Choosing several wood screws and a cordless drill, Johnny took his prize across the yard and up on the covered porch. Stepping back, he visualized where the sign would look best; from the driveway, from the lawn, from the graveled path. With the proper location chosen, he screwed the sign to the wall, using the holes already in the sign where it had been nailed to the wall of the farmhouse many years ago.
Returning his tools to the workshop and turning off the lights, he retrieved the keys and breakfast from the car and walked deliberately past the sign into his home to have breakfast with his family.
You can always have a brother. You can always be a brother.
Chapter 21
Mary came out to the kitchen to the smell of breakfast. Together they ate biscuit sandwiches and drank coffee from paper cups. They were comfortable together, enjoying the quiet morning.
“Come out on the porch. “Johnny gathered the half-eaten sandwiches and cooling coffee and put them on the counter. “Come see.”
Always game, Mary wrapped herself in the jacket hanging on the back of Johnny’s chair. She stepped out into the white winter morning, following Johnny down the steps and turning toward the house when he did.
“Oh!” Her voice was quiet. “Oh, Johnny.” She had tears in her eyes, looking up at him. “Is it from the farm?” She ran lightly up the steps in her moccasins, stopping in front of the plank, and gently traced the letters spelling Home.
“Johnny, it’s perfect.” He had never heard this tone in her voice, never felt so close to his wife, never felt so right.
She traced the smaller letters, disregarding the oil not yet dry. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Johnny, what do they mean? What does it say?”
She wanted it to be important. She wanted fiercely to hear something meaningful in the strange words.
She looked up at Johnny and then took his hand as she turned back to the sign, their sign. Johnny read the words, “Ber er hver að baki nema sér bróður eigi.” He said them slowly, the memory of the sound returning stronger.
He repeated slowly, “Bare is the back of the brother-less man.”
Johnny watched her, does she like it? He hoped she also felt the deep emotions he didn’t understand. He waited, remembering Uncle Lars explaining the words to him.
She hugged his arm, squeezing his hand. “I love it!” She stood still, in the manner one would watch a sunset. “Oh.” She drew the word out. “It means more than brother. “After a time, she pressed her head into his chest, “I need you, Johnny Amund. I want to need you. And you need me.”
And he did.
He told her the story of the axe and the file, his appreciation of Uncle Lars’s wisdom increasing in graduating degrees. She listened quietly.
Mary was very, very happy.
“Johnny!” She spun away, moving into the kitchen, getting her own coat and boots, calling back through the open door. “Johnny, I want you to teach me how to sharpen an axe.”
She handed him his own coat and dropped his boots in front of him, staring at their sign as he shut the door and got into his gear. On the way across the yard, she stepped in front of him, stopping him with both hands flat on his chest.
“What language is that? Could your uncles speak it?” She shook his coat, “Well?” He didn’t know, but he told her it was probably Scandinavian, and he had the impression it was a Norse proverb. Mary’s eyes sparkled, she liked the answer; like the unfamiliar words it seemed wild, ageless, somehow magical.
In the shop, she watched intently as he chose an axe from its bracket on the wall and clamped it in a vise. Handing her a pair of old leather gloves, shiny from wear, he took down several files, arranging them on the bench.
“My uncles liked good tools; in fact, most of these tools were theirs.” He pulled down a small box and handed it to her. It was heavy, the size of a match box, but longer. She pulled the top off, her hands clumsy in the gloves. The box contained a whetstone, worn thin in the middle, coarse on one side, fine on the other.
Johnny showed her how an axe blade needs a shoulder. “Never grind down the shoulder,” Uncle Lars had said firmly, “then the blade is too thin and can break, in the cold especially. We must respect the metal.”
Johnny demonstrated, imitating Uncle Lars’ voice. “Yonny, take care to only file one way, only with the cutting ridges on the file, push, push, push, never push-pull, push-pull. That only dulls the file faster.” He pulled out another file, holding it up for Mary to see. “This file, Yonny, is a ‘bastard file’ but in Canada you just call it a file, eh, because people do not like the word ‘bastard’, especially not at school.”
