William Krueger: Iron Lake

“You’ll do it?” Wanda Manydeeds asked. Her face, which was hard and tawny as sandstone, showed no emotion. But there was a flash in her eyes that Jo interpreted as satisfaction.

“We’ll do it,” Jo replied.

And they had.

“How’s Sandy’s transition to Washington going?” Stu Grantham asked.

“What?” Jo brought herself back to the moment, to Stu Grantham stalling on the far side of her desk.

“Our new senator. Is he ready for Washington?”

“He will be.”

“You read the article in the Pioneer Press? Another Jack Kennedy, they’re saying. Harvard-educated, liberal, good-looking. A lady’s man.” Grantham paused a moment, twirling his heavy class ring. “You going with him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I heard he wanted you to be part of his staff in D.C.”

“My practice and my family are here in Aurora,” Jo replied coolly. “I have no intention of leaving.”

“I just thought, with things the way they are between you and Cork-”

“What about my client?” Jo swung back to the real issue. “Are we going to be here all night or do you agree to the terms I’ve proposed?”

“All night with you?” Grantham leaned across the desk, grinning. “Now, that’s a thought.”

“You know, Stu,” Jo replied calmly, “that’s exactly the kind of statement that landed your road crew in deep shit.”

“Ah, look, Jo-”

“No, you look.” She drove a finger at him, and although she didn’t touch him at all, he sat back abruptly. “I want an answer and I want it now. Will you advise the board to accept our terms? Or do we drag this through the courts and air all the dirty, sexist linen in public? If you want to know the truth, Stu, I’d just as soon do this in court. I’d just as soon make an example of this crew and maybe the whole leadership of this county while we’re at it.”

Jo would have gone on, but the phone rang. She turned from Grantham and answered it with an irate, “Yes!”

It was her sister Rose.

“Have you heard from Anne?” Rose asked, speaking of Jo’s eleven-year-old daughter.

“No. Isn’t she home with you?”

“She checked in right after school let out and said she had an errand to run. I didn’t think anything of it. But that was three hours ago, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

Jo looked out her window at the furious energy of the storm. She worked at keeping her own voice calm. “Does Jenny know anything?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“I called everyone I could think of.”

“Have you tried Cork?”

“I left messages on his machine.”

“Maybe he took her ice fishing,” Jo suggested, although she was certain Cork wouldn’t have done that without calling first.

“Jo, I’m worried.”

“Are Stevie and Jenny there with you?”

“Yes.”

“Keep them there. I’ll be right home.”

Jo hung up the phone. She glared at Grantham. “Well?”

The telephone call had broken Jo’s momentum. Grantham was straightening his tie. “Trouble at home?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I don’t think I want to rush a decision here, Jo,” Grantham said. He wandered back toward his chair and seemed prepared to settle in again.

Jo went to the door and held it open, signaling Grantham their meeting was at a definite end. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will.” The man smiled as he left.

Jo threw a few things into her briefcase. She pulled on her coat, locked up the office, and headed out to the empty parking lot. Under the snow, the windshield of her Toyota was coated with a thick layer of ice that broke her plastic scraper. She turned the defroster up full blast, and while the engine warmed and the air grew hot enough to begin melting a clear patch, she labored to brush snow off the rest of the car.

Suddenly, out of the cold of the storm, she felt the touch of a deeper cold on her back, as if an icy hand had reached through her coat and touched her skin. She swung around, a shiver running down her spine, and peered into the swirling white behind her. She strained to look at the line of cedars that walled the corner of the lot a couple of dozen yards away.

“Is anyone there?” She knew it was ridiculous to think a human hand could have reached so far. But what had touched her had not felt human at all.

No voice answered except the bitter howl of the wind. She left off brushing the snow, got into her car, and locked the doors. The defroster had cleared only a small area low on the windshield, but it was enough for Nancy Jo O’Connor. She left the empty lot as quickly as she could.

Cork pulled up alongside a snow-covered Quonset hut that stood next to the lake. The front of the hut had been reconstructed as a burger stand, with two sliding windows and a long, narrow counter for serving customers. Pictures of ice cream cones decorated the side of the building up front. The serving windows had been boarded over with plywood, and above that a sign painted in red letters on a white board read, “Sam’s Place.”

Cork parked near the back door and went in. The back half of the hut had been converted into a space for living-one large room that held a stove and refrigerator, a sink, a table with two chairs, a sofa, a bunk, a small desk, and a bookshelf. One corner had been partitioned for a bathroom with a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall. During World War II, the hut had been part of a complex used by the National Guard. After the war, the complex was abandoned and all but the single Quonset hut had been bulldozed. Cork wasn’t sure why the hut had been spared, but it had been purchased by Sam Winter Moon, who’d made it over into a business serving cones and shakes and burgers to the summer tourists. Sam had lived in the back during the season. Late fall after he closed up, he lived in his cabin on reservation land. In his will, Sam had left the Quonset hut to Cork.

Inside, the place was cool, much cooler than it should have been. Cork stepped down into the cellar and found that the burner on the oil furnace wasn’t running, a chronic problem. He hit the red reset button. Nothing happened. He kicked the tiny motor. The burner came on with a small roar. Mentally Cork crossed his fingers, hoping the burner would last the winter. By next fall, if Sam’s Place had a good season, he could afford to replace it.

Back upstairs, he stepped through a door into that part of the hut that was the burger stand. Boxes of nonperishable supplies sat stacked, waiting for spring. The big ice-milk freezer stood sparkling clean and idle next to the small grill. Propped against the wall near the door was a sack of dry corn with a plastic bucket and scoop inside it. Cork scooped out a quarter bucket of corn, headed back through the hut and outside again.

The lake was lost behind the snow. Cork trudged through the drifts toward a tall Cyclone fence that edged Sam’s property. My property, Cork still had to remind himself. On the other side of the fence was the Bearpaw Brewery, the buildings big and dark and indistinct through the blowing snow. He followed the fence to the edge of the lake. Although the rest of the lake had been frozen awhile, a large expanse of water near the fence stayed open year round because of the runoff from the brewery. Warning signs had been placed on the ice, and safety stations with sleds and life rings stood along the shore. Cork was surprised to see a figure in a familiar red coat hunched at the water’s edge.

“Annie?” he called. “Is that you?”

His daughter turned. She was big for her age, and freckled year round. She’d inherited the wild red hair of her Irish ancestors, but from her Anishinaabe genes came dark thoughtful eyes that regarded her father with concern.