Oslo, Maine

by Marcia Butler

  Praise for Oslo, Maine

  “A Moosetagonist, a musician reluctantly teaching, neighbors with guns, neighbors with drug problems, neighbors whose kid owns a beautiful mind, a wealthy patron, a literal-minded simple scion, a lover, another, a husband, a violin: the other Maine. Marcia Butler has pulled all these elements and much more together into one sweeping tale of love and redemption, a lot of laughs along the way, and sorrow, too, flights of transcendence, an aria sung by a moose who knows more than the rest of us what it is to be alive. Oslo, Maine is richly satisfying, a book for a quiet afternoon, a cup of tea, music in the background. Don’t mind that big soft nose at the window: the moose has come for you.”

  — Bill Roorbach, author of The Girl of the Lake, The Remedy for Love, and Life Among Giants

  “How do we cope with the unimaginable? Maybe, says Marcia Butler, in her brilliant new novel, we do it with the unimaginable. When 12-year-old Pierre Roy loses his memory in an accident, three Maine families, a crosscut of cultures and classes, are at loose ends as to what to do. Instead, it’s up to one boy and the incredible sound from one violin, to change and challenge everything everyone thought they knew. Gorgeously written and hauntingly told, Butler’s novel, about love, forgiveness, and yes, coming to terms with our failures, is as breathtaking as Maine itself.”

  — Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You and Cruel Beautiful World

  “Oslo, Maine is an enchantment; I read it in two sittings, utterly absorbed, spellbound by this world where everyone—even a mother moose—has secrets and hidden yearnings (and unexpected capacities), and where even damage can prove to be a redemptive gift. Marcia Butler is a master dramatist, a sorceress, and extraordinary novelist; this book will break your heart and heal it.”

  — E. J. Levy, author of Love, in Theory and forthcoming, The Cape Doctor

  “Wildly plotted, astutely observed, and brimming with wit, Oslo, Maine briskly unfurls its central mystery, portraying a motley brand of Mainers with precision, and causing unsuspecting readers to become deeply invested in the plight of a moose and her calf. Marcia Butler explores the blunt, hard follies of human nature with verve and humor in this innovative and charming novel.”

  — Adrienne Brodeur, author of the national bestselling memoir Wild Game

  “In her impressive new novel Oslo, Maine, Marcia Butler offers readers a seductive, imaginative, and utterly unique story; an astute and compassionate foray into the intersecting lives of characters who are both ordinary and exceptional, saintly and deeply flawed. I raced through this novel in one breathless sitting. Highly recommended!”

  — Karen Dionne, #1 internationally bestselling author of The Wicked Sister

  Praise for Pickle’s Progress

  “The four main characters in Pickle’s Progress seem more alive than most of the people we know in real life because their fears and desires are so nakedly exposed. That’s because their creator, Marcia Butler, possesses truly scary X-ray vision and intelligence to match.”

  — Richard Russo

  “With detached wit and restrained horror at her characters’ behavior, Butler explores the volatile nature of identity in this provocative novel.”

  — Booklist

  “In this study of how childhood experiences shape perception, and how deception keeps people caged, Butler shows that nothing need be set in stone.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “Marcia Butler is a gifted storyteller with a uniquely dry sense of humor.”

  — NPR

  “Invigorating, sly and mordantly funny, Pickle’s Progress offers a comic look at the foibles of human nature and all the ways love can seduce, betray and, ultimately, sustain us.”

  — Jillian Medoff, bestselling author of This Could Hurt

  “A wild ride. A suicide, an Upper West Side brownstone, and twin brothers come together in this surprising and trenchant debut novel from memoirist Marcia Butler.”

  — Vulture

  Copyright © 2021 Marcia Butler

  Cover and internal design © 2021 Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

  Cover Design: Michelle Halket

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Central Avenue Publishing, an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

  www.centralavenuepublishing.com

  Published in Canada

  Printed in United States of America

  1. FICTION/Literary 2. FICTION/Small Town & Rural

  OSLO, MAINE

  Trade Paperback: 978-1-77168-231-2

  Epub: 978-1-77168-232-9

  Mobi: 978-1-77168-233-6

  For Céleste-Marie Roy

  Dearest friend

  Then, now and always

  PROLOGUE

  ONE WEEK AFTER ARRIVING IN OSLO environs and before giving birth to her calf, the moose approached the Hump for the first time. The land mass was a longitudinal ridge that separated Oslo on the eastern slope from the Demarchelier Paper Mill, nestled in a valley to the west. Cresting at an altitude just shy of one thousand feet, the Hump conveniently prevented the mill’s toxic runoff from invading Oslo water supply and the surrounding lakes. And except for an occasional rogue eastern downdraft, prevailing westerly air patterns held its pernicious smell at bay. With these conditions in place, Oslo, Maine remained a pleasant enough place to live and the March, as the paper mill was commonly known, had provided healthy blood flow to the town’s economic heart for generations.

