by Peter Geye
“They’re the only terms on offer. I’ve just paid half at the very least. That ought to demonstrate my good faith.”
He eyed the money before resting his cane on the edge of the table and scooping the coins into his hand.
“I understand, then, that you accept this arrangement, sir.” Now I turned to Inger and offered her my hand, which she accepted before standing and taking her place beside me.
Yet Bengt then said, “Inger, Gerd will require your assistance before our dinner this evening.”
My wife—my fierce, true wife—glanced at me and then at Gerd before aiming her gaze on Bjornsen. “I happen to be spoken for this evening.”
She might as well have cleaved his foot with an ax, given the astonishment on his face. He stuttered twice but was unable to form a thought.
“When my business here is finished, we’ll go home. In Hammerfest, our first task will be to retrieve our things from the room you’ve provided for us. Again, I thank you for the kindness you’ve offered my wife.”
From their arrival Gerd had stood at Bengt’s side, her arm looped through his, her expression as severe as the mountains across the sound. But when I looked at her just then, I saw panic. She almost seemed as if she wanted to join our side, leaning as she was toward Inger, resisting the urge, it seemed to me, to reach out for her hand.
“Inger, I could use a rest after that fine lunch. What say we adjourn to our chamber for a respite?”
She hooked her arm in mine, just as Gerd’s was hooked in Bengt’s.
“Good day, Fru Bjornsen, Herr Bjornsen.” I nodded, and we started out of the dining room.
“Inger!” Gerd called, her voice hoarse and weak.
Inger only held my arm more tightly, and we walked on into the hotel lobby and headed up the staircase to our room.
[2017]
Greta had gone hunting only once. Back in her junior or senior year of high school, the week before Thanksgiving, she and her mother had driven down to Greta’s aunt’s place in northern Wisconsin. The plan was to pluck their holiday dinner from the pine stands near Iron River. She’d gone against her will, but Sarah was determined that Tom—Greta’s brother—would not be the only one of her children who knew how to aim and shoot.
Sarah herself could hunt and fish and cook and clean. She could play waltzes on the piano as beautifully as she could move around the dance floor at a wedding reception. She could change the oil in her car before breakfast and then discuss Rølvaag or Frida Kahlo while washing the dishes. She split wood like a lumberjack, and with the same ease she crocheted baby blankets for her friends’ newborns. And though she had a decorated career—thirty years as a judge on Minnesota’s Sixth District bench—she never let it infringe on her larger purpose, which was to raise her children well. She never missed a school play or ski race, she volunteered for the PTA, she stayed up late helping with homework. She taught Greta to be independent and physically strong. She taught Tom to treat women as equals, but also to hold doors open for them. Everyone found her generous and sweet. She loved her husband. They laughed together all the time.
As a girl Greta had aspired to be like her mother, so she, too, knew how to chop wood and make mushroom soup and sing as easily along with Gordon Lightfoot as with Maria Callas. But no matter how hard she tried to, Greta could not measure up, and by the time they took that hunting trip, she was well past trying to impress Sarah. On the contrary, she had entered that pubescent phase of wanting her mother to know that she hated her. Tramping through the duff while carrying a heavy Remington shotgun for two days had been a perfect theater for such a performance. She overslept, complained about the itchy wool blankets, whined about missing her friends, and dismissed all of Sarah’s invitations to join her and her sister over the cribbage board in the evening.
On the second morning, Greta made a spectacle of misplacing her socks and the camouflage jacket she hated. She dabbled endlessly over her coffee and toast. And, when the time came to head out, she pretended to have a headache and cramps and begged to stay behind. But Sarah remained steadfast and firm, and before the sun rose through the pines Greta was perched near a clearing they’d spotted the previous afternoon. Her mother had arranged decoys along the perimeter before they took their places in a natural blind. And they sat there for hours before the toms finally came.
