Frozen Page 11

  Damn the ironing of sheets and table napkins anyway.

  I couldn’t make out the puzzle pieces, but without a doubt, Ennis and Mr. Worthington knew something about Mama’s death. But what exactly? Would I be haunted forever with wondering, but never know?

  My mind drifted, plagued with questions. My stomach rolled with a strange wave of nausea. I wanted to sleep and stop thinking, but the minutes turned to hours. I rolled and turned until thunder rumbled with the beat of Ojibwa drums. Lightning cracked overhead and flooded the world beyond my curtained window with white. In the next moment, the sky unleashed a torrent of rain, and I jumped up, flung the damp curtains wide, and pulled my window shut.

  I listened as rain pelted my window and the tiny village of Ranier—the village that held so many secrets.

  Chapter 17

  I woke to the Worthingtons arguing in their bedroom next to mine. The sun wasn’t quite up yet. I wondered if they’d stayed up all night. Words floated in and out of hearing range. I left my bedcovers, tiptoed across my floor, and pressed my ear against the wall.

  “I’m afraid she’s become a liability,” said Mr. Worthington.

  “Walter, she’s like a daughter,” Mrs. Worthington replied, her voice cracking. “You just can’t do this to me. You can’t just send her away like this.”

  His voice grew quieter, and I struggled to make out his words. “Izzy . . . an orphan . . . warned you from the start not to get too attached . . . a temporary situation . . .”

  “But Walter—” She stopped crying for a moment and raised her voice. “It’s Ennis, isn’t it? You two talking late into the night. He plants so many ideas in your head, Walt, that sometimes I wonder if you think for yourself anymore. It’s E. W. this and E. W. that! You’re a senator now. I want to know for a change, what does Walter Worthington think?”

  “I’ll pretend, Elizabeth,” he replied, his tone ice cold, “that I didn’t hear you say that last bit. We owe him a great deal, and you know it. You think your social circles would be what they are—”

  “Oh, Walt, I just want you to consider . . . Please, Walt, don’t walk away.”

  Their bedroom door opened and closed. Mr. Worthington’s footsteps sounded down the stairs. The entry door shut behind him. With a crank and a rumble, the Model-T started up. I glanced out my window as Mr. Worthington drove off.

  A dullness settled in my bones. If I stayed to find out their plans, I would be subject to their choices for me—dismal plans, with the Faribault orphanage at the worst, or at best, a boarding school—and in any case, a situation in which I would have little say or freedom until I reached eighteen. I thought again of Victor and Trinity—even Owen—and how they seemed to choose the lives they wanted, despite whatever constraints they were born into. But I had choices, too.

  I just hadn’t realized it—until now.

  I didn’t want to wait around to see which train the Worthingtons would put me on. Rather than be sent away, I would rather leave on my own. If things turned out poorly, then I would have no one to blame but myself.

  But where would I go?

  And how would I get there?

  The small wooden chest on my dresser contained all the money I possessed. I emptied it on my bed. Four dollars and sixty-five cents. A train ride to St. Paul cost at least $5.20. I would have enough for a few meals, if I was lucky. I would have to find work of some kind. Any kind.

  With a determination I’d never felt before, I made a quick inventory of what I would need to take with me. My traveling satchel, a floral carpetbag large enough to hold a week’s worth of clothing, lay on the top shelf of my armoire. I pulled it down and started packing undergarments, comfortable dresses, two skirts, a few blouses and sweaters, comfortable shoes, and a new green wool swimsuit I had not yet worn. Mrs. Worthington had insisted I buy one in May before we left from St. Paul for the cottage. In the middle of it all, I tucked the photographs I’d found. I left enough room in my bag to add a few books, my knitting, and a small stack of sheet music.

  My clock’s hands stood at 5:35 a.m. I still had time to catch the 6 a.m. steamer to somewhere—anywhere on the lake. Instantly I knew. The Kettle Falls Hotel, of course. It was remote, held work possibilities, and might possibly give me some answers. And I had enough money for boat fare.

