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  I shot Victor a glance. I hadn’t given him permission to show them to the rest of the world.

  “Come here,” Margaret said. “Sit down at the table.” She turned to the cookstove and returned with a water-filled pan that held small bowls of golden custard. “So, your father . . . ,” she continued, setting the pan on the counter, and then turning to me.

  I sat up straighter, expecting she knew more about my real father.

  “He’s up for reelection again in November, yes?”

  Disappointed, I nodded, hands fidgeting in my lap. “Yes.” Across from me at the kitchen table, Owen bumped his knees into mine.

  “And how do you like being the senator’s daughter?” Margaret Guttenberg continued.

  I shrugged. “I’m not really his—”

  Margaret wagged her finger. “No, I realize that. But they have taken you in, so you are as much a daughter as the Worthingtons will ever have. That’s beside the point.”

  I pressed my spine against the wooden slats of my chair. That Victor’s mother knew even this much startled me. Did everyone in Ranier, whether they were lake visitors or locals, know more than I did about my life? These flitting memories I’d been having, were they nothing more than the remnants of gossip everyone shared in the shadows? Even Mrs. Worthington whispered incessantly to others about my past.

  “There’s every reason to think Mr. Worthington will win,” Trinity said. “I mean, as long as he has the backing of Ennis, how could he lose?”

  “I thought this was a democracy . . .” Victor lit the bowl of a carved wooden pipe, then shook the burning matchstick. “. . . where every vote counts.”

  “Oh that’s true, unless you’re a woman,” Trinity said. “But back East, votes always follow the money. That’s just how it is. At least spending summers here means I don’t have to play those high-society games. Who knows whom. Which families I should associate with and all that. It’s enough to drive a sane person to drink—” Trinity flashed a wink and a smile at Owen. “Coffee!”

  When Owen raised his eyebrows in return, I felt an unexpected stab of jealousy.

  With the whine of a giant mosquito, another boat approached the island, rounding the point and slowing as it entered the harbor.

  “Wonder who’s coming?” Margaret asked. She looked to me. “You would be surprised how many visitors we host on this island. It’s time to put up another cabin or two to host guests. Victor,” she said, “go meet them.”

  Victor jumped up from his rocking chair, trotted across the braided rug and wooden floor, and slipped out the cabin’s screen door.

  Margaret turned to Owen and Trinity. “Don’t get Victor going on the election process. He’s all worked up lately as it is, and I know he’ll try to put a stop to Mr. Worthington’s reelection, if he can. There’s nothing I can say, either, to—” Then she drilled her gaze on me. “Now don’t you go repeating any of this to your father. It will not lead to anything good.”

  Mr. Worthington, I wanted to say. Not my father. But I let it pass.

  A loon called in the distance. Its low notes filled my chest, matching the ache I couldn’t seem to shake, then its song climbed high and floated in three distinct calls.

  Mr. Worthington’s reelection had always seemed a simple thing. Of course he’d continue on as a senator. E. W. Ennis always made it sound inevitable. He’d “carry the concerns of all Minnesotans through these turbulent times,” and he was “A Man for All People.” Those were a few tried-and-true campaign slogans.

  Owen cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t believe the talk in Ranier,” he said. “If I were Victor, I’d lay low before the election. Lots of folks think he’s just stirring up trouble. I mean, I think Victor is a good fellow, but he didn’t grow up here. He doesn’t know how things can be . . . ”

  I thought of the men who’d met Mr. Worthington at the train.

  Margaret interjected, “True, Victor did not grow up here, but he is not without his own influence. He is well connected with others outside the region who share his concerns, from scientists and authors to—”

  The screen door swung wide. On Victor’s heels came the familiar voice and white-haired head of Hans. “Vel,” he said, his eyes falling heavily on me as he stepped in. “Aasta thought you might be here. I said, no, how she ever going to get so far in the rowboat? She is mad as the hornet. She finds your long hair in garbage. And then you are gone. Worthingtons—they are not happy, believe you me.”