Greta could still remember kneeling for a shot as a turkey stepped toward a decoy, Sarah whispering instructions over her shoulder. Get it sighted, then shoot. But Greta would not shoot, and the bird strutted off into a tangle of pines. Knowing better than to press her, Sarah took the next shot herself.
She was the only one of them to bag a bird. Not once had Greta even pulled the trigger. And now, whenever taking inventory of her regrets, she’d think back to that day in the Wisconsin woods and count not firing as one of them. Over the last ten years or so, memories like this had come to her often enough, but it had become her habit to greet them indifferently. The frequency and urgency with which she’d been calling up her regrets now, however, was alarming. It was as if they were all linked together, like some chain stretching into the dark, murky waters of her past. Whatever was lying down there in the depths had the weight of an anchor, but was impossible to see.
This particular regret—not pulling the trigger on the turkey—she thought maybe she finally understood. And if she could fathom one of the links in the chain, might the others follow? Could she find the strength to hoist up that goddamn anchor?
* * *
—
On this Christmas morning, Greta woke before the rest of her family. By the time Frans and the kids were up and scarfing down oatmeal, three pies—apple, pecan, and pumpkin—were cooling on the counter and she was cubing bread to stuff a turkey from Johnsen’s Market in Gunflint. All the while she’d been thinking about her mother and how gracefully she’d managed her life.
It seemed to Greta that Sarah never faltered, not even when she had a teenager on her hands who made sport of being impossible. Not when, some twenty-five years ago, she had to care for her father-in-law as he slid into dementia in the guest room of her house. Not while her husband sorted out that same man’s disappearance over an everlasting winter, his moods then as mercurial and dire as the season. It seemed to Greta that her mother had been made of different thread. She didn’t contend with regrets, gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, and never looked back at anything except with the confidence of a life well lived. She’d even died well, which is to say unexpectedly and painlessly in her sleep. But best of all, she’d passed on knowing that her crowning achievement had been the love of her children.
For all of her failings as a mother, and these were countless, Greta knew that loving her children had been the easiest thing in her life. But since she returned from Norway almost a month ago, even the simplest things seemed compromised, and she could hardly look at Liv and Lasse without tears clouding what she saw. They were so beautiful and vulnerable. So attuned to her unhappiness and their father’s befuddlement. They were still trusting but their innocence would not protect them from the decisions she was making.
The counsel she was keeping with her mother’s memory? The late-night, fireside conversations with her father? The book she was reading after Gus went to bed, Young Children and Divorce: A Guide? She was searching for protection for Lasse and Liv. This Christmas—the bounteous presents under the tree, the pies cooling on the counter, the turkey ready to be stuffed, the carols being practiced on the piano, the stockings hung from the mantel—was her offer of one last holiday all together. And she was determined to make it perfect in every respect.
She’d already drunk half a pot of coffee before anyone else stirred. She heard padded footsteps up in the loft, but couldn’t tell whose feet they were. At home in Minneapolis, she would’ve known from the first step whether it was Lasse or Liv or Frans, but here at her father’s house, even after all t
hese years, the sturdiness of the timber frame disguised the early riser. Probably it was Liv, still excitable about Santa, even if she no longer quite believed in him. She’d written a letter to the North Pole asking for ice skates, and they sat there under the tree wrapped in paper emblazoned with St. Nick’s cherubic face.
Finally, Axel lifted his head and gazed up the staircase. He would’ve uncurled himself from the carpet if it had been one of the kids, but when he rested his chin back on his forepaws and closed his eyes again Greta knew it was Frans who’d be coming down. His present lay under the tree, too, a new novel by his favorite writer about a man who runs a movie house on the North Shore. She’d only remembered to get him a gift while shopping at Northstar Books just the day before.
When she heard him coming down the stairs, she turned on the radio and tuned it to the WTIP Christmas marathon. The ringing of sleigh bells, even over the warbled signal, calmed her down a little. She took a mug from the cupboard, poured the coffee, and handed it to him as he walked into the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Merry Christmas.”
