A Northern Light(89)

He nods and swallows hard. He makes a gun of his hand and points it at me. "To the death, Mathilda Gokey," he says.

I smile and aim right back at him. "To the death, Weaver Smith."





IT IS JUST past ten o'clock. The dawn came and the sun rose on a flawless summer morning. I am standing, frightened but resolved, on the train platform in Old Forge.

Is there a word for that? Feeling scared of what's to come but eager for it, too? Terricipatation? Joybodenous? Feager? If there is, I mean to find it.

My carpetbag weighs heavy in my hand. I have most everything I own inside it. I also have my train ticket in there, an address for Miss Annabelle Wilcox of New York City, and two dollars and twenty-five cents. It is all I have left from the money I saved. It isn't very much at all. I will have to find a job right away.

It had only just gone light when I left the Glenmore, but I was able to get a ride into Eagle Bay from Bill Jarvis, who owns the Jarvis Hotel in Big Moose Station. He was on his way to see Dr. Wallace. He was suffering from a toothache and was not in a talkative mood. I was glad for that. I didn't want to answer any questions.

The Clearwater was still in dock when we arrived, and I was able to get a seat on its return run to Old Forge. I had decided not to take the train so I wouldn't have to explain myself to Mr. Pulling. The engineers change a lot on the steamers; I didn't know the one on the morning run. I was worried when I saw the pickle boat coming, but I just scrunched down in my seat and Charlie Eckler never saw me. I looked back once, just before Eagle Bay disappeared from sight, and I felt more lonely and frightened than I have ever felt in my life. I thought about turning around when I got to Old Forge, but I didn't. There's no going back once you're already gone.





NOW, AS I WAIT for my train, Grace's words echo in my memory. I have been bidding good-by to some places to-day. There are so many nooks, dear, and all of them so dear to me. I have lived here nearly all my life ... Oh, dear, you don't realize what all of this is to me. I know I shall never see any of them again...





A NORTHBOUND train pulls in. An express. There are only a few people on it. A handful of tourists and some workmen get off, followed by two men wearing jackets and ties.

"That's him. Austin Klock. He's the undersheriff," a man standing next to me says to his companion. "Told you this was more than some run-of-the-mill drowning." They pull out notepads. Reporters, I imagine.

"Who's the man with him?"

"County coroner. Isaac Coffin."

"Coffin? You're kidding me, right?"

"Brother, I am not. Come on. Let's see if we can get a statement before that guy from the Watertown paper does."

The undersheriff holds his hands up as they approach him. "Gentlemen, I know as much about it as you do. A girl drowned at the Glenmore. Her body's been recovered. Her companion's has not..."

Soon you'll know more, I think. A lot more. Soon you'll know that the girl was called Grace. And that she spent her last weeks on this earth pregnant and afraid, begging the man who'd made her so to come and take her away. But he'd had other ideas.

I close my eyes and I can see Chester Gillette. He's signing the guest book at the Glenmore. And having his dinner, and going for a boat ride. I see him row all the way out to South Bay. Maybe he and Grace get out and sit on the bank for a while. He leaves his suitcase there. They row some more. He waits until he's sure there's no one else around, and then he hits Grace. He tips the boat and swims to shore. Grace can't swim. He knows that because she told him. She'd drown even if she wasn't unconscious, but it's quieter this way. She can't scream for help.

Later, when the boat is recovered, it will look to the searchers like Grace Brown and her companion both drowned. No one will ever find out that Grace was pregnant or that Chester Gillette was the father of her child. Her death will be Carl Grahm's fault, and Chester will be free to return to Cortland and have a good and dandy time.

I see Chester now, today. He's eating breakfast somewhere. Maybe up at Seventh Lake. Maybe at the Neodak in Inlet, or the Arrowhead. Swinging his tennis racket. Smiling. He's sure as hell not dead. Not him. I'd bet my last dollar on that.

I see Grace Brown, too. Stiff and cold in a room in the Glenmore with a tiny life that will never be, inside her.

And then I hear a whistle, shrill and piercing. I open my eyes and see the tracks, and the southbound train coming down them. The monstrous engine pulls in. Screeching and steaming, it comes to a halt. I cannot move. The conductor jumps down and helps passengers out. The porters unload trunks and luggage. People swirl around me. Heavy canvas mailbags land on the platform beside me.

"All aboard!" the conductor yells. "This is the ten-fifteen New York Central for Utica, Herkimer, and all points south! Tickets, please! Have your tickets ready!"

People are boarding the train. Mothers and children. Businessmen. Holidaymakers on their way home. Couples. And still I cannot move.

I think of my family. Of Bern's songs. Of Lou's swagger. Of Abby's gentle voice. I can see Pa sitting by the fire. And Emmie and Weaver's mamma picking beans. I see Royal plowing his father's fields, gazing across them to my father's land with a look of love and longing he'd never shown me. I see Barney's blind eyes turned up to mine. And the poor dead robin at my mother's grave.