A lesser light, p.12
A Lesser Light, page 12
“I guess we’d best be off, Willa,” Theodulf interrupted, his bile rising. Whether from his wife’s lack of decency or his own bruised pride, he could hardly fathom. To Helmut he said, “We appreciate your hospitality, and will keep the invitation front of mind. But now”—he gestured at the town—“we must attend our business.”
Helmut doffed his hat and winked at Theodulf, as if they’d been coconspirators in this game of braggadocio, and then turned up the dock and headed toward Winkler’s Dry Goods.
Theodulf watched him enter the store, then, without looking at her, addressed Willa. “You’ll not behave like a common strumpet.” He thought of his Hamilton watch left in pieces on the black silk in the cleaning room, wondering now how to make time go backward so that he could have avoided the exchange with Helmut altogether. Almost as soon as he thought it, he changed directions again, charging into the present moment. “It’s unbecoming. And a mortal sin, no less.” Now he did look at her. “What’s more, what’s most, is that behavior like that is a blight on the institution of the Lighthouse Service.”
“I was merely being neighborly.”
“You were being flirtatious, with a brute of a man famous for his dalliances, no less.”
“That old sod?”
“This is not a lark, Willa. We are pillars of this community.”
“Community? It’s twenty houses and a dry goods. There’re more horses here than people.”
“It’s growing. It’s where we live. And it’s where God sees us.”
Willa made as though to speak, but Theodulf raised his hand to shush her. “We won’t speak more of this, but I expect compliance.” He straightened his necktie and adjusted the cuffs of his coat as though he might realign their whole day. Their whole marriage. “Now, you see we tie up here at the town dock. If there’s no cleat, just run the skiff onto the beach over there at the mouth of the river.”
He walked the length of the dock. Where it met the shore, atop two flights of wooden stairs, a small hut was built into the hillside. He was halfway up that staircase before he saw his wife was not behind him, but rather strolling up the dock as though it were a Parisian quay, and the skiffs tied to the cleats were golden gondolas manned by handsome gondoliers. He waited for her there on the landing, observing her from that perch. She was shapely and tall, boyish even without her comely face to lend her femininity. Her irascible nature was the least attractive thing about her, and perhaps the most dominant, but he could admit that from afar there were reasons to be attracted to her.
When she finally reached the base of the stairs, she paused once to look back from where she’d come before ascending, holding her skirts high with one hand. At the landing, she said, “The sign says this is the post office.”
“It’s the main reason you’ll be in Otter Bay. I’ve arranged so you and the other keepers’ wives can collect official correspondence for the lighthouse.”
“You are thorough.”
“There’s much to do, and we all must to lend a hand.”
He continued up the second flight of stairs and held the door open for her. Inside was little more than a ten-foot-square room with a stove on one side and a counter on the other. Behind the counter were the mail slots, names beneath, and an old man who seemed unable even to lift his head.
“Mr. Sauer,” he said, peering up over the wire rims of his spectacles.
“Mr. Holzer, how goes the parcel business?”
The old geezer swiveled around and emptied two of the slots—one for the lighthouse, the other for Theodulf personally—and set the post on the desk.
Theodulf, in turn, reached into his pocket and withdrew the single letter addressed to Hosea Grimm.
“This’ll leave with the Nocturne today,” Mr. Holzer said, dropping the letter into a canvas sack already half-full of other mail.
“Can’t get there soon enough,” Theodulf said.
“What business do you have with Hosea Grimm?”
“He’s a friend, is all.”
Mr. Holzer turned to Willa. “This must be the Missus Sauer.”
“It is. And Willa, this is Arnold Holzer. She’ll be coming for the mail often enough.”
“I lock the door as soon as the Nocturne disembarks. Don’t expect me to open it for you.”
Willa appeared charmed by his curmudgeonliness. “I’ll expect no such thing.”
“Then we’ll get along just fine.”
Theodulf withdrew from his coat pocket a broadside announcing the public celebration of the lighthouse. “Fine with you if I post this on the board?” he asked.
