The Lighthouse Road

by Peter Geye

  “No. Anything happens to me, I’d like everything to go to Rebekah.”

  Again Mayfair took off his glasses. “Mister Eide, I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask if there’s something I can do. You have my confidence, you understand?”

  “I appreciate it, but no help’s needed, not beyond what we’re writing up here.”

  Mayfair took a long, deep breath, withdrew another piece of letterhead from the drawer, and wrote Odd’s will.

  After Odd signed the will the two men stood and walked together outside. The town was hushed, the harbor water bristling. It was too warm for the end of November. Odd thought of the weather as cautionary.

  Mayfair put his hand on Odd’s shoulder.

  “Sometimes I look at this place and wonder why I don’t leave myself,” he said.

  “This town would fall into the water if you left.”

  “Aw, hell, don’t tell an old man stories. I’ve heard them all.”

  They walked down the steps and stood on the Lighthouse Road. Mayfair said, “I still remember the day your mother landed here. She came walking up that road the prettiest thing this town ever saw. Could have been carried away by any old breeze, she was so lithesome, but my goodness. Even Missus Mayfair said so.” Curtis turned and looked the opposite direction, toward the apothecary. “Was Hosea that took her in. Was Hosea that found her a life here. Hell, was Hosea that brought you into the world. Just remember that.”

  “With all due respect, was my mother that did the bringing. Besides, since when are you in the Saint Hosea Society?”

  “Listen, Odd. I know Hosea’s got his eccentricities. We all do. But that man raised his daughter without help. He as much as raised you.”

  Curtis Mayfair led Odd to the railing on the other side of the Lighthouse Road. They stood there on the water’s edge. “Hosea Grimm arrived on the first boat in the spring of ninety-three. He stood over there on the beach with his hand shielding the sun, watching the tender go. He was wearing orange jodhpurs and knee-high boots, one of his damn hats. He looked even then like both a clown and a high prince. He gives us folks watching from here a wave, then gets to work. Raised a big canvas tent, gathered firewood, hung his foodstuffs in a tree. He dug two fire pits, fashioned a rotisserie of green spruce limbs over one of them, built a strange cairn five feet tall that looked for all the world like some troll’s quaint hovel over the second. In two hours he had a campsite that would last the season.

  “The next morning he tramped into the woods, a pack over his shoulders, a Winchester in his hand. Newcomers always aroused interest around here, but this man come ashore in orange pants and circus hat the day before set a new standard for strangeness. We couldn’t stop wondering about him. Anyway, it was hardly past lunchtime when he walks out of the forest, a tumpline around his forehead, trailing a travois. Tied to the travois was a field-dressed caribou. Two hundred pounds. He brought it to his camp, inverted the travois, and tied it off on a boulder and two trees. Hung the buck from up high. Before he butchered it, he started driftwood fires in both the pit and the cairn. He spent an hour skinning and the time before supper carving the meat off the bones.

  “All night he stayed up, stoking his cairn with the green birch wood, smoking the venison. The next morning he walked into the Traveler’s, doffed his hat, and went from table to table introducing himself. Charmed the hell out of a bunch of people not easily charmed. Then he invited us all to his campsite that evening.

  “You’ve got to understand, we weren’t much more than a dozen fishing families back then. The Indians living up in the wigwam village. A hundred people in all. Every single one of us gathered at Hosea Grimm’s campsite for his proffered feast. A giant vat of pemmican. We stood there, spooning the grub, listening to Grimm.

  “He told us the Minnesota and Dakota Lumber Company had procured twenty thousand acres of land up along the Burnt Wood. Said the next year a hundred lumberjacks, thirty men to run a mill, thirty more to oversee distribution of the lumber, they’d all be moving into Gunflint come springtime. They’d bring their families and build houses and schools and bibelot shops to sell whatever people would buy. He reckoned the town would quadruple in size. It would take some years to fell the forests. Then the same interests would mine the ore and copper in the hills to the west. They’d build railroads and highways. A harbor breakwater would be needed, and a quay to accommodate the great ships soon to arrive. If necessary, the harbor would be dredged so those ships might sail right to the shore. Times were changing, he said, and he was there to help usher in that change. All he asked for in return was a place among us.

