by Jason Heit
Katherine tried to smile. “That would be nice.”
Peter lowered his head as he looked for the words. “Frank was a strong man,” he started. That was true enough. “And when he wanted something, he’d do anything to get it.” Peter’s eyes met Katherine’s as he felt Joseph’s elbow in his ribs. He continued: “I’ll never forget that about him – who he was as a man and what he did with his time here.” He paused as he noticed Katherine dabbing the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief; then raised his jar, “To Frank.” The words tasted sour in his mouth. He drank and the others followed.
“Thank you,” Kasimir said.
Peter nodded and sank back into his chair, sipping the liquid fire. He had made a mistake coming so early. He’d imagined speaking with Katherine, comforting her, saying something just for her. Now, he realized he’d have been less conspicuous in a packed room with the old man drunk on his booze and folks’ flattery for his son. Peter resigned himself to the notion that they’d stay until the next visitors came to show their respects. That was before Kasimir sidled his chair closer to him, clapped him on the shoulder and leaned in close. “You don’t mind me saying those were some sweet sounding words for a man who ain’t hardly got no teeth.”
Peter clenched his jaw, turned to Kasimir, and searched the drunk for some spot of remorse, but all he saw was a darkness that wanted to spread itself. Peter pulled away from the man’s grip and stepped towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Kasimir said.
Peter turned to Katherine and Teresa. “Perhaps I should take Mr. Weran home. I’m sure there are chores he needs to take care of.”
“Nein,” the old man grunted.
“Sure there are,” Peter said. “You can bring your jug to keep us warm.”
“Aah, I’ll stay with my boy.”
“Father,” Teresa said, “I think it’s best. I’ll fetch you later this afternoon.”
“Help me, brother,” Peter said, and the brothers grabbed the old man and hauled him outside before he could put up more of a fight. They had Kasimir half way to the cutter before he called out for his jug.
“It’s too bright,” the old man complained as the brothers hoisted him in.
Teresa brought Kasimir’s sheepskin coat in one hand and his jug in the other. The brothers forced the coat onto him, then Joseph planted the jug in Kasimir’s thick hands as Peter took the lines. The old man tipped back the jug.
“Stay here with the women,” Peter said to Joseph. “I’ll be back soon.” He flipped the lines and the horses stepped through the soft, sticky snow.
The old man took another pull from the jug and pressed it against Peter’s side.
“I’ve had enough,” said Peter.
Kasimir hugged the jug to his chest as if he were holding a small child, then took another draught and set the jug down on his lap. “You should be married,” he muttered. “My Teresa needs a husband. She ain’t as pretty as most, but neither are you.”
Peter looked straight into the old man’s pearly black eyes; he had a feeling that if he stared too long he might also fall into that same darkness. Frank’s darkness.
“A man needs more than a pretty face,” Kasimir continued. The old man took a final pull then corked the jug and let it fall to his feet. “He was my only son.” Peter stayed quiet. Some hundred yards later the old man slumped to the side of the cutter’s bench.
Kasimir was still asleep when they got to the Weran farmyard. Peter grabbed him by the coat and hoisted him over his shoulder; he carried him through the open door of the soddie and dropped him on the straw mattress. The old man was passed right out. Peter stared at Kasimir – he had the same deep-set eyes as Frank although his eyebrows were twisted, thick and long with age – it seemed Frank had inherited plenty from the old man. Peter sighed. Perhaps, if he’d had a father like Kasimir he’d have hurt people too. The man had that kind of effect on people. Peter could feel that darkness inside him now – it would be easy to stifle the life from the old man. He shook his head. God forgive him. That was a truly terrible thought. Peter knelt down on one knee and pulled off Kasimir’s boots, then covered the old man with the blankets. He added some wood to the stove, enough to keep the place warm until the man woke up.
Outside, Peter checked on the animals. He had a feeling the old man might not get to his chores until the next morning, so he took up the job of feeding the livestock and milking the cows. When that was finished, he grabbed a half pail of Kasimir’s oats and fed it to his mare. Once the horse had eaten its portion, he went back to Katherine’s.
The soddie was now packed with nearly a dozen visitors – neighbours and family – Sebastian Feist, his wife and children, Nels and Agatha and their boys, Jakob Feist and Joseph. The young men had gathered next to the door, which they’d opened to let in the fresh air. A small remedy against the fetor of Frank’s corpse. They reminisced, telling old stories, some involving Frank but most of them not, while the women sat in the chairs talking of pregnancy and the things that followed. Someone handed Peter a coffee and he took it and found a place against the wall. It happened to be next to the coffin box, which had been moved to accommodate the growing crowd. He looked down at Frank’s upside down face and torso and closed his eyes to remember it. He wondered which memory of Frank would survive the longest – this one of Frank, grey and motionless, or the last one of Frank, desperate and suffocating to death at Nels’s hands. Peter turned away. He knew the answer.
Nels picked his two-year old son, Lambert, off the floor and tossed him in Joseph’s arms, then grabbed his jug and tin and weaved his way to Peter. “Katherine told me what you did.”