He gestured at the cutting board—half-heaped with bread surrounded by rosemary, sage, onion, celery, a jar of chicken stock, the hefty chef’s knife—and said, “It smells great. You’ve been up for a while.”
“I want to make a really nice meal for everybody.”
He nodded, sipped his coffee. They’d had a few knock-down fights in the weeks since she returned, but now were both honoring the armistice they’d declared for the holidays. He broke off a small piece of warm crust from the pecan pie and dunked it in his coffee before popping it in his mouth. “Delicious,” he said, then stepped around her to the window and looked out at the snow-covered woods and the ice-choked river. “The kids will be up soon,” he said. “After the presents I’ll take them skiing.”
“Frans—”
“That snow from Thanksgiving stuck, didn’t it? And plenty more after. It’s already been one of those winters.”
“I guess it’s like most other winters,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” he said, and took another drink of his coffee, his face unperturbed.
Greta began cutting up the second loaf of bread, which Gus had baked a week ago for this exact purpose. Now stale, it was perfect for the dressing. “Well, don’t be late for dinner. We’ll eat at three. Dad’s rules.”
When Frans didn’t respond, Greta glanced over her shoulder. She could see the left side of his face and the steeliness of his eye. The episode in the fish house at Thanksgiving had been the only time she’d seen him cry. Even since they’d returned from Norway, after she said she was leaving him and he begged her to reconsider, imploring her to think of the kids, swearing a new kind of faithfulness and devotion, he hadn’t betrayed himself with tears. She had little doubt that it was anything less than his own contract: to remain stoic no matter what pain they visited on each other. She turned back to the bread and drew the serrated knife across the crust.
“What does Gus have to say about all this?” Frans said.
She pressed the tip of the knife into the cutting board, hard enough that it stuck, and she let go of the handle. “My dad’s really fond of you. You know that.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze still out on the snow. “But he has to take a side.”
“He’s not taking a side. He cares about all of us. He wishes we weren’t going through it.”
“We have to tell the kids,” Frans said. “It’s not fair to me. It’s not fair for him or the kids.”
Now Greta stepped closer, and whispered through clenched teeth. “We’re not going to talk to the kids about anything until after the holidays. I thought we’d agreed on that.”
Frans slowly turned, his expression gone from apathetic to scolding. Even mean. Now he whispered, “Remind me what we agreed on?” He shook his head and looked back out the window. “Merry Christmas, here’s your ice skates. Here’s your iPad. What, it’s New Year’s? Your mom and I are divorcing. Happy goddamn holidays.”
“I’m sure you can do better than that. Certain of it.”
He waved his hand at the kitchen counter. “Eat your turkey. Have some pie. Be jolly and wait for you to call the shots.”
“For crying out loud, I’m not calling any shots. I’m just asking you to hold it together for the holidays. For the kids. You want them to associate Christmas and our separating for the rest of their lives?”
He tossed his coffee into the sink, set his cup on the counter. “Okay,” he said. Then went to the door, took his coat off a hook on the wall, and slid his boots on as he was stepping outside.
Greta went back to work, turning the radio a little louder and chopping up the rest of the bread. By the time Lasse and Liv woke up half an hour later, Frans had returned. He sat in front of the fire Gus had built and watched them open their gifts. iPads and skates, yes, but also books and clothes and computer games, remote-control cars and stuffed animals, Legos and tchotchke jewelry. Their delight was pure. They opened boxes and inserted batteries and tried on new sweaters while they ate cookies for breakfast.
When it was time for the adults to exchange gifts, Frans peeled the paper from Greta’s, visibly bristled, and tossed the novel on the coffee table.
Liv looked up from a bracelet with blue dolphins on it. “Don’t forget to say thank you, Daddy,” she said, mimicking Frans’s own gentle reminders.
Frans said, “You’re right,” then turned to Greta and said, “Thank you, honey. For everything.”