  I wanted to say good-bye to Mrs. Worthington, and to Aasta and Hans, but I didn’t dare. Better to simply leave a note. I wrote neatly—and stretched the truth—and left the pink stationery folded at my bedside table:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Worthington,

  I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to me over so many years. But now that I am sixteen, I feel ready to set off on my own. I have employment arranged and must start immediately in Duluth.

  Most gratefully and respectfully yours,

  Sadie Rose

  I turned my bedroom handle and waited at my threshold for Mrs. Worthington’s door to open. But there wasn’t a stir in her bedroom. On the landing, I carefully avoided the creakiest steps.

  My slate board lay on top of the desk in the living room. I stared at it, wondering. If I brought it with me, I would be tempted to use it, to fall back on it for security. I lifted it, as if weighing it. Then I set it down.

  Before Mrs. Worthington stirred—she must have dozed off—and before the Johannsens arrived to begin their work, I raided the kitchen for bread, sausage, milk, and cheese.

  As I slipped out the porch door, I interrupted a beaver’s peaceful cruise of the bay. At my intrusion, he cracked his flat leathery tail against the water—whack—and dove defiantly away. I rounded the cottage and made my way to the road.

  The village was just stirring as I neared the landing and the Emma Louise, her engine idling. Head high, shoulders back, I pretended I had already been hired on at the Kettle Falls Hotel. Though the morning was still and already turning muggy, with a haze above the water, I carried my traveling coat in the crook of my arm. I knew how quickly the weather could turn cold and didn’t want to be without it. And I had no extra room for it in my satchel.

  “Excuse me,” I said, tapping a young towheaded deckhand with a missing front tooth. “Will this boat get to Kettle Falls today?”

  “Hop on,” he said, unaware that speech was anything out of the ordinary for me. “Won’t get there ’til late afternoon. But we get quite a few customers who like to stay at the hotel pretty regular like.”

  I climbed aboard, paid forty-five cents for a ticket, and found a seat on the lower decks. Until the steamer pushed off, I avoided eye contact with any other passengers, a wide assortment of common men and women, a handful of children, and an upper tier of tourists and businessmen. I held my breath, hoping that the Worthingtons would not appear in their Model T and demand that I climb off the boat. Once they found my bedroom empty, Mr. Worthington would brush his hands together with an “all for the best.” Mrs. Worthington would cry but soon make her husband’s sentiments her own.

  As the steamer picked up speed through the channel, I exhaled and let my shoulders relax. I almost wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t on my way to Duluth, nor did I have employment yet. But by leaving the note of mistruths, I hoped they would not bother trying to find me. If I’d said Kettle Falls, I feared Mr. Worthington would come for me and retrieve me—out of duty—only to ship me off elsewhere. So a little stretching of the truth seemed for the best.

  The water route became familiar with stops at lodges and protected harbors, traversing a large bay between Falcon Island and stopping at Red Stone again. When the boat pulled near the Red Stone Island docks, I left my knitting on my bench and turned below to use the head. I closed the door and locked it. I didn’t want anyone at Red Stone to recognize me. Below, in the belly of the steamer, the combined smells of fuel and the bathroom made my stomach queasy, but I stayed below until the engine reversed and
we were under way again. When I feared I was getting seasick, I stepped out past crates and barrels and climbed up the ladder to the deck, grateful for fresh air.

  As the steamer headed beyond E. W. Ennis’s island, my mind turned to my late-night encounter. Why were they so concerned about what I remembered from more than a decade ago? What were they hiding? I didn’t have any answers but was certain it had something to do with Mama.

  By midday I’d eaten half the white cheese and sausage and bread. My bottle of milk was warming as the day heated, and rather than wait for it to sour, I finished it to the last drop. As the steamer covered mile after mile, I was reminded of the man behind the scarred and logged shorelines.

  From International Falls and Ranier to Kettle Falls, E. W. Ennis—King Ed—harnessed the power of the flowing waterways to his world-renowned paper mill. Said he was one of the wealthiest men in America. Rumors said he might be worth $100 million. It was unthinkable that someone like Victor Guttenberg could stop the plans of such a powerful lumber giant. King Ed did what he wanted; he got what he wanted. He controlled everything and everybody. I wasn’t truly heading out on my own. I was merely heading to another end of the kingdom. After all, Ennis owned the dam at Kettle Falls, too. If I’d been thinking, I should have found a way to buy a ticket to Duluth, or Chicago, or San Francisco—somewhere far beyond his reach.

