by Jane Hoppen
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “That’s a lot to handle. I recently lost…”
Her voice trailed off.
“That it is,” Evelyn said. “My sister’s with the children while I’m here. You were saying you…”
“Never mind,” Sarah said. “It’s a long story.”
More than half an hour passed before all the quills were removed and a look of relief made its way over Henry’s face.
“You’ll want to keep those wounds clean,” Evelyn told him. “Use plenty of soap and water. Be as thorough as you can. You don’t want to get sick while you’re stuck up here.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’ll check in with you at dinnertime,” Evelyn said. “Gotta head back to the woods. I’ll let the foreman know where you are when I get back to the site.”
Both she and Sarah turned to leave the bunkhouse, Sarah heading to the cook shanty and Evelyn toward the forest.
“Thank you for your help,” Evelyn said as Sarah strode away.
Sarah turned around, smiled, and pressed on.
* * *
When Sarah returned to the cook shanty from the bunkhouse, Sam was waiting for her at the door. His jaw was firmly set, taut with tension, and his bushy eyebrows seemed to push against each other.
“You’ve got no place in the bunkhouse,” he said gruffly as he followed Sarah into the shanty. “What were you doing there?”
Sarah was startled by the rage in his voice.
“There was an accident,” she said. “I had to help a jack remove some porcupine quills from another jack.”
“That so,” Sam said. “And which jack was that who needed the help? Did he come here to get you?”
Sarah felt as if she had to defend herself from Sam’s accusatory tone. “Bauer,” she said. “He needed some boiling water.”
“And you just offered your services, even with the work you’ve got to do here?”
“Well, yes, I-—”
“You shouldn’t be fraternizing with the jacks,” Sam barked at her.
Sarah felt a sense of desperation.
“He needed help,” she said.
Sam abruptly turned away and walked out of the shanty, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
That night as the loggers headed to the cook shanty, Evelyn spotted Poker Pete and hurried to catch up to him.
“That prank you pulled today could’ve taken a nasty turn,” she said. “You knew that porcupine was in that tree. You knew the damage that could’ve been done. That greenhorn could have been badly injured.”
Poker Pete looked at her and grimaced. “What does it matter to you?”
“I’m the one who took the time out to help him,” Evelyn said.
Poker Pete took a step toward Evelyn and pushed her back against a tree.
“You did that of your own accord,” he said as he pressed against her. “You should mind your own business, Bauer.”
Evelyn pushed him off her, and just as Poker Pete lifted an arm and fisted his hand, Whiskey Jack came up from behind and grabbed him.
“Back off, Pete,” he said. “Bauer’s right. Next time you want to mess with a jack, pick someone other than a greenhorn.”
Poker Pete broke away from Whiskey Jack’s grasp, glared at Evelyn, and stalked off toward the shanty.
“You all right, George?” Whiskey Jack asked Evelyn.
“I’m fine,” Evelyn said. “Just fine. And I appreciate your help, Whiskey, but I can fend for myself. Don’t want you getting into any trouble on my account.”
Evelyn had surprised herself. She had felt no fear in that moment. Instead, she had a surge of anger she had never before experienced. She had been willing to fight Poker Pete.
“You’d do the same for me,” Whiskey Jack said. “Come on. Let’s go get some grub.”
They walked side by side to the shanty, Whiskey Jack whistling some tune.
* * *
When Evelyn entered the cook shanty for dinner, she stood in the doorway and scanned the two long wooden tables for Henry. When she spotted him, she moved through the crowded room and squeezed in next to him. They nodded at each other in greeting and grunted their helloes. They filled their plates and started to eat. Evelyn looked up from her plate now and then to steal glimpses of Sarah whenever possible, without drawing attention. The more interaction that she had with her, the more intrigued she was. She wanted to know more about her. Evelyn raised her cup in the air to signal for coffee. Sarah hurried over to the table with a steaming pot. For no reason at all, Evelyn felt herself reddening and dropped her head. Sarah topped off Evelyn’s cup, and Evelyn nodded in gratitude. As Sarah turned to address the other table, she momentarily rested a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, and Evelyn’s breath snagged in her throat. She felt as if she was being branded where the hand rested.