Holzer looked closely and nodded and said, “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other duties needing attention.” He nodded. “Happy to know you, Missus Sauer.”
“Likewise.”
As though to usher her out of the post office, Theodulf put his hand on the small of her back. When he felt her recoil at his touch, he reached for his watch instead. The seconds ticked.
On the landing, he paused and watched her walk down the staircase. She fairly strode. He twisted his hands before him, glanced at the lighthouse tender tied among a half dozen other boats to the dock. He let the idea of paddling her with one of the oars entertain him—whether to punish her impudence or rekindle in himself the fire first stoked the previous day, he did not know. In either case, he hurried the thought from his mind.
It was then he saw it, though he could not name it: a seiche. All the boats tied to the dock bobbed as though an enormous boulder had been rolled into the lake. As quickly as the swell came, it was gone again. He glanced at the river fifty yards across the bay. It ran fresh but was not the cause of the wave. He next looked heavenward, where all he saw was another lowering sky. A rumble of spring thunder. No heavenly body. No comet or falling star.
“Willa!” he shouted down to her. “Did you see that?”
She turned back, shielded her eyes against the white sky. “See what?”
“That wave. That singular wave. It upset all the boats here.” He gestured at the dock.
She did not respond, only descended the last few steps and turned toward the dry goods at the end of the dock.
Theodulf stood there on the landing, watching the boats, feeling unnerved. By this strange phenomenon and his wife both.
When he made his way down the second half of the staircase, the wave came again. He was alone on the dock, so no one else saw the boats rise or heard them knock together. Basso castanets. He hurried toward the boats, reached them in time to hear the water sieving through the pilings beneath the deck.
He looked around again, as though a curtain might be pulled back to reveal a grand farce.
* * *
By the time he reached the dry goods, rain spat against the windows overlooking the bay and mouth of the river. The shelves were well supplied now that the Nocturne was making the first spring runs. There were even bunches of bananas sitting in a countertop basket. The shelves of canned goods fairly bowed under the weight of them, jars of honey and preserves stood in pyramids on the counter alongside bowls of licorice and horehound and butterscotch but also the foil-wrapped chocolates Theodulf fancied. Crates of candles and crockery and fine tinware sat around each of the four columns supporting the coved ceiling, and bolts of denim, gingham, and canvas hung above the crates from those same columns. There was a wall of Red Wing workboots, and another with a rack of Winchester rifles, and below them a glass case of ammunition and hunting knives. In the back of the store hung a wall of tools of every sort, as well as shelves with cans of paint and turpentine along with boxes of nails and nuts and bolts. And the purveyor of all this: Patrick Dreiss, whose potbelly strained against his apron as he stood behind the counter, writing a receipt for none other than Mats Braaten, the fisherman, who was distracted by his niece and Willa, consorting on a bench beneath one of the windows. The child had a whip of black licorice, and she was dressed as if for church.
Theodulf ambled across the store, affecting an air of influence he did not naturally possess, and greeted Dreiss as though Mats were a common ghost. “Mr. Dreiss, you might have postponed this cold rain until my wife and I were safely back up the shore.” He laid another of the broadsides on the counter and slid it across. “You’ll post this?”
Dreiss glanced at it and nodded and changed the subject back to the original question. “Mr. Sauer, if I had that sort of power, you can bet your last nickel I’d not use it to stop the rain.”
Mats Braaten flipped a silver dollar from his thumb, caught it, and set it on the counter. “What would you use it for, Patrick?”
To this Dreiss looked up and said, “I’d start with finding that girl’s folks.” He turned around and opened a drawer and removed two tickets for the Nocturne. “It’s due at eleven.”
By instinct, Theodulf flipped open his watch.
“Mr. Sauer,” Mats said, placing the tickets in his coat pocket, “I owe your wife thanks.”
“Thanks for what, Mr. Braaten?”
“She suggested I head up to see Curtis Mayfair about Silje’s parents.”
