Peter Geye: The Lighthouse Road

"A fair question. Fair indeed." He stood again. "I am a man of resources, Ava. I've traveled to all the corners of the world. I'm educated." Now he sat next to her. "I'm not religious, even if I once was, but I do have a meditative streak. Places such as Vaclav's serve as my Asclepieions. Places where I can restore myself." He paused, considered whether to continue in such a vein but thought better of it. "All of which is to say that though I have my— how shall I say this? — uncouth tendencies, I am also a man more capable than most to subvert those tendencies. I am, at heart, a simple man." He nodded his head in self-approval. "I have enemies, though. It's probably not a good idea for me to be in Chicago in the first place. But I needed to see Vaclav. I needed to see about you." He straightened up. "I have represented myself to the people of Gunflint as a family man. They expect me to return with my daughter."

"Do you have a real daughter?"

"No, no. I wish I did. I was married once. Many years ago. In Paris, France. My wife passed. We never had children."

"Who are these enemies? Why won't they follow you to Minnesota?"

The thought of telling her the whole story occurred to him. It would be easy enough to do. Easy enough to tell her about the stud game turned deadly, about running through the levee with fifty thousand dollars in his briefcase, two Polack hoods chasing him, the knife still bloody. The fact was, the particulars of his fleeing became more remote the closer he got to leaving, seemed to matter less and less. Whatever ambition had once been in him was now satisfied by the mere notion of what he was building in Gunflint. So instead of answering her question he said, "My enemies are my own business. But they won't follow me to Minnesota. They won't know I'm there." He said this matter-of-factly. "Now, Ava, let's get back to you—"

"Tell me what your business is there," she said interrupting him.

"Why, I own an apothecary. Or I should say I'm building an apothecary. I'm also a trained dentist and surgeon. In France I was trained as an accoucheur."

"What's that?"

"A deliverer of babies. Like a midwife. I will be the town's general physician."

"And what's an apothecary?" She had trouble pronouncing the word.

"A place where cures are sold. Medicines and suchlike."

She nodded and began fidgeting with her parasol, opening it halfway and snapping it shut. For a long minute she said nothing, only toed the pebbled pathway and played with her parasol. When finally she did speak, it was very softly. "I don't care to go to school. I'm not a very good cook."

" Going to school won't be required. I hope you'll learn to cook. I also hope you'll help me at the apothecary. Otherwise you'll be free to do as you please."

Now she looked at him as she said, "And you'll leave me be? Won't do what Hruby and the headmaster done?"

"On my life."

He thought her face brightened. "All right," she said. "When will we leave?"

Hosea clapped his hands as he stood. "Excellent! Excellent, Ava! We'll collect your things at Vaclav's and leave at once. I believe there's a train at noon. Let's hurry along."

So together they walked back to the bagnio. It took her only moments to gather her belongings, all of which fit into a small suitcase.

Hosea paid Vaclav five hundred dollars. The two shook hands and agreed that the rest of their business could be conducted via the post. Together they were going to operate a brothel near Gunflint, the place the Shivering Timber would become. They would hire a stable boss and pay him twenty-five percent and split the remaining seventy-five percent. This was a condition of their bargain concerning Ava.

At ten o'clock in the morning Hosea and Ava boarded the trolley on

North Clark and rode it downtown. At noon they were sitting in a first-class berth on a train pulling out of Union Station, bound for St. Paul.

It was in that berth as the train trundled across the state of Wisconsin that Hosea laid forth his plan. They would spend the night in St. Paul, using the following day to outfit Ava. She would need a new wardrobe, one more in keeping with a girl of her standing. He informed her of the type of airs she ought to affect, counseled her on manners, spoke for what seemed hours on the merits of fine posture. Though he talked too much and of things she thought boring, she found Hosea to be an affable companion. He was witty sometimes, and at least he was never coarse.

They arrived in St. Paul after midnight, took lodgings at a hotel near the station, and in the morning went shopping for Ava's wardrobe. When they boarded another train that afternoon, this one bound for Duluth, they carried an extra trunk loaded with dresses and furs and a hundred fine undergarments.

"When we reach Duluth, we'll have to take a ferry up to Gunflint. We might have to wait a day or two. But Duluth is a nice city. If we must wait, perhaps we'll pass the time by finding a few more dresses for you."

"I don't think I need any more dresses," she said, but he could tell from her blush that she would happily take them. Though she'd been demure in accepting his gifts at first, he saw that she was quick to prize the soft things in life.

"One of my hobbies, Ava, is portrait photography. Have you ever had your portrait taken? I presume not."

"I never have, no."

"I'm having a studio added at the apothecary. It's a large building. Will be the largest in Gunflint. Our living quarters will be a flat on the third floor. The second will have my offices and the studio."

"What's a studio?"

"A place to take pictures. I hope you'll be a good subject."

"I can't imagine it'll be too hard to have my picture taken."

No doubt she had her charms. "I suppose not!" he said.

Six hours after they left St. Paul the conductor came through to announce their arrival in Duluth.

"We're nearly there," Hosea said. "Are you excited?"

"It's been a real fun time so far," she said, her childishness blooming.

" There are a few more things, Ava. Important things."

"Okay."

"I want people to believe you're older than thirteen."

"All right."

He smiled, looked her up and down in the seat across from him. "You've certainly got the figure of a young woman."

She didn't even blush.

"And though you've a beautiful name, I think I'd like to call you Rebekah instead. It was the name my poor lost wife had always intended for a daughter. From this moment forward, you'll be Rebekah Marie Grimm."

"Rebekah," she repeated. "Rebekah. Rebekah ." The name put a smile on her face. "A new dress," she said, smoothing the pleats of her gingham gown. "And a new name. Here in Minnesota. I'm all new." She looked up at him. "Rebekah it is. Father." She flashed a knowing grin. "Rebekah Marie Grimm."

W hen he woke at noon the pillow still held the imprint of her head, still clung to the scent of her hair. The air in the fish house could have been bottled, it was so heavy. Still lying on his bunk, Odd rolled a cigarette and set it between his lips. He paused before lighting it, knowing the smoke would erase the lingering scent of her, wanting it to linger longer. So instead he reached over and brought the boat carving back. He sighted the boat's bottom with his good eye, tried to convince himself that the keel and skeg could be fashioned the way he thought. It was there to be seen, even with only one eye.

The first notion of a boat had come to him the summer before, as he'd whittled a piece of driftwood into a gently curved keel. He did it without the least intention, but when he was finished he held it before him, sighting it with his good eye as if he'd just aligned every crooked thought he'd ever had. A couple weeks later, while he was cutting and splitting firewood, he left a five-foot length of birch on the sawhorse while he ate lunch. When he came back he saw the birch log as the next version of the keel scale and spent a week at it with his crosscut saw and adze, then his gouges and chisels, and finally a sanding block. It was then he knew with all the certainty he possessed that he would be his own keelmaker.