TWENTY-FIVE
Nadia made her way down to the beach, pail and clam shovel clanging, Leo following her, past the empty orange canoe that just yesterday she’d loaded with supplies. So many changing emotions in two days. And now this type of kindness from a man? No wonder she had not felt this tired in a very long time. And yet, Kache’s mention of clams had reminded her the tide would be low and she wanted to fill her pail, to give something back. The dinner had been generous and satisfying. Though the meat tasted strange at first, she kept cutting off another piece and then another. It was odd to have lettuce and fresh tomatoes this time of year, and they too tasted different from those she grew every summer. Kache had even fried strips of bacon to crumble on the baked potatoes. She’d had bacon a few times when Lettie brought it, and she’d let it sit on her tongue, taking in its smoky salt.
He had insisted on washing the dishes—strange to see a man cook meals and wash dishes—so she took the opportunity to slip away, telling him she would be back in a few hours. How awkward she felt around him, and utterly exhausted. Yes, she had been so lonely at times, yearning for someone to talk to. But solitude gave her the undisturbed train of her thoughts winding toward their destinations. Her long winter nights of reading their books and listening to their records or watching their movies. Soon after she’d arrived, she’d begun thinking of all these as her own, set here only to satiate her thirst for knowledge and companionship. As soon as Kache stepped in, her perspective changed. This was his family’s legacy she had been taking in, as if it were her family.
She set the shotgun on a dry piece of driftwood and began searching for a small, telling indent in the sand, then pushed the cylinder shaped shovel down as far and as quickly as possible, pulling it up and dumping out sand, which Leo nosed through, and, there it was, a clam. She kept working like this, digging quickly and deeply, the way she’d been taught by her parents when she was a small girl, when they had worked the beach together as a family.
Her family had followed the others, hiking along the recently machettied path toward the land where they would establish their new village. Nadia held onto the stone Niko had slipped into the pocket of her sarafan. She felt its smooth, cold surface warm up in her grasp and then, when no one was watching, pulled it out to look at it. It was in the shape of a heart, with a white unbroken circle around its center.
She decided then. She would leave. She would sneak back to him and marry him before her mother or father could protest. Maybe the new bishop would perform the marriage ceremony. About a month after they’d settled at the site of the new village, nothing but a few crudely built temporary cabins and a dozen tents, she packed her clothes and hid her bag under her cot and waited for her mother and father, her younger brother and sisters, to make another arduous trip into town for supplies. The timing had to coincide with when the tide reached its lowest so she would have adequate time to walk along the beach far enough behind them. She waited three more weeks. She missed Niko so much, wondered if the tears in his eyes when he said goodbye to her returned when he thought of her now.
She feigned a stomachache, which her mother treated with lemon juice and salt. Nadia stayed in bed until they left, then waited a bit longer because her mother always forgot one thing or another, and when enough time had passed, she set out to walk the seven miles back to Ural, back to Niko. The summer days spread themselves out like long soft rugs of light, plenty of light to make the trip in one day. She’d packed only a few of her favorite dresses, hoping that her parents would forgive her. Surely, they would participate in the devichnik with all her female friends and come the week before the wedding, the svadba, to prepare the handiwork and linens, the woven belts and dresses. They would kiss and hug her and invite her and Niko back for visits, soon welcoming their new grandchildren into the family. How hopeful and happy she was on that long hike! She clanged the bell she brought to ward off the bears, and the clanging might have been a thousand church bells declaring their newlywed love.
Even though she’d worn good hiking boots, her feet ached by the time she got to the trailhead that led up to the old village. She wished she could bathe before seeing him. But with the heart-shaped stone damp in her palm, she pressed on, imagining his expression when he opened his front door. His eyes, such a soft river green, framed in blonde lashes; the dimples everyone teased him about because his beard was growing in and they wouldn’t be as visible. How would he continue to be such a charmer without those dimples? the men asked. He was seventeen, almost eighteen. In the last year, he’d become more and more of a man. But a good-hearted man, and smart.
