Frozen Page 3

  The memories, sharp as driving sleet, left me raw and exhausted. What I did remember with certainty was that in those early days, when Mr. Worthington was mayor and we stayed year-round in Ranier, Elizabeth Worthington had kept watch over me—in this same bedroom, pacing. . . .

  “There, there Sadie Rose,” she’d said back then, squeezing icy water from a cloth and placing it on my burning forehead. “You’re moaning again for your mama. Poor child. Sleep.”

  And I slept. Through days and nights. Sometimes I woke to think it was morning, but the house was still, except for the wheezing and rumbling in my chest.

  Some days Mrs. Worthington came with Dr. Stedman. Seated on the bed’s edge, he pressed his cool stethoscope to my chest and listened. When my eyes were open, I stared at the blotchy red birthmark on his cheek.

  As he attended me, Mrs. Worthington swished past the window in her taffeta skirt, her corseted body sending shadows across my pillow. Ebony combs held her fine salty-brown hair in fashionable rolls and puffs. She leaned in closer to us. Her eyebrows were perfectly shaped, high and arching; in the heart-shaped face, her brown eyes seemed large. “Doctor, she’s getting so thin—and she hasn’t said a word. Isn’t it strange that she hasn’t said a word?”

  The doctor peered with a scope into my ears and throat, then flattened my tongue with a device and said, “Say, ‘Ah.’” But only a murmur came from the back of my throat.

  After days and weeks of slipping in and out of a fever and coughing up chunks of blood-tinted phlegm into the washbasin, I began to recover.

  One afternoon, Mrs. Worthington had pulled a chair close. “Sadie Rose, it will almost be like I’m your mother, but it’s best that you call me ‘Mrs. Worthington.’” She softened her voice. “That is, if you can talk . . . someday.”

  When I found enough energy to climb one morning from the high four-poster twin bed, I walked carefully down the staircase, hand on the rail. Like a tiny bird whose feathers had been soaked through after a rainstorm, I wasn’t sure I could trust my limbs to carry me.

  I crossed the dining room, with its cherry-wood table and matching chairs, toward the smell of fresh-baked bread beyond, wondering if I was at another boardinghouse. Where I had lived with Mama, the kitchen always produced good smells, from cured hams to corn muffins to blueberry pancakes and sausages. Mama always said, “At least here we don’t go hungry.” I could picture Mama’s smile, the tilt of her head, and her thick brown hair. But even in a smile, I always saw it—a hint of sadness in her eyes. It was the part of the smile that I wished I could change.

  I pushed on the swinging door and stepped in.

  Two women turned from a sheet of paper on a massive cutting block.

  “Oh, Sadie Rose!” Mrs. Worthington clapped her hands and then held them together, fingers pointed heavenward. “Why, what a surprise! This means you’re mending at last. Can you say ‘Good Morning’?”

  I opened my mouth to try, but nothing came out. Not even a whisper of words. How could I have forgotten to speak? I tried again, thinking my throat must be dry. But the words I knew in my brain started on a journey to my lips and somehow got lost along the way. Tears came to my eyes. If Mrs. Worthington ran her boardinghouse the same way Darla had run hers, then I better not start blubbering, or I might be asked to “pack up and leave.”

  “There now,” said Mrs. Worthington, taking a careful step closer. “Don’t worry. The doctor thinks you may have suffered some loss, but he’s confident time will restore you to complete health. And this,” she said, with an extended arm toward a woman as tall and lean as a signpost, “is our new cook and housekeeper, Aasta Johannsen.”

  A full foot taller than Mrs. Worthington, Aasta was a statuesque woman. “Once Mr. Worthington and I decided to take you in, Sadie Rose, we needed more help. The Johannsens come from Norway.”

  I knew enough about manners to curtsy but felt too weak to do anything more than meet Aasta’s eyes, which were blue jay–feather blue in her narrow face.

  A late March wind rattled the kitchen window. I walked away from the women toward the frosty panes and looked out. Clattering and rattling, a train with endless boxcars crossed the lift bridge into Ranier. Seagulls cruised over plates of gray ice and open water where the lake and river met.