He smiled, savoring the memory and Mary’s laughing response.
“See, Yonny, how the cutting pattern is different on this file? If you have nicks in the axe, use the coarse side first. Save the fine one for touch-up.” Johnny worked along the blade, precise in his movements, holding the same angle all across the cutting edge.
Johnny finished one side of the axe and turned it over in the vise. Now it was Mary’s turn. She was surprised at the skill and attention needed to keep the file on a consistent angle, but with ‘Yonny’s’ help, did a fine job finishing the axe.
Johnny took the whetstone, put a few drops of oil on it, and in a careful circular motion, spent several minutes finishing the axe. “Watch this.” Shrugging off his coat, he smoothly shaved a wide swath of hair from his arm with the razor-sharp edge. Mary was impressed, and slightly alarmed. So was Johnny, who had never actually done it before, but had seen Uncle Nelsson do it once, maybe twenty years earlier.
She took the axe and hung it back in its place, wondering if it could be the same axe from the story. As she leaned forward, she noticed a picture hanging under the window. It was shiny under a layer of dust, and one side was uneven, obviously torn from a magazine. She worked the ancient tack out of the wall and brought the picture up to the light. It was a photo of a sword, dark with age, pitted and ragged. The Saebo Sword was the simple heading on the top of the page. She read the short paragraph on the bottom of the page, informing her where the sword was found, and about the inscription on it. She hung the picture back in its place and turned back to her husband.
“You have real history! Your uncles wanted a good home. They wanted you to have a good home. They did their best for you!” Johnny felt a weight lift, she understands! No, he comprehended it was deeper than this. He was beginning to understand.
“Let’s make a good home, together,” he said, “a place where people feel safe. A good home for children.” He reached out and took her hands.
And standing there in the workshop among the tools inherited from men without the proper skills to complete the difficult task of building a home, two lonely people began the process of truly finding each other, and the seeds of a real home, a family, began to grow.
Chapter 22
The Banks’ house was still. Melissa, sipping coffee in her kitchen, enjoyed a moment of quiet in the eye of the storm. The boys had disappeared earlier, and through the window she could see Chet walking toward the house for breakfast and a second coffee. Daniel and Lance were planning a day with friends, snowmobiling or something, and Chet was getting ready to move a processor back to the yard. He said the machine needed the mechanics to look over a hydraulic pump that had been replaced recently, but Melissa knew an excuse when she heard it - Chet had a load of firewood he was itching to cut up.
“Chet, we need to talk. Take your boots off and sit. You’ve got a whole week to get the wood cut up, and you don’t need to do it all yourself!”
He grunted and headed for the table, turning to discard his boots when his wife pointed at them. The house was warm, and his back was sore. Another coffee would be just fine. He caught the smell of something baking. She was right, one of the guys could cut up the wood as well as he could.
“Chet, I’m worried. We really have no clue what’s up with Terry’s situation. She got away, but was this just a stroke of
luck? What if this is a lot bigger deal than we know?” She put her cup down, harder than necessary. “What if Terry is lying? What if she is, or used to be, involved in something illegal?”
Chet fidgeted; sitting still was difficult. He drank some coffee. “Look, we can only go on what we know, base our decisions on the information at hand. Worrying about it won’t help. The RCMP say Terry has no criminal record or involvement to their knowledge, so, hey.”
“I agree with you, but there is much we don’t know. We are going to have to react to this situation as it unfolds.”
He held up his hand. “Yes, I know, reacting to a situation is not as good as planning ahead of time, but heck, what can we do?”
Melissa needed to hear this. Chet was a rock. He was solid, worked hard, wasn’t afraid of success or failure. She sipped more coffee, then reached across and patted his hand. “Thanks, I know you’re right. But what if something happens, what if…”
He was grinning at her.
