by Jason Heit
Before noon, Henry landed a good-sized rainbow trout, well over a foot in length. He clubbed the fish and set it in his creel. “That one’s dinner,” he called out to Peter.
Peter nodded, then turned back to his rod and his part of the river.
A short time later, Henry made his way through the bits of rock and forest that separated him from Peter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For your loss.”
Peter was quiet.
“It’s hard being so far from those we love,” Henry continued, hesitating.
Peter reeled in his line and cast it out again.
“Did you do something to your hand?”
Peter stared off toward his fishing line. “Broke my finger.”
“Can you work?”
“Have to.”
Henry nodded, quietly, and kicked at the dirt. “Cormac challenged me to a drinking contest.”
Peter shook his head.
“I knew I wasn’t going to outdrink him,” Henry said. Peter looked at him and nodded. A slight smile lit up the kid’s face. “But I figured I might be able to drink faster than him.”
“And did you?”
“Well, I thought we’d just do a glass of beer, but Cormac wanted to do whiskey. Spence settled it and set two glasses of beer in front of each of us. Anyway, I could see Cormac didn’t want to be drinking beer; he still tried to get inside my head, but I didn’t let him. And when Spence said ‘Drink’, I drank those beers down so fast Cormac didn’t even bother finishing the second one.” Henry smiled.
Peter looked at him. Somewhere inside he wanted to smile for the kid, but he couldn’t pull the strings to turn his face right. He bit down and nodded. Henry was a good kid. He’d make a good man and a good father too someday. “So why do you want to be a topper?”
The kid shrugged. “To show them I can do it.”
“I know you can,” Peter said. “Why you care what they think?”
“I don’t know, I just do. Why don’t you care?”
Peter cast his line out once more. He could feel Henry’s eyes on him. “It ain’t any use to me what they think.” Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the kid nod, then take a seat on an old cedar stump.
Henry was quiet for some time; at one point, Peter even turned to check and see if Henry was still there. When the kid finally spoke again, he said, “I’d like to have a boat someday. Then I’d go fishing whenever I wanted.”
“Don’t need a boat for that,” Peter said.
“I mean for on the ocean. Could go between islands, to the mainland and fish the Georgia Strait. There’s some really big ones out there.”
“That would be good,” Peter said. He felt a tug on his line and set the hook in what he figured might be a nice-sized trout. He reeled in the line and felt something on the other side of it pull away from him.
“You got something?”
“Steelhead.” He brought the line in slowly, careful not to give the fish a chance to snap it. Peter stepped into the cold river water as the fish fought its way closer to shore. He grabbed the line with his hand and lifted the fish from the water. It flopped and shook itself in the air, throwing water off its silvery body.
“Nice fish,” Henry said.
Removing the hook, Peter carried the fish back to shore. A faint smile, close-lipped, softened his face.
“It’s a good one.”
Peter nodded. Then a thought came to him – he turned back to the river and held the fish in the water until it stirred and kicked and fled his hands for darker water. Peter picked up his fishing rod and looked at Henry. He didn’t offer an explanation.
“What’d the letter say, Peter?” Henry asked.
Peter swallowed. “Was it you who left me the food?”
Henry nodded.
“Thanks.”
Peter fetched the flask from his inside coat pocket and took a pull from it. He offered it to Henry, but the kid shook his head. Peter took another drink and capped the flask.
“Katherine’s dead,” he murmured, trying the words.
“Your mother?” Henry asked.
Peter shook his head. “My cousin, Katherine.”
“You were close?”
“I loved her.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.” Henry sighed. “What was it?”
“The flu.” A tear spilled from his eye, and crawled down Peter’s hollow face.
Henry kicked his boot heel into the cedar stump. “When did you see her last?”
“Ten years.” Peter put the flask in his pocket and looked to the fishing rod in his hand. “I’ve been away too long.”
“Do you want to go home?”
