Peter Geye - Wintering

He scooted even closer to me now. “I had no idea what was happening, since my mom and Signe were staying down at the apothecary — it was only me and Dad. Not so different, really, than it had been in that shack.

“In my memory he never spoke at all, but he must have. Just not about what had happened. So it was mine to live with, that winter, as it turned into spring. Mine alone. It began to seem — and I’m sure this sounds crazy — like he wasn’t even there. That I was alone again up on the borderlands.” Now he paused and took my hands, exactly like he had the morning after Harry disappeared, back in November. “I should’ve been more thoughtful, Berit. Should have considered how hard it would be for you to hear all this. I didn’t, and I am truly sorry.”

“I was never anxious to know much about the things your father kept to himself. He never told me about the war. I know very little about his marriage to your mother. At least not as told by him. He was intent to remember the good times, the happy times, of his life.”

“My God. I’m such a fool.”

“That’s not true.”

He let go of my hands and gazed down between his feet for a long time. I thought of so many things in those moments. I thought of Harry, of course. Of how much I missed him and how much I loved him and how much I would’ve given to have him sitting there next to us. I would’ve gladly traded whatever time I have left on this earth for one more hour with him. But I also thought about Gus and his adventures up there — I glanced above the falls — and how it still wasn’t finished. It never would be. And anyway, weren’t my memories as much a part of Harry as he was of them? Especially now? I could let it all be. Could leave it all just as it had been. That was my prerogative, right?

I turned to Gus. “Don’t fret about it, please. Nothing could change how I felt about your father. Nothing in this world, much less something that happened so long ago.”

When it was time to go Gus stood and offered me his hand, helped me up, and said, “Are you ready for the long walk back?”

“I guess I’d better be.”

We took one more long look down at the Devil’s Maw and turned to go.

—

What I didn’t tell Gus as we walked through the woods back home — what I might have told him, and maybe should’ve — was that I’d been up here myself only a week before. The walk had been even harder than I knew it would be, especially for an old girl like me, but I’d wanted to make it alone. To be the first to visit.

I didn’t bring flowers, as I perhaps should have, but only that pompom from Harry’s red hat. I brought it along with the last bits of my anger and threw it all into the river above the maw. I watched them funnel into the chute that dropped into the hole and saw them disappear. And I was content that my final gifts would find the bottom and be gone forever. And that maybe Harry’s spirit or his soul or some such might see the pompom and know that I’d not stopped thinking of him. And that I never would.

THE DAY BEFORE the ribbon cutting, I walked down to the outfitters on the end of the Lighthouse Road. In the back of the shop, behind the Duluth packs and cook kits, they keep a supply of maps. One of the kids who work there came back to help me.

“Miss Lovig,” she said. I think she was one of the Veilleux girls. “Are you planning a canoe trip?”

“I’ve never set foot in a canoe,” I said, hoping I sounded playful, as I’d meant to.

“Most folks looking at the maps back here are planning a trip. That’s all.”

“Once upon a time I might’ve tried it. But these days I prefer my feet on solid ground.” Now I smiled, trying to assure her I wasn’t the old crank people so often mistake me for. “But I am looking for a map. Maybe you can help me.”

“Of course.”

“There’s a lake up in the Quetico called Hagne. I’d like to see it on a map.”

If this girl knew that lake had any significance, she didn’t let on. “I’m not sure where that is, but we can figure it out.” She pulled a map from one of the slots below, one of the yellow Fisher Maps. E-15, it read in the upper right-hand corner. “This is the whole boundary waters — Quetico wilderness.” She smoothed it atop the rack. “Almost all of it, anyway. You said it’s in the Quetico? What’s its name again?”

“Lake Hagne. Or Hagne Lake. It’s a big one.”

She ran her finger across the map. It was painted red, her fingernail, and it went right to a spot in the middle of the map. “Hagne Lake.” Now she reached below for another map, F-18. “This is the map of that area.” She laid it beside the other. “Here’s Hagne Lake.” Again with her red fingernail.

“Thank you,” I said. She didn’t leave, so I said “Thank you” again.

Then she did step away, saying that if I needed anything else I should give her a shout. Before I’d even looked back down she stopped and added, “I can’t wait to see the history place. Our whole family’s coming.”

I looked over at her and smiled. “That makes me glad. Pray for some sunshine.”

She went off toward the front of the store.

First I studied the map of the whole wilderness and noted, in the key, that each inch equaled two miles. Therefore, the full map from west to east covered eighty miles, fifty miles from north to south. Four thousand square miles. Was that right? There must have been a thousand lakes. A hundred streams and rivers. In the middle of it all was Hagne Lake, my eyes drawn back to it from everything else like it had a magnetic pull.

I cannot say, exactly, what had led me to the map. Some need of proof? Did I expect the Fisher Map would be marked with a skull and crossbones? Or a note in the key reading: Here rests Charles Aas ? Or did I just want to put my unpainted nail down on a map and announce: Presto! Even if Gus didn’t know or want to, would my own knowledge make the endgame permanent and put it finally and fully to rest? If I was expecting any of that I had clearly been mistaken, but there was a sense of calm that came upon me. So I rolled up the map and brought it to the girl at the cash register. Maybe I’d make it a gift for Gus. More likely I would put it on the desk in my den, along with every other memento and bit of evidence I’d compiled in the months since Gus came knocking on my door.

—

The next morning Gus and Sarah picked me up at ten o’clock. Signe was with them, sitting in the backseat of his Subaru, and he opened the other rear door for me.

“Hello, Berit,” Signe said.

“It’s so wonderful to see you.” I squeezed her arm.

“And you,” she said back.

“Today’s the big day,” Sarah said from the front seat.

Gus climbed back behind the wheel. “Ladies, shall we?” There was a lightness to his voice I’d not heard in a great many years.

“I’m so excited for you,” Signe told me.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with the old postwoman.”

“Nonsense,” Gus protested, peering into the rearview mirror. “It has everything to do you. Well, with the two of you back there.” I could see his eyes turn up in a smile.

We drove down the Burnt Wood Trail, the winding road crossing over the river in three spots before dropping us in town. I could still see ice drifting along the Lake Superior shore, and there were piles of snow in the ditches along the road, though a restless energy was everywhere in the woods, and the first songbirds of spring could now be heard in the mornings.

“It surprises me every year,” Sarah said.

“What’s that?” Gus asked.

“That winter does actually end. That the snow melts away and the trees’ leaves grow back.” She smiled at him and then turned around to us. “But it happens, every April, almost like clockwork.”