The Lighthouse Road(41)

XIII.





(November 1920)





The snow had stopped but for those drifting flakes that rose as much as fell, and the silver light of the headlamps caught the flurries' glimmer. The trail was cut for dogsleds, not pickup trucks, but it was the only way to the wigwam village. So Odd drove slowly, the soft boughs of the spruce trees sweeping the canvas canopy that covered the cab.



Rebekah sat next to him. He could see she was tired but couldn't judge whether the exhaustion on her face was masking happiness or dread. He wished like hell he knew. She hadn't said much since midnight, even with all there was to discuss.



"Danny's gonna be rightly peeved, me showing up like this," Odd said.



"Hmm."



Odd looked at her. " Every hour counts now, Rebekah."



She reached up and touched his whiskered face with her cold fingertips.



Odd grabbed her hand and kissed it.



The wigwam village was more properly a town unto itself those days. The wigwams themselves had become squat cabins with horse barns beside the smokehouses and woodsheds. There were bicycles leaning against some of the cabins, a motorcycle and sidecar outside Danny's folks' place. Danny had his own cabin, and smoke streamed from the tin chimney. Odd stopped the truck and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.



"In two days I'm gonna have that boat floating in the water. We're going to leave Sunday morning, before the sun. Come hell or high water, we're gone. You understand? Pack whatever you need. Dress warm. As warm as you can. Danny will be out back of Grimm's to help you with your bags. I'll be at the end of the Lighthouse Road. We'll be free." He reached for her hand and held it tight. "Just you and me. Okay?"



She nodded, said nothing.



Now he reached up and caressed her face. "Sit tight for a minute, all right? I'm gonna rouse Danny."



Rebekah buried her hands in her lynx muff and lowered her chin into the collar of her cape.



Danny's cabin made Odd's fish house seem opulent. It was dug into a hill with a low ceiling, plank walls and floors, just enough room for his traps and hunting gear and a bunk. He warmed it with a woodstove that, as Odd entered, was glowing. Danny had heard the truck pull up and was already out of bed, standing there in his long johns, wiping the sleep from his eyes, a lantern lit at his bedside. "Christ, it's early," he said.



"I need help," Odd said.



Without pause Danny was sliding into his dungarees, into his chamois shirt and wool socks. As he sat on his bunk to lace his boots, Danny said, "You got a mind to tell me more?"



Odd had rolled a cigarette and he lit it and offered it to Danny. He started rolling one for himself, said, "I gotta get the motor on the boat."



Danny looked up. "At six o'clock in the morning?"

Odd lit his own cigarette. "It's Rebekah."

"What's Rebekah got to do with the boat?"

"We're gone, Danny."

"You're gone?" He nodded, arched his eyebrows. "This ain't the best time of year to set sail."



"I know that."



Danny tied his second boot and stood up. He took his coat from a hook on the wall and put it on and said, "All right. Let's get the motor."



They stepped outside and Danny threw the latch on the cabin door, then climbed onto the bed of the truck.



By the time they got to Grimm's the first sign of day was up on the eastern horizon. Odd parked behind the apothecary and Danny jumped out. Odd grabbed Rebekah's arm before she could do the same.



"Are you okay?" he asked.



"No."



"What's wrong?"



"I'm scared and confused. I've seen enough women deliver their babies to know to be scared."



"But you've seen enough to know it usually turns out all right."



"Usually," she said. She bit her lip. "It's not just the baby, Odd. It's leaving all this." She gestured up at the apothecary, out at the town. "I've lived here for twenty-five years. This is home. There's Hosea."



He took a deep breath, squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "We're done with him now. We don't need him. I'll take care of you. You and our baby." He put his hand to her face, caressed it gently. "You're going to be there on Sunday morning."



She turned her head slowly and looked at him. There was just enough morning light that she could see the wet in his good eye, could see the hard, cold, empty stare of his glass eye. She was grateful for that look, relieved that somewhere in her own fraying thoughts a voice told her yes. So she said, "Of course I am." And then she slid from the truck and walked in the back door of the apothecary.