The Lighthouse Road(10)

"What's a studio?"

"A place to take pictures. I hope you'll be a good subject."

"I can't imagine it'll be too hard to have my picture taken."

No doubt she had her charms. "I suppose not!" he said.

Six hours after they left St. Paul the conductor came through to announce their arrival in Duluth.



"We're nearly there," Hosea said. "Are you excited?"



"It's been a real fun time so far," she said, her childishness blooming.



" There are a few more things, Ava. Important things."



"Okay."



"I want people to believe you're older than thirteen."



"All right."



He smiled, looked her up and down in the seat across from him. "You've certainly got the figure of a young woman."



She didn't even blush.



"And though you've a beautiful name, I think I'd like to call you Rebekah instead. It was the name my poor lost wife had always intended for a daughter. From this moment forward, you'll be Rebekah Marie Grimm."



"Rebekah," she repeated. "Rebekah. Rebekah." The name put a smile on her face. "A new dress," she said, smoothing the pleats of her gingham gown. "And a new name. Here in Minnesota. I'm all new." She looked up at him. "Rebekah it is. Father." She flashed a knowing grin. "Rebekah Marie Grimm."





IV.





(July 1920)





When he woke at noon the pillow still held the imprint of her head, still clung to the scent of her hair. The air in the fish house could have been bottled, it was so heavy. Still lying on his bunk, Odd rolled a cigarette and set it between his lips. He paused before lighting it, knowing the smoke would erase the lingering scent of her, wanting it to linger longer. So instead he reached over and brought the boat carving back. He sighted the boat's bottom with his good eye, tried to convince himself that the keel and skeg could be fashioned the way he thought. It was there to be seen, even with only one eye.



The first notion of a boat had come to him the summer before, as he'd whittled a piece of driftwood into a gently curved keel. He did it without the least intention, but when he was finished he held it before him, sighting it with his good eye as if he'd just aligned every crooked thought he'd ever had. A couple weeks later, while he was cutting and splitting firewood, he left a five-foot length of birch on the sawhorse while he ate lunch. When he came back he saw the birch log as the next version of the keel scale and spent a week at it with his crosscut saw and adze, then his gouges and chisels, and finally a sanding block. It was then he knew with all the certainty he possessed that he would be his own keelmaker.



He rose now, finally lit his cigarette, and went to the window. He knew it was time to get to work.



The cupboard was empty but for a can of coffee and two jars of soused herring, the heel of the loaf of brown bread. There was an apple on the windowsill. He thought of making coffee but remembered he'd filled the teakettle with whiskey the night before. This goddamned life of mine, he thought, taking the apple from the windowsill and wiping it on his drawers.



He ate the apple as he walked to the shore, a towel over his shoulder, a bar of soap in his hand. The apple was tart and hard and grown in a place unsuited for apples. But he ate it anyway, his face puckering with each bite. When he got to the shore he threw the apple core into the lake.



The water in the cove had warmed some with the week of hot weather, but the night before the rollicking seas had brought in more of the cold water, and when he stepped into the lake beneath the boat slide the chill felt electric. Outside the cove he could see the big waters had slowed, had almost synchronized with the dying wind. The rollers came weakly and slow now, like a herring's last few gill flaps in the bottom of his skiff.



He washed quickly and toweled off and went back into the fish house to shave, which he did with his straight blade after honing it on the strap he had tacked into the counter. There was a small mirror hanging beside the window and he watched himself as he shaved. The lines in his brow led to it like streams to a shaded pond. Only twenty-three years old and already he had a face like a map. He could have passed for a man twice his age, even with his youthful grin and fine full hair.



Before taking his hidden trail to town, he checked on the whiskey. It sat as the night before among the rocks in the cove. He'd stashed it there in the past and was fine leaving it until nightfall. If not for that census taker, he could load it onto the bed of the pickup right now. Lord knows Mayfair didn't give a damn about a few barrels of whiskey; he imbibed himself. But the rumors of feds masquerading as civil servants were rampant in the Minnesota wilds, and this fellow up from St. Paul was as fishy as a jar of roe.