by Peter Geye
Hosea sat back and looked at her. A smile played across his face. “I’ll save you the trouble of a lifetime of discovery and tell you that all men are pigs.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“How old are you, Ava?”
“I’m thirteen.”
“Thirteen.”
“I’ll be fourteen at Christmastime.”
“Tell me, how did you end up in the employment of Vaclav Hruby?”
“I’m his slave is more like it.”
“Is your tongue always so sharp?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be wise.”
“So you’re unhappy working for Vaclav?”
“It could be worse.”
“Yes, I suppose it could always be worse.” Hosea tried to read the meaning of her quips. “I wonder, has Vaclav spoken of me?”
She uncrossed her legs and put her elbows on her knees. In that
pose she looked every bit the child she was. “He said you want to adopt me. Move me up to Minnesota.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is that far away?”
“Minnesota? No, not far at all. Where I live — I should say where I’ll soon live — is on a lake much like this one —” he gestured at the wide waters of Lake Michigan “—a lake called Superior. Though the town is much smaller than Chicago. The whole of it would fit in Lincoln Park.” He looked south. “Might fit twice.”
“I don’t mind a small town. I was born up in a small town in Wisconsin.”
“What happened that you ended up an orphan?”
“Can’t say. I never knew my parents. I was born into that godawful orphanage. I ran away as soon as I thought to.”
“And came to Chicago? Why?”
“I stole two dollars from the orphanage. Chicago is as far away as I could get.”
“I see.”
“Don’t think I’m a thief. It’s the only time I ever stole anything. I had to. The headmaster at the orphanage was awful. I’ve worked for Vaclav for two years and never stole a red cent. And I could have. It would be easy.”
“That’s good. That’s good. I wouldn’t want to adopt a thief.”
“Why do you want to adopt anyone?”
Hosea looked at her, knew from the look in her eyes that it would be easiest to tell her the whole truth now, that any omission or lie would come back to haunt him tenfold. “I hope you’ll let me ask you a question, and I hope you’ll be honest. I put great stock in honesty.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I want to know what life has been like for you at Vaclav’s.”
She looked at him, confused.
“You’ve been a hostess, yes? And worked in the coatroom I see. Anything else?”
“Oh! No, nothing else. Well—”
“You must be completely honest, remember.”
She didn’t so much as flinch when she said, “I said Vaclav was a pig.”
“Do you mean to say he has made you available to his clients?”
“He made me available to himself, is what I mean.”
“Dear God,” Hosea whispered. “You poor child.”
“It was nothing the headmaster at the orphanage hadn’t done.”
Hosea put his hand on hers and looked her firmly in the eyes. “I want you to know that I will never, ever treat you that way. I will protect you as though you were my own flesh and blood.”
“Why?” she said.
“Why?” he repeated.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Do you have any idea what fate awaits you at Vaclav’s? Do you know what your life would be like a year from now?” He stood up and buttoned his coat. “I can offer you a life free of that fate. I would like to.” He knelt before her. “Tell me, Ava: Why haven’t you run away from Vaclav?”
“It’s a warm bed and hot food.”
“There’s more to life than that.”
She looked at him as though she were the adult. “Not when you don’t have it. Let me ask you a question, Mister Grimm: How do I know you’re honest as you say you are? You said yourself all men are pigs. You just spent two days tangled up with some of Vaclav’s best girls.”
“A fair question. Fair indeed.” He stood again. “I am a man of resources, Ava. I’ve traveled to all the corners of the world. I’m educated.” Now he sat next to her. “I’m not religious, even if I once was, but I do have a meditative streak. Places such as Vaclav’s serve as my Asclepieions. Places where I can restore myself.” He paused, considered whether to continue in such a vein but thought better of it. “All of which is to say that though I have my — how shall I say this? — uncouth tendencies, I am also a man more capable than most to subvert those tendencies. I am, at heart, a simple man.” He nodded his head in self-approval. “I have enemies, though. It’s probably not a good idea for me to be in Chicago in the first place. But I needed to see Vaclav. I needed to see about you.” He straightened up. “I have represented myself to the people of Gunflint as a family man. They expect me to return with my daughter.”