  “So, sure, he’s got a lot of pots on the fire. And it’s true some of what he cooks up stinks bad as moose shit. But he was true to his word. He never took more than was his, and he got us all ahead of the robber barons. We still own this town. We always will. He had something to do with that. He had a lot to do with that.”

  Odd had listened to Curtis with both ears. It was a story he’d never heard before and since it came from Mayfair’s mouth, he had no reason to doubt it. But then he thought of Rebekah, of her life in chains, of the things Hosea had made her do. Odd spit. “I appreciate hearing the story. No doubt it’s a testament to something. But I have my reasons for feeling suspect.”

  “I’ve never known you as anything but a straight shooter, son. I believe you’ve your reasons.” He turned to face Odd. “Curious as I am, I honestly don’t want to know what they are. I’m happier to live in ignorance.”

  Odd smiled, though nothing was funny. The blind eye was a bad disease in this town. They shook hands and parted without another word.

  XIV.

  (February 1896)

  Even as the hours of daylight lengthened in the first week of February, that winter persisted. Thea fed the dogs those days. Each morning and again each evening, after the jacks took their breakfast and supper, she would haul two wooden pails from the mess. Often as not they were brimming with bread crusts and beans, fatback and milk, but the hounds did not seem to miss their fish. They ate with zeal. By the time she crossed the paddock to drop food for the dog staked under the ridge, the bitch had always finished her slop and would be sitting queenlike in the snow. Thea thought their demeanor was suspect and restful, as though their greater, graver purpose required stores of energy and emotion better not wasted.

  The sled drivers had taken to carrying rifles in the woods, but each night for a week they returned to camp without game. In the early days of winter, it would not have been uncommon for the teamsters to see a hundred caribou during the hauling hours, so their sudden and complete absence was yet another harbinger of doom: That winter had become its own disease, the woodland creatures had vanished in the sickness.

  Even in their mounting despair the jacks still toiled. Each day sled upon sled descended the ice road and pulled into the mill in Gunflint, where the millworkers unloaded the cut. On February twelfth one of the great horses was killed on the ice road, crushed by a careening load of timber. In the same mishap a teamster lost a hand. Soon after one of the crews had a man beheaded on the northern parcel and two days later one of the sawyers passed through camp minus a leg. These were known hazards, though, and the general comportment of the men in the shadows of such calamities was not much changed.

  For her part, Thea steadied during those weeks. She became a dynamo in the kitchen, in charge by then of the suppers as well as the baking. Her favorite job was of course feeding the dogs, those two chances each day to stretch her legs and breathe fresh air. Cold as it was. The dogs greeted her and the pails of food and the three of them formed a sort of congregation of lonesome souls.

  In the two weeks since the Ovcharkas had arrived there had been no wolf song. Groups of men visited the dogs each night after supper, offering busted ax handles in lieu of rawhide, bringing in their pockets crusts of bread and hunks of meat to reward the dogs. The jacks, after paying the dogs, would stand against the paddock fence smoking their pipes or cigars, offering wo
odsmen’s philosophies on the nature of such beasts, on the likeliest source of their lineage. One of the men went so far as to offer the great bears of the Yukon as the most likely origin of the breed. None of the others gathered that evening — though preternaturally inclined to ribbing and chiding — would even dispute the possibility. If that winter would not relent, if the men suffered their frozen flesh and injured limbs, if they were reminded daily of the perils of their labor, they were at least more calm in their few hours of leisure each evening, and certainly more comfortable in their slumber.

  On the first morning of the third week more snow came. After breakfast Thea hauled her buckets to the horse barn. She dropped the first before the bitch, hammered her water free of ice with a hatchet, then followed the fence line around the paddock to the kennel of the dog. She had named the dog Lodden for his long strands of wiry black hair, and each morning now she would call his name as she crossed the paddock. As she approached his kennel, calling him, she saw that a wide swath of snow trailed away from his roost. She saw also the frozen earth cratered around the spot his stake should have been, saw his leather collar and the length of chain tangled atop the packed snow. She hollered his name into the wilderness, dropped the pail at the opening of his kennel, and hurried back toward the mess.