  It was late April, and the sun had begun its descent behind the White Mountains to the southwest in New Hampshire. Though the moose had poor eyesight, especially with regard to distance, she noticed a patch of birch trees high on a barren ridge, whose virgin leaves shimmered against the waning light. She’d been foraging all day and the climb would take considerable energy, but the moose was still hungry, the calf inside her active. She summited the Hump and fed efficiently by stripping several trees of spring buds.

  Now full dusk, the temperature dropped quickly, causing the moose’s skin to ripple from the chill. She navigated down the western slope, stepping around stubby brush and through residual patches of winter snow until she reached the bottom. This side of the Hump appeared mostly devoid of edible plants and trees, though a nearby patch of fronds presented as a suitable bed. Just as she prepared to collapse her legs and lie for the night, she heard a familiar trickle. She approached the sound, which proved to be a stream, and placed one hoof in the water to test the depth. Satisfied that the stream was shallow, she extended her neck down to drink. The water gave off an acrid stench, and she quickly recoiled with aversion. This sudden reaction set in motion a chain of events.

  Something brushed her head—a tickle at her ears. She heard a series of snaps and simultaneously, something that resembled a snake dropped over her head, encircling her neck. Startled, she backed away but was unable to move more than a foot. Walking forward into the putrid water also proved impossible. Spreading her four legs at slight angles in order to stabilize the weight of herself and her calf, she began to thrash her head back and forth, up and down. The snake-thing tightened all the more.

  The moose, possessing exceptional hearing, rotated her ears in an attempt to locate other animals. But the area exuded a malevolent quiet—dangerous, because she’d never encountered this particular predator throughout her twenty years
in the natural world. And her strange captor seemed to operate with a native intelligence. It had managed to scoot up her long neck, past the dewlap, and was now tight at the cusp of her throat. She worked her tongue from side to side, attempting to swallow, but could only bark a cough brought on by the sustained constriction. Very soon, saliva frothed at her lips and stiff hairs rose up on her shoulders and spine. The moose had entered a full panic.

  Over the course of the next hour, the moose made many attempts to free herself. She alternately strained mightily and then eased up when exhausted. Sustained moans, meant to attract other moose as far away as two miles, went unheeded. Finally, she gave herself over to capture. And once she ceased struggling altogether, the snake-thing slackened its tension at her neck, almost as a reward for relinquishing all efforts to escape. There, standing at the lip of the stream, the moose and her unborn calf managed an uneasy sleep.

  Dawn broke. No other animals approached the stream as would be normal in the early hours, the water source surely known to be non-potable. If birds nested nearby, they remained silent. Indeed, as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, a barren land spread out before the moose. Bushes and trees appeared dwarfed, like in the dead of winter, rather than flourishing with buds as would be expected in spring. Any snow that remained was covered with black silt encrusted across the surface. The moose, now fully awake to this strange landscape, felt a fresh urge to free herself. She recycled pointless movements and made weak calls to other animals. Her calf kicked at intervals, but before long went unnaturally still.

  Soon, thirst became her most pressing need. Though the stream was foul, the moose made one more massive attempt to get water down her throat. She pulled against the snake-thing and managed to poke her snout a few inches into the water. Not only did her throat close up again, but overnight her tongue had swollen to almost twice its normal size, which rendered her incapable of swallowing. So whatever water did manage to seep into her mouth went nowhere. This was a bewildering confluence of restrictions she’d never known before. And as if to punish her further, the moose urgently, now more than ever, wanted to collapse to the ground. Yet each time she sank, the choking around her neck thwarted that need.

  In early afternoon, just as the moose had managed to relax into another dozing state, a noise from behind startled her. She was unable to turn her head, but recognized the sound as one she’d encountered near the paths on which humans traveled. The grinding noise grew in volume and stopped directly behind. The sound of four slams and approaching footsteps shook her.

  “It’s a moose cow. A beauty.”

  “Seems like she’s been here for what—maybe a day? Look at her scat.”

  Humans were not the moose’s natural predator. Though worthy of caution, especially when she had a calf in tow, in most cases their presence wouldn’t feel particularly menacing. Only packs of wolves had success killing her kind. But now, being trapped, the moose had no choice but to tolerate their touch. Hands slid down her legs then back up to her withers. Fingers traced the deep scarring across her flank, a vestige of surviving a decade-old battle with wolves. She felt pressure around the dewlap at her neck. The humans probed and squeezed everything. When they rubbed the fur at the moose’s belly in circular motions, her calf responded with a weak kick.

  “Wow, she’s pregnant. Claude’s gonna flip over this.”

  “Yeah, a bonus for sure. Let’s get her hooked up and walk her to the March.”

  “Nice and easy, boys. Claude won’t want her stressed. Keep that meat tender.”

  Up until that point the moose had not seen the humans; she’d only heard their soft calls and felt their touch. Now, for a brief moment, one set of hands flickered in front of her eyes and just as quickly, everything went dark. A softness shrouded her head, and her sight could not adjust as it would at night. Before her was an impenetrable black. Nature did not know this hue.