“Do you have a real daughter?”
“No, no. I wish I did. I was married once. Many years ago. In Paris, France. My wife passed. We never had children.”
“Who are these enemies? Why won’t they follow you to Minnesota?”
The thought of telling her the whole story occurred to him. It would be easy enough to do. Easy enough to tell her about the stud game turned deadly, about running through the levee with fifty thousand dollars in his briefcase, two Polack hoods chasing him, the knife still bloody. The fact was, the particulars of his fleeing became more remote the closer he got to leaving, seemed to matter less and less. Whatever ambition had once been in him was now satisfied by the mere notion of what he was building in Gunflint. So instead of answering her question he said, “My enemies are my own business. But they won’t follow me to Minnesota. They won’t know I’m there.” He said this matter-of-factly. “Now, Ava, let’s get back to you—”
“Tell me what your business is there,” she said interrupting him.
“Why, I own an apothecary. Or I should say I’m building an apothecary. I’m also a trained dentist and surgeon. In France I was trained as an accoucheur.”
“What’s that?”
“A deliverer of babies. Like a midwife. I will be the town’s general physician.”
“And what’s an apothecary?” She had trouble pronouncing the word.
“A place where cures are sold. Medicines and suchlike.”
She nodded and began fidgeting with her parasol, opening it halfway and snapping it shut. For a long minute she said nothing, only toed the pebbled pathway and played with her parasol. When finally she did speak, it was very softly. “I don’t care to go to school. I’m not a very good cook.”
“Going to school won’t be required. I hope you’ll learn to cook. I also hope you’ll help me at the apothecary. Otherwise you’ll be free to do as you please.”
Now she looked at him as she said, “And you’ll leave me be? Won’t do what Hruby and the headmaster done?”
“On my life.”
He thought her face brightened. “All right,” she said. “When will we leave?”
Hosea clapped his hands as he stood. “Excellent! Excellent, Ava! We’ll collect your things at Vaclav’s and leave at once. I believe there’s a train at noon. Let’s hurry along.”
So together they walked back to the bagnio. It took her only moments to gather her belongings, all of which fit into a small suitcase.
Hosea paid Vaclav five hundred dollars. The two shook hands and agreed that the rest of their business could be conducted via the post. Together they were going to operate a brothel near Gunflint, the place the Shivering Timber would become. They would hire a stable boss and pay him twenty-five percent and split the remaining seventy-five percent. This was a condition of their bargain concerning Ava.
At ten o’clock in the morning Hosea and Ava boarded the trolley on
North Clark and rode i
t downtown. At noon they were sitting in a first-class berth on a train pulling out of Union Station, bound for St. Paul.
It was in that berth as the train trundled across the state of Wisconsin that Hosea laid forth his plan. They would spend the night in St. Paul, using the following day to outfit Ava. She would need a new wardrobe, one more in keeping with a girl of her standing. He informed her of the type of airs she ought to affect, counseled her on manners, spoke for what seemed hours on the merits of fine posture. Though he talked too much and of things she thought boring, she found Hosea to be an affable companion. He was witty sometimes, and at least he was never coarse.
They arrived in St. Paul after midnight, took lodgings at a hotel near the station, and in the morning went shopping for Ava’s wardrobe. When they boarded another train that afternoon, this one bound for Duluth, they carried an extra trunk loaded with dresses and furs and a hundred fine undergarments.
“When we reach Duluth, we’ll have to take a ferry up to Gunflint. We might have to wait a day or two. But Duluth is a nice city. If we must wait, perhaps we’ll pass the time by finding a few more dresses for you.”
