round cheeks; gray cap and mittens.
Sheriff Vandyke stood with his legs wide, as if ready to take punches. “We’ve come to put this child into the protective custody of the Minnesota Welfare System.”
“Like hell you are,” Pengler said, pulling Jimmy toward him and resting both hands on his shoulders. “I’m his father.”
“Not according to the law, Harvey, and you know it. You don’t have any legal ground to stand on.”
“It was her wish. She told me so. I’ll adopt him legally. Soon as I’m allowed.”
Vandyke snorted. “Now, let’s make this easy on everyone. Hand him over.”
The pain that crossed Pengler’s face turned to anger. As the deputy reached for the boy, Pengler snapped his fist into Kranlin’s face and blood poured from the deputy’s nose. He grabbed a napkin from the table and pressed it to his nose.
“Don’t let them take me!” Jimmy’s face contorted. “Daddy! I don’t want to go with them!”
Owen stood up. “Hey, if it helps, I’ll vouch for Mr. Pengler. He’s good to Jimmy. Treats him like any parent would do. In fact, when Jimmy has spent overnights with us, he seems very well adjusted. Happy. Seems like things are working fine, from what I see.”
The sheriff motioned Owen closer. “What d’you mean, ‘spends overnights’? The kid gets moved around, house to house in Ranier? What kind of parent would do that?”
“A responsible one,” Owen said. He might not like everything about Pengler, but he saw no gain in ripping Jimmy from the only father the boy knew. “There’s times in any family when you need a night out, need someone to cover—”
“A night out, my ass,” Vandyke said. “Yeah, to manage his bootlegging operations from here to Kettle Falls.”
Pengler didn’t say a word.
Vandyke continued, “One of these days we’ll press charges that’ll stick. We’ll get someone to testify against you, just wait.”
If the sheriff couldn’t get Pengler one way, he’d get him another. Through Jimmy. The sheriff was willing to bend the laws of morality to get what he wanted.
“You’re under arrest, Harvey Pengler, for obstructing justice and assaulting an officer of the law.” The sheriff snapped handcuffs on Pengler.
The deputy put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, but the boy spun away, wide-eyed. “No! I won’t go! Daddy! Don’t let them take me!”
“He’s welcome at my house until things get sorted out,” Owen offered.
“You’re saying you’re a blood relation?” the deputy asked.
“No, but we could care for him until this gets figured out.”
But before Owen knew what else to say, the deputy lifted Jimmy, legs flailing, and pinned the boy’s arms down. He carried him outside.
Pengler walked ahead of the sheriff into the lobby. “In front of my son. That’s awfully low, Vandyke. Just not right.”
“He’s not your son, Pengler. Get that outta your head and this will be easier on everyone.”
Sick to his stomach, Owen watched from the window with othe
r customers and staff. Pengler and Jimmy sat in the backseat of the sheriff’s brand-new Model T. He’d replaced the one that had gone through the ice. Owen wondered what kind of report he’d filed. The new Model T made a sharp U-turn and headed toward International Falls.
“I don’t get it,” Owen said.
From the lobby counter, Izzy caught Owen’s eye. She put her forefinger to her lipstick-red lips, then motioned him closer as the lobby cleared.
“Why take the boy?” Owen said. “Why not let Pengler be his foster parent, at least till he gets married to some gal and can make it legal?”
Leaning across the counter, Izzy whispered, “I’ll tell you why. That son of a bitch knows how to get Pengler where it will hurt. Hey, they’ve made busts here. ’Course, the sheriff knows there’s bootlegging. He just can’t make an arrest stick. Vandyke has tried every which way to get each and every one of us to testify against our boss.”
“And nobody will?”
“That’s right. We’ll take the fall, serve time if we have to, because he’ll cover expenses until we get out. One fella’s doing four years for serving booze, but while he’s locked up, his wife, his five kids, they’re fed, got a roof over their heads, money for clothes, shoes, you name it.”
“That’s some kind of dedication,” Owen said.