Peter felt a bead of sweat break on his brow. What did Katherine say, he wondered? All of a sudden, he wanted to get away from Nels.
“You did us all a favour getting the old man out of the house.” Nels poured a shot from his jug into a tin and handed it to Peter.
Peter swallowed the liquor down in nervous relief and wiped the dribble from his chin. The liquor was much smoother than the fire-starter Kasimir had poured him. Peter felt the warmth grow inside him as he handed the tin back to Nels. “I’ve met oxen with more charm than that man.”
Nels snickered.
“Where’s the daughter?” Peter asked. “Teresa?”
“Resting in the other room. Too much to drink.”
Peter nodded, unsurprised. “And how are you?”
“I’ll be happy once he’s in the ground.” Nels twisted the corner of his moustache.
Peter agreed. There had been some good in what happened to Frank and he needed to remember that – this wake was a lie. He felt insulted by the ignorance of those around them. And while he was bound by his word to keep quiet, it only made him feel like an imposter in this place. He supposed Nels felt the same.
“What about Katherine?” he asked Nels.
“She’ll stay with us until the child is born and the snow has cleared. I’ve convinced her of that much.”
“That’s good.”
“Afterward she wants to stay here with the child.”
“She’s a strong woman.”
Nels’s eyes shifted to his sister. Katherine sat surrounded by the other women, a hand on her belly, the other holding a cup of tea. Peter ran his tongue along the smooth curvature of his lower right gum until it found the worn edge of his left lateral incisor. The muscle washed over the broken tooth as he thought of Katherine sitting, pregnant. In his most secret of dreams, he’d wished for this to be his life. Forget a mouthful of teeth. He’d gladly trade them all for this – a small house and a life with Katherine. How strange to be jealous of a dead man.
“I pray that child takes from its mother,” Nels said. The words tore Peter from his fantasizing. “A girl would be best.”
Peter nodded. He shared the same thoughts. Nels poured some more liquor in the tin and offered it
to Peter. “I better not,” he said. “I should get Joseph home. We have chores to do.”
“For the ride home.” Nels handed Peter the tin.
Peter took it and downed the liquid. He felt the liquor taking hold in the base of his mind – the room took on a fuzzy shape, his thoughts slowed – he knew it was time to go. He found his brother and, after some trying, got Joseph to finish his drink. Katherine saw him off at the door.
“Thank you for coming,” she told Peter. “And for taking Kasimir home.”
“Well, for that, you owe me.”
She nearly smiled. He felt the corners of his mouth pull up.
“Don’t let him overrun you,” he told her.
“He’s better when he’s not been drinking.”
Peter nodded.
“We’ll talk more next time?”
“Yes.”
-
The day after next was the funeral. Peter never doubted that he’d attend the service, but it was more than a surprise to him when Nels pulled him aside and, on behalf of Katherine, asked if he’d be one of the pallbearers.
They stood outside, along the south wall of the sod church, protected from the cold northeast wind. It was a modest church, running east and west, with a gable roof; a cross mounted on the east side of the building welcomed the congregation. A short distance from the church was the graveyard, where a handful of metal crosses marked the community’s deceased.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Nels said. “She wants me to ask Joseph too.”
Peter shook his head.
“I’m doing it as well. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Maybe we should tell her,” Peter said.
Nels’s eyes sharpened on Peter as he shortened the distance between them to a thin channel. “Are you so selfish, Peter, that you’d ruin her life and the child’s to avoid a passing thing?” His voice was low, assertive.
“No. But when does it stop?”
“With this,” Nels said. “I promise.”
Peter studied Nels’s eyes. No, this wouldn’t be the end of it. Maybe it’d slow for a time, but one day it’d start up again. The child would want to know about its father, and the lies would pile on. Peter also understood the only other choice was not a real choice. Not today. Peter shook his head. “Lead the way,” he told Nels.
In church, Peter’s mind spun through the events of the last few days – the old man and the wake, the long trip home staring at Frank’s frozen corpse on the back of Nels’s sleigh, Katherine pregnant and surrounded by friends and family, Frank’s confession, the fight in the woods, watching Nels choke Frank to death and not doing a thing to stop him – and it seemed to him that they all deserved much less than this. Frank didn’t deserve these tears and fond memories. He deserved a shallow hole cut in the prairie, no marker, no remembrance.
Peter stepped in time with the other men as they carried Frank’s casket out through the doors of the church. He was happy to be leaving. He’d felt the weight of God’s disappointment heavy on his shoulders. They’d disrespected God, themselves, and Frank too, disguising themselves as good men as they processed the man they’d killed in and out of the church. They’d be judged for this, and God would reject them. They’d burn. He would burn for his silence. For never having the courage to speak out. It was fitting that he should have his teeth knocked out, since he only ever spoke out when it was too late, or when he had to save his own skin.
They loaded the coffin onto the back of Kasimir’s sleigh, and Peter took his place alongside it with the other pallbearers. He couldn’t bear to look at that box any longer and searched the small crowd of 50 or 60 people for Katherine. He spotted her at the head of the funeral procession, walking alongside Nels, and weeping into the collar of his jacket. He wondered, would she still be crying if she knew what he knew? Maybe, but for different reasons.
