A Northern Light(20)

I thought of my word of the day. Can a girl be unmanned? I wondered. By a boy? Can she be unbrained?





Hamlet is drooling again. Silver strings of slime hang from his lips. He whines, then snorts, then lets out a long, gusty burp. He is my least favorite guest, after table six. I toss him a buttermilk pancake from the plate I'm holding, and he swallows it in one gulp. He eats half a roasted chicken at every meal, a broiled minute steak, and a dozen pancakes. He'd eat ten dozen if he could get them.

Hamlet belongs to Mr. Phillip Preston Palmer, Esquire—a lawyer from Metuchen, New Jersey. I met him two weeks ago, just after he arrived. He bounded into the dining room and backed me into a corner, trying to get at a platter of bacon I was carrying. Hamlet, that is. Not Mr. Palmer.

"He won't hurt you, honey!" Mr. Palmer yelled from the foyer. "His name is Hamlet. You know why I call him that?"

"No, sir, I have no idea," I said, not wanting to spoil his fun. Guests came to the Glenmore to have fun.

"Because he's a Great Dane! Ha! Ha! Ha! Get it?"

I would have liked to tell Mr. Palmer just how old and feeble that joke is, but instead I said, "Oh, of course, sir! How clever of you!" because I had learned a thing or two during my time at the Glenmore. About when to tell the truth and when not to. And for my smiles and admiring words, I earned Mr. Palmers liking and an extra dollar a week to feed Hamlet and walk him. In the woods. Far away from the hotel. Because the filthy beast shits like a plow horse.

I did not normally look forward to Hamlet's after-supper walk, but tonight I am glad for it. Try as I might, I have not been able to get near the cellar all evening, and Grace Browns letters are still in my pocket. I figured out a new way to get rid of them, though, and Hamlet is going to help me.

I finish feeding the dog and bring the plate back into the kitchen. Supper ended over an hour ago. It's dusky now. The kitchen is empty except for Bill, the dishwasher, and Henry, the underchef, who is holding a carving knife in one hand and rooting in a drawer with the other.

"Hamlet sends his compliments, Henry," I say. Henry's real name is Heinrich. He is German and started at the Glenmore the same week that I did.

"Cooking pancake for dog," he grumbles. "For this I make journey to America? Mattie, haf you seen my vetstone?"

He means whetstone. "No, I'm sorry, Henry, I haven't," I say, heading back out the door. I have told him over and over again that sharpening a knife after dark brings bad luck. He doesn't believe me, though, so now I have hidden it. There has been enough bad luck around here lately without him making any more.

"Come on, boy," I say. Hamlet's black ears prick up. He wags his tail. I unloop his leash from the handle of an empty milk can. We round the back corner of the hotel, and Hamlet lifts his leg on one of the porch columns. "Stop that!" I scold, tugging on the leash, but he doesn't budge until he's hosed it down good. I look around anxiously, hoping Mrs. Morrison hasn't seen us. Or Cook. Luckily, there is no one around. "Let's go, Hamlet. You mind me, now," I warn him. He trots along. We cross the front lawn and head down to the lake. I look back over my shoulder. The Glenmore is all lit up. I can see people on the porch. The men's cigar tips glow like fireflies in the dark. The women look like ghosts, in their white lawn dresses.

We get to the water's edge. "Wait, Hamlet," I say. He stands patiently as I scoop up a handful of stones. "Come on, now," I tell him, leading him onto the dock. He takes a few steps. His nails click against the boards, then dig in. He does not like the way the dock rises and sinks on the lapping water. "Come on, boy. It's all right. Let's see if there are some loons to bark at. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Come on, Hamlet ... there's a good dog...," I plead with him, but he won't move, so I play my trump card and pull a cold pancake out of my pocket. He follows me happily.

I feel the letters bumping against my leg as we walk, nagging and badgering. I'll soon be rid of them, though. The end of the dock is only three yards away. All I have to do is untie the ribbon that's holding the bundle together, slip a few stones into one of the envelopes, tie the bundle back together, and throw it into the water. It's not exactly what Grace Brown asked of me, but it will have to do. The lake is twelve feet deep at the end of the dock—deeper still farther out—and I have a good arm. No one will ever find them.

Finally, I'm there. Right at the dock's edge. I let go of Hamlet's leash and step on it to keep him from running off. I'm just reaching into my pocket for the letters when out of the darkness a voice says, "Going swimming, Matt?"

I'm so startled that I cry out and drop all my stones. I look to my right and there is Weaver, still in his black waiter's jacket, his trousers rolled up to his knees, sitting on the edge of the dock.

"Royal know you're two-timing him?" he asks, nodding at Hamlet.

"Very funny, Weaver! You frightened me to death!"

"Sorry."

"What are you doing out here?" I ask, then realize I know the answer already. He comes here every night now to grieve. I should have remembered that.

"I was looking at the boat," he replies. "The one that couple took out. The Zilpha towed it back."

"Where is it?"

"There." He points to the far end of the dock. A skiff is tied there. Its cushions are gone and its oarlocks are empty. "I went into the parlor after supper. To look at her." He is staring out at the lake. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his cheeks are wet.