Izzy tapped the side of her head. “Smart business, too,” she added. “We lose one employee behind bars, things keep going. But we lose Pengler behind prison bars, we lose our livelihoods—and fall like dominoes.”
27
SHORTLY AFTER THREE IN THE MORNING, OWEN WALKED the streets and alleys.
The world between night and dawn is a netherworld, a purgatory, or Frank Baum’s “Oz,” where anything is possible. It’s a world between real and unreal, heaven and hell, a world where few humans travel, and those who are out at that hour are either drunk or disturbed. It’s a world where Bram Stoker’s Dracula might truly exist, where Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a reality, with a monster lurking around the next corner, escaped from its creator’s laboratory.
His mind felt disengaged from his legs and feet. He wandered past taverns. Some were still open, but only a few drunks loitered outside. An occasional light remained on in the upstairs quarters of women who earned late-night income. He wandered toward the depot, then followed the railroad tracks heading southeast out of town.
In the rays of a half-moon, the rails gleamed, challenging him. Arms out, Owen stepped onto the steel rail, and like a tightrope walker in a circus, he thought of nothing else but putting one foot in front of the other, looking ahead at the steel tracks stretching off into infinity. If he teetered, he struggled for all he was worth to right himself again, and by intense concentration, he managed to wobble less and less. He breathed in the night air, crisp with pine, damp with melting snow. He kept his gaze on the rail ahead, didn’t look down at his feet, and slowed his breathing. He felt he could follow the rail forever, until a train from the south approached.
A single light shone in the distance. The ground trembled and, within moments, began to shake under his feet. The oncoming locomotive bore down on him, its light glaring. Owen hopped off the rails, slipped down the gravel railroad bed to a ditch, and broke through a thin sheet of ice into thigh-deep cold water.
Thundering, the black locomotive powered toward Ranier, pulling dozens of cars and a last yellow caboose. Shortly after it disappeared, it sounded its horn, announcing its entrance into town. By then, Owen was a mile or two away as he climbed out of the bog, back onto the tracks, and stood still. A haze of light glowed to the east, though the sun was at least an hour or more away from rising. He looked at the silver rails heading south to Virginia, to St. Paul, to Chicago. A guy could hitch a ride on a boxcar, start over somewhere. Start a new life where he wouldn’t be reminded every moment about Jerry. Where he wouldn’t worry about someone discovering his secret. It could be a fresh start without any tethers of history, family, or relationships. But he couldn’t convince himself.
He turned back, his boots squishy with ice water, and trudged between the steel rails, counting the creosote wooden ties set in gravel.
The sky changed from black to slate gray. A stiff wind bent bare tree limbs and swept sleet-spitting clouds across a pewter sky. A rooster crowed somewhere in Ranier. Ravens flapped overhead. A door slammed. For the life of him, as the morning’s curtains parted and the stage was set for another day, Owen couldn’t masquerade any longer. He couldn’t lie. He couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. When a familiar truck motor started outside the creamery, Owen said aloud, “Bless you, Erling.” His kid brother was up and going, ready to make the morning run without him. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Erling could manage things if Owen were gone.
For once, Owen was going to let him. He reached in his pocket, jingled some spare change, and headed to the café near the depot. He didn’t remember when he last paid for breakfast somewhere, and suddenly, he was starving.
Train workers sat at one end of the counter, and Owen sat down at the other. At a corner table sat two drunks, hunched over their cups of coffee. Dad would have spotted them, left, and returned with a bottle of fresh buttermilk. “Here you go, fellas. This will help clear your heads, help you remember what matters in life.”
But Owen wasn’t his father.
In fact, when he considered how Dad had changed in those last few years, Owen realized he wasn’t nearly as good as his father. Dad had found a way to change for the better.
Owen kept falling further and further from his truest self.
He hadn’t forgotten who he was.
He just didn’t know how to find his way back.
One night, his walk ended at dawn.
Juju stood before him at the counter, pen and tablet at the ready. The last time he’d seen her was at Kettle Falls.
