My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850)

by Short, Sharon

  But I always wonder, where would I begin? With that fateful morning, when I made a small choice to take Will by Stedman’s Scrapyard just to get rid of Marvel Puffs, so he’d be one box top closer to his deed to one square inch of Alaska?

  Or should I fast-forward to visiting that square inch, and what happened after? I replay those events for the first time, until now keeping them tucked at the back of my mind.

  Will asked the man at the Tok deed office to officially mark the deed as going to me. After we were home, Mr. Capputo sent a photo of him and Trusty—Mr. Capputo proudly holding up a huge salmon by his skiff, Trusty happily at his side. When Will started truly getting ill, the leukemia rapidly taking more and more of his strength, he’d stare for hours at that photo of Trusty. When he died, I insisted that the photo be buried with him. But I kept the wood carving of Trusty.

  Later that spring, I graduated. Grandma held a party at Dot’s Corner Café for me—after all, her granddaughter was very important! Going to a fancy school in New York City! And on a scholarship, at that! Now I think about the people who were at that party.

  Mr. Leis—by then completely confused by his surroundings—and Mrs. Leis, doing her best to take care of him. Mr. Leis died a month later and, to everyone’s surprise because she seemed so healthy, Mrs. Leis followed about a half year after that. I wasn’t particularly surprised. Mrs. Leis never liked being anywhere without Mr. Leis.

  Daddy was at that party, his eyes still sunken and haunted both by the news about what had happened, in the end, to Mama, and by the death of his son.

  MayJune was there, of course. Still grieving Joey, but smiling and kind and quietly wise as always, and chatting with Miss Bettina—birds on a wire, just like I’d thought of them at Will’s birthday party.

  Babs and Jimmy were at the party. Babs looked sad, her eyes almost as haunted as Daddy’s. She’d come back to school in February, after a long stay with her grandparents in Virginia to recover from the “pneumonia” she’d had treated in Cincinnati. Jimmy and I talked and laughed, friends now and comfortable knowing that’s all we’d ever be.

  Mr. Cahill, of course, was not there, but somehow he’d heard of it. (I suspect MayJune and Miss Bettina had something to do with that.) He sent me another letter, congratulating me, finally giving me an address and phone number and telling me to look him up once I got to New York. I did, and even attended the opening of his show “Persimmon Girl,” secretly smiling at being the inspiration for the abstract prints that looked nothing like me or any other girl, or even persimmons, but that received rave reviews from critics. We’ve stayed good friends ever since.

  I’ve been back to Groverton twice since I left—once about a year after my move to New York, for Daddy and Miss Bettina’s wedding. For the first time I could remember, Daddy finally looked happy. Miss Bettina—who has told me repeatedly to call her Bettina, but I can’t quite drop the Miss—beamed. Grandma, of course, looked put out by the whole affair, especially with MayJune as Miss Bettina’s matron of honor and me as maid of honor. (“Who has both?” Grandma groused.) But none of us paid any attention to her grumbling.

  I did not go home for Grandma’s funeral, a few years later. Daddy and Miss Bettina understood. But a few months ago I went home for MayJune’s funeral. She died in her sleep at age 102. I stayed with Daddy and Miss Bettina in the little house on Elmwood, and I was happy to see that Miss Bettina had completely redecorated and refurnished it to her own taste.

  While I was back, I visited with Babs. She had attended Kenyon College for two years before marrying an older man, who moved his medical practice to Groverton just for her. She says she’s happy, with her lovely home and husband and three children, but I didn’t see the glow of joy about her that I saw in Josie Martin. We talked about Jimmy, always sharing news whenever one of us received it. He’s happily married, an attorney at a nonprofit focusing on workers’ rights issues in Washington, D.C.

  At last, I pick up the glasses of wine, head back to my and Adam’s bedroom. Adam is in our tiny bathroom; I hear the sounds of shaving, him humming, and this makes me happy. I put the wineglasses on the bureau, slip out of my pumps, open the top bureau drawer to select a fresh blouse…and then something moves in me, a little voice saying, Now…now is the time. You can be late for dinner…but now is the time.

  I close that drawer, kneel, open the bottom drawer—still where I keep my lingerie, and under that, the items I most wish to protect. My fingers move aside bras and panties and slips and the little wood carving of Trusty and a sachet, this one Chanel No. 5, a gift from Adam.

  My hand shakes, just a little, as I pull out the framed deed. I sit on the edge of my and Adam’s bed and study the signatures, barely legible, of Austin Perkins, the man at the deed office who officially marked the deed to transfer Will’s land to me, and of Ray Martin, our witness, and our own signatures.