“I know you like his books.”
Gus stayed out of the fray, sipping coffee in his big leather chair, whistling at the kids’ discoveries, relishing the stack of books he himself received. To any passerby, it would’ve been a picture of your normal Minnesota Christmas morning. Bounteous and peaceful. But of course Gus knew of the rot. Knew of his daughter’s imminent departure, and that she wanted to keep it from the children until after the holidays. That Frans was angry and sad, that he thought it best to act like he didn’t know anything at all. Or so Greta presumed.
After all the gifts were shared, all the coffee finished, the two of them gathered the gift wrapping off the floor and stuffed it into garbage bags. Instead of going skiing, the kids had settled into reading books in front of the fire, and Frans disappeared into the guest room down the hall.
“Quite a haul, you two,” Gus said, shaking Liv by the toe. “Those are some awfully handsome skates Santa brought you.”
Liv looked up from her book. “You look like Santa with your white beard, Grandpa.”
Gus patted his belly and said, “Ho, ho, ho.”
When Greta and Gus both made it to the kitchen, he went straight to the cabinet above the refrigerator, slid the Maker’s Mark aside, and reached into the recess of his stash. When he turned back to her, he held another bottle: Stagg bourbon, which he knew was her favorite.
Greta looked at her watch.
Gus said, “It’s Christmas, and you’re still my daughter. You ought to cut your old man some slack.”
He rinsed two coffee mugs and poured them each a finger’s worth, then raised his in a toast. “Merry Christmas, kid.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
They each took a sip, and Gus winced but took another sip. “It’s been since I was a much younger man that I had a belt before lunch.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
“I’ll spare you the back-when-I-was-running-the-Christmas-pageant speech and just say you deserve it.”
“Deserve it. Right.”
“You do. You’re in heavy seas right now. I admire your courage.”
“Courage?”
“You’re a woman, Greta, and you’ll get judged differently than Frans. Unjust as it may be, that’s a fact.” He swallowed the rest of his drink and his shoulders shook. “Whe
w,” he said. “Good morning, Christmas Day.” He put his mug in the kitchen sink, held up the bottle as though to offer her another ounce and, when she shook her head, corked it and put it back in the cupboard. “What I meant to say is that I can’t imagine feeling like you do and having the will to upend everything. You’re brave. And strong. And I admire your fierceness. All of that reminds me of courage.”
“I’m sorry for bringing such a mess to the party.”
“Don’t apologize. All I care about is your company. Life can’t be perfect all the time.”
“You and mom always had perfect Christmases.”
“Your memory’s different from mine there,” he said, smiling. “But I’m glad that’s how you remember it. Your mom, she always had a knack for making it a special time of year.”
“I’ve been thinking about her so much lately.”
“Thinking what about her?”
“Mostly how disappointed she’d be. Earlier this morning, when I was getting the stuffing ready, I was remembering when she took me turkey hunting. I was so mean to her. Such a brat. I’m surprised she could stand to be with me.”
“I heard stories about that weekend for years.”
Greta covered her face in embarrassment, and spoke through her fingers. “I don’t know how she did it. I don’t know how she stayed so calm and so put together. Not just that weekend, but all through her life.”
“Well, your mother had a pretty good grip on what was important.” Now a forlorn look came over his face. “I miss her like hell this time of year. I mean, I miss her all the time, but especially at Christmas. Do you know what the last gift she ever gave me was?”
Greta shook her head.
“A toaster. That one right there.” He pointed at it on the counter. “I don’t know if I ever used it until she passed, but not a day goes by now I don’t put a slice of bread in there for breakfast. Hell, sometimes I even have toast for dinner.” He cast that long view of his out the window. “What I mean to say is that your mother wouldn’t be disappointed in you. She might be sad for you, like I am. But not disappointed. What an unhappy thing, to realize you don’t love your spouse anymore.” He turned back to her. “I hope it’s okay I say that?”