  In a hushed voice, Mrs. Worthington whispered, “You know, Aasta, I’ve asked him to consider adoption. He agrees it’s our Christian duty to give her a home, but he’s not willing to go any further than that—at least for now. But I think with time, he’ll come around.”

  “Vel—good she be here,” Aasta said, looking my way.

  “The seagulls have returned!” Mrs. Worthington exclaimed with forced cheeriness. “Spring can’t be too far away now!”

  I glanced down at my new nightgown. Across its top someone had embroidered tiny pink tulips on white fabric that ended in a ruffle at the floor. On my feet, I wore blue wool stockings. Someone had taken away my old clothes and dressed me.

  “You can thank Aasta for the socks. And that’s my touch on the nightdress.” Mrs. Worthington smiled and clasped her hands, one over the other.

  I knew that good manners required I say thank you, but my lack of words turned me suddenly shy. And everything was strangely different. I wanted the cookstove at Darla’s kitchen, not this cream-colored enamel one. But I couldn’t resist standing near its warmth.

  “She smart one,” said Aasta. “She knows what she wants.” She placed her hands on the hips of her lanky frame and shook her head. “Poor girl.”

  “It’s sinful.” Mrs. Worthington spoke to Aasta. “God should have intervened long ago. Someone should have taken the child out of that house.”

  I shot a slit-eyed glance at Mrs. Worthington’s long skirt and pointed shoes and decided she would never, ever replace my real mother. I knew in that moment what I wanted—more than anything in the whole world—the one who had whispered to me from somewhere beyond the sky.

  Chapter 5

  A dense morning fog blanketed the village, as Hans chaperoned us to the docks. Though many women went about their errands without an escort, Mr. Worthington had insisted that the females in his household—no matter their social status—must always be escorted. I glanced sideways at Aasta, grateful for allowing me yesterday’s freedom to walk to the creamery.

  Now, not only was I getting away from the cottage, but Owen had promised to deliver butter to Red Stone Island. The idea of seeing him sent a rush of anticipation through me. And I ached with wanting to ask him more about college—about where he’d go and what he’d study—even if I couldn’t see a path yet for myself.

  A terrible smell hit my nose. Outside the bank building, a skunk-sprayed mutt rested on the new boardwalk, pawing at his snout. He lifted his head as we walked wide around him. “Poor dog,” Hans said.

  “Poor us,” Aasta said, squeezing her nose.

  At the end of Main Street, beyond the corner grocery store and trading post, a small crowd gathered near the docks. An Ojibwa family hovered near a canoe loaded with birch-bark baskets, beaded necklaces, and moccasins, ready to sell or trade. On the mother’s back, a baby slept in a cradleboard, the carrier’s exterior intricately stitched in tiny blue and red beads. I met the woman’s eyes, sharing something unspoken. I waved and she waved in return. Nearby, a young boy and girl played on the strip of sandy shore as their father adjusted his bowler hat over his weather-etched face, watching the growing crowd of passengers.

  Several yards distant, two young women in traveling skirts and lacy parasols chatted and giggled. Tourists, I guessed, from Minneapolis or Chicago along with the dozen businessmen in suits clustered together, their valises set off to the side in a neat row. One of them, a rotund fellow with a cane, glanced disapprovingly at the Ojibwa family. But he needn’t worry. The Ojibwa sometimes showed up by canoe at our cottage and asked for medicine, or meat, or fish
ing line. The Worthingtons never handled such encounters, leaving such visits to Hans and Aasta, who gave the Indians what they needed. Later, in return, the Indians came back with blueberries, wild rice, venison, or fresh fish. There was no asking, no cowering, just a simple sharing. More than once, I’d sat silently drinking tea with them in the kitchen. But that wasn’t something freshly imported tourists or businessmen would understand about life here.

  When a deckhand, no older than I, clomped down the wooden ramp from the Emma Louise, the small crowd steered toward the two-story passenger boat. It looked so top-heavy that any breeze might tip it over. But looks are deceiving. Several times over the past decade, I had ridden safely on the Emma Louise, sightseeing with the Worthingtons. We always sat above on red-cushioned seats, with a commanding view and drinks served in glasses with ice harvested and stored from the lake’s frozen season.