And more: Once when he and Nadia lagged behind on a school outing, they managed a few moments alone on the trail. Alone! And Niko had broken the rules. He’d turned to her and held her face in his hands and with the confidence of a grown man had kissed her and kissed her until she felt her legs giving way under her long skirt. “That,” he had whispered to her, “is just the beginning of what we have to look forward to.” He took her hand and pulled her along the trail; if he hadn’t, she suspected she’d still be standing there, trying to will her legs to move in a forward motion to keep from dissolving into the earth.
The anticipation of seeing him ached more than her feet now, but it was a giddy ache. Almost skipping now. Almost to the village. Dusk hadn’t set in yet, but the sun hung low, and she guessed it was around eleven. Most of the village would still be up. It was not a day of fasting and prayer. They had to get as much work done as the summer daylight would allow.
But they were not working. The sounds of laughter and music drifted across the village, a celebration. She smiled. She would see all her friends in one place; they would welcome her, there would be tears of joy. Look how far she’d come to return to them. Sit, Nadia. Eat! Drink! And they would bring her plates of pelmeni and koulebiaka and a cool pitcher of water. Pride would take over Niko’s face. He would hold her hands in his.
She blotted her forehead and chin with her scarf, held her shoulders back, smiled wide. Niko always said she had the prettiest smile in the village.
But when she had opened the door to the community center, no one noticed her. All eyes had stayed on Niko and Katarina, perched at a long table, fingers entwined, dressed in the traditional wedding clothes, Katarina smiling her own stunning smile, already wearing the shashmura on her head, hair held in the two braids of a married woman instead of the single braid Nadia still wore.
So many years ago and yet, right then, her chest squeezing as if it had just happened, as if she were thirteen years old and Niko and Katarina sat before her, holding hands, so happy. So very happy. Nadia saw their smiling faces as she dug for the razor clams, working quickly to catch them before they burrowed deeper, the wind whipping off the hood of her jacket and then working at her hair. So. She had left the original village, Ural, and then she had tried to leave Altai. Those were her first two departures. Neither of her leavings led to happiness. It might even be said that her last leaving led to her death.
As if on cue, Leo leapt up from where he’d been crouching at the hole, stood at attention and barked. A huge snapping of branches through the bushes. Was it a moose? A crashing, a muffled grunt. It was hard to hear over Leo’s incessant barking and the wind. It sounded like a bear. Yes, a bear. She grabbed the shotgun and pointed it to the sky, pulled the trigger. The butt kicked back, biting into her shoulder as the shot rang out. She pressed her shoulder tighter against it and again pulled the trigger. That should be enough to scare it off. She waited. Silence, except for the wind and the gulls.
As she headed up the trail back to the Winkel homestead, her stomach clenched. The trail seemed to ripple ahead of her, and a stifling warmth wrapped around her. Doubling over, she vomited onto a salmonberry bush. She was unaccustomed to food from the grocery store. This had happened before, with Lettie, the first few visits. Nadia gagged again and up came more of the dinner Kache had so generously prepared. She retched and retched until there was nothing left, he
r throat and nose burning, eyes running. Leo paced and whined. She grabbed some snow from a clinging patch, scraped away the top dirt-crusted layer and ate some, then rubbed her face and hands with it to clean herself and to put color back in her cheeks. She didn’t want to reveal any sign of weakness or vulnerability to Kache. But she also didn’t want to hurt his feelings after he had made her such a bountiful meal.
“Nadia?” His voice made her jump. “Are you okay?”
She turned to see him standing there, breathing hard, holding one of the Winkel rifles awkwardly away from his body. Leo hadn’t warned her; instead, wagging his tail, he sniffed Kache’s leg, as if to say, He is our friend. This is the man who made us steak.
“Yes, I am fine.” She stood, trying to block the vomit covered bushes.
“I heard gunshots.”
“I thought I heard bear.”
“You shot a bear?”
“No, I shoot into air only. To scare away this bear I did not actually set my eyes on.”