  She was almost jogging as she headed on to the camp office. As she entered, a young man she recognized from the chow line peered over his glasses and onto an open ledger. He looked, no doubt surprised to see her. Before he could greet her she said, “Lodden, Lodden. Hund! Hund! “He came from behind the counter and went straight to the door. He opened it, a whirl of snow came in at his boots. “The dog?” he said. “The new dog? What?” He stepped back in, closed the door. While he donned his coat and hat he asked again, “Did something happen to the dogs? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He flew out the door and was gone in the snow before he reached the paddock fence.

  Within an hour what few men remained in camp were scattering into the passel of white pine. The bull cook, the brothers Meltmen, the clerk, they all set out into the wilderness, calling for the dog. By the time the jacks returned from their parcels, word of the missing dog had already spread. Whispers above the evening’s stew ranged over the possibilities.

  One of the men said, “That weren’t a godly beast. Likely he’s in the Devil’s Maw, making fast with Beelzebub.”

  When the searchers returned with lanterns aglow and no word on the hound, the rest of the camp retired with a new set of misgivings.

  But sunup found the dog back in camp, blood staining his muzzle and the snow outside his kennel. Only the hide and bones of a caribou fawn remained. The same scene played at the bitch’s stake, for the dog must have rent the fawn and left the hindquarters for his sister. The Ovcharkas found a new and holier place in the minds of the men. Lodden was left to his duties without the hindrance of stake or chain. For the rest of the cold spell he roamed the camp’s perimeter with a beautiful arrogance.

  For three weeks during February the temperature still had not climbed above zero, two feet of snow had fallen, the horses had grown coats like bears, but still the camp trundled on. Hosea visited camp often. His leather satchel over his shoulder. He set up a makeshift examining room in the wanigan. Several men had frostbitten fingers or toes or both amputated. Others had black scabs of dead flesh removed from their upper cheeks. Two men had even died by way of the cold; the first of hypothermia, the other of a heart failure way up the northern parcel. Their deaths inspired more dread than sadness, as most of the men knew the calendar well enough to note how much more winter was in the offing.

  There were nights during that interminable stretch when the woods above Gunflint on up to Canada were the coldest place on earth. One such dawn broke minus fifty-two degrees. So it was properly strange when Thea woke on the last morning of February to the sound of dripping water. She kicked her eiderdown away and lit a candle in the kitchen. She stoked the scullery fire. Before commencing her morning chores she poked her head out the mess-hall door. For the first time since the ides of January she could smell the horseshit under the snow. During the night a fog had risen, fey and reeking.

  In the root cellar Thea collected the morning’s fare: the oats, the buttermilk, the bacon. There were bushels of sprouted potatoes and overripe onions and twenty pumpkins ready to be made into pie. She gathered fifty pounds of potatoes and five pounds of oleo. She had baked the bread the night before, and she removed twenty loaves from the wooden breadbox. She thought if the men were anything like herself, the warm weather on the heels of such cold would induce their greatest appetites.

  Indeed, when the men arrived after reveille, they found their seats quickly and ate with gusto. Each was served a rasher of bacon, four slices of bread and oleo, boiled and salted potatoes, a heap of steaming oats, and coffee to wash it down. Fifteen minutes after taking their places at the tables they rose and marched out of the mess hall, their mittens and hats in their hands, their coats and shirt collars unbuttoned. Under a dull sun they climbed aboard the empty hauling sleds and lit their pipes or cigars. Thea went to the door and watched as the horses pulled onto the ice road. She could see the runners plowing through the soft snow. Lodden followed the sleigh to the first bend before reversing his enormous stride and backing toward camp.