  Now I followed behind Aasta, wearing a cotton scarf and keeping my head low. I needed to appear like a regular worker. I didn’t want questions about why I was going to Red Stone, and I intentionally had left my slate board behind. My plan was to stay clear of Mr. Ennis and stick to the kitchen. I could barely contain my excitement about the chance to go to one of the islands.

  I settled in beside Aasta on the boat’s lower level, on a long wooden bench filled with lower-class passengers. When my shoulder touched hers, she didn’t edge away from me, so unlike the Worthingtons.

  The boat’s horn sounded—one long blast, two short—signaling to other boats that it was getting under way. I filled my lungs with the moist air, closed my eyes, and listened to water slosh alongside the boat.

  “Vel,” Aasta said, tidying loose strands that escaped her braids and then withdrawing knitting needles and yarn from her satchel. She handed me a pair of needles and a skein of blue yarn. “Maybe you want to knit?”

  I accepted the yarn and needles. I could always start another scarf, at least for practice, though I’d never be the wizard at knitting that Aasta was. In Aasta’s free time, she knitted mittens, socks, hats, scarves, and sweaters with patterns of moose, snowflakes, and stars. To be that good, you had to come from Norway and start knitting from birth.

  Sitting beside me, Aasta moved her wooden needles back and forth, in and out, creating an arm of a gray wool sweater. “For Hans,” she said, “if I ever finish it. Vel, seems we’re on a little adventure this morning, ya?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  The boat cut through glassy waters, skirted an inside channel, and stopped at island estates to leave off passengers. Workers, as well as aristocracy, descended the plank.

  Crossing an island-dotted channel, the steamer rocked back and forth as a breeze kicked up ruffled waves. I rose and held on to a post, gazing out at a cluster of islands.

  “The Review Islands,” said a boy of ten or eleven with suspenders over too-short trousers. He paused by our railing and pointed to a cluster of small islands. “That Goober guy who wants to close down the paper mills—he lives on that one!”

  I tapped his back and he turned. I mouthed, “Who?”

  “Goober. Gutten-something. That guy nobody likes.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question and mouthed, “Where?”

  “The island with the cabin on the end,” the boy said.

  Falcon Island was a small pencil of land, its eastern edge a whaleback of granite, with a two-story cabin nestled in pine and spruce.

  Then as the boat veered right, the boy hung over the rail and pointed toward the bow. “And that’s Red Stone Island—King Ed’s,” the boy went on. “And sure as snot, he’s got a cannon there. I ain’t lyin’.”

  I knew better and rolled my eyes.

  “I ain’t! Heard him say he’d like to point his cannon that way and blow Falcon Island to kingdom come!” He imitated an explosion with a burst of his hands into the air and a puckering of his lips. “Boom!”

  I peered toward our destination, then back across to the east and the pathway of shimmering water that led to Falcon Island. Victor Guttenberg’s island was tiny in comparison to Red Stone Island. When I looked back toward E. W. Ennis’s island, it was ten times as large, fitting for the lumber baron. A cluster of cabins and a large lodge crowned the high western shore.

  I looked back at Falcon Island. Maybe Victor watched the sunrise each morning from the upper-story windows. I wondered if he was there now, and just in case, I waved.

  “Who are you waving at?” Aasta chuckled. “A moose?”

  I laughed, feeling caught in my silly musings, and then turned my gaze back to the water. A loon popped up only yards from the passenger boat, and then another, white spots covering their black bodies like countless stars. One started to sing; then the other took up its melancholy wail—lyrical and beautiful—filled with aching sadness. The song shivered through my body, down to my toes, and gave voice to my constant feeling of loneliness—of feeling on the outside, looking in—of never belonging. At least until yesterday, and crossing paths with both Victor and Owen.

  The Emma Louise slowed her engine and cut to the Red Stone’s north side, where a half-dozen docks greeted visitors. As the boat reversed and came to a stop, the captain called out, “Red Stone Island!”