“I don’t think I need any more dresses,” she said, but he could tell from her blush that she would happily take them. Though she’d been demure in accepting his gifts at first, he saw that she was quick to prize the soft things in life.
“One of my hobbies, Ava, is portrait photography. Have you ever had your portrait taken? I presume not.”
“I never have, no.”
“I’m having a studio added at the apothecary. It’s a large building. Will be the largest in Gunflint. Our living quarters will be a flat on the third floor. The second will have my offices and the studio.”
“What’s a studio?”
“A place to take pictures. I hope you’ll be a good subject.”
“I can’t imagine it’ll be too hard to have my picture taken.”
No doubt she had her charms. “I suppose not!” he said.
Six hours after they left St. Paul the conductor came through to announce their arrival in Duluth.
“We’re nearly there,” Hosea said. “Are you excited?”
“It’s been a real fun time so far,” she said, her childishness blooming.
“There are a few more things, Ava. Important things.”
“Okay.”
“I want people to believe you’re older than thirteen.”
“All right.”
He smiled, looked her up and down in the seat across from him. “You’ve certainly got the figure of a young woman.”
She didn’t even blush.
“And though you’ve a beautiful name, I think I’d like to call you Rebekah instead. It was the name my poor lost wife had always intended for a daughter. From this moment forward, you’ll be Rebekah Marie Grimm.”
“Rebekah,” she repeated. “Rebekah. Rebekah.” The name put a smile on her face. “A new dress,” she said, smoothing the pleats of her gingham gown. “And a new name. Here in Minnesota. I’m all new.” She looked up at him. “Rebekah it is. Father.” She flashed a knowing grin. “Rebekah Marie Grimm.”
IV.
(July 1920)
When he woke at noon the pillow still held the imprint of her head, still clung to the scent of her hair. The air in the fish house could have been bottled, it was so heavy. Still lying on his bunk, Odd rolled a cigarette and set it between his lips. He paused before lighting it, knowing the smoke would erase the lingering scent of her, wanting it to linger longer. So instead he reached over and brought the boat carving back. He sighted the boat’s bottom with his good eye, tried to convince himself that the keel and skeg could be fashioned the way he thought. It was there to be seen, even with only one eye.
The first notion of a boat had come to him the summer before, as he’d whittled a piece of driftwood into a gently curved keel. He did it without the least intention, but when he was finished he held it before him, sighting it with his good eye as if he’d just aligned every crooked thought he’d ever had. A couple weeks later, while he was cutting and splitting firewood, he left a five-foot length of birch on the sawhorse while he ate lunch. When he came back he saw the birch log as the next version of the keel scale and spent a week at it with his crosscut saw and adze, then his gouges and chisels, and finally a sanding block. It was then he knew with all the certainty he possessed that he would be his own keelmaker.
He rose now, finally lit his cigarette, and went to the window. He knew it was time to get to work.
The cupboard was empty but for a can of coffee and two jars of soused herring, the heel of the loaf of brown bread. There was an apple on the windowsill. He thought of making coffee but remembered he’d filled the teakettle with whiskey the night before. This goddamned life of mine, he thought, taking the apple from the windowsill and wiping it on his drawers.
He ate the apple as he walked to the shore, a towel over his shoulder, a bar of soap in his hand. The apple was tart and hard and grown in a place unsuited for apples. But he ate it anyway, his face puckering with each bite. When he got to the shore he threw the apple core into the lake.
The water in the cove had warmed some with the week of hot weather, but the night before the rollicking seas had brought in more of the cold water, and when he stepped into the lake beneath the boat slide the chill felt electric. Outside the cove he could see the big waters had slowed, had almost synchronized with the dying wind. The rollers came weakly and slow now, like a herring’s last few gill flaps in the bottom of his skiff.
He washed quickly and toweled off and went back into the fish house to shave, which he did with his straight blade after honing it on the strap he had tacked into the counter. There was a small mirror hanging beside the window and he watched himself as he shaved. The lines in his brow led to it like streams to a shaded pond. Only twenty-three years old and already he had a face like a map. He could have passed for a man twice his age, even with his youthful grin and fine full hair.