That night in the bunkhouse, Evelyn sat quietly on the edge of her bunk, listening to the sliding songs of the fiddle. Whiskey Jack and Gabbie were playing cards and talking near the wood stove, and Evelyn heard George’s name come up in conversation.
“George there was the one to remove the quills.”
“You did that single-handedly, George?” a jack named Rusty leaned over and asked.
“The flunky helped,” Evelyn said quietly.
“Ah, the flunky,” Rusty said. He nudged Whiskey Jack. “Now, she’s a looker, that one is. I’d dream about her at night if I wasn’t so damn tired.”
“I’d do a bit more than dream,” Whiskey Jack said. “When it came to giving out breasts, God was very generous with that woman.”
“The women who work the cook shanties are usually eyesores, but this one here, she’s a sight for sore eyes,” Gabbie said. “What do you think, George?”
“Got my own family back home,” was all Evelyn said.
Evelyn had never really paid attention to the physical attributes of other women, and she had to admit the men were right. She couldn’t hold the discourse against them when she found the woman fetching. She was striking, with feminine traits that Evelyn had never harbored—a certain grace and quiet style that Evelyn found to be appealing. She had never looked at a woman that way before and thought maybe it was because of the man clothes. She didn’t understand the feelings she was experiencing, what she could only describe as an attraction of sorts. Earlier, at dinner, when Sarah had briefly touched her…Evelyn had never felt her body respond in that way to a touch. What is wrong with me, she had silently questioned herself. She thought that working as a man, being constantly surrounded by them, was having some strange effect on her. Maybe it was making her more…like them. She didn’t know.
Evelyn had never really thought before about what made men and women different, besides the evident physical attributes. Many believed that a woman was simply a man turned within, and vice versa—the man’s genitalia on the outside and the woman’s on the inside. Though men and women did have separate roles, she had always assumed that was simply the necessary division of labor, a way to get things done. She never thought it had anything to do with a woman’s ability or aptitude. She also thought that she might be drawn to Sarah because she was the only other woman at the camp besides the younger flunky, and Evelyn shared a certain sense of sisterhood with her, though Evelyn was presenting as a man.
Whiskey Jack smacked his hand of cards down on the floor and let out a hoot, startling her out of her reverie.
“Game’s mine,” he said joyously. “You owe me a pint when we get back to town, Gabbie.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Gabbie grumbled. “That’s enough for me. Why don’t you tell us a story, George? I’m feeling all told out tonight.”
“What do you say, George?” Whiskey Jack said. “You must have a tale or two that you tell your kids.”
Wanting to steel some sense of camaraderie with the jacks, Evelyn conceded.
“My kids like stories about Paul Bunyan.”
“That works for me,” Gabbie
said. “You got one we haven’t already heard?”
“I reckon I do,” Evelyn said.
“Let’s hear it,” Whiskey Jack said as he pushed the deck of cards into his pocket.
Evelyn started to speak in a low voice.
“One summer long ago, the air was so hot and stale that there was no relief to be found, not even up here in the Northwoods, where the weather tended to be a bit cooler. Paul Bunyan reportedly sweated so much that summer that lakes and ponds were created where his sweat fell and gathered, and Babe the Blue Ox moaned in misery. One particularly humid and sticky day, Paul was worried about Babe, so he led her over to Lake Superior, hoping she could cool off in the frigid waters. As they reached the lake, massive storm clouds the color of charcoal began to roll in. Babe walked into Lake Superior, but she was so big that she got relief for only her lower quarters. Unsatisfied, Babe finally reared up on her hind legs, and she jabbed at the thick clouds with her front legs until they busted open, a torrent of rain finally cooling down the big Babe. So much rain fell that day that the tiny town of Wabash was washed away.”
“Never heard that one before,” Whiskey Jack said.