  The men drove around to the front of the moose and tethered her to ropes connected to winches at the back of the truck. Slowly but insistently, they pulled her about a half mile toward a loading dock no longer in use. This section of the March, permanently closed due to downsizing, sat at the westernmost side and was not visible from the Hump or any approaching road. The surrounding asphalt, which in previous years had been a parking area, was overrun with unruly grass and saplings that barely flourished now only as weeds. They parked a few hundred yards from the building, then sat in the truck for several minutes to watch the moose gradually settle down. Once she seemed acclimated, they got out of the truck, leaving the doors open so as not to startle her. Now they’d begin the most challenging aspect of the capture—to work calmly and swiftly, yet with precision.

  The men unspooled four ropes from the truck. With one end clipped to a large metal ring attached to the noose at the moose’s withers, they wrapped the opposite ends around their waists. Then, positioning themselves at four corners around the moose, they stretched the ropes taut so as to equalize the torque differential. With the larger captures, the goal was to distribute the weight and drag the animal up the loading ramp and into the building in one motion. Since Claude had begun the trapping business about a year back, they’d developed this specific method through trial and error. Now with everything secured, the men began that final pull.

  The moose noticed a change in the air. The humans, while moving around her, discharged their musky scent, which she’d often encountered when roaming near their structures. But the sounds, chinking and snapping, were completely foreign to the moose. As she tried to sort out what she was hearing, her body was pulled, oddly, from many directions at once. And because she was still blinded, the moose had no choice but to allow the conflicting pressures to propel her forward as grunts from the humans peppered the air.

  Suddenly she was up a slight incline, and a chilled stagnation swathed her body. It was as if the air had collapsed onto her head or had vanished altogether. Just as quickly, a great shattering noise from behind caused an uncomfortable pressure in her ears. She felt a flutter at her head and the soft darkness lifted. As her eyesight adjusted, she glanced toward a light source above and was surprised by multiple stars very close to her body, organized in a regular pattern she’d never seen in the sky. The moose looked down and found herself standing on impossibly hard earth, without the natural give of soil. It was then that the moose began to notice not so much what was present, but what was lacking: a distant sky above, grass, trees, hills. No horizon at all. But as disorienting as all this was, what shook her most was what she smelled: urine, defecate, and other gore, all of which seemed to embed deep into her nostrils. She snorted to try and release the foulness but could not expunge the odor. Here, she knew, animals had been in trouble. They had not escaped. This place held death.

  “What should we do with her?”

  “Wait for Claude, for sure. But it looks like she’s real close to birthing.”

  “He’d want them both healthy. Let’s give her water.”

  “Good idea. That’ll sustain them pretty well for another day until the slaughter.”

  She felt a human pat the fur by her calf. The snake-thing went slack, and though her movement was somehow still restricted she was now able to move her head up and down. As the moose gingerly tested this marginal freedom, a human came into view and placed something on the ground at her front legs. She leaned down and poked her nose into the liquid. It was fresh and cold and greatly needed; the moose began to drink. As soon as she finished, more water appeared, again and again. Soon she felt quenched and her calf, too, began to move in response to the hydration.

  The humans left, their sounds and smells disappearing to somewhere she could not imagine. After a time, the moose became accustomed to the chill of the room, the hard ground, and the air, thick and moist. She began to look around. Snake-things lay by the walls, limp, perhaps even dead. Those walls, all dark red and brown, were smattered with blood and offal speckling the surfaces. The many round stars in the false sky felt even more omi
nous with their unnaturally close proximity and strong glow. Never before had she known such a lack of natural things. And soon, the moose was aware of another presence surrounding her—ghosts of dead animals, their eyes pooling with wet and their mouths open yet making no sound.

  SOME TIME LATER, the moose woke from a doze to a different light, warm and familiar, spreading against her from behind. Wind blew, a welcome diffusion of the deathly smells. A small human ran all around, circling her, darting here and there. She saw red fur on its head as it jumped up and down in front of her. It made repeated high-pitched squeals.

  “No, Luc! No! Luc!”

  “Oh, Mother of Jesus. Pierre! Get away from her!”

  “She’s trapped!”

  “I said get away from that thing, Pierre. It’s dangerous.”

  “Please, Luc. I know we can save her!”

  The small human left the moose’s view. Then she felt it take hold of her tail with a modest grip and push against her backside. The moose instinctively released her scat. The small human shrieked again, now louder and sustained, and clamped on to her tail with greater strength. A large human with black fur appeared at her side and roughly yanked on the long snake-things which had kept her from moving. Then she felt intense pressure into her flank as the large human with black fur attempted to turn her around. Simultaneously, the small human took hold of one of her back legs. Suddenly the idea of potential escape made the moose go wild. She raised both hind legs, and with the small human still attached, bucked with massive force. A dense thud. Then silence.

  With nothing to constrict her for the first time in many hours, the moose took in this terrible place. In a corner, the small human with red fur was folded into a lump. The large human hovered above the small one as it quivered and began to moan. But the moose spent no more than a few seconds on these visions. Because ahead of her was the color of freedom: the blue of a natural sky.