This simple announcement vexed Theodulf completely, and it was all he could do not to march over to Willa and confront her yet again. Instead, he said, “Mr. Mayfair is a good fellow.” He bit his lip. “But why go so far when surely there’s a friend to your situation in Duluth, if not Two Harbors?”
“Mrs. Sauer thought Mayfair might be the friendliest.”
Theodulf finally removed his hat. He took his kerchief from his pocket and buffed the visor. “I wish you a safe trip.” With that he donned his hat again, stuffed his kerchief into his pocket, and strode toward Willa and the girl.
As he approached, Silje quieted, lacing the licorice around her fingers and leaning toward Willa.
“Now you’re advising the fisherman on family matters?” He spoke with his teeth clenched, barely above a whisper. “Girl”—this to Silje—“go to your uncle. He wishes to speak with you.”
Willa took the girl’s hand, spread her fingers, and dropped more confections into her palm. “We’ll see you when you return, I hope.”
Silje nodded, held the candy with both hands, and looked up at Theodulf. “Your wife is very pretty,” she said. “She’s very pretty and she doesn’t like frogs.”
Theodulf watched her over his shoulder. He watched her walk to her uncle and put the candy in her pocket. He watched her skip to the door and out and disappear on the dock. Only then did he turn back to Willa. “That child is witchlike and queer. There’s something infernal about her. What she needs is schooling from the nuns. Is she possessed?”
“Only by a sharp wit and exceeding powers of observation.”
Theodulf wasn’t listening. “And what about frogs? Has Beelzebub got her tongue?”
Willa removed her own whip of licorice from her dress pocket and took a bite.
“What’s this?” Theodulf asked. “Did you buy this? Did the fisherman buy it for you?”
Willa chewed the candy. She said, “I bought my own licorice.”
“Charged it to our account?”
“Paid with my own coin, of course.”
“What coin have you? What coin that’s not mine first?”
He witnessed the rising of her ire—it was becoming the most regular thing about her. Rather than say anything, he removed from his pocket a piece of lighthouse stationery upon which a list of provisions had been written. “You’ll fetch these items from the store here.” He called to Patrick Dreiss behind the counter, “Add Mrs. Sauer to the account, Mr. Dreiss. She’ll be here often enough now.”
“The lighthouse account or your own?” Dreiss asked.
“Either, but today’s go on the personal ledger.” He turned back to Willa. “Only what’s on the list. Luxuries forbidden.”
“Luxuries forbidden?”
“Chapter 5 in the Instructions to Light-Keepers. Regulation number 186, I believe.”
Willa made a great show of filling her mouth with the length of licorice. She took the list as though she were receiving a used handkerchief and went about finding the items from the shelves. Canned goods and a quart of paint and tea towels. Theodulf announced that he would meet her at the boat in twenty minutes, whether the rain quit or not. She ignored him, attending to the list instead. Five pounds of sugar, mousetraps, baking soda, and white vinegar.
He left the dry goods, heading in the direction of the lumberyard. Once there, he walked the edge of it up to the first bend in the river, where he sat on a boulder and folded his hands as though about to pray. What he thought of instead were the watch parts sitting in the cleaning room at the lighthouse.
* * *
BACK AT THE STATION, Willa bustled about. She stowed the provender in the pantry, put the tea towels on the shelf above the kitchen sink. She made Theodulf a pilot bread and cheese sandwich for lunch, cut an apple and served it as though it were a piece of rhubarb pie. She made a pot of tea and poured them each a cup, and as she sat down across the table, he rose and said he’d take a rest. They were the first words either had spoken since they departed Otter Bay.
“Mind this mess,” he added. “And take this can of paint out to the lighthouse cleaning room. Set it beneath my desk.”
He didn’t wait for her to respond, only shuffled out of the kitchen. But he returned almost as quickly as he left and said, “We’ll need a full accounting of your capital. That belongs to both of us now, and we mustn’t keep secrets.” He left again and went upstairs, his footfalls like the grumble of distant thunder.