Before taking his hidden trail to town, he checked on the whiskey. It sat as the night before among the rocks in the cove. He’d stashed it there in the past and was fine leaving it until nightfall. If not for that census taker, he could load it onto the bed of the pickup right now. Lord knows Mayfair didn’t give a damn about a few barrels of whiskey; he imbibed himself. But the rumors of feds masquerading as civil servants were rampant in the Minnesota wilds, and this fellow up from St. Paul was as fishy as a jar of roe.
How long, Hosea asked one night over cards, did it take to count two thousand folks? Much as he questioned Grimm, Odd had to admit the old man had a point. There weren’t more than two thousand people in all the great county, and the census taker had been in Gunflint since March.
I need something to keep the skeeters off my neck,” Odd said, standing at the counter in Grimm’s Apothecary.
“It grows by the bushel on every lake shore, you can’t pick some?”
“I’m no goddamned flower picker.”
Grimm turned and pulled one of the glass canisters from the shelves that lined the wall behind his counter. There were a hundred such canisters, full of everything from catnip to balls of spiderwebs to lemon drops and horehounds.
“You went rowing last night?”
“A little breeze is all she had.”
Hosea put a small bouquet of catnip into a paper sack and handed it to Odd. “Christ, Odd, you’d wrastle a black bear, wouldn’t you?” Hosea winked.
“To hell with you.”
“But you landed the juice?”
“I’ll bring it around come dark. Couple of barrels here, couple more over to the Traveler’s, the rest up to the Timber. I’ll roll yours down to the cellar.”
Grimm’s awful smile came across his whiskered face. “Drop mine first, I’ll join you up to the Timber.”
“Sure.”
Rebekah appeared from the hidden staircase behind the shelves of canisters. Despite the fact that Odd had been raised in this place, a pe
rson appearing from the narrow staircase always shocked him, especially when, as with Rebekah now, her skirts sprang fully like an umbrella as she made the last step into the apothecary.
She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek and said, “Hello, little brother.”
Odd blushed, he couldn’t help it.
She looked into the wax-paper sack. “What are the flowers for?”
“I’m going up to the farm today. Skeeters are hell with all this hot.”
Hosea counted twenty five-dollar bills onto the counter. “For your trouble,” he said. “I’ll see you at nightfall.”
“Hosea’s making deliveries with me tonight,” Odd explained.
“Boys on the town.”
“Something like that,” Odd said.
“Can I come?” she asked, a wink for Odd.
Hosea stood up straight. “The Timber’s no place for a woman of your standing,” he said.
“A woman of my standing. Yes, well. I know all about the Shivering Timber,” Rebekah said sharply. “A woman of my standing,” she added, this time under her breath.
The way up to Rune Evensen’s farm was a palimpsest of old logging roads and game trails, the abandoned rail bed, the ice road they were talking about turning into a certified highway, one that went all the way up to Canada. Middle summer now, the forest’s undergrowth was tall and unruly and giving Odd hell. The grabby brush even annoyed the horse he’d rented from the livery keeper. A big beautiful Percheron sired by one of the old Burnt Wood Camp haulers.
Odd urged her along, tugging on the bridle reins and saying sweet things. The horse was already in harness and excited about the afternoon ahead, even hot as it was. The skeeters and blackflies were awful, as Odd knew they’d be, and when he reached Rune’s old fence he stopped and buttoned his shirt at the wrists and collar and took the catnip from his rucksack and rubbed the dried flowers all over his neck and hands and face. They continued along the fence line until they reached the gate, where Odd stamped the ferns and brush and pulled it open. The horse neighed and shook her head and stepped into the paddock. Odd slung the bridle over the horse’s neck and hit her on the rump. “I’ll fetch you a bucket of water. Then we’ll get to work, you hear?”