The Lighthouse Road (24 page)

   "I can't eat right now."

   So Odd ate alone, first his plate of food, then half of hers. Rebekah nibbled on a crust of bread, birdlike. They talked and laughed and behaved exactly as if they were on their honeymoon. When they finished the bottle of champagne, Odd fell back on the couch, unbuckled his belt, and let out a deep and satisfied breath.

"I never ate so much food in my life."

   Rebekah put her hand on his taut stomach. "If anyone ever deserved a feast, it was you," she said.

   "Why'd I deserve a feast?" he said, taking her hand in his.

   She spread her free hand before her. "For this. For all of this. For having courage." She took her hand from his and ran it through his messy hair. "How in the world did all this happen?" she said.

   Instead of answering he stood up, went into the bathroom, and plugged the drain in the tub. He turned the hot water on and from a bottle on the edge of the tub poured bubbles into the rising water. He went back to Rebekah, took her hand, and led her to the tub. There he left her, walking backward from the room as she undressed slowly, for his benefit, and stepped into the steaming bath.

   He returned a couple of minutes later, naked himself, two cigarettes smoking in his mouth, a flask of whiskey and the ice bucket in his hands. There were two crystal glasses beside the bathroom sink, and he filled them with ice from the bucket. He poured the whiskey over the ice and set the glasses on the edge of the tub and took one of the cigarettes from his mouth and handed it to Rebekah.

   "I'm about as foul as a man can get, sweetheart."

   Rebekah took a long drag from her cigarette and as she exhaled said, "Well, then, I suggest you join me in here."

   He had one foot in the tub before she finished talking.

   For a long time they sat in the tub without speaking. They finished their cigarettes and Odd drank his whiskey and they rested their heads on the porcelain, the steam from the bath soaking the mirror above the sink. Odd was a kind of happy he'd never been before, loose after the champagne and whiskey, his gal there in the city with him, in the tub, with no more need to speak. He felt the fatigue from the last four days' labor seeping out of his back and shoulders and into the bath water. He hadn't known, hadn't ever even suspected, that this feeling was in the world to be had.

   Rebekah, though, was growing distant. As they sat in the tub she was reminded of the baths she used to take with Thea—
with Odd's
mother
— and the weight of those memories, of all their implications, was drowning out the pleasure of being where she was with him. She realized, also, that their lives in Duluth would not be roast beef and honeymoon suites all winter long. Odd was a fisherman, after all, and even if he was flush now, as he claimed to be, he couldn't afford this forever. They'd end up in some tenement with noisy neighbors and the rank smell of sauerkraut in the halls. She remembered that from Chicago even if she remembered nothing else.

   And beneath all of these bothers, she felt some strange and distant guilt about Hosea alone in his big shop, moping around the flat plotting his revenge. She didn't know what he was capable of. She didn't want to know.

   It was Rebekah who finally spoke. "I suppose he's burned the woods down by now, trying to smoke us out."

   Odd cocked his head and looked at her. He thought of saying nothing at all but couldn't help himself. "I guess he ain't found us."

   "You know he's been to see Danny. He would have stopped there first."

   "And you know Danny would sooner kiss Hosea on the lips than spill."

   "I know."

   She reached into the bathwater and rubbed Odd's foot, which was resting at her waist. She tried to forsake her doubt. She couldn't. "There's no part of you that sees the folly in all this?"

   "Are we going to circle around this for the rest of our lives?" Odd said. "For God's sake, Rebekah, we ain't fifteen-year-old kids."

   Rebekah looked at him and the thought of the years that separated them hit her hard. "What are we, then? Tell me, because I can't see.
This
isn't who we are —" she gestured at the lush accommodations, held up one of the crystal low balls "—not by a long shot."

   "Of course this isn't who we are," Odd said sharply. "But it's who we deserve to be, for a few days at least. We'll figure the rest out after that." He looked at her softly now, feeling bad for snapping. He saw tears in her eyes. "Listen, Rebekah." He sat up, leaned toward her. He took her head in his hands and kissed her and then put his hands on her shoulders so they were only a few inches from each other. "I told you, I'm going to take care of you now. You and the baby. You don't have to
pay
for nice dresses anymore, for a nice bed to sleep in. I'm going to see to that."

   She looked doubtful. Sad. "What if I'm no good with the baby? If I'm only suited to take care of myself ?"

   "I ain't worried about that."

   "
I'm
worried about it, Odd."

   She tried to pull away from him but he wouldn't let her. He tried to kiss her again but she turned her head.

   "What if the life you describe isn't what I want?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

   "Is that true?"

   "Sometimes. I don't know."

   Now he let go of her shoulders. She looked up at him quickly, grabbed hold of his hands. "I'm scared, Odd. I'm scared is all. I don't want you slipping away from me."