  And for a second I’m back at that place where Will and I knelt, suddenly clasping each other and staring down at a frozen square inch of land in the Alaskan wild, knowing we’ve done the impossible by making it to this spot, and that our little toothpick flag won’t last more than a few days, or maybe hours, to mark our having been there, that it will soon be swept away by ice and snow and wind, but then—in the way that scenes change and fuse and multiply and fade and merge in dreams and memories—I also see us looking up, as if someone has gently tucked a loving hand under our chins and tilted our faces, so we can watch the sky fill with the northern lights, a grand celestial dance of great swaths of tangerine and azure and teal, veils between our momentarily earthbound selves and all that is possible and infinite, rippling and swaying and lifting so that we can feel, just for a second, the enormity of all that lies beyond, waiting for each of us.

  “Donna?”

  I look up at Adam coming out of the bathroom, bare chested, and my heart surges with love and desire for this man with whom I know I’ll spend the rest of my life. He quietly sits down next to me, waiting. Finally, I move so he can better see the frame I’m holding, and at last, I begin.

  “This,” I say, “is my deed. To my one square inch of Alaska.”

  Acknowledgments

  So many individuals and organizations provided support—practical and emotional—that sustained me on the journey of writing this novel.

  First, thank you to my wonderful husband, David, and our beautiful daughters, Katherine and Gwen, for bestowing upon me endless patience when I asked, yet again, “Are you sure I can do this?” by answering without hesitation, “Of course!” I can’t begin to describe how much all those long discussions about the novel and your comments on early pages—especially in the early stages before I dared share this work with anyone else—meant to me. Endless love and thanks to all three of you.

  Thank you to a lovely book club, the Goddesses, particularly “Supreme Head Goddess” Barbara Heckart, Lee Huntington, Judy DaPolito, and Mary Ann Schenk. These Goddesses might be surprised to learn that the very first flicker of the idea for this book was lit during a book club discussion at Mary Ann’s lovely home when they began talking about “square inch deeds in cereal boxes in the 1950s” for some delightful reason (although it had nothing to do with the book we were discussing.) But perhaps, in their infinite wisdom, these Goddesses wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  Thank you to the Montgomery County Arts and Cultural District for a 2011 Literary Artist Fellowship and to the Ohio Arts Council for a 2012 Individual Excellence Award. Both awards were based, in part, on early chapters of this novel, and both awards enabled me to focus on my work as a novelist. I’m honored to be a recipient of both awards and proud to live in a region and state that supports and celebrates the arts, and understands that the arts ennoble and encourage its citizenry.

  Thank you to the Antioch Writers’ Workshop for my current role as director and for providing instruction and inspiration to so many writers, including me, over the years.

  Thank you to two friends from another book club, the Socrat
es Café, for providing their comments and insight as lovers-of-books-of-all-kinds about this novel, Peggy Coale and Laurel Kerr.

  Thank you to Dr. Gary Nicholson, who provided valuable insight into cancer treatment regimens of the 1950s.

  Thank you to a host of wonderful writers and publishing professionals who I am deeply grateful to also know as friends: Ron Rollins, for writing a letter of recommendation for the Montgomery County Arts fellowship; Jeffrey Marks, Nancy Martin, Marcia Talley, Charlaine Harris, for providing excellent advice in querying agents; Carrie Bebris, Trudy Krisher, Judy Clemens, and Sarah Durand McGuigan for both providing advice and reading early chapters. I am especially indebted to Katrina Kittle, Kristina McBride, Becky Morean, Marti Moody, and Heather Webber not only for patting me on the head and wiping my brow when I needed the emotional support of close writer friends, but also for reading not just one…but at least TWO versions of the full manuscript and providing invaluable insight. An extra thank you to Katrina for also writing a letter of recommendation for the Montgomery County Arts fellowship and to Marti for providing an introduction to the agency that, in the end, would win my heart.

  About that agency…thank you to Elisabeth Weed and Stephanie Sun, who not only believed in this story but provided valuable guidance in making it deeper and better. Thank you for also working with Jenny Meyer Literary Agency to find a publishing home for this novel in Germany. Thank you to Denise Roy, who brilliantly edited my novel with the intellectual precision of a surgeon and the heart of one who loves and understands storytelling. I am so delighted and grateful to be working with this amazing, savvy, dedicated publishing team!

  And finally, thank you to readers who have followed my work over the years and are now joining me on this new literary venture, and to all new readers, too! I’m humbled and honored that you’re coming along on Donna and Will’s adventure.