“Hey, you big jerk! I’m serious!” She was rising to stand and tried not to smile when he pulled her around the table. He tickled her until she giggled. “Okay, okay! I’ll try to stop worrying.” She went to the oven for a steaming breakfast casserole, setting it beside the coffee carafe on the table.
“Listen Melissa, our choices are simple: keep working as usual, or fire Terry right now.” He took the steaming plate she offered and doused it with hot sauce. “I say we keep right on working. Terry is probably safer here than anywhere, and the whole crew, plus a hundred other guys in the bush will be looking out for her. She’s a good worker too, and how could we just let her go after this whole thing?”
She nodded, waiting for him to burn his mouth on the first bite.
“Darn it!” He took a quick drink from his water glass, “That’s hot!”
Yes, Chet was nothing if he wasn’t predictable.
“I like what I’m seeing in John Amund. He’s a good guy,” Melissa said. “You should have seen him and Isaac joking around yesterday. He and Mary are doing well. We talked some, Mary and I, while we set up the shop yesterday, and she is really happy. And did you see her looking at the little kids last night? She held Frank and Yvonne’s baby for at least an hour.” She took a bite herself, after blowing on the fluffy bread, egg, and bacon concoction.
“Mmm, that’s good, one of Charlie’s recipes.” She watched him, blowing on each bite, eating hungrily. “We’ve talked about you slowing down a bit. You don’t need to work seven days a week, and the boys are pretty much self-propelled. You and I could spend more time together. What I’m suggesting is that we consider having Johnny work with you, take over a lot of the low-bedding, pitch in at the shop when it’s real busy, do some of the planning. Then see where it goes from there.”
He smiled at her. She was quite the lady, and a good partner. It was smart to let her say the whole thing and ask questions later.
The kitchen door burst open, and startled, they both turned as their two sons stomped in together, shaking snow from their clothes, cheeks red.
“Dad! Is there some gas here somewhere?” Daniel, twenty-two, was home for the weekend from university. “We don’t have enough fuel. You got some jerry cans?”
Lance was nineteen, employed part-time at a local sawmill and working to attain his Millwright certification. He worked in the bush for his dad during the week when he wasn’t at the mill or school.
The boys meant business; the fuel shortage needed to be fixed now. There were friends to meet, snowmobiles to be tuned, and the weekend was winding down. It was already 9am on Sunday!
Chet turned to Melissa, bushy eyebrows arched. “Self-propelled?”
She laughed and scooped up two bowls full of breakfast, shook hot sauce on both, and put a spoon in each bowl. She handed them to her boys, her young men.
“Darn, that’s hot!” Melissa rolled her eyes at her older son who laughed as the younger Lance took a drink from his dad’s water glass, cooling his burnt mouth. Like father, like son.
“There’s a whole row of jerry cans in the garage,” Chet said, “use them.”
“But they’re empty!” was Lance’s reply around a careful bite of casserole.
“Well, stop at the gas station and fill up there.” Chet was done with the subject.
“Where are you guys going? Think there’s enough snow?”
“This is good, Mom, new recipe?” Daniel took the travel mug she handed him.
“We’re going up the Omineca Trail, taking saws and a chainsaw winch. We’ll open the trail as far as we can, about ten of us going, and who knows who else will be up there.” Lance held his bowl for another giant helping. “We’re hoping to make it to the Fort, grab some early dinner up there.
With thousands of dead pine trees killed by the mountain pine beetle infestation, trails were constantly obstructed by fallen trees. The trail needed to be cleared for the first ride, and the regular users carried a saw or at least an axe.
He blew on his first bite, then spoke around it gingerly. “One of the guys needs to bring his dad’s low-bed down from the Fort tonight. If we make it all the way up there, we will load all the machines on the empty deck for the trip home, save us a long ride.”
Chet said, “And you boneheads will ride the sixty kilometers home where?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Daniel grinned at his brother. “I have a ride back to Prince George with a buddy, and will leave my sled at his parent’s house, but these guys, well, uh, they’re out of luck!”