   "You think I'm going somewhere?" He shook his head, almost laughed. "You think I ain't worried?"

   She put her face into his neck and started to cry. "Men don't act like you, Odd Einar Eide."

   "The hell they don't." He took her again by the shoulders, made her look at him. "I've been thinking about my mother. About the price she paid for me. Since you gave me those pictures on my birthday I can't stop thinking about her. I owe it to her to take care of our baby, to raise him the way I should have been raised. Never mind what I'm afraid of or how hard it will be or goddamn Grimm."

   Now Rebekah softened. She looked down and said, "Your mother and I used to take our baths together. The summer before you were born." When she looked up there were more tears in her eyes. She stood and stepped out of the bath, took a towel from the rack and held it to her chest. "I watched her belly grow with you. I saw you all the time." She removed the towel and put her hands on her own belly. There was nothing there yet. No sign.

   Odd stood, too, and stepped from the tub. He stepped to her. "You see? That means you know me all the better." He lifted her chin so they were eye to eye. "You know I'm a good man. And true."

   She took a deep breath, turned away from him. She said, "It's not your goodness I'm worried about."

   He grabbed her, wrapped her in his arms. They stood like that while she cried, the bathwater dripping from both of them, pooling on the tiled floor. After a while she stopped crying. She took his hands and moved them to her breasts, held them there. His pulse jumped.

   She pressed his hands more firmly. Leaned back against him.

   "Is this okay? For the baby?" He could feel her own quickening pulse behind her breast.

   "I don't know," she said, her voice husky. "But there's nothing in this world that's going to keep me from making love to you on that bed."

I
t was a morning for slaughter. Thea walked to the edge of the paddock to feed the dog. He did not come off the roof of his kennel for the slop bucket. His muzzle was still pink. The bitch Freya was gone.

   She passed through the paddock on her way back to the mess but stopped at the trough. She could not imagine what had happened here. She did not want to. Only knew that the mess of bloodstained snow was in some way related to the awful pain she felt that morning. The memory of Smith lording over her, his brute strength, his rank breath, was with her like her prayers. She had not slept for fear.

   Now she fell to her knees and started crying. Between sobs she heard men behind the barn, still twenty-five yards away. Their voices held no alarm. It was as if they were out for their evening smoke. Before she stood again she removed her mittens and plunged her hands in the snow. She left them there until they burned and then left them still another minute. When finally she stood she raised her hands before her. They were roseate and the gentle breeze strapped them like a leather belt.
God forgive me,
she thought.
God protect me.

   Instead of going back to the mess for the rest of her morning chores she walked to the barn. She'd never been inside, but she slid the door open and walked in, the smell of horses and hay thick in the closeness even though the Percherons were already toiling on the ice road. She walked to the opposite end of the barn, following the ray of light shining through the hayloft window behind her. She was surprised at how much colder it was inside the barn than out.

   At the other end of the barn she opened the door to a horse hanging from the hayloft pulley, its brown belly split, its guts spilled on the snow. The bull cook stood in a white apron, his cap sprayed with blood, a knife heavy in his hand. Two of the teamsters held either flank of the horse, and the barn boss was reaching for a spade to shovel the guts into a waiting wheelbarrow.

   Already in the early morning the snow was dripping from the barn's roof— the
splat, splat, splat
the only sound above the men's heavy breathing. Three wolf carcasses hung by their hind legs from the fence. Thea saw Freya lying under the wolves and for a moment felt a reprieve from the carnage. A second, closer look showed the bitch's throat split from ear to ear. Bloody boot prints trailed all over the enclosure.

   "Good Christ, lass, what are ya doin'?" the bull cook asked, stepping toward her, shooing her away with his bloody hand. "This is no sight for a lady. Go on, now."

   Thea had already turned. She hurried to the barn door and shut it behind her. She ran through the barn and across the yard to the mess, her hands still stinging.

   She could not stop thoughts of Smith. Of his dead tooth, of his grunting, of the slaver falling from his lips onto her face.
Mercy, mercy,
mercy,
she begged.

   Finally she rose and stepped into the kitchen. There were biscuits to make, and stew to warm, and apples to pare. Perhaps these tasks would distract her. She donned her apron and smoothed her hair and lifted the sack of flour from the cupboard beneath the block table. She cut the bag open and poured flour into the enormous mixing bowl. She fetched the keg of buttermilk and the salt. Remembering the stew, she went to the cellar and pulled the vat from its place and lugged it to the stove and set it to simmer. She fetched a barrel of apples and put them at her feet. She greased the baking sheets. In this way she moved forward, her fear and guilt always like a shadow. She could not raise her eyes because when she did she saw the spot across the room where Smith had forced her to the table.