Touch (11 page)

“I’m willing, but I can’t,” Jeannot said with a sigh. “I’d be happy to sell it to you, Franklin.” He paused, gave a little cough, and, still not looking at my grandmother, added, “And to your sister. But it’s not mine to sell. The wood is already spoken for through September, even at these prices. I don’t pretend to understand all of it that the miners need—if I knew about mining, I’d still be working the river myself—but there’s sluice boxes and rockers and props, and even more, there are men who are worried that next winter won’t be so mild. You aren’t the only one looking to build a house. These forests have good, strong, straight trees. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. A man could spend a lifetime cutting in these woods and never touch the end of it. But every time I get one man trained, another one decides he’d rather try to find his own mother lode. If I were a smarter man, I’d have you bring me in blades and I’d build a mill over the creek.”

“The next three months’ wood may be spoken for,” Martine said, and though she had begun to shiver even more despite the sunlight, her voice was clear. “But the lumber that you and your men will be cutting in October is not.”

Finally Jeannot looked at her, and when he did, Martine felt the cold strike through her. It seemed to her like they stared at each other for hours until she heard her brother’s short laugh.

“She’s a shopkeeper’s sister, all right. Striking deals runs in the family,” Franklin said. “Shall that be it, then? October? And will you run a crew to build it?”

Jeannot smiled and shook Franklin’s hand. “If your sister wants a house, I’ll build her a house. Would you,” he said, dropping Franklin’s hand and turning to my grandmother, “like to see how the boards are made?”

“I’m not sure what there is to see that I haven’t already seen,” Martine said. She suddenly felt both hot and cold, and when my grandfather laughed at her words, she could not decide if she was going to freeze or burst into flames.

WHEN MARTINE AND HER
brother left, my grandfather told me, he surveyed his men, gave a few instructions, and then went back inside his small cabin. When he had settled Sawgamet he was burning for gold, had suffered through a winter alone for it, had suffered many other things, but now that other men had come to Sawgamet, it seemed like whatever magic had led him here in the first place had also decided that he would have to make his gold another way.

He was happy enough with the work, and he was making
more gold selling lumber than he likely would have digging it from the ground, but now that he had the gold there was little use for it. He had food and books and new clothes brought in already, but he was nearly eighteen and without a wife. He lay down for a while and thought of Martine. He had noticed her before. It was hard not to.

There were not so many women in Sawgamet, and she was a handsome woman. And her pies. That was something he had spent his money on. My grandmother and my great-uncle Franklin charged enough for those pies, but that did not stop men from wanting them. My grandfather touched a small furrow on the side of his forehead and smiled. Men sometimes came to blows over who would be the one to pay their sweat-earned gold for a pie. He was sure their desire for the desserts would not have been so frenzied had Martine been a less attractive woman, though he was almost certain that she was unaware of the commotion that her pies caused.

To me, Jeannot joked that he might have just mistaken hunger for love, but that afternoon, lying there thinking about Martine and having to face another winter in his cabin alone, my grandfather resolved to walk down to Franklin’s store and talk to him about Martine.

I’VE HEARD TWO STORIES
of this encounter. The first from my grandfather himself, in which he was funny, charming, and commanding, and in which he spoke openly of his love for my grandmother. In this story, he asked for her hand in marriage, she accepted, and when she came to the marriage bed it was in
all of her virginal glory. But the other version of this story, told by my great-aunt Rebecca, the woman who raised my father and who was never known for bowing to social pressures, is the story that I believe to be true.

When my grandfather entered the store he was momentarily taken off guard when he saw Martine behind the counter rather than her brother.

“May I help you find something, Mr. Boucher?” Martine said.

“Where’s Franklin? I mean, thank you, Miss DeBonnier, can I help you with anything?” He winced as he heard himself speak, and he felt an unaccountable urge to bow to Martine, as if she were royalty.

My grandmother laughed. “As it’s my store, shouldn’t I be asking if I can help you? But if you want to help me with something other than building a house, you could put another log or two in the stove,” she said, nodding toward the corner. “It’s better in the store than in the cabin, but I’ve a sudden chill.”

Despite the warmth of the day and the almost stultifying feel of the store, my grandfather fed wood into the stove, taking the opportunity to settle himself. He stirred the fire with the poker and then turned back to Martine and pulled a book from his pocket, Dickens’s
A Tale of Two Cities
. “I thought you might like to borrow this.” He saw her hesitate and rushed on. “I have a few other books as well if you’ve read it.”

Martine made no move, so Jeannot, absentmindedly touching his crooked nose, placed the book on the counter. “It’s good,” he said, and then he half-smiled and looked down at the book. “Nights are long here in the winter and it’s this or spending my money on drink, I suppose.”