  The steamer cut through water as it traveled through Brule Narrows, zigzagging between shallow reefs and boulders. A wooden fishing boat puttered by with two men and two women, who waved.

  Uncharacteristically calm, the lake stayed glassy until early afternoon, when a light breeze fluttered, helping to keep the black flies away from my ankles, which they bit, despite my cotton socks above my boot tops.

  An unshaven man with reeking body odor sat too close beside me. I scooted away a few inches. “Hi, young lady,” he mumbled, alcohol reeking from his mouth and skin. “Going to Kettle Falls?”

  I nodded, glancing his way at his yellowed teeth and hand missing two fingers.

  He held up his hand, for closer inspection on my part. “Logging accident. Happens all the time. I was lucky. Could have lost the whole arm. I got by with just a couple o’ fingers lopped off.” Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. “But now I get some time off—and I’m going to have a good ole time! Join me.” He tucked his money away and pulled a flask out from his jacket, offering it to me. “Wanna nip?”

  I shook my head and looked away.

  Finally, he got my message, tipped his mildew-scented cap, stood up, and ambled toward the stern. I half expected him to fall overboard, but he managed to stay upright.

  I got up, left my bag and knitting under the bench, and walked to the bow to watch. Between two peninsulas, a bald eagle swooped from the bare top branches of a red pine, dropped toward the water, talons and legs outstretched, then lifted—without its catch of fish—and flapped slowly before landing on the other side of the channel.

  In the distance, a rumbling sound grew. At first I thought a storm was brewing and thunder booming in the distance, but the noise grew steadily louder as the steamer slowed around a bend. Trapper shacks and small log cabins appeared, plus a scattering of Ojibwa teepees. A few children watched the boat go by and waved. I waved back.

  And then, the roar from the dam became deafening, as water poured from Namakan Lake and into Rainy Lake. I gripped the railing, inhaling air thick with vapor as it thundered toward us from the twenty-foot drop. Water cascaded powerfully over immense concrete and rock walls, billowing white as it fell. Water swirled and rushed headlong toward the steamer, which the captain steered away toward the sheltering cliff and harbor.

  Aiming for one of three long docks, the steamer reversed its engines to slow its speed, then eased closer, deckhands ready, tossing ropes and shouts of greeting. The dock boy hurried toward me and began to loosen the nearest line.

  I tried to calm my nerves. I’d felt determined when I stepped on the boat, but as I scanned the remote community at Kettle Falls, my confidence dwindled.

  Stacks of empty wooden crates labeled burbot, sturgeon, and whitefish waited to be filled. Fishing boats lined the docks where a crowd waited: lumberjacks in plaid shirts and suspenders, businessmen in fedoras, and Native women displaying beadwork belts and pendants. On a rocky point, two women with their skirts hiked to their bare knees dangled their feet in the water. So much like the photo of Mama.

  The shoreline was rutted and pockmarked with horse hooves, wagon wheels, and footprints. Clear-cut forest stretched from the harbor area up to the distant Kettle Falls Hotel, a long, two-story white building. I sucked in a deep breath.

  I hoped they had a job for me—or I would have to take the return voyage back in one short hour. Satchel in hand, I headed up the boardwalk.

  “Why, hello, hello!” a man old enough to be my father sang out as I passed by. I fixed my gaze on the boardwalk, which extended from the harbor a quarter-mile to the hotel. Behind it, a wall of rock and a few spared pines separated the hotel from miles of wilderness. Lowland on either side of the walkway gave way to cattails, wild violets, leafy ferns, and deep mud.

  Another group of men, some with shirts, a few without, jostled one another near the hotel steps, studying a map.

  For a brief second, I expected one of them to offer to carry in my luggage for me. But before waiting—as Mrs. Worthington may have done—I hoisted my satchel and my courage, and started up the ten steps to the hotel’s wraparound porch and lobby.

