A Northern Light(66)

I'd made an extra special effort that morning. I told him all about saltant, my word of the day. "It means dancing, leaping, or jumping, Weaver," I'd said. "Its root comes from the Latin sal, for salt. Isn't that interesting? You can see the connection, can't you? A bit of salt sprinkled over pork chops or eggs can make them dance, too." I thought my observation was fascinating, but Weaver did not. He continued to sulk, and fight with Cook, and generally make the kitchen a thoroughly miserable place to be.

No one was pleased with the arrangement. Fran and Ada and I hated it almost as much as Weaver did, for we all had to take turns waiting on table six. That horrible man grew bolder by the day. Ada had a bruise the size of a silver dollar on her bottom from his pinching fingers.

Cook was the unhappiest one of all. She didn't want Weaver in her kitchen any more than he wanted to be there. On the first day, she told him to season a huge pot of chicken soup and he'd oversalted it. On the second, she gave him a quart of heavy cream to whip and he'd turned it to butter. On the third, she'd told him to change the sticky fly tapes that hung down from the gaslamps and he'd dropped one into a pan of béarnaise sauce.

That's when she blew up at him. She yelled at him for being careless and clumsy, and then she told him he had his head straight up his ass and that he had a lot of nerve moping and carrying on when it was nobody's fault but his own what had happened. And that if he wanted to work in the dining room instead of the kitchen, he'd have to learn to stay out of fights.

"You brought it on yourself, Weaver, and now you have to deal with the consequences," shed scolded.

"I did not bring it on myself."

"Yes, you did."

"How? Did I call myself names? Haul myself down out of the wagon? Beat myself up?"

Cooks answer to that was to banish him to the back steps with a paring knife and four bushels of potatoes. It did not pay to fight with Cook.

I think Weaver would have kept up his surly behavior all week, and possibly have gotten himself killed by Cook or Bill or the rest of us, if Mr. Higby hadn't come by.

Mr. Higby owned Higby's camp on the south shore of Big Moose Lake and was the local justice of the peace. He was also Mr. Sperry's brother-in-law, and when he suddenly appeared in the kitchen toward the end of the breakfast service, we all thought that's who he was after.

"Hello, Jim, you eat yet?" Cook asked him. "Mattie, go get Mr. Sperry."

"No need, Mrs. Hennessey," Mr. Higby said. "I'll find him. I've got to see Weaver first, anyway."

"Lord God, what did he do now?" Cook sighed, walking to the cellar door. "Weaver!" she shouted. "Get those plates and get back up here! Mr. Higby wants a word with you!"

Weaver came up and put the new plates down on the drain board, clinking them together loudly. Cook gritted her teeth. "Make my day, Weaver," she said. "Tell me you robbed a bank or held up the train and that Jim's going to take you out of my kitchen right now and put you in jail for the next twenty years."

Weaver did not deign to reply. He simply lifted his chin, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for Mr. Higby to speak.

"Just thought you'd like to know that I found the men who gave you that licking, Weaver. They were raising Cain up at the Summit just as I happened to be picking up some guests from the train station. Broke a stool and a window. I fined them five dollars on the spot for the damages, and when the bartender told me they were the same men who attacked you, I arrested them. They spent the night locked up in the Summit's basement. John Denio's had a look at them and says I've got the right ones. Now I need you to do the same, and then I'm going to give them a short vacation in Herkimer, as guests of the State of New York. They'll get a cozy little room and some new clothes, too. The kind with stripes on 'em."

For the first time in days, Weaver smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Higby. I appreciate you taking the time over it."

"Just doing my job. I've got to find Dwight and talk business for a bit. I'll call for you on my way out."

Mr. Higby went to find Mr. Sperry and Weaver went back to the sink. His head was high. His back was straight. His eyes, so dark with anger for the last four days, were filled with a clear and righteous light.

Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be. Once I saw Beth lift her head at the sound of a coyotes cry at twilight. Her eyes widened—half in wonder, half in fear—and I saw that she would be beautiful some day. Not just pretty, truly beautiful. I saw the restlessness in Lawton long before he left. I saw it when he was only a boy and would toss sticks and leaves into the rushing waters of the Moose River and watch them go where he could not. I have seen Royal stop working to wipe his brow in the bright noon sun and have glimpsed the farmer he will be. Better than his pa, better than mine. The sort who can scent rain coming on a dry day and know the ripeness of his corn by the rustle of its leaves alone.

Just then, I saw what Weaver would be, too. I saw him in a courtroom, thundering at the jury, commanding their eyes and ears, their hearts and souls and minds—on fire with the strength of his convictions, the passion of his words.

Weaver wasn't that man yet, he was only a boy, tall and lanky, scrubbing a greasy roasting pan. But he would be. Scrubbing was only for today for Weaver Smith, not for ever.