“Good one,” said Gabbie.
“That’s all I’ve got for now,” Evelyn said. “Think I’ll step out and smoke a bit before lights out.”
Whiskey Jack and Gabbie headed toward their bunks, and Evelyn filled her pipe with tobacco.
Later that night, after the men were bunked down, the winds screeched and slammed against the bunkhouse so ferociously that Evelyn thought it might collapse. She lay in her bunk and marveled at how sore her body was. She had thought she would adapt over time, but the work of a sawyer was strenuous and tiring. Every night, her back felt as if it was twisted into a tight knot. She could feel the strip of cloth that flattened her breasts cutting into her skin, bruising her deep down. Her arms felt as stiff as the ax she wielded to cut down the trees, and her legs sometimes felt like logs themselves, incapable of movement.
She took out her calendar and crossed off one more day. They were nearing the end of December. Evelyn was amazed at how painstakingly slow time was passing. Her thoughts settled on her children. She knew the fact that she hadn’t heard from her sister meant everything back home was fine, but she missed them and wanted them near. She thought many of the men must feel the same way, being away from their children, though none of them voiced their emotions. Christmas was three days away, and though their holiday at home over the years had always been simple—toys crafted by George, a rare pheasant or rabbit dinner cooked by Evelyn, carols and stories shared by the fireplace—it was always acknowledged and celebrated. At the camp, she knew the day would pass like any other day with only a few of the jacks pausing to share holiday greetings. Maybe Tommy would play a Christmas tune or two in the evening.
Evelyn gathered her blanket around her more tightly as the winds grew even stronger and the cold crept through the bunkhouse walls. It seemed to settle on her skin and burrow into her bones. She hadn’t been warm since the day she arrived at the camp.
Chapter Five
The dark days of January found Sarah slipping even further into despair. On one especially frigid night, sleep evaded her, partly because the winds outside were reaching shrill howls, and partly because Sam had started to pace outside her shed some nights, back and forth, mumbling to himself, the snow crunching beneath his feet. Sarah suspected that he was stepping out of the cook shanty, away from Mack and Annie, to sneak a few snorts of whiskey on those nights. He was out there that night. At moments, Sarah held her breath and listened closely, thinking she had heard him stop outside her door. She glanced at the small pocket watch Sam had given her to ensure she was up early each morning and released a sigh of irritation. In only a few hours, she would have to wake to fetch the water. She burrowed more deeply under the two blankets on her cot; the rising winds slipped through the cracks in the walls.
Sarah had noticed a shift in her dynamics with Sam after she had helped George Bauer remove the porcupine quills from the young jack. Three weeks had passed since the incident, and Sam’s behavior seemed to be getting stranger. Sarah had seen him glaring at George Bauer for no reason from across the shanty, and any time she served George, she would nearly always turn to another logger only to find Sam’s eyes settled on her. Deep down Sarah knew Sam was jealous of George, though for no reason at all. Sarah was drawn to the gentle jack, but they had barely interacted. Sarah did find herself watching him, though, trying to catch the few words he mumbled. She thought maybe Sam was sensing that.
As much as she was growing to distrust Sam, she felt dependent on him, still believed he might protect her, if necessary. Her greatest worry was that if he did have to fight for her one day, he would want to claim her as his prize, which made her feel increasingly uncomfortable around him. She often found him edging into her more closely than necessary as they worked, commenting on her appearance, keeping an angry eye on any jack who paid her extra attention. Her only consolation was that she could avoid him at night.
