The Lighthouse Road

“I’m worried about it, Odd.”

She tried to pull away from him but he wouldn’t let her. He tried to kiss her again but she turned her head.

“What if the life you describe isn’t what I want?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that true?”

“Sometimes. I don’t know.”

Now he let go of her shoulders. She looked up at him quickly, grabbed hold of his hands. “I’m scared, Odd. I’m scared is all. I don’t want you slipping away from me.”

“You think I’m going somewhere?” He shook his head, almost laughed. “You think I ain’t worried?”

She put her face into his neck and started to cry. “Men don’t act like you, Odd Einar Eide.”

“The hell they don’t.” He took her again by the shoulders, made her look at him. “I’ve been thinking about my mother. About the price she paid for me. Since you gave me those pictures on my birthday I can’t stop thinking about her. I owe it to her to take care of our baby, to raise him the way I should have been raised. Never mind what I’m afraid of or how hard it will be or goddamn Grimm.”

Now Rebekah softened. She looked down and said, “Your mother and I used to take our baths together. The summer before you were born.” When she looked up there were more tears in her eyes. She stood and stepped out of the bath, took a towel from the rack and held it to her chest. “I watched her belly grow with you. I saw you all the time.” She removed the towel and put her hands on her own belly. There was nothing there yet. No sign.

Odd stood, too, and stepped from the tub. He stepped to her. “You see? That means you know me all the better.” He lifted her chin so they were eye to eye. “You know I’m a good man. And true.”

She took a deep breath, turned away from him. She said, “It’s not your goodness I’m worried about.”

He grabbed her, wrapped her in his arms. They stood like that while she cried, the bathwater dripping from both of them, pooling on the tiled floor. After a while she stopped crying. She took his hands and moved them to her breasts, held them there. His pulse jumped.

She pressed his hands more firmly. Leaned back against him.

“Is this okay? For the baby?” He could feel her own quickening pulse behind her breast.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice husky. “But there’s nothing in this world that’s going to keep me from making love to you on that bed.”

XVI.

(March 1896)

It was a morning for slaughter. Thea walked to the edge of the paddock to feed the dog. He did not come off the roof of his kennel for the slop bucket. His muzzle was still pink. The bitch Freya was gone.

She passed through the paddock on her way back to the mess but stopped at the trough. She could not imagine what had happened here. She did not want to. Only knew that the mess of bloodstained snow was in some way related to the awful pain she felt that morning. The memory of Smith lording over her, his brute strength, his rank breath, was with her like her prayers. She had not slept for fear.

Now she fell to her knees and started crying. Between sobs she heard men behind the barn, still twenty-five yards away. Their voices held no alarm. It was as if they were out for their evening smoke. Before she stood again she removed her mittens and plunged her hands in the snow. She left them there until they burned and then left them still another minute. When finally she stood she raised her hands before her. They were roseate and the gentle breeze strapped them like a leather belt. God forgive me, she thought. God protect me.

Instead of going back to the mess for the rest of her morning chores she walked to the barn. She’d never been inside, but she slid the door open and walked in, the smell of horses and hay thick in the closeness even though the Percherons were already toiling on the ice road. She walked to the opposite end of the barn, following the ray of light shining through the hayloft window behind her. She was surprised at how much colder it was inside the barn than out.

At the other end of the barn she opened the door to a horse hanging from the hayloft pulley, its brown belly split, its guts spilled on the snow. The bull cook stood in a white apron, his cap sprayed with blood, a knife heavy in his hand. Two of the teamsters held either flank of the horse, and the barn boss was reaching for a spade to shovel the guts into a waiting wheelbarrow.

Already in the early morning the snow was dripping from the barn’s roof — the splat, splat, splat the only sound above the men’s heavy breathing. Three wolf carcasses hung by their hind legs from the fence. Thea saw Freya lying under the wolves and for a moment felt a reprieve from the carnage. A second, closer look showed the bitch’s throat split from ear to ear. Bloody boot prints trailed all over the enclosure.

“Good Christ, lass, what are ya doin’?” the bull cook asked, stepping toward her, shooing her away with his bloody hand. “This is no sight for a lady. Go on, now.”

Thea had already turned. She hurried to the barn door and shut it behind her. She ran through the barn and across the yard to the mess, her hands still stinging.

At her bunk she folded her hands in prayer. Her knees ached against the dirt floor. She opened her Bible. By the light of a flickering candle she read, Thou shalt not bring the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the lord thy God for any vow: for even these are abomination unto the land thy God. Her fear rose with each word. She closed the Bible. She hugged it to her breast and closed her eyes.

She could not stop thoughts of Smith. Of his dead tooth, of his grunting, of the slaver falling from his lips onto her face. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she begged.

Finally she rose and stepped into the kitchen. There were biscuits to make, and stew to warm, and apples to pare. Perhaps these tasks would distract her. She donned her apron and smoothed her hair and lifted the sack of flour from the cupboard beneath the block table. She cut the bag open and poured flour into the enormous mixing bowl. She fetched the keg of buttermilk and the salt. Remembering the stew, she went to the cellar and pulled the vat from its place and lugged it to the stove and set it to simmer. She fetched a barrel of apples and put them at her feet. She greased the baking sheets. In this way she moved forward, her fear and guilt always like a shadow. She could not raise her eyes because when she did she saw the spot across the room where Smith had forced her to the table.

It was after lunch when Trond and the bull cook met the constable. He walked into the mess hall, his hat and gloves already removed, his wool coat opened, a black belt and holster plain to see. She wondered, Was judgment so swift? But the men took seats on the other side of the mess, and except for asking for tea to be served, Trond and the constable and the old bull cook did not mind her at all.

At the midpoint of their meeting the bull cook left, returning minutes later with the barn boss, who was perhaps most aggrieved by the horse now strung from the pulley behind the barn. His name was Jacque and he’d come from Quebec. He spoke scant English when he spoke at all.

Jacque was asked: Why was the horse in the paddock at such an odd hour? Why was the horse hobbled? Was it his job to oversee the care and protection of his stable? Oblivious to the insinuation, Jacque answered the questions. He wanted to know himself why the horse was hobbled in the middle of the paddock. Of course it was his job to oversee his stable. Did the constable wish to see his well-kept barn? The horses worked six days each week, they hauled one hundred thousand board feet of white pine down a road of ice every day, and there wasn’t a cracked hoof among the dozen of them, not a single harness gall or skin sore to show for their labor.

When the constable pressed him, and when Jacque finally understood the tone of incrimination, he wasted no time indicting the watch salesman Smith, whose own horse was footsore and frostbit and readier for a pistol shot