Blood is the Sky
Steve Hamilton
Chapter One
I saw a lot of fires when I was a cop in Detroit. I was supposed to help secure the scene and then get the hell out of the way, but sometimes I’d stick around and watch the firefighters doing their work. I saw some real battles, but when they were done, the building would always be standing. That was the thing that got to me. The windows would be blown out, and maybe there’d be a big hole in the roof, but the building would still be there.
Years later, I watched a Lake Superior storm taking down a boathouse. When the storm let up, there was nothing left but a concrete slab covered with sand. It wasn’t surprising. Anyone who lives up here knows that water is stronger than fire. Water wins that one going away. But at least water cleans up after itself. It does the job all the way. When water destroys, it makes everything look new. It can even be beautiful.
Fire doesn’t do that. When a fire is done, what’s left is only half destroyed. It is charred and brittle. It is obscene. There is nothing so ugly in all the world as what a fire leaves behind, covered in ashes and smoke and a smell you’ll think about every day for the rest of your life.
That’s why I had to start rebuilding the cabin. Maybe I was fooling myself, but it was something I had to do. Even though the days were getting shorter. Even though the pine trees were bending in the cold October wind. No man in his right mind would have started rebuilding then. So of course I did.
I had already taken away most of the old wood, those logs that would have lasted another three hundred years if they hadn’t burned. I had hauled them away along with the pipes burned black and the bed frames twisted by the heat. There was nothing now but the stone foundation, stripped of the wooden floor, and the chimney, the last thing my father had made with his bare hands before he died. I knew that the snow would come, and it would cover the black stains on the ground, and the chimney would stand alone in the cold silence like a grave marker. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
The rebuilding didn’t start well. The man who said he’d be there on Monday with my white pine logs rolled up on Wednesday morning, acting like he had nothing to apologize for. He had one of those long flatbeds with a crane on it, with enough lifting power to set every last log down as gently as a teacup. But it took him all morning to clear the truck, and he damn near knocked over the chimney in the process. Then he stood around for a while, trying to tell me about his own cabin down in Traverse City. “The cabins I passed on the way in,” he finally said. “You built those?”
“My father did.”
“Looks like you had a big one here,” he said. He hitched his pants up as he looked around the clearing. “What happened? Did it burn down?”
“It did.”
“Hell of a thing,” he said. “You gotta be careful with those wood stoves.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Looks like you learned the hard way.”
I let a few seconds tick by. “It wasn’t a wood stove,” I finally said. “Somebody burned it down.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“This gentleman and I, we had a little disagreement.”
It took a moment for that one to sink in. “Are you shittin’ me, man? You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“You don’t have to believe it.”
“I suppose you’re gonna rebuild this all by yourself, too.”
“I’m gonna try.”
“Seriously, where’s all your help at?”
“If I need help, I’ll get it.”
“It’s October,” he said. “You’re not thinking of starting this now, are you?”
“I’d have to be crazy, you mean.”
“Is what I’m saying, yeah. Unless you’re just shittin’ me some more.”
“Well, I appreciate your concern,” I said. “And I appreciate you bringing up my logs. You were only two days late. Have a good trip back home.”
He was still shaking his head as he drove away. I listened to the distant sound of his truck as he rumbled onto the main road and headed south. When he was gone, there was nothing left to hear but a steady wind coming off the lake.
“Well, Pops,” I said to the wind, “let’s see if I remember how to do this.”
This was the cabin he had built in the summers of 1980 and 1981. I helped him for a few weeks in that second year. I was already out of baseball and working as a police officer in Detroit, and this was my last attempt to make peace with him. The days were hot. I remember that. And as I helped him peel and scribe the logs, it brought back yet another summer, back in 1968, the first time I had ever been up here in Paradise, Michigan. I was only seventeen then, with one more year of school ahead of me before heading off to single-A ball in Sarasota. He wanted me to go to college, but I had my own ideas. Thirteen years later, he finished this cabin, his biggest and best. His masterpiece. Six months after that he was dead.
The cabin may have burned to the ground, but at least we had those summers.
Twenty years later, on a cold October day, I started all over again. I cut the sill logs first, the logs that would run along the bottom of each wall, then secured them to the foundation with j bolts. I cut a groove along the outside edge with the chain saw, just as he had taught me. When it rained, the water would collect in the groove and drip away instead of running down the foundation. Then I cut the grooves for the floor joists. I put rough plywood down for the time being-I’d put the nice hardwood floorboards down when the outside was finished.
That was the first day.
When the light was gone, I went down to the Glasgow Inn for dinner. My friend Jackie owns the place. If you ever find yourself in Paradise, just go to the one blinking light in the center of town, then go north another hundred yards or so. It’ll be there on the right. When you step into the place, you won’t see a typical American bar-there are no mirrors to stare into while you drink, no smoky dark corners to nurse a bad mood in. The chairs are comfortable, there’s a fire going in the hearth every night, regardless of the weather, and there’s a man there named Jackie Connery who looks like an old Scottish golf caddie. If you ask him the right way, Jackie will even risk his liquor license and give you a cold Canadian beer.
I take that last part back. Those Canadian beers are just for me.
I felt like hell the next morning. My hands were sore, my arms were sore, my legs were sore, and my back was sore. Aside from that I was fine.
I had my coffee and looked up at the dark clouds. Rain was the last thing I needed, because today was the day I’d start building the walls.
I scribed each log the way my father had done. I did most of the heavy cutting with the chain saw, stopping every half hour to sharpen it. I used an ax to cut the notches, keeping both hands together as I swung it, like a baseball bat. That much he didn’t have to teach me. You can’t be accurate with your hands apart.
Of course, cutting the scarf just right is the hard part. Or as the old man liked to say, this is where you separated the men from the boys. The idea is to cut it so perfectly that one log will rest on top of the other with no daylight in between. If you do it right, you don’t need any chinking. If you don’t do it right, then God help you. You’ve got no business building a cabin in the first place.
The first log I tried cutting that morning, I didn’t get right. The second log was worse. The third log you could have put in a carnival and charged people five dollars a head to come laugh at it.
The wind picked up. It looked like rain was coming. I kept working. I was halfway through the fourth log when the hornets attacked me.