“How do you know I can read?” My grandmother had to bite her lip as she watched Jeannot suddenly redden. His mouth opened but nothing came out. “I’m sorry. You just seem so solemn,” she said with a laugh. “I can read, and I appreciate the gesture. Books are hard to come by here.” Then she touched her fingers to the cover just as Jeannot did the same. Their hands touched and my grandmother let out a gasp.

Jeannot glanced down at his hand, at Martine’s hand, at the book, and wondered if her gasp was something else he would not understand, but when he looked up again, Martine was already standing and backing away from the counter. “You’d best leave now, Mr. Boucher,” she said. “You can come back another time, when my brother is here.”

Jeannot did as he was asked, and as he walked up the path and through the meadow, past the men who were still sawing boards, he thought about the high blush that had come into her cheeks at the touch of his hand. It must have neatly matched his own.

According to my great-aunt, my grandmother thought of the sudden rush of heat that came from Jeannot’s hand, the surge that had run through her and broken the coat of ice that seemed to cling to her, how for the first time since she had come to Sawgamet she had felt warm. Finally, after a while, she locked the store and went back to the small cabin, where her brother slept with a wet cloth on his forehead. She woke him gently, and when he sat up, she said, “I think I’m ready to be married.”

Franklin stared at her and then held out his hand to reclaim the wet cloth. He lay back down and closed his eyes. “There’s a needle pushing into my head. Something sharp and burning.”

“Yes,” my grandmother said, “that’s what it feels like. Will you talk to him?”

But before Franklin was able to finish buttoning his Sunday suit, Jeannot knocked on the door.

Martine waited anxiously in the cabin while her brother and Jeannot talked in the store. She handled the thin gold chain around her neck that her brother had given her for her eighteenth birthday, and she tried to read the book that Jeannot had left, but everything she touched felt like it had come directly from the fire.

When Franklin came back to the cabin, he was alone.

My great-uncle took his time, carefully unbuttoning and hanging his jacket, lighting an oil lamp against the dimness of the cabin, pouring himself a cup of water from the metal pitcher. Martine waited until he sat down on the rocking chair that she usually occupied and then she snatched a wooden spoon from beside the stove and stood over her brother. “I swear, Franklin, I will whack you so hard,” she said.

Franklin looked up at her with his insufferable grin and took a sip from the cup of water. He opened his mouth to speak but then, with a barely smothered laugh, took a second drink instead. “This water is really almost sweet-tasting. Remarkable.”

Martine rapped the wooden spoon on his head. Franklin hunched down and rubbed his head. “I didn’t really think you’d hit me.”

“I’m about to do it again,” she said. “Harder.”

Franklin reached up to grab the spoon but she pulled it away. “Very well,” Franklin said. “I told him he must build you a house first.”

“Pardon?” My grandmother let the spoon drop down.

“A house. You asked me for a house, but if you’re to be married to him, then he’ll need to build you a house. I’ll help to pay for it. I’m not sending you into your wedding with nothing,” Franklin said.

“A house? But he said that he won’t have any lumber until October.”

Franklin’s voice turned strong and proud. “I told him that if he wanted to marry you, the men who had a claim on his lumber could damn well wait until he’d built you the house that you wanted.”

He stopped and looked at his sister. She stayed quiet, and Franklin stood up and stepped over to her, placing his hand on her shoulder, and waited until she looked up at him. “You’ve just met him. Are you sure?” She nodded. “It’s good that he has to build you a house,” Franklin said. “It will give you a chance to spend some time with him. Perhaps he can begin to take dinner with us.”

“Franklin,” Martine began, but then she looked down and let her voice fade. Her legs felt weak and she let herself sit on the bed.

“You’ll be happy with him,” Franklin said softly. “He’s a good boy.” He laughed. “A good man, I should say. I’m not nearly old enough to be calling him a boy. But some of the men here …” He did not finish his thought. “I suppose I’m happy that you’ve chosen him and not made me find a match for you on my own. Jeannot is a good man. He’s spoken highly of, and he’s made something for himself. Something real, something more than all this scratching in the dirt. We talked about what he is going to do in the future, what kind of a life
you can expect, and I’m going to bring in some blades for him, a wedding present of sorts, so he can build a proper sawmill. That will give him something to keep with after all of this plays out,” he said, waving his hand.

“And you?” Martine said quietly.

“You know me,” Franklin said. He sat down beside her on the bed. “I’ve got the store. That’s enough for me for now.”

“Is it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to you inviting me over for Sunday dinners and bringing me a pie now and then.”

AND HERE AGAIN
, according to my great-aunt Rebecca: That night, well after Martine heard the deep steadiness of Franklin’s breathing across the room, she could not sleep. She had buried the fire under ashes and cracked the door of the cabin, but still she was hot. She sat up in bed and pulled her sleeping gown away from her body. It was covered in sweat—she thought she could wring it out and turn the dirt floor to mud—and her hair matted around her shoulders like she had just come from the river. First she could not stop shivering, she thought, and now this. She stepped out into the night, seeking relief from the oppressive heat that was consuming her.