-
After the funeral, a quiet noisiness echoed through Peter’s thoughts. Work was his only escape. He busied himself sawing the logs they’d hauled from Battleford into one-foot lengths and splitting them into pieces. Joseph offered his help but Peter refused it. This was his work. His contrition. He swung the axe with fury until his frustration and dark cravings wore raw through his blistered and peeling hands.
Yes, he wanted God’s forgiveness; but, more so, he wanted to close his eyes and not see Frank in a rage or dying in front of him. He wanted to forget, to run far away, yet he didn’t want to leave. He still wanted Katherine. He still loved her; and maybe she loved him too. This could be their chance. It might even be God’s will, he thought. But how could they ever build a future together on a lie? Katherine should know it was Frank who had raped her. But he feared telling her and tainting whatever little bit of good might’ve come from her life with the man. There was another problem too. Telling the truth about Frank meant telling the truth of how he died, and that would mean admitting what he’d done. What Nels had done. The thought made Peter wither – it would be the ruin of them all.
As for Joseph, he was finding his own obsession in the form of Margaret Dudenhafer and the promised Koublien that Nels had arranged with her father. Joseph had already met the family once for coffee and a chance to talk with Margaret and was preparing for a return visit. This time for a family dinner.
“If it goes well and if you like the girl’s company, then don’t wait around for the foxes to come and check your traps,” their father, Konstantin, said as he stirred sugar into his afternoon coffee. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Johanna finished pouring Joseph’s coffee. “As I remember it, it was you that played the fox.” She winked at her husband.
“That might be true.” Konstantin smiled, first at his wife, then at Joseph. Peter sat at the table quietly thumbing through a deck of cards.
“So, when do I ask Mr. Dudenhafer for Margaret’s hand?”
Konstantin set his spoon on the wood table. “Best to wait a few days. He’ll have questions for you and you’ll need to have your answers.”
Peter noticed a passing glance between his parents. It was easy to see how much they were enjoying this moment. They’d only ever been on the other side of the proposal – with his sisters, Barbara and Magda – losing daughters to families miles and miles away. Peter shuffled the cards into the palm of his hand, faster and faster. He’d given up hopes of marriage years ago, but he’d not prepared himself for Joseph to take his place.
“He’ll want to know where we’d be living.”
“I’ve given that some thought,” Konstantin said. “We’ll build a new house on the west quarter.”
Peter slapped the cards onto the table. “That’s my quarter.”
“Yes, and we’ll build a good wood house with windows and a room for you and one for your mother and me. Joseph and Margaret will take the soddie.” Konstantin turned to Joseph. “You can tell Dudenhafer that she’ll be well taken care of.”
Joseph smiled.
“But do you have the money for that, Father?” Peter asked.
“I think so. We’ve managed to tuck a little away since we left North Dakota. And the crop looks promising this year. What else do we have to spend our money on?”
A warm hush fell over the table, and perhaps the talk would have circled back to wedding plans and happier things, if it weren’t for Peter’s brooding thoughts. “Why are you moving so quickly, brother?” he asked.
“Why should I wait?” Joseph said.
“Out of respect for our cousin.”
“What happened to Frank is all the more reason for me to marry Margaret. Life is too short to wait.”
“That’s right,” Konstantin said. “Sometimes you have to take the bull by the horns.”
“Like Frank did,” Peter said.
Joseph looked at him with a troubled expression.
“What do you mean by that?”
their father asked.
Peter shook his head. “Nothing.”
After that, Peter never again questioned his brother’s path. Yes, life must go on, but, for Peter, which path life had for him never seemed less clear. When he heard the news a week later that Katherine had given birth to a baby boy, and that Joseph’s proposal had been warmly accepted by both Margaret and her father, he began to question what was left for him in this place. He saddled his mare and set out for Nels’s farm.
The spring sun was at work thawing the icy puddles on the trail. When Peter arrived he found Nels outside trenching the melting snow and water away from the soddie. Peter grabbed a shovel and gave Nels a hand with the work. They worked quietly for a half hour or more; by that time, Peter’s boots and wool socks were soaked from the thaw.
“Joseph is going to ask for Margaret’s hand,” Peter said.
“That’s great.” Nels smiled. “She’ll make a good wife and mother.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“Life moves on. You don’t expect time to stop when someone dies, do you?”
Peter shrugged.
“It doesn’t,” Nels said, and he dug his shovel into the ground. The icy water pushed forward as he loosened another clump of cold earth from the path.
“Do you regret it?” Peter asked. “What you did?”
Nels turned to the soddie. They were alone, some 30 yards from the house. He stabbed his shovel into the soft, wet snow, and looked to Peter. “Do you regret swinging that axe?” he asked, in a low voice.
Peter looked down. After he’d done it – after he’d swung the axe – he’d been scared that something inside him wanted more. He had never imagined that hurting someone, really hurting someone, might feel so good. Even now, the thought of it made him tremble. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think he regretted attacking you? Attacking Katherine?”
Peter dashed his shovel in and out of the soft snow. “No. But don’t you think there might’ve been another way.”