“Morning, stranger,” she said with one fist against an ample hip. “What’ll it be?”
He ordered sausage and eggs and buttermilk pancakes and toast. He ordered orange juice and coffee with sugar and cream. And as a last thought, he ordered a giant cinnamon roll. Then he counted out his change to make sure he had enough and slid the coins across the counter.
“Big spender this morning,” she said with a wink. “Gambling winnings?”
He shrugged.
“Hey, did you hear about that gambler named Noel?”
“Yeah, I know he runs a gambling operation—a movable operation—off the east end of Dryweed Island.”
Juju leaned closer. “Well, folks say he just disappeared. His gambling boat must’a got frozen in, cuz when the lake broke up, it landed on the mainland. I hear Victor Guttenberg is buying it, going to fix it up for his island.”
“That so?” Why did hearing Victor’s name send him spiraling even further downward? Owen really didn’t have anything against him. In fact, he counted him as a friend, even if he hadn’t seen him most of the winter. Victor usually lived out on his island, but not as much lately with his fight against Ennis. Sadie Rose saw far more of Victor than Owen did. And that, he figured, was why he felt irksome toward the Harvard grad. It wasn’t Victor who was the problem. It was himself.
He was the one who lost her.
He glanced at the drunks. They were here the last time he was in, too. One was leaning his head against the wall, snoring. And for some reason, Owen suddenly recalled splitting wood with Dad. He was only six, but he’d wanted to prove he could do it. By mistake, he’d glanced the ax off his knee but fortunately didn’t take his kneecap with the blow. It hurt, but he was lucky not to lose it altogether. When Dad asked why he was limping, Owen had told him, and that’s when he and Dad trotted out to the splitting block beside the woodpile. Legs wide, ax back, and eye fixed on the log, Owen did as Dad coached him. When the steel head came down with a crack, it was as satisfying as hitting a home run. “There you go. Now you’re getting the hang of it.” And that afternoon, Owen split enough wood to make his dad proud. He split until he could barely lift th
e ax; Dad stepped in and lifted the ax from his shoulder and hands. “That’s plenty, son,” he said. “You sure are a good worker.”
The memory split something in him.
He stared at the counter, stared at his folded hands, holding himself still, as if any movement might shatter him into a thousand pieces. When breakfast came, he wasn’t hungry, but he ate it reverently, as if it were his last meal, down to licking the cinnamon and white icing off his fingertips. Then he thanked Juju, left the last of his change for a tip, and headed out of the café under a sky of deepening pinks and oranges. This time, he turned west and followed the tracks toward the lift bridge.
He walked past the “No Trespassing” sign, almost halfway over the river to Canada, and stopped at the deepest part of the current. Pigeons lifted from steel girders and swirled in circles overhead.
A series of sharp caws sounded as blackbirds harassed a bald eagle riding the air currents. The eagle flew off, following the winding river westward.
Ten to fifteen feet above the water, Owen balanced on a single rail. Beneath him, the vast lake shot through this narrow funnel, transforming from “lake” on one side of the bridge to “river” on the other. The water rushed headlong, folded in on itself, and tumbled into widening whirlpools, spraying white foam into the air.
Water boiled, roiled, and raged beneath him. Shooting out from beneath the bridge, sheets of ice lifted and glinted like massive plates of glass in the emerging sun. Ice chunks the length of rooftops crashed together and broke into glass tabletops. Smaller pieces clinked together like infinite goblets of crystal.
Seagulls rode ice sheets, then flapped upward as the ice swirled and churned in the current’s eddies.
Owen stared at the water.
It was as if he’d already been sucked down into the deep current, pulled under into its darkness, which wouldn’t let go until it squeezed the last bit of air from his lungs. Spring was here, but he was stuck in a bleak winter that would never end. It had all been too much . . . Dad lying lifeless beneath a bedsheet . . . Jerry trapped in a watery coffin . . . Crushing debts . . . Sadie Rose moving on.
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