  I stood to greet him and smoothed my skirt. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I—”

  Margaret butted in. “Hans, stay a few minutes for custard, fresh from the oven.”

  He stayed long enough for coffee and two helpings of custard, and in the conversation, I learned that he’d done carpentry work on Falcon Island, as well as dock repair and stonework at Baird’s Island. I shouldn’t have been surprised, since Hans worked only part-time for the Worthingtons in the summer.

  “And did you all know,” Margaret said to everyone with a sweep of her arm, “that Hans should be our spokesman for the Suffrage movement?”

  I wanted to laugh out loud. My caretaker friend, Hans?

  He pushed back from the table and shook his head, but his eyes were shining.

  “Go on, tell them what you told me about women in Norway,” Margaret urged, hands on her hips.

  “Oh, not much. I just say that in Norway, for years and years, women own property and for ten years already, they have the vote.”

  Margaret nodded. “See? Only when ordinary people speak up and demand their rights do things change.”

  In America, the struggle for power, to hold and keep power, and keep it from others, seemed to be everywhere. Even on Rainy Lake, I was quickly coming to understand, those who held power were not eager to part with it.

  I wanted to stay, to join in the discussion of important issues, as well as to tease out from Margaret whatever she might know about my real mother and father. Instead, Hans said, “Getting late.”

  It was pressing into evening, and shadows fell long across the island as I stood on the dock. I watched as Owen pushed his boat away from the dock first, doffed his cap at me, and then started his motor. A plume of blue smoke coiled behind him as he motored between the steep rock sides of the harbor. When he emerged into the open water, he throttled up and disappeared from view.

  “Is the boy something special, then?” Hans asked, motioning me to climb aboard the cruiser.

  “No,” I replied, with a firm shake of my head. “No.” Though I couldn’t deny a curious thrumming in my chest.

  We towed the rowboat as Hans steered our cruiser beyond a cluster of islands—some with a few scraggly pines, most cut down to stumps. Green saplings of aspen sprouted up over the clear-cuts. Rather than following a straight trajectory back to Ranier, however, Hans drifted into the middle of a quiet bay and cut the motor.

  “What?” I asked, turning around. Was I going to get a scolding from Hans? He didn’t need to bother, as I would surely get a thorough reprimand from the Worthingtons.

  He rummaged around by his feet, pulled out a wicker basket, and placed it on the seat between us. “Supper,” he said. “While we fish.”

  “Fish? But I thought you were angry with me.”

  He grinned. “Aasta packed us the food, so don’t complain. Maybe I am still out looking for you.”

  And that was the end of it. As we floated, we ate pickled herring, slabs of leftover roast beef, hardtack, and sugar cookies. And then Hans readied our fishing rods with earthworms from his bait box.

  Time passed. Hans focused on his fishing line and the red-and-white bobber, floating quietly. He waited patiently for the first nibble on the earthworm, which took until the sun neared the horizon. I had a few nibbles, but nothing serious enough to jerk up my line.

  “Han
s,” I said.

  “Ya?”

  “How much trouble will I be in?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Sadie, I lost my daughter once. I was so scared, I promise myself if I ever find her, I never let her out of sight again. The Worthingtons worry mighty for you. You don’t talk for years, then you start. You go off and they don’t know where. They’re mad with you, but they will be more happy to have you back again. And I—” He reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Vel, don’t worry too much.”

  “Thank you, Hans.” It was easy for him. He only worked for the Worthingtons. They weren’t his only family. But they could ship me off to someone as farm help. Or maybe to the orphanage in Faribault, where runaways were rumored to be chained to their beds. The Worthingtons could do anything they wanted with me, including turning me out on the street.

  But perhaps worst of all, they could act as if nothing had changed at all. They could act as if everything was the same, as if the only thing that mattered in the whole world was the upcoming election a few months away.

  The sun streamed through the pine tops, casting a thousand shades of red and orange across the water.

  “Time we go then.” Hans put away our fishing rods, started the cruiser, and we continued back.

