by Jane Hoppen
“Do you need me for anything else?” Annie asked.
“I think that’s it for the night,” Sarah said. “I’ll head out soon to fetch the water for the morning.”
Annie turned toward her room.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Sleep well,” said Sarah.
Carrying two empty buckets, Sarah stepped out of the shanty. The wind had escalated. She set down the buckets to pull her coat more closely around her and fumbled with the buttons in the cold. Mack, returning from the outhouse, picked up the buckets and handed them to her.
“Thanks, Mack,” she said.
“Just leave them inside the door after you fill them up, and I’ll take care of them,” Mack said.
He disappeared into the shanty. Sarah began her trek to the river and saw Evelyn’s silhouette. She was leaning back against a tree beyond the bunkhouse. Sarah eagerly headed toward her, and when she reached her, she spoke.
“Can you come with me to the river?” she asked softly, well aware of how noise carried at night in the woods.
Evelyn quickly looked around.
“Is Sam inside?” she asked.
“He’s in the shanty, already passed out on his bunk,” Sarah said. “I reckon he downed a bit too much whiskey today.”
Evelyn grunted and fell in step with Sarah. They didn’t speak at first, and the silence made Sarah feel uneasy.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Back’s been acting up more and more lately,” Evelyn said. “The binding is taking a toll. It feels like it’s cutting into me more deeply, and the pains are getting sharper. It’s making the days more strenuous.”
“Your wrap might be too tight,” Sarah said.
“Nothing I can do about that,” Evelyn told her. “Hopefully, this will pass.”
“I wish I could help,” Sarah said.
“Nothing you can do,” said Evelyn.
“Well, I’m hoping we have less than three months left in this godforsaken place,” Sarah said.
Evelyn chuckled.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “At least we made it through January. I can’t wait to get back to my children again, and the farm. That life will seem so simple after this. And what do you go back to?”
Sarah fell silent. What do I return to? She hadn’t really had the time to contemplate that since arriving at the camp, and when the thought did creep into her mind, she pushed it away. She pictured the small, modest house in Pine Creek in her mind—empty now, absent of Abigail. In her mind she could see Abigail as clearly as if she were standing directly before her, and every part of Sarah ached and quaked. She felt herself struggling to hold back tears, one of which slid past an eyelid and froze halfway down her cheek.
“Sarah, are you…? What’s wrong?” Evelyn asked.
Sarah quickly swiped a hand over her cheek.
“I’m okay,” she said quietly. “I just…I’d not thought about that since my arrival here. No time. Sheer avoidance. The woman I lived with in Pine Creek, Abigail, took me in from the orphanage when I was seventeen. My parents both died when I was young—typhoid fever. I’d lived in the orphanage from the time I was eight. After I’d been living with Abigail for some time, we became…”
“Lovers?” Evelyn asked, the word nearly getting stuck in her throat.
Sarah nodded.
“You don’t have any family—no aunts or uncles, distant relatives?”
“Abigail was my only family,” Sarah said. “She was my life.”
“Was?”
Sarah’s eyes again brimmed with tears.
“She passed away at the end of October. That’s why I’m here—to supplement my income. Abigail was Sam’s sister. I thought I was going to lose my mind the first week that she was gone. I just felt so lonely, so empty. I missed her arms around me, her closeness, so much that I felt physical pain. For a while, I must admit, I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue on without her. I can only imagine how much you miss your husband.”
She stopped speaking again, afraid she might choke on her words.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Evelyn said. “I don’t know what to say. It seems we’re both in the same situation.”
“A crossroad,” Sarah said, fear making her voice tremble.
“A crossroad,” Evelyn echoed.
She took one last drag off her pipe, then tapped it against the tree.
“We should get back,” she said.
“Wait,” Sarah said. “When can we talk again? I find the thought of an ally consoling. I feel so alone out here.”
“We have to be careful,” Evelyn said. “We can’t afford to draw anyone’s attention, especially Sam’s.”