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“Your family, they never shoot guns?”
“Yes. Of course they did. I just … okay. Right. But what about now? You’re sick.”
She shook her head.
“I saw you puking. Hey. You’re not … Are you? Are you pregnant?”
Her mouth dropped open.
“None of my business. I know. Of course. Forgive me.”
“If I am pregnant, it is the second coming of Messiah. Or, how do they say? A freezing day in hell.”
“Oh. Okay. Got it. Then, what’s wrong? Are you sick? Should I take you to the doctor?”
“No. I do not need doctor. Only once in many years, Lettie brings me medicine. Mostly I make it myself. Devil’s Club is good for headache. Ginger root is good for this stomach. Or pickles.”
“Do you throw up a lot?”
“No.”
“It was my cooking.”
She shook her head again. So many questions. “No, not your cooking. I am sorry.” She hesitated. “It is the food I am not used to. Your cooking it is very good.”
“Oh man. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of that.”
“It is fine. I am fine now.” And to prove herself, she grabbed the bucket and the rifle and started back up the trail, with Leo following, along with Kache, who continued on with his talking and his questions until they reached the house and she excused herself and went upstairs to wash up.
In the kitchen she poured the clams in the colander, rinsed and gently shook them.
“Your coloring looks better now. You feel all right?”
“Yes, I told you. I am fine. I will prepare dinner tomorrow.”
“I’m invited back for dinner?”
She glanced at him, turned back to the clams. “Of course. Yet I am not in this position to do this invite. I am the guest.”
A pause lingered before he said, “That’s not how I see it.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, kept shaking the clams. “How do you see it?”
“I’m not sure. Just … not like that.” He said he’d be back tomorrow to work on the truck and start clearing the road.
She rinsed a towel in the sink and covered the clams with it. “For this truck, you need a new battery and a starter.”
“You don’t say.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, then opened the refrigerator and set the clams on a shelf. “You confuse me. I do say this.”
“Just an expression. You know your way under a car hood too?”
She shrugged and let out a long sigh. She was tired. She could not answer one more question, and certainly not one about getting lost under a car. Fortunately he said only good night and that he would see her tomorrow, then closed the door and was gone.
She leaned against the door and listened to the new sounds of the ATV revving up the road until the silence returned—her old, familiar silence—made up of certain creaks and scratches and howls and the clickety clack of Leo’s paws across the floor.
TWENTY-SIX
Gilly waved from behind the reception area and told Snag that Lettie was reading in her room, but by the time Snag got there, Lettie slept, the book lying open. Snag wanted desperately to talk to Lettie, but ever since Lettie had revealed that she’d been going out to the homestead all these years, Snag couldn’t catch her awake. She worried that her mom was slipping away but everyone else, including Gilly and Kache, insisted that she was sharper than ever, that the dementia seemed to be fading rather than getting worse. Snag had bad timing, it seemed.
She plopped down in the chair. “I suppose I’ll just sit here and wait.” She listened to her mom’s breathing; she’d been breathing ninety-eight years. Snag knew she was lucky to have her mom that long, but still, she couldn’t imagine life once she was gone. “What will I do without you?”
Lettie opened one eye. “Perhaps,” she said, “you will start living your own life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Eleanor. Why in the world would you sit here on this gorgeous day and watch an old woman sleep?”
“Because. I want to talk to you. About the homestead and the Russian woman and Kache and all of it. I want to apologize for not going out there, for, you know … lying to you all these years.”
“I don’t look at it like that. I’m your mother. And I’m the one that owes you an apology.”
“What on earth for?”
Lettie started to prop herself up on her thin arms wickered with veins, and Snag fluffed the pillow and helped her get readjusted. “Well, as far as the lying goes, you might say I’ve been doing the same thing. I didn’t put it on the table, you see. I was waiting for you to come to me and talk. It’s like when you were a baby. Glenn took off walking on his own, but you just sat on your rump, happy to play with your sweet little hands or anything I would give you. You didn’t have to chase after a thing. And if I’d let you sit there, you’d probably be sitting there still. But I started collecting pretty objects and holding them in front of you until they caught the light just so, and then caught your eye. When I saw that you were taken by something, I set it just beyond your reach. And I kept moving it until you finally crawled on your hands and knees, and eventually one day pulled yourself up on your feet.”