She washed and dried the dishes and put them on the shelf. After another cup of lukewarm tea, she hefted the can of paint and carried it across the grounds.
For the first time, she entered the lighthouse building. At this noon hour it was well lit and cold and gave her the strange sensation of being in a crypt. She set the paint beneath the desk. There was the log with its two- and three-word entries—general duties, cleaning plate glass, general work/painting—and beside it what appeared to be a disassembled timepiece. She crossed through the passageway and turned her head up the lighthouse tower and felt a wash of dizziness as her eyes followed the spiral staircase bolted to the wall. For the briefest moment, she remembered her father’s laboratory and the deck up there. But the unkind memory of his favorite place was too much to bear, so she went back through the passageway.
The minuscule watch parts spread on the black silk like shards of shattered glass caught her attention again. She went to them, bent at the waist for a closer look. They were arranged in a meticulous if puzzling order, like rows of stars against the black night.
It occurred to her to wonder why Theodulf checked his watch so often. A nervous habit, certainly. But something more, too. Always when he appeared most vexed, most addled. But this watch in pieces? It wasn’t the same one he kept in his pocket. That one he’d checked just fifteen minutes ago, after he’d scolded her about her money.
Her money! As though it were a subject of any real concern.
She picked up the watch face from the cloth and held it between the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Flipping it over, she noticed how moonlike it was. Silver and hollowed like the myriad seas where the wheels and levers and springs fit into the stainless steel.
She stood upright and looked out the window and when she set the moon back down, she lifted one of the smaller wheels from among the parts and put it under her tongue. It fit there like a cold, thinly sliced grape.
On the lakeside of the lighthouse, she kicked a rock over the cliff’s edge. Seconds later, the water cockled. She walked nearer the edge of the cliff, found another rock, and threw this one. Four stones later, and she glanced back at the house. At the bedroom window on the second floor.
Was that her husband’s silhouette in the glass, ghosted by those lace curtains? Was it only her imagination?
In either case, she pinched the watch part from beneath her tongue and flipped it over the edge. She took a step in its direction and watched for a splash.
None rose. Or none that she could see.
* * *
FOR ALL SILJE KNEW, the Lighthouse Road could have been the Champs-Élysées, given the hubbub in the town of Gunflint. This despite the weather, which had followed them down the shore. The sky hung dull and ambiguous and caught between seasons.
Longshoremen lugged the Nocturne’s hawsers to cleats, their broad backs fuzzed with whatever fell from the sky. Snow and drizzle and brume all at once. She watched from the gangway, holding her uncle’s hand and eager to disembark. She distrusted the big passenger ferry. Believed a fishing skiff a superior and more sensible conveyance under any circumstances. When she announced that someday the ship would sink, her uncle told her that to row from their cabin to Gunflint would take two days each way—and this only if the wind and weather were right—and that he’d gladly take his chances.
She’d kept her eyes clenched shut the whole six-hour voyage, and not for sleeping. Every time the ferry yawed or caught a gust of infrequent wind, it foundered behind her eyes. Now that it was moored, she danced foot to foot, needing a loo as much as she did the solid ground beneath her feet. She tapped her uncle’s palm to an iambic beat. This ship did sink, thrice methinks . . .
Finally, the gangway lowered. Her uncle hefted his duffle over his shoulder, and they crossed onto the dock.
Horses pulling wagons, wandering dogs sniffing around the fish barrels, a thousand gulls melding with the sky. Their cacophony an anti-rhythm to Silje’s song. It was all she could do not to curse their bluster, to reach into the sky and catch them by their wings. She even made to stomp on one, but a dog’s sharp bark drove it off before her foot landed.
“Leave the birds,” her uncle said.
“The birds’ve killed my song.” Still she tapped his palm. Just the tip of her index finger.
“Your song’s not been killed. You’ll find it again soon enough.” He paused at the freight house mid-dock. Inside was dark. “What do you have of it so far?”
“This ship did sink, thrice methinks,” she crooned.