“But we need some way to signal one another, if one of us wants to meet, if there’s a problem.”
Sarah could hear the urgency in her own words as she spoke.
“Is there something that worries you?” Evelyn asked.
“No,” Sarah said. “It’s just… One never knows. We’re so far from anywhere, and I think Sam’s been drinking more and more. The liquor changes him.”
Evelyn did not immediately reply, but eventually asked, “What do you suggest?”
“I have two different aprons,” Sarah said. “One white and one blue. If I wear the blue one, I need to see you. Is that all right with you?”
Evelyn nodded.
Sarah felt a bit more at ease.
“Good,” she said. “Good.”
With that the conversation ended, and Evelyn and Sarah took a few steps together toward the camp, and then they parted ways.
Chapter Seven
A week had passed since Evelyn and Sarah had talked, and Evelyn had been preoccupied with their conversation every waking hour since. She couldn’t get it out of her mind. The information that Sarah had divulged surprised her. She had so many questions. Who was this Abigail? How long did they live together? Sarah seemed young. She was definitely younger than Evelyn. How did they, Sarah and Abigail, know they wanted to…were meant to…? Did things just somehow happen between them? She had often wondered the same thing about Helen and Jess. How do two women find each other, find a way to spend their lives together? Then, the one question she avoided: What do two women do together…sexually? How do two women pleasure each other? The idea of sex without the purpose of procreation was an unfamiliar concept for Evelyn. Then again, she had learned how to please herself, if even momentarily, during her life with George.
Two women owned and worked a farm together about forty miles from Evelyn and George’s farm. Evelyn had seen them occasionally when she had gone to the feed store in Maple Grove with George. Their names were Harriet and May. Harriet was rather masculine, bulky and boisterous, with shortly cropped hair, and she wore men’s clothing. May, on the other hand, was very feminine, soft looking, and she usually wore a flower-patterned dress. When Evelyn and George were making the journey back to their farm one day, Evelyn had asked George about them. George had laughed quietly. He told her that for years folks had speculated that the ladies were lovebirds, though they always told people they were cousins.
Evelyn wondered if Sarah’s Abigail had been as pretty as Sarah. She thought of herself, of how she was presenting, and she felt a wave of embarrassment. My God, the woman must think I’m a manly mess, she thought. Even Evelyn was so immersed in her role as George that she sometimes forgot her true self—her long hair, the soft place between her legs, her breasts.
She didn’t speak as she and Whiskey Jack walked farther into the woods, seeking a spot to work in for the day. Whiskey Jack finally interrupted her thoughts.
“See that sky?” he asked. “Notice the quiet?”
Evelyn glanced up at the sky, the opaque aqua quickly being covered by a dense blanket of gray-white clouds. The wind hastened around them with a steely bite. Whiskey Jack took a deep breath.
“The squirrels and birds seem pretty scarce,” Evelyn said.
&n
bsp; “They’re already scrambling for shelter. We’ve got a storm on the way. Maybe a blizzard. Definitely by the time the weekend hits.”
“I was hoping we’d avoid that, though I know the chances of that are slim. It wouldn’t be a Wisconsin winter without at least one brutal storm,” Evelyn said. “We’re halfway into the month of February, though, so we nearly made it.”
“Well, I’ll be keeping an eye on the sky,” Whiskey Jack said. “We don’t want to get stuck out here when it hits.”
Evelyn thought about her children and Helen, back home. They were no strangers to the weather, and they were probably already preparing the farm, readying the animals, bracing for the worst and hoping for the best. She could imagine how happy they would be as the snow fell and gathered, creating for them a playground for building snowmen and sledding.
* * *
That night, when Evelyn entered the cook shanty, Sarah caught her eye. She was wearing her blue apron—their signal to meet. Evelyn’s stomach quickly flipped with both excitement and a sense of danger. Their encounters were so rare. They could only watch each other from afar. She ate as fast as she could, anxious to get back to the bunkhouse. She was soon joined by the others, most of whom were talking about what they thought was a blizzard closing in.