“So, I was slow to walk. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I should have pushed you more, Eleanor.”
“What, did you want me to run for the Senate?”
“Of course not. The senate. Pish. No, I should have pushed you toward the truth. Toward not giving a care what people think of you. You, dear, beautiful Eleanor.” Lettie reached out and ran her hand along Snag’s hairline, the way she did when she was little.
Snag lied once again and said, “Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you do. Because I’ve suspected since you were about fourteen years old and known without a doubt since you were twenty-one. I still don’t understand exactly why you couldn’t go out to the homestead, but I have my theories. I just want you to be happy, Eleanor.” Snag’s heart started thrumming loudly in her ears, so loudly that she had to strain to hear. “We can’t help who we love,” her mom went on, “but we can help how we live. And you’ve been living like you made that plane go down. And as someone who’s had more time on this Earth than she deserves, who’s staring down the barrel, I’m here to tell you life is way, way too short for this nonsense.”
So there it was. Lettie was holding Snag’s heart in her hand, tilting it this way and that way until it had caught the light and was reflecting a prism into Snag’s eye. There it was, in all its pulsing glory, Snag’s own old heart. Squeezed now, in the palm of her mother, just out of her own reach. She felt as vulnerable as the fat baby she’d once been. She still didn’t know how to speak the words. But she could walk, so Snag got up and, on her own two feet, walked out the door.
She bumped smack into Gilly, who was heading in with a sma
ll paper cup of Lettie’s pills. The pills spilled all over the speckled linoleum. The two women crouched down on their hands and knees to pick them up, crawling here and there until they found all eight.
PART TWO
Land of the
Midnight Sun and the Prodigal Son 2005
TWENTY-SEVEN
And so they continued, as the couple of weeks Kache had planned to stay turned into a month, and then into late June. They had agreed that he would return in the mornings after a stop by Lettie’s and help Nadia around the property before leaving sometime after dinner to stay with Snag. Sometimes Nadia was warm and talkative and other times she would grow quiet or disappear for hours at a time. If he pressed her with too many questions, she’d stop the conversation either by leaving or using her standard line, “It is difficult to talk of this.” But all in all, Kache felt that she was becoming more comfortable with having him around, and surprisingly, he liked being there.
Whenever Kache went down to the root cellar, he ran his fingers along the wall, checking for Nadia’s newest carved tally. He’d bought her a 2005 calendar, Twelve Artists Paint Alaska. He’d hung it on the kitchen wall, but that hadn’t stopped her from her markings. Each day there was another thick line made in the wood. Ten years or so of lines: that meant around 3,650 carved lines. So much time and mystery carved in those crevices. Would she stay another ten years, and then another? And what would she do once she ran out of wall? Would she engrave her lines in the kitchen, the living room, up the stairs to the bedrooms?
And how long would he stay, now that his two weeks had long passed? As long as she needed help, he’d told himself early on. But it quickly became apparent Nadia was helping him and not the other way around, because she knew how to do everything herself and he knew how to do practically nothing. Similar to the old days working with his dad, only Nadia was much more gracious and patient about teaching him, and—Kache had to admit—he tried much harder than his teenaged self ever had. He was happy to note that all those hours of watching Do-it-Yourself television had not been a complete waste. When he held a hammer or screwdriver, his hands no longer turned into flippers. At least, not all the time. Yes, he now had a purple thumbnail and had taken a scary ass misstep on the roof but caught himself before he fell off. Greg Barrow had ordered parts for Kache’s dad’s truck and, after several tries, Kache had managed to get it and the tractor running and clear the road and, with Nadia working alongside him, finish a half dozen other projects he’d never thought he could tackle—or at least had never wanted to.
The House of Frozen Dreams Page 10