  The evening breeze cooled my face as the boat raced back toward the descending fireball. To keep from being blinded, I kept glancing to my left at the cabins on the south shore or to the right and the waters that stretched into Canada.

  Though the sun hadn’t yet set, the moon found its place in the sky, if faintly. It hung like a Christmas ornament, dangling like an orange slice from a branch. I remembered that first Christmas without Mama. The Worthingtons had decorated a tree that reached the ceiling with sugared orange slices and tiny silver bows. The rocking horse beneath the tree was for me, with a black mane and tail, glass eyes, and a red saddle painted on its back. I’d rocked, yes, on the horse. But it only reminded me then that my real wish hadn’t come true. It would never come true. I would never have my mama back again.

  When we drew close to the Worthingtons’ dock, Hans cut the motor and we glided in silently. It was near ten or later. The neighboring house lights were dimmed, but the Worthingtons’ porch and living room lights glowed as if they were having a party.

  On the screen porch, two men stood talking, their cigars glowing with pinpoint embers. One was the towering frame of E. W. Ennis, hands gesturing as he talked, and the shorter, yet equally commanding figure was Walter Worthington.

  Waiting for my return.

  Chapter 16

  The night had turned chilly, and I hoped Hans and I could round the house and enter through the kitchen without being noticed.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Mr. Worthington called as we neared the porch. He swung open the porch door, as if in a wide-armed welcome, but his tone was anything but warm. “Hans, you can go on home. Thank you for returning our girl.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hans said, with a slight nod. “Sadie Rose is a good girl.”

  I shot him a glance, wondering what that was supposed to mean. I guessed he was trying to sweeten Mr. Worthington into not being too harsh with me. “I had to stay and try Margaret Guttenberg’s custard. Talked me into staying for a visit, too. No harm done, far as I can see, Mr. Worthington. Kids need to be kids, same here as in Nor—”

  “So you found her at Falcon Island, then?” Mr. Worthington pressed.

  I stepped into the swirling thick cigar smoke, avoiding his scowl.

  “Never can trust a German,” Ennis called out as Hans walked off. “Sure that Margaret didn’t poison you?”

  “If that custard was poison,” Hans said, “I’m going back for more.”

  Margaret and Victor Guttenberg were hardly the type to bring down our country for the sake of Germany. Ennis may have meant it as a joke, but it didn’t strike me as a bit funny. Ever since the Great War against Germany, people acted cautious around anyone of German ancestry. That seemed about as ridiculous as worrying that Hans and Aasta might have ties to the Vikings.

  I stood awkwardly, my bundled sweater wedged between my elbow and side.

  The floral globe lamps glowed.

  “Sadie Rose,” E. W. Ennis intoned, “you’ve grown into such a young lady. And Walter tells me you’ve found your voice.” He sat back heavily in the wicker chair and crossed one leg over the other.

  I held my breath, waiting for Ennis to tell Mr. Worthington I’d been at Red Stone recently, too. He tilted sideways, holding his glass in his extended hand. Then he drew his cigar to his mouth, inhaled until the cigar tip flickered red, and released a waft of smoke. “A miracle.”

  “Sadie Rose,” Mr. Worthington said, “I’ve been concerned. My dear Elizabeth has been beside herself with worry. And so has our family friend, Mr. Ennis.”

  “I’ll go . . . upstairs,” I said, unclenching a hand from the side of my skirt. I willed my feet to move.

  “Yes, upstairs,” Mr. Worthington said, still standing and stepping sideways to block my path. “But first, I do believe an apology and explanation are in order.”

  “A-po-lo-gy.” I repeated. The word came out haltingly, as if my tongue were going to freeze up again and my will to speak would disappear.

  “No!” Mr. Worthington barked.

  I flinched at the sharp slap of his word.

  “You can’t pretend anymore, young lady, that you can’t speak!”

  “I . . . didn’t . . . pre . . . tend.”

  “You spoke clearly enough last night. And now what’s this? Like baby talk?”

  Mr. Ennis waved his drink. “Walter, just ask her.”