Peter didn’t know the answer to that question, though he’d already begun pondering it. There was family there, some he didn’t even know, but still he sensed if he went back to Kaidenberg he’d be just another ghost. Leaving had been its own kind of death. And then he’d waited too long to go back. If Katherine were still alive then, maybe, he’d have reason to return. He’d have gone in summer and brought boxes of peaches and plums for her and the kids, and she could’ve tasted their goodness and known something of the world they could’ve shared together. Peter shook his head. “I think I’d like to be alone.” He turned back to the river.
“Sure,” Henry said. “See you back at camp.” And he walked away.
-
It didn’t matter if he swung the axe or pulled on the saw, the pain in his hand was there. Constant. Like the numbness in his jaw where his missing teeth should be. But he didn’t wish this pain away. It served him. It distracted him just enough that Katherine was not the sole focus of his thoughts. It kept him in the forest and in the work when his mind wanted him to be anywhere but. At times, Katherine was reduced to nothing but words, an echoed beat: Katherine is dead; Katherine is dead. It was afterward, when he put the tools away that the thoughts and the questions took over. Did she die alone? Had she thought of him as she departed this earth? Was there a funeral? Did they bury her next to Frank Weran?
The week passed. It ended like so many before it – a giant fir tree crashing to the ground and a wagon trip back to camp. He took his place in the front of the wagon and closed his eyes. He was tired. He wanted a drink. He wanted Katherine next to him. He didn’t want to hear any more of Cormac and MacNair’s plans for the evening or Henry’s boot kissing. Leaning against the wagon box, he closed his mind to them and played out his fantasy – he imagined a night in Battleford where Frank never showed up. Where he kissed Katherine, as they both had wanted. And held her in his arms under the trees and neither of them were damaged. And when time moved on, it moved with him and Katherine together – not separated by the hurt they reminded each other of. Then, when he turned 19 and got his own land, he and Katherine made their plans. They went to their parents and asked for their blessings. It was no surprise. Their parents had seen with their own eyes how much the two loved and cared for one another. It was a small wedding – a family celebration – and children followed.
His imaginings even extended to Frank Weran, but there was no flip-flop of fate. He didn’t wish Frank any suffering or have him go his own lonely way. No, in this world, Frank was alive and married to another woman. They lived a peaceful life, on a farm, miles from Katherine and him. And when Peter would see Frank at church or this or that gathering he’d nod his head and smile and be grateful that he’d awoken from his nightmares.
When they got to camp, Peter cleaned himself up and went into town with the others for their Saturday night meal at the hotel. He ate a plateful of roast beef – chewing it on the good side of his mouth, as he always did, like a cow chewing its cud. He washed the meat down with a beer. It was crisp and light like spring water and he drank another three glasses in short order.
“That’s the pace, Smiles,” Cormac called from the next table. He raised his glass
to Peter. “Slàinte!” The others at the table followed Cormac’s lead, even MacNair. Peter felt no ill will from them and raised his glass again and tipped it back. The room lifted in a chorus of hoorahs and the other men too drank their beers at a frenzied pace.
After one more beer Peter left the hotel. Outside, night was falling and a light rain had started to come down. He walked to the side of the building and took shelter under the overhang. He pulled his flask from his coat pocket. It was full. He took a swig. The whiskey tingled and warmed his insides. It was better out here. Quiet. There was room for his thoughts. He supposed other men needed to forget their thoughts, cover them up with chatter and games. That was fine for them. He’d done some of that himself. But, in that room, among them, he’d be no different than a piece of furniture or a painting, something to be talked about. There was no point to it. Nor did he care to pay someone for whiskey when he had his own on him.