  From the dock, the island boasted a dozen buildings and a towering lodge, making Falcon Island look quaint as a dollhouse. The likelihood that Victor Guttenberg could stop the industrial plans of someone like E. W. Ennis seemed impossible—and I felt a pang of sympathy for Victor traveling in his canoe from his island home just to speak with Mr. Worthington. King Ed would no doubt consider Victor’s efforts at stopping him laughable.

  Aasta patted the seat beside her for me to sit back down. “We’ll get off last.”

  Businessmen gathered their valises and carried them down the plank, only to be met by a troop of Red Stone porters. The young men seemed especially eager to help the two women with the white parasols.

  “Allow me,” said one teenage boy, doffing his cap.

  “Ma’am,” another said, bowing slightly, his long-sleeved shirt boasting the island’s name, Red Stone.

  “Certainly,” said one of the women. The other giggled as they both lifted their skirts and headed from the dock and up a few steps to the island’s shore.

  “Trinity, it’s like a jungle safari!”

  “I told you, the island’s complete with porters at your beck and call.” She laughed. “It’s the bee’s knees!”

  Their perfume smelled expensive, but it was no match for the pine resin in the air. I breathed it in, pleased to be on an island of towering old trees. I had grown too used to seeing trees as logs, floating downriver to the mill. But here, on E. W. Ennis’s island, ironically, the trees soared to the sky.

  When I left the boat with Aasta, no porters greeted us as we stepped down the plank. This was my first visit, but the Worthingtons often boated off to gatherings on Red Stone Island. Now I could see the island for myself.

  Alongside the dock, a cluster of water beetles skimmed the water, swirling and zipping. My palms became sweaty and my breath felt tight. I was stepping onto the island owned by E. W. Ennis—family friend—the man Victor was standing up to. A tight band circled my forehead and a fresh pain settled behind my eyes. I pressed the palm of my hand to my forehead, my brain swirling again.

  “Sadie?” Aasta said, grabbing me by the wrist. “You’re going to fall into the water! Remember, you’re here as a worker. Workers are never idle.”

  Aasta turned and bustled up the stone steps to the wide path, trusting me to follow like a well-behaved dog. I nodded, adjusted my scarf, and walked after her.

  I would settle in for a day of work, perhaps a life of kitchen work. If I couldn’t dream of going to college, then I’d have to accept my life as it would be—with few options. But I wanted so badly to continue with my studies, my music. Not peel potatoes and h
over over cook pots the rest of my life.

  “No,” I whispered, stunned to hear my own voice.

  A voice with its own weight and substance.

  My own voice.

  Tears leapt to my eyes, and I covered my mouth with my hand.

  Chapter 6

  I could barely contain myself as I worked, holding my secret close—to be shared at the right time. Soft cloth in hand, I looked around the Red Stone lodge as I polished silver. In the arch of the vaulted ceiling, a trophy moose head gazed beyond the stone hearth. Massive Oriental wool rugs covered floors. Tables, sofa legs, painting frames—everything—gleamed with fresh furniture polish. Mahogany chairs lined the table, long as a mill log. Modern electricity was something islanders had to do without; gas lamps around the lodge waited to be lit.

  I set the silver spoon back in the blue velvet-lined drawer and wooden case. Already I’d peeled carrots, turning my fingernails orange.

  “Done,” I whispered to myself, and a thrill shot through me. It was true. The words I now willed to take voice were obeying. A miracle—nothing short of it. The Worthingtons would be amazed. Perhaps it would be enough to make them consider adopting me. If so, they would no doubt send me to college.

  But for now, I reminded myself: workers are never idle.

  I glanced through the small window of the kitchen’s swinging door, where Aasta towered by several inches over the other staff. She was too busy to notice me. I stole a few moments, walked to the windows to gaze out. Large screened windows opened to a soft breeze and water. A dozen small fishing boats and larger commercial boats dotted the vast bay. I wondered if Owen was on his way, or if he’d made an earlier delivery and I’d missed him. When I saw him next, what would I say? I had no idea, but I would talk. We could have a conversation! I smiled, thinking about it.

  “Sadie Rose!” Aasta whispered, tugging at my arm and startling me. “If you finished with your task, you must let me know then. I can’t have you acting like . . . like the high society. And it not be good to get the questions about you. Please.” She turned sharply on her sturdy shoes.