Lance spoke up. “Well, Mom’s Caddy can haul six people, I thought, well, maybe…”
“No, I agree with your brother, who so politely said that you guys are out of luck. Your dad is taking me out to a movie tonight, no ‘Mom’s Taxi’ available.”
Amid the laughter and complaining, Chet remembered five full jerry cans of gasoline, a thermos of coffee was filled, the location of a chainsaw file and chain guard identified, and the whereabouts of a bag of ratchet straps confirmed.
“You spoil them, but I like it!” Melissa shook her head reproachfully at her husband. “You should have let them buy their own fuel, just for their own good.” The kitchen eating area seemed empty with the boys gone, puddles of meltwater left on the floor, a glove deserted under the coat rack.
“They work hard around here. And what’s this about a movie? This is the first I’ve heard about it.” Chet scraped the crispy bread from the sides of the otherwise empty casserole dish, hoping for a snip of bacon.
The door opened, cold air rushing in with a hurried Lance.
“There it is!”
He pounced on the deserted glove, flashed a movie star smile at his parents, slammed the door, and the quiet resumed. Only to be broken as the window slid open.
“Wear your helmets!” Melissa yelled at his retreating back.
Aaah, life was good, Chet thought, as he sneaked noisily out the back. Time to round up some dry firewood. And he had already been thinking about John Amund. It was a good idea.
Chapter 23
Terry woke late, feeling good, happy for the extra sleep. She sat on the burgundy chair in her motel room making a mental list, then picked up her phone, checking her favorites screen, which now included several RCMP contact numbers and a few contacts relating to her new job. The simple act of changing names and numbers on a digital list seemed to change her from the person she had been several weeks before. She groaned as she stretched and contemplated getting ready for the day. She was going shopping and wanted to look good. Driving had its benefits; no makeup required, so the weekdays started much faster.
As she put on makeup, did her hair, and chose an outfit from the meager supply of clothing that wasn’t packed in her stack of storage bins, she tried to contact her brother. No answer. Well, it was Sunday morning; she couldn’t remember if he worked on weekends.
Before leaving the room, she checked the full-length mirror on the door. The cheap mirror had a curve, making her appear taller. Shaking her h
ead, she went to the stack of storage bins and found her high heeled leather boots. She went back to the mirror. Now she really looked tall. She smiled, Not bad Terry, not bad at all. Her brother used to tell her, “You clean up real well, Terry, real well!”
She activated the remote starter and heard the Dodge engine rumble awake outside her room. It did not seem as cold here as in Alberta, but after shivering in the trunk of the car, Terry wanted her vehicle warm by the time she was ready to leave.
She said hello to the maid who was pushing a wheeled cart across the snowy courtyard and took the time to introduce herself and let the maid know her schedule for the week.
She ordered breakfast at a drive-through window and headed east toward Prince George.
Spanning Highway 16, the town of Vanderhoof seemed vibrant, busier than she expected. She had not yet driven through the whole town, but she liked the Hallmark-movie streetlights and young trees lining Burrard Avenue. Highway 16 served as 1st Street, and was industrial, not as friendly in appearance. She guessed many travelers passing through would have been surprised at the welcoming center of town between the highway and the Nechako River.
So far, though, she had not spent time in Vanderhoof during regular business hours and was now on the way to Prince George where she could purchase some new work gear. Driving log truck had many challenges that differed from her highway driving experience, and earlier in the eventful week she realized the need for some different work clothes.
She had learned some details about Vanderhoof at the party yesterday. The picture she had pieced together was of a small town which served a large rural area. It seemed that many people lived outside of the town limits in small communities, or on their own farms or ranches. She had been surprised to see so many fields, and the amount of farm-related business and equipment visible even in the early winter.
Terry had seen many young families, and due to the high proportion of jacked-up diesel pickups, she supposed the local bankers and vehicle dealerships believed in the economy as well. Her three-year-old pickup disappeared in local traffic like a family van at Disneyland.
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