  “Right,” Mr. Worthington replied. He inhaled sharply, as if he’d been working up to what he was going to say for years. “Sadie Rose,” he began, “sit.” He turned, walked to the end of the porch, and drew up another wicker chair for me.

  I hesitated, feeling cornered in an alley.

  “Sit, sit.”

  I wanted to escape, to have Aasta come and tell me it was time for my bath, as she had done when I was younger. But the rest of the house was quiet. Mrs. Worthington must have retired to her room early, with her glass of port and a book. Aasta was likely home already.

  I sat down, the chair seeming too small to hold me. My pulse pounded in my ears like a team of startled horses. I wedged my red sweater and bundled photos beside me, and then I placed my hands over the edge of my skirted knees.

  Ladylike.

  Waiting for what was to come.

  The train tracks were silent.

  Crickets sang outside, and somewhere distant a loon called.

  Mr. Worthington sat heavily, as if my very existence was a burden he could no longer bear, and then asked in almost a whisper. “What do you remember of your years before you came to live with us?”

  Mr. Ennis nodded, as if to encourage the flow of this conversation. He recrossed his legs and the fabric of his pants swished.

  “Some,” I said, thinking of the memories that had arisen of late. At first I thought they were imaginings, but now I saw there was a pattern. The more I remembered, the more memories arose within me and the more I recalled. Tidbits. Scenes. But memories, I was now sure. “Um . . .” I had to speak. If I didn’t, Mr. Worthington would get angry with me. “Not much . . . Mr. Worthington.”

  Mr. Ennis pressed, leaning closer. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke and cologne pinched my nose and twisted my stomach. “Are you certain? What of the place where you lived with your mother when you were little?”

  “The boardinghouse?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s it, Sadie dear.” Mr. Worthington said. “See, you must remember something of that time. Try hard. What do you remember?”

  I stepped into Mama’s leather lace-ups . . . and stumbled out the
back door and down the steps . . . following footprints that the wind quickly erased.

  I lied. “Nothing.”

  They both nodded, approvingly.

  “What about anyone who came and went from there?” Mr. Worthington asked, his voice growing thinner, as if squeezed in a vice. “Conversations, perhaps? Certainly you must remember something.”

  I shook my head. “I was young. I don’t—” This wasn’t the discussion I’d expected. Scoldings for leaving the house and cavorting again with Victor Guttenberg, yes, but not this. Hadn’t I been a thorny embarrassment to the Worthingtons over the years? Why did Mr. Worthington and Mr. Ennis want to dredge up the past now?

  I kept my eyes on my lap, then forced myself to look up. Mr. Ennis was studying me, as if I were sitting on trial for a crime, and waited for me to confess.

  “Sorry. I don’t remember anything.” I stood up. “Mr. Worthington,” I said, my voice wavering with emotion, “I’m tired. May I—please—be excused?”

  He stayed me with his hand on mine, then squeezed. “If anything comes to mind,” he said, “do let me know.”

  Of course I understood. Hadn’t he drilled it into me well that appearances were everything? The fall election must already weigh on him to be worried about my sordid beginnings. “Yes, Mr. Worthington.”

  Then resisting the urge to bolt, I stepped through to the living room and made my way upstairs to my bedroom. With my foot on the first step, I caught a few words.

  “I told you she doesn’t remember anything,” Mr. Worthington whispered.

  “Let’s hope,” Mr. Ennis replied. “I wouldn’t want you to forget whose platter your position rests on.”

  Step by step, I headed upstairs, hand on the railing, until I came to my room. I closed the door, locked it, and inhaled the darkness, drawing air down to the deepest reaches of my lungs. As if breathing with me, the night pulled the eyelet curtains in toward the screen window, then let them loose again. A night breeze usually signaled a storm ahead.

  Without changing, I flopped back on my bed. I stared upward. Tears rolled down the sides of my face. I let them fall, not bothering if my pillowcase grew wet. Or rumpled. Or in need of a second ironing.