Even Sarah was puzzled by her own attentiveness toward George and confused about the feelings nudging within her. She found herself wishing for more encounters with him, though she knew the opportunity for that was slim. She thought that her longing was due to the daily isolation that she faced at the camp, surrounded but alone, or her lingering sorrow over her loss of Abigail. She had sunken into even deeper despair after Christmas, or the lack of Christmas, which had passed like any other day at the logging camp. Sarah knew of its presence only because of the tick on her calendar. The snow was thick on the ground, and icicles hung from the low roofs of the bunkhouse and shanty like crystallized stalagmites, glinting in the sun. The woods were awash in glittery whiteness, a beautiful spectacle, but Sarah felt only gloom, remembering her past Christmases with Abigail. They had been filled with warmth—visits from friends, gleeful decorations, Christmas carols, and ringing bells. She had always felt so safe and secure with Abigail, a true sense of belonging, and now she felt only gnawing emptiness. Even physically she felt as if she was starving and might simply fade away.
Perhaps that was why George Bauer seemed like some kind of lifesaver. He was a handsome man, and he seemed to have a calmer, kinder side that few of the other loggers displayed. She thought that perhaps it was because he had children, but she knew many of the other loggers also had families. Still, this man stuck out in the crowd of boisterous men, if for no other reason than he seemed to be most content when he could quietly keep to himself, and he didn’t pull pranks or roughhouse like the others did. Those nights when Sarah went out to get wood for the morning fire and glimpsed George outside alone, leaning against a tree, smoking a pipe and staring up at the stars, she had wanted to approach him, just for conversation, but she never did. She didn’t want to incur Sam’s wrath any more than she already had.
When Sam’s footsteps finally faded away from her door, Sarah took a deep breath and burrowed even farther beneath her bedding. Her eyes fluttered shut and she eventually escaped into sleep, until she woke and checked her watch. She groaned: Time to fetch the water.
* * *
When the bunkhouse finally filled with snores and the sharp winds outside, Evelyn rummaged through her pack and crawled out of her bunk, taking with her a bundle of rags, which she shoved in her coat pocket. She quietly walked across the bunkhouse to the door, stepped outside into the cutting cold, and quickly made her way to the outhouses. She lowered her pants and long johns and unpinned the soiled rags that were attached to her drawers. She removed the rags and replaced them with the ones in her pocket, creating a thick pad. This was one of her biggest hardships in the camp, and her only consolation was that the odors of the bunkhouse were so overwhelming that she didn’t worry about her own feminine scents being detected by any of the jacks. Holding the soiled rags, Evelyn emerged from the outhouse and found herself face-to-face with Sarah, who was carrying a bucket of water back to the cook shanty. She had a startled loo
k on her face.
“George, are you hurt?”
Her voice had a sense of urgency, her eyes focusing on the bloodied rags in Evelyn’s hand. Stunned, Evelyn remained silent for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts.
“You’re bleeding,” Sarah said. “Can I help you? Did you get hurt in the woods yesterday?”
“No,” Evelyn said, “I’m fine.”
“But…”
“Things aren’t as they appear,” Evelyn said in a hushed voice, looking around to ensure no one else was nearby.
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me get rid of this and I’ll explain,” Evelyn said.
With Sarah trailing behind her, Evelyn walked a good distance back behind the outhouses and began to dig deep into a snowbank, where she buried her soiled rags. She was afraid that if she dumped them in the outhouse they might be spotted. The second week in camp, a jack accidentally dropped his watch down the hole and had used a lantern and a stick to fish it out. Sarah watched with a puzzled look on her face. With the rags well hidden, Evelyn stood to face Sarah. She still didn’t know what to say to her, how to keep her secret any longer. She finally leaned over and whispered in Sarah’s ear.
“I’m menstruating.”
“You’re…But…How can that be?”
“It wasn’t my wife who died,” Evelyn said. “It was my husband. I had no choice but to take his place.”
This time Sarah was the one caught without words.
“I thought…Hmm…That explains your fine job of darning,” she eventually said.
She studied Evelyn closely, with a puzzled look on her face.
“Well, you’re right about that,” Evelyn said.
“So, your name is really…?”
“Evelyn.”
“Evelyn,” Sarah repeated.
She stared at Evelyn.
“Is something wrong?” Evelyn asked.
“No,” Sarah said. “Not at all. I’m just trying to envision you as a woman, as Evelyn. I’m used to seeing you as…George.”