  One of the young men said as I passed, “Betcha she’s a new girl here. Fresh outta the oven.”

  I winced, kept my eyes on the steps, and headed inside the Kettle Falls Hotel.

  Chapter 18

  Satchel in hand, I stepped into the sweet tobacco-scented hotel parlor. At my left, a black bear rug hung above two red velvet sofas, a wooden rocker, and an overstuffed leather chair. Behind the glass display case and counter, a bulky woman set down her silver pipe. Her auburn hair was piled high and ringlets fell, softening her sturdy features. “Miss, do I know you?”

  Her shoulders and hands were built for heavy work, and yet her midnight blue blouse was femininely ruffled and cut to reveal wrinkled cleavage. She was heavier than I remembered, yet under her commanding owl eyebrows her eyes were the same. Stern and kind. Just as when I had been a child, my wariness mingled with pleasure at seeing her. But my caution won out. I couldn’t tell her who I was. If she realized I was connected with the Worthingtons, she might send me packing.

  I willed my voice to work. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  From somewhere behind me, a woman cleared her throat in a singsong fashion. I twisted around. From halfway down the staircase, a woman of no more than twenty wearing a stylishly short nightgown leaned over the railing. “Darla, I’m sorry, but he won’t wake up. He’s not dead, I know, because he’s snoring.”

  “I’ll send Howie right up. And, Linnea,” Darla said, her tone stern, “get dressed before coming down those stairs. This is a hotel, understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Darla held up her finger to me. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Seeing Darla unnerved me. I should have hopped the train to Duluth. If it turned out that Darla had work for me, I’d stay long enough to earn a railway ticket from Ranier to anywhere at least three hundred miles away. And yet where else could I learn more about Mama? I needed to stay long enough to know what really happened to her.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a couple standing beside suitcases on the screen porch, drinks in hand—so similar in appearance to the Worthingtons—top hat and suit coat, heels and parasol.

  While I waited for Darla to return, I took in more details: smoking stands, a round coffee table covered with newspapers and magazines, a set of fine china teacups on a shelf. Through an open doorway to my rig
ht was the restaurant. Red gingham-checked oilcloths covered the tables. At one, a man read a newspaper, but the restaurant was otherwise empty.

  Beyond, swinging doors opened to the kitchen as a narrow-shouldered waitress came out with a tray of food. She was close to my age, which gave me hope of a job. Her button nose, ivory skin, and narrow shoulders seemed mismatched with her extrawide hips.

  “Oh, that’s Juju,” Darla said, returning through the door behind the counter. “She’s a real hard worker.” Then she looked beyond me. “Oh, excuse me. I thought you were someone else. May I help you folks?”

  I stepped aside, as if perusing the contents of the glass case.

  “Just in from Minneapolis,” the man said. “We’ll be here for a few days of fishing, which I wrote to you about earlier. I’ll want to ship crates of fish back to my restaurant before leaving.”

  “Of course,” Darla said, pulling out a large ledger. “If you’ll sign the guest book. I assume you’re, um . . . Abernackey?” She ran her finger down a list. “Mr. and—”

  The man answered, “Missus.” At the word, the woman at his side giggled.

  He set his tumbler with ice cubes and strong-smelling whiskey on the counter. I marveled at the luxury of ice, here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe these visitors took it for granted, but I knew that to get ice here, it would have been cut from the lake last winter, hauled out in blocks by a horse or mule, and stored in an icehouse under piles of sawdust, the old-fashioned way. I remembered, being held in someone’s arms, watching this once long ago.

  The display case brimmed with carved pipes and tobacco, caramels and hard candies, cigarettes, Indian beadwork and leatherwork, postcards, an assortment of magazines, medicines, combs, brushes, toothbrushes, small containers of shampoo, liniment, and face cream.

  While I pretended to be interested in such items, Darla explained to the guests, “Breakfast is served between seven and nine, lunch between eleven and two, and dinner between five and eight. The bar,” she said, pointing beyond the parlor, “is open around the clock. For those who desire more serious late-night cards and such, we have a party house behind the hotel, to contain the noise a bit so guests can sleep.”