“Remember that whiteout in 1847?” Gabbie asked Whiskey Jack.
He sighed. “Oh yeah. That was the winter we lost Smoking Joe. Man got so turned around in the woods that he never made it back to the bunkhouse. We never found his body until the thaw set in and we were about to put the lumber in the river.”
“That’s right,” Gabbie said. “Let’s hope we don’t have a repeat.”
Evelyn waited until it was almost time for lights out, then took out her pipe and packed it with tobacco. Whiskey Jack leaned over the side of his bunk.
“I don’t understand why you step out to smoke while all the other jacks smoke inside, George,” he said. “It’s cold as hell out there at night.”
“It is, but it’s so loud in the bunkhouse I can’t even think sometimes,” Evelyn said.
“Well, what are you thinking about, George?” Whiskey Jack asked.
“Back home, the farm and my kids,” Evelyn said. “This storm will be heading their way too. I worry about them every day, Whiskey Jack, and you know the noise in here gives me a headache sometimes.”
“I know,” Whiskey Jack said. “I’m sorry, George. I’m sure your kids will be fine. Who’s tending to them, anyway?”
“My sister,” Evelyn said.
“Well, then they’re in good hands.”
Evelyn nodded. She pulled on her coat, grabbed her hat and mittens, and headed to the door; the swirl of conversation became muffled as she shut the door behind her. The wind was growing gruffer, icier. She walked over to the tree she usually used as her smoking spot, huddled into it to light the pipe, and breathed in the semisweet smoke of the tobacco. The smell reminded her of a campfire. She looked up at the sky devoid of stars, and then she heard footsteps. She turned to see Sarah with a water bucket in hand. They nodded at each other. Evelyn felt tongue-tied. Why does she want to see me?
“You wore your blue apron,” she said.
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
Evelyn felt self-conscious and hypervigilant, constantly shifting her eyes around to ensure no one was wandering their way.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Sarah said. “I wanted to let you know that Sam is planning to head out to town for supplies before breakfast on Saturday. He won’t be back until later Sunday.”
“That’s assuming he even makes it out of the camp,” Evelyn said. “A lot of the jacks think a blizzard’s heading our way.”
She wasn’t sure what Sarah was trying to say, and she didn’t want to assume anything.
“If he does go, I want you to try to come to my shed after dinner. I can help you with your wrap. Your gait and posture seem more strained every day.”
“The pain is nearly constant now,” Evelyn admitted. “I feel like it’s slicing into me.”
“We can talk, steal a little time away from the others,” Sarah said, a slight urgency in her voice.
Evelyn hesitated.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “It would take only one jack to see me heading to that shed and begin wondering about us for trouble to set in.”
“We barely even acknowledge each other, and we haven’t had any problems yet,” Sarah said. “Please. I feel as if I’m losing my mind. I can’t help but look at the calendar, count the days, and it’s still only February. I just… It’s our one chance to have some time, a normal conversation.”
“Okay, as long as it seems safe,” Evelyn conceded.
She wanted some time with Sarah, to speak more with her, learn more about her, her life. She could use a confidante. Evelyn treasured her few moments alone with Sarah, away from the jacks. They afforded her a bit of time during which she could step back into her true self, Evelyn, and remove her mask. She also needed some help with the binding, anything that might make it more tolerable.
“Thank you,” Sarah said.
She felt relief. Without saying another word, she left Evelyn’s side and headed toward the river. Evelyn took a few last puffs off her pipe. She knew she was taking a chance if she did, indeed, visit Sarah, but a part of her couldn’t resist.
* * *
On Saturday morning, the snow was falling before the jacks even headed into the woods. The wind began with a whistle, whipping through the tree limbs. The jacks ate breakfast more quickly than usual, wolfing down some sustenance before heading out. By the time they were well in to the forest, the wind became a gushing roar, and the snow swirled around Evelyn and Whiskey Jack in funnels.