  She had only finished her tea when the supply sleigh arrived, hauled by two horses worse for the season. The same company that owned the mill owned the timber and two camps — the Burnt Wood River Camp and another in the Cloquet Valley — and the sleigh ran a regular loop between the two, stopping at the commissary in Duluth to reload with each pass. Twice each week the same drivers dropped the stores, both the usual fare and, on Fridays, what passed for Sunday dinner. Oftenest this was herring but on that day it was one hundred pounds of pork chops, a cask of fresh apples, and three gunnysacks of butter nut squash. Thea pinched two of the apples while the brothers Meltmen unloaded the sleigh.

  While they worked, Thea took the apples from her apron pocket and fed one to each of the horses.

  She was paring the squash on a bench outside the mess hall, the warm sun still hazy above the clouds, when she saw Joshua Smith steer his fine hickory sleigh around the last bend on the ice road. He sat on a seat of crushed purple velvet and wore a mink coat and beaver skin hat. His boots were Anishinabe-style moccasins, covered in beadwork and quills and lined with sheep’s wool. His mittens hung from the cuffs of his sleeves.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, then pulled his watch from its pocket and corrected himself. “I should say good morning. Is Trond about?”

  Thea understood he was asking for the foreman and shrugged to suggest she did not know.

  “Have you got coffee in there?” He pointed at the mess-hall door.

  She understood this query, too, and nodded and hurried in. At the stove Thea poured coffee and offered him a cup.

  “I thank you,” he said and took a long drink.

  She noticed that one of his front teeth was dead.

  “I’ve heard rumors of women working the Burnt Wood Camp.” He took another drink. “But I didn’t believe it.” He looked at her directly, his dead tooth dividing an impish smile. “A man could sure use a bowl of that stew boiling up yonder.”

  Thea looked down.

  He smiled his dead-tooth smile. He said, “You’ve got a thing for quiet, eh? Where are you from, darling?” He cocked his head as if to take stock. “Those cheeks and blond locks, I suppose you ain’t from Africa.” He laughed at his joke. “Norway,” he ventured, “Norge?”

  Her eyes widened and she replied in Norwegian, “I am from Norway.” And then, recalling her English lesson upon leaving Hammerfest, she continued in English, “I am new in America.”

  To her surprise and relief he responded in Norwegian, introducing himself as the watch salesman Joshua Smith, down from Duluth. He informed her that Trond expected him and repeated his request for a bowl of stew. She moved slowly to the pot on the stove an
d fetched the stew, deciding as she crossed the hall that despite his dead tooth, Smith was handsome in a way none of the jacks was. His handlebar mustache exaggerated a rakish smile and those eyes of his were wide and devilish enough to cast spells.

  He ate standing, loosening the buttons on his shirt. She was used to the jacks and their absence of manners and Smith cut a marked contrast. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief after each bite, there was no slurping, no licking the bowl once the meat and vegetables were eaten. He did not belch when he set the bowl on the tabletop. Without asking, he took a tin cup and went to the cistern and dipped a cup of water. When he finished drinking he used the ladle hanging from the lip and dipped himself another. With every movement he became more at ease in the room.

  When he said, “The cold will be coming right back,” again in Norwegian, Thea could not help herself and asked, “How do you know?”

  Smith replied, “The winds are already bringing it.”

  After dinner he set out his wares: watches and knives and small canisters of curatives and powders. He offered cigars, advertised as finer than the rolled-up dogshit they were peddling in the wanigan, and pipe tobacco imported from Zanzibar. He laid out boxes of chocolates and horehounds. When the jacks leaned in and whispered about hooch, he pulled his coat aside to show pockets with hidden half pints. He passed the bottles with a magician’s sleight of hand, recouping quarters and dollars with equal cleverness. Standing behind a table in the mess hall, a green felt cloth covering the pine boards, sporting a suit of worsted wool and having traded his beaver-skin hat for a black stovepipe, his mustache styled with bear-fat pomade, his pince-nez magnifying his huge brown eyes, he looked like he could have sold a whip to an ox.

  Clearly the jacks were in a buying mood, and Smith did a steady business. Even as he haggled in four different languages, even as he extolled the virtues of his fine Spanish blades and Swiss timepieces and pocketed the loggers’ earnings, Smith managed to keep an eye on Thea. In her own way Thea made a sly study of Smith, too.