He took another swig and decided to walk. He set his mind on Katherine – opening the door to old wounds and forgotten happiness. Each drink he took was a wedge that inched the door open wider. He could taste his anger and his disappointment, his complete sadness. How much he had wanted her. He remembered a time when they were both 12, maybe 13, and he had pressed himself against her while they were carving tunnels in the snow. She hadn’t seemed to notice. She had even smiled when they were knitted up together as they raced through the snow-packed passageway toward the glow of sunlight at the mouth of the snow cave. Lust had moved him then, as well as pure affection, and he felt that same craving for her now. He’d give his soul to have her here with him.
Outside town, he realized he was walking to his fishing spot on the river. He stopped. Removing the flask from his pocket, he measured its weight in his hand – little more than half gone – took another swig. He breathed in its soothing warmth and sighed. He needed a woman, he decided – soft and warm, with long hair flowing to her bosom; the thought of it made him twitch, below. He knew that none of them would ever see him as Katherine had, as a handsome man. Or rather, as he was then, only a boy, like Henry, pretending to be a man.
Peter looked up to the rain-filled sky – a blanket of cloud and rain separated him from the starry night. He hated that he needed a woman so much. Part of him had the sense to make the long walk back to the bunkhouse and sleep off the booze and the cravings; another part of him wanted to walk back to town, to the brothel. He drank again from the flask and slipped it into his pocket. Pulling his coat tight around him, he walked back toward the dim light of town.
He walked the alleyway to the brothel, passing the shadowy silhouettes of other men coming and going in the darkness. Twenty yards ahead of him, a door opened and poured its light into the alley as a man stepped into the night. That was the door he wanted. It’d been months since he’d opened it.
Inside the brothel was a small parlour with a wood-burning stove, a table and few wooden chairs. Leading away from the room was a long hallway with several doors. The sounds of sex echoed out through the walls and down the hallway. From behind the table, a moustached man in his forties greeted Peter with a smile. “Looks like you took a swim in the river.”
Peter nodded.
“Well, have a seat by the stove,” the man said. “It’ll be a while.”
Peter stared at the wood chair. It was like any other he’d seen before, yet it was different. This place of business had changed it. He sat down onto the edge of the seat.
“You have a girl in mind?” the moustached man asked.
“I work with a Scotsman,” Peter said. “He’s got a girl…” The words left his mouth before Peter realized what he’d said.
“He’s a faller?”
Peter nodded.
“And you want his girl?”
Peter shrugged. He supposed there was part of him that wanted MacNair’s girl, wanted to know if she really was the beauty he’d talked so much about, dark hair and eyes. Dark hair like Katherine’s? he wondered. “Yeah.”
The man laughed. “Well, he’s with her now. I figure they’ll be a while longer.”
Peter stood up. He didn’t like sitting. He could feel the cold of his wet clothes press into his skin and bones. “You have a hot bath?”
“Two bits.”
“For all, how much?”
“Let’s call it two dollars fifty.” The man turned his head down the hallway. “Hot bath, Florence.”
Peter shook his head and pulled out his money. He laid out the dollar bills and dropped a handful of coins onto the table. He pulled away two dimes. It looked right.
“Not quite.” The man grabbed one of Peter’s dimes from him and handed him a nickel.
Peter slid the nickel in his pants pocket and brushed up against the wood stove. He felt a shiver run through him and he took another pull from his flask.
“You sure you want his girl?” The man paused. “I seen it happen before, one man getting the up on the other, then, next thing, one’s got a knife in him.”
“It’s nothing about him,” Peter said. “That bath ready?”
“Sure,” the man said. “Follow me.”
And Peter followed him down to the end of the hall.
The water was warm. Enough to stop his shivering. The old woman, Florence, had added two pots of boiling water to the metal tub. He’d asked her for a third, but she hadn’t returned. He drank the last of his flask, leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. His head lowered sleepily.
A knock at the door snapped him from his reverie. It was the old woman with the hot water. She entered the room slowly, eyes on the floor, carrying a kettle of steaming water with both hands on the wooden handle. Her bearing reminded Peter of a beaten dog. She set the kettle on the floor about arms reach from him and left as slowly as she’d entered. He poured some of the kettle water between his legs and scrubbed himself with soap.