“We’ll be lucky if we get one tree down before Jones calls everyone back in,” Whiskey Jack said. “He won’t want to risk losing a man, and it’s too easy to get lost in a whiteout in these woods. You can barely see ahead of you. You lose your bearings.”
“Where do you want to head to, then?” Evelyn asked.
“Let’s go west, try to find that poplar patch we were working yesterday,” Whiskey Jack said. “It’s not that far from here.”
As Evelyn and Whiskey Jack pushed on farther into the woods, the snow that first fell like light feathers became a thick, churning froth, and Evelyn and Whiskey Jack could barely see twenty feet ahead of them. The wind became icy and the snow, driven horizontally by the wind, pelted their faces like handfuls of sand. With it stinging and burning her skin, Evelyn put her forearm across her forehead as a shield and found relief only when she walked backward in intervals. Whiskey Jack rested a hand on a good-sized tree.
“Let’s go for this poplar here,” he said.
“Okay,” Evelyn said.
Whiskey Jack hoisted up his ax and swung it, and the sharp head sliced into the trunk. He worked vigorously, and just as Evelyn was about to take over, they heard a muffled banging and distant voices.
“Hold on there a minute, George,” Whiskey Jack said. “You hear that?”
Evelyn stood in place, and she and Whiskey Jack strained, trying to separate the rush of the whining winds from any other discernible sound. They heard it again, a metal clanging, like two pots being banged together, and loud shouts.
“Jones is calling everyone in,” Whiskey Jack said.
“Shouldn’t we finish taking this down?” Evelyn asked.
“I don’t think so, George,” Whiskey Jack said. “That’s another forty minutes or so of chopping. If Jones is calling us in this early, it means he thinks things are going to get bad real quick. We’ll need to ready the camp before the brunt of the storm hits.”
“All right,” Evelyn said.
She and Whiskey Jack lifted their axes to their shoulders and headed back in the direction they came from. Each new gust of wind felt like a fresh slap to the face. As they neared the camp, they began to hear voices, and eventually, Evelyn could ma
ke out the blurry images of other jacks moving through the heavy curtain of snow. When they reached the camp, Johnny Jones was screaming out commands.
“You teamsters need to get those horses fed and secured in the shed.”
The teamsters were just leading the horses out of the woods as he spoke.
“You all know the drill,” Jones continued. “We need safety lines going from the bunkhouse to the cook shanty and the sheds, and from the cook shanty to the outhouses. Tie them down good and tight, men. They won’t do us a damn bit of good if they come loose in the wind.”
The lumberjacks scrambled instinctively.
“Follow me,” Whiskey Jack said to Evelyn.
She went with him to the bunkhouse, where Johnny Jones had taken a command position and was handing out coils of rope to the jacks. Whiskey Jack grabbed one, and he and Evelyn went to a tree close to the bunkhouse door. Whiskey Jack began to wrap the rope around the tree at about chest level. He knotted it as tightly as he could. Holding the rest of the rope, Evelyn proceeded to the next tree, which they also wrapped the rope around. As she and Whiskey Jack went from tree to tree, fastening the rope, Evelyn thought about the farm and the children, and she felt a surge of panic. She tried to calm herself. The farm will be okay. The children will be all right. Their uncle will surely go to them, and Helen will be there. Maybe even Jess. Still, they’ll wish that I was there, and I’m not. She wanted to cry, but that was no time for tears. She sucked in the bitter air and kept moving, she and Whiskey Jack traveling from tree to tree, until they had a line of rope that led from the bunkhouse to the front of the cook shanty. The other loggers did the same, and by the time the blizzard was fully upon them, roaring like a locomotive, visibility nearly nil, there was a rope that led from the bunkhouse to every other structure in the camp, including the outhouses. The air had become so frigid that frost gathered in the jacks’ beards and on their mustaches.