an indelible stink and stickiness on his fingers but one he took seriously and performed with a kind of manic attention. Aside from the sealing work Odd also bent boards, did some finishing, and found himself learning things he wished he’d known when he’d built his own boat.
Sargent had customers all across the Great Lakes, with backorders enough to fill a year of work. He could have added another shift, in fact, but preferred to oversee the building of every boat himself. Each morning he met with his crew before manning the storefront chandlery and setting to work on his accounts. Even still, he passed through the workroom every hour, inspecting and praising the work being done.
They gathered around a table in the back of the shop at noon, where Sargent said a blessing before they all ate in silence. Most of the crew at the boatwright’s had been eight or ten years in Sargent’s employ. They were a hardworking and earnest bunch of men, not given to much conversation. After lunch, however, as they stepped outside for a smoke, Sargent would pass among them, asking after their families in a hushed voice that belied his fierce eyes. But for Odd they were all family men and churchgoers. Between the two subjects and their common vocation they had fodder enough to chat for the length of time it took to smoke their cigarettes.
On Christmas Eve, after a busy week, when half the crew had taken the day off, Sargent found Odd after lunch. Sargent lit his pipe, offered Odd the match.
“How will you and Missus Eide be spending the holiday, Odd?”
Odd, remembering those lonely Christmases at Grimm’s, said, “I suppose Rebekah will cook up a feast. After dinner we’ll sip some of that apple wine you gave us and sing a few carols. How about yourself?”
Sargent turned his eyes into the light snowfall, a smile came to his face. “Ah! The boys will be on the train this evening. No doubt Mother’s got a feast of her own planned.” Now he looked at Odd. “Of course we’ll go to church. Wake to presents under the tree. Mother still spoils those boys rotten.”
“Where are your boys coming from?”
“They’re in college down in Minneapolis. Michael’s a senior, Jonathon a sophomore.”
Odd nodded, took a drag on his cigarette. Sargent looked south, his eyes faraway, as though he might see his boys boarding the train in Minneapolis.
“Sounds like a swell time,” Odd said.
“It’s my favorite time of the year,” Sargent confirmed.
They stood there smoking.
For all the thought Odd had given his own child, he’d not once imagined a Christmas morning with him. Perhaps it was because Christmas had always been the time of year when the pity from the townswomen was most tender and their dotting on their own children made him ache with envy. He felt the same tenderness from Sargent, and, more enchanted with him than ever, Odd said, “I reckon I’ll be spoiling my own child this time next year.”
Sargent’s head swiveled, his smile broadened. “Congratulations, my friend.”
“Thank you, Mister Sargent.”
“Mother will be so happy to hear your news.”
Odd returned Sargent’s smile. What he saw in that instant and knew with certainty was that here was an empathetic man, a selfless man. He was, Odd realized, a man to model his life after.
“Are you nervous, son?”
“I think Rebekah’s a bit nervous, but I’m pleased as punch.”
“Well, what better gift could she give you?”
“I know it.”
Sargent emptied his pipe bowl and looked again into the falling
snow. He took a deep breath, put his hand on Odd’s shoulder. “Not that you asked, but let me give you a piece of advice, Odd. Someday your child will be full of wants. What they’ll want more than anything, whether they know it or not, is for you to cherish them.” He squeezed Odd’s shoulder now. “I doubt you’ll have much trouble with that.” He took his hand from Odd’s shoulder, reached into his coat pocket, and removed a gift wrapped in Christmas paper. “This is from Mother and me. For you. And Rebekah. And your child now, I suppose. Merry Christmas, Odd.”
Odd held the gift. “Thank you. Thanks for everything.” He paused, looked between the gift in his hand and Harald Sargent.
“What is it?” Sargent said.
“I’ve been wondering, why were you at the boat club that first morning? I can’t quite parse it out.”
“Well, I’ve much business at the boat club.”
“At six o’clock in the morning? On a Sunday?”
“You ask as though you’re suspicious of me.”
“I ain’t suspicious, just curious.”
Sargent smiled. “The truth is, I was there to offer you this job. The boatyard custodian is a neighbor of mine. We met in the alleyway on Saturday night, putting the trash out. He told me about your boat, said I ought to see it. So I came to see it, and here we are.”
“Why’d he say that?”
“You’re not aware of what you’ve accomplished, are you? You don’t see the beauty in that vessel you built.”
“I see a cockpit. A little more room for fish boxes. A heavier keel in big water.”
“A heavier keel. Precisely.”
“You’re speaking in riddles, Mister Sargent.”
“There’s no riddle at all, Odd. You built something worth seeing.
I thought I’d take a look. The rest of it, the fact that we’ve become friends, that you’ve ended up here —” he knocked on the wooden wall of his shop —'that’s just the Lord working in strange ways.”
“Strange ways indeed,” Odd said.
“I’m just glad it worked out, son. Now, in honor of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, take the rest of the day off. I’m closing the shop early today.” Sargent took a step toward the shop door but stopped. He turned back to Odd. “And tell Rebekah I send my congratulations, will you?”
“I will. Thanks.”
What Odd found when he returned to their brownstone could have felled him. There was Rebekah, sitting on the davenport stringing popcorn, a short and misshapen Christmas tree standing in the window. He stood in the doorway, smiling, dumb, holding the packages he’d stopped to buy on the way home like some kind of working-class Saint Nick.
After a moment Rebekah stood and crossed the small apartment. “Hello. You’re home early.”
“Sargent closed shop for Christmas. What’s this?” Odd said, nodding his head at the Christmas tree.
“Mister Johnson walked down to the lot with me and carried it home. He helped me set it up. I bought the bulbs at the hardware store on the corner. Isn’t it nice?”
Odd stepped in, closed the door behind him. He kicked off his boots and walked across the parlor. He put the packages under the tree and turned and crossed the apartment again. He took Rebekah in his arms and held her for a long time.
When finally he let her go he said, “It’s perfect. And what’s that smell?” He turned his nose to the small kitchen on the other side of the flat.
Rebekah grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the tree. “That’s a surprise. Here —” she forced him to sit on the davenport—'help me with these popcorn strings.”
Odd picked up a threaded needle and started stringing the popcorn. He’d never had the sensation of being awake in a dream but he did now. He said as much.
Rebekah sighed and said, “I’ve been difficult.”
“Well, now.”
“One minute I’m happy, the next I’m—” She turned away, her eyes widened and then closed. She shook her head and looked back at Odd. “I’m terrified of the baby. Even more terrified that this is no life I want, much as I
Odd did not know what to say, or at least had no words to say what he wanted.