Minutes later the door knocked again.
“Yeah,” Peter said.
The door opened a crack. No face appeared. “Mister,” said a soft, young voice. “I’m ready for you.”
Peter wrapped himself in a towel and picked up his boots and wet clothes. The young woman was waiting for him as he opened the door.
“Hello,” she smiled. She swept a piece of her dark hair back over her ear. The dark hair stopped him for a moment; he took her in – shoulder length hair, round face, white skin, too white, almost like an egg shell, and slightly turned up nose – only her dark hair and green eyes bore any similarity to Katherine, not much, in truth, but enough, and her age, 21, maybe 22, was about the same as Katherine’s when he last saw her. Her dress was light green with short-sleeves, a low waist, and hem above the ankle. It was pretty. Katherine would wear it nicely. Then her smile faded and was replaced with something not far from pity as her eyes had settled on his sunken mouth and right cheek. “That must’ve hurt,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Did a tree do that to you?”
“A horse,” he said, choosing the easiest answer.
She nodded. “My name’s Geraldine.”
“Frank.”
“Follow me, Frank,” she said.
The room was like the others he’d been in, with a small vanity dresser, a chair, and a lamp on a nightstand next to the bed. The exception was the bouquet of wildflowers on the dresser and the pressed flowers adorning the vanity mirror.
“You can put your things there.” She pointed to the chair.
Peter set his clothes on the chair and his boots on the floor. He felt dizzy from the whiskey and balanced himself against the chair as he took a deep breath. When he turned to the woman, she was still watching him but the look of pity was gone. It seemed to have been replaced by a mild curiosity.
“You asked for me,” she said.
“I didn’t know your name.”
“But you know Mr. MacNair? Are you friends
?” She slid her right dress-sleeve off her shoulder, then the left one. The top of her dress came loose around her bosom.
Peter licked his lips. “We both work for Leahy.”
She stepped towards him and let the dress fall as her arms slipped from their sleeves. Her fingertips gently grazed his biceps muscle. “You’re strong.”
He nodded and looked to the dresser and the small bouquet of wildflowers.
“I’m over here,” she said as she removed the top clasp of her longline corset.
He lowered his eyes and brought them back to her. She was a lean woman. Her breasts had the narrow rounded shape of pine cones. “Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“Not my lips,” she said.
He touched his lips to her forehead and held them there. He felt her arms come to rest loosely around his waist as he lowered his head to her shoulder and buried his teary eyes in her dark hair.
“That’s fine,” she said, and patted the back of his head. “Come sit with me.” She took his hand and led him to her bed. “You can sit if you like,” she smiled at him. “It’d be nice if you did.”
He took a seat next to her, making sure his towel still held around his waist.
She set her hand on his thigh. “There are other ways.”
As he stared at the wildflowers, it seemed the whole room had begun to turn. And her offer to touch him with her hand made him feel sick. “I don’t think I can,” he mumbled. Then he leaned against her, burying his head in her chest.
-
The day’s rest made some difference for Peter even though it had left him feeling more confused. It was the woman, Geraldine. He couldn’t shake her from his mind. She was pretty, maybe even beautiful, but more than that she’d been kind to him. The generosity she’d shown him was heartfelt. She’d held him and made him feel known, even loved. He wondered if he could care for her or any woman, or whether he’d just be putting whatever feelings he had for Katherine, his hopes for love, onto them.
Another thought circled his mind: he’d told her his name was Frank. Why? He could blame the whiskey, but that wasn’t a good reason. He didn’t want to think about it too much, but not thinking about it only pushed it to the front of his mind. He decided he must’ve done it to keep MacNair guessing in case the girl said something to him. Of course, this made little sense. She’d only need to describe him and MacNair would know it was him. But it was answer enough to settle his mind, closing the circle on the motives of his drunken self.