Touch (15 page)

NAKED ON THE SHORE
, they felt as if they had been suddenly dipped into winter. The frost on their windows that morning had not been inconsequential, but a warning that summer had
overstayed its welcome. Whatever the miners and the settlers of Sawgamet wanted to believe, the cold was coming. The temperature fell by the minute as my grandparents dressed in their light clothing. They launched the canoe, Flaireur sitting regally in the middle, like he was accustomed to being ferried along the waters of the Sawgamet. Jeannot dug his paddle in the water with a fierce urgency, but Martine turned to look back on the shoreline, and as she did, she thought she saw a flash of gold, the caribou’s rack moving through the edge of the woods.

Even as the beach was still in sight behind them, the first few flakes of snow began to fall, fat and heavy in the air. Had Jeannot and Martine been dressed for the cold and closer to home, they would have delighted in the soft cleanliness of the falling snow. As they paddled, the wind picked up its pace, moving them faster but also whipping up the water and making them colder. Jeannot saw Martine’s hands begin to blanch in the cold.

It was, my grandfather said when he told me this story, like canoeing through a dream. The wet snow hung heavily in the air, seeming almost suspended, and for Martine and Jeannot, it was like they were passing through curtain after curtain of whiteness, the snow opening in front of them and then closing behind them. Flaireur was quickly covered in snow, and as if he were a statue rather than a living dog, he remained still, letting the snow stick to him until he turned to marble. Jeannot and Martine’s vigorous paddling kept the snow from accumulating on them as thickly, but the flakes were more water than ice, and with each stroke of their paddles it was like a bucket of water poured over them. Martine’s teeth began to clatter from shivering.

The snow gathered in the bottom of the canoe, and Martine occasionally stopped paddling to clean out the boat as best she could. They paddled for more than an hour, and as Martine moved more and more slowly, Jeannot drove even harder. He had done little that required any real effort since they had married, but he felt the strength flowing back, as if what Martine lost came to him. He would not slacken, would not tire until he had returned her to safety. His paddle dug at the water and the canoe seemed to move so swiftly with the wind and the current that it barely touched the water. Distance that had been hard-fought in the morning passed quickly.

And then, Jeannot knew that all of his struggles had been in vain, that he need not paddle any longer. He and Martine were already dead. Angels floated around them.

The muffled light began to fall away into darkness and the wind settled. Jeannot stopped paddling, letting the canoe drift through the clouds and curtains of snow. Martine slumped into her seat, seemingly unaware of her own demise, but Jeannot looked out at the angels that had appeared beside the canoe. He had not expected to go to heaven, but as long as he was here, he thought he should show some reverence and marvel at the miracle before him.

Each angel they passed seemed like it was dancing methodically, reaching down and then up, pushing and pulling, or swinging its arms in gentle circles. He could see such a short distance ahead of him, and the current caused the canoe to pass each angel so swiftly, that Jeannot was unable to make out more than a little detail: the way the angels’ robes seemed like they were made from snow, a lack of wings or halos, a preponderance of beards.

It was only when the voices came through his wind-touched ears that Jeannot realized he was not seeing angels, but rather miners in rubber boots standing in the river, panning for gold despite the onset of snow. They were nearly home.

He picked up his paddle and brought them around the bend and then up to the banks. He did not even bother pulling the canoe onto shore. Flaireur jumped out of the canoe, a splash and a happy bark, and then disappeared in the whiteness, while Jeannot simply stepped into the shallows, not noticing or caring about the icy water soaking through his boots. He picked up Martine and, cradling her in his arms, began to run for the house. Behind him, the canoe, lightened of its load, drifted away into obscurity.

Darkness had fully descended, and with the snow that still came hurrying through the trees, Jeannot had to trust the path and the sound of Flaireur barking up ahead. The trees were close and threatening, and Jeannot’s feet felt heavy with cold fire. He stumbled a few times. He thought he caught the whiff of rotted meat, and despite the cold, he felt a prickling heat on the back of his neck, as if animals watched him from the dense underbrush. Martine was unbearably light in his arms, but still he labored up the slope from the river. He had begun to sweat from his exertion, but Martine was painfully cold against his body. Her lips moved, like she was talking, but he could hear nothing other than the sweep of the snow.

When he came into the clearing there was a sudden stillness, a break in the snow. The house stood before him, glowing so brightly that for a moment he thought it was on fire. In each of the windows that he and Martine had purchased so dearly and had shipped to Sawgamet, Rebecca had placed an
oil lantern, and it appeared as though she had lit every candle in the house. On another day, perhaps, Jeannot would have stopped to take in the burning brilliance of the house like a beacon in the snow, like standing in the midst of salvation, but with Martine in his arms, Jeannot did not pause. He burst through the door and ran into the house, not even acknowledging Franklin, who sat beside Rebecca on the settee. He carried my grandmother up the stairs, stripped off her clothes, and then slipped naked into bed beneath the covers with her, his body a torch to reignite her.

I TRUST THAT YOU
will forgive me if I digress for a moment. I should like to speak of many things—of the way my aunt Julia’s first fiancé perished in the forests, his body found ravaged by animals, of Xiaobo, the Chinese servant who once worked for my grandparents and then my great-aunt, of my stepfather and his first wife, of the year that birds covered the ground in Sawgamet like snow—but for now, I’ll follow my great-aunt for a moment.

Rebecca had seen Jeannot run though the parlor carrying my grandmother. She followed them into the room just in time to catch a spare glimpse of Jeannot’s body as he slid into bed. She did not say anything to Franklin, but she thought of Jeannot’s naked body pressed against Martine’s as she prepared hot tea, stoked the fire, and helped to rub the blood back into Martine’s hands and feet. Later that evening, after Martine stopped shivering and fell into a deep sleep, Rebecca watched Jeannot’s soft breathing as he, too, slept, his arms wrapped
around his wife, as if it were only his grip that kept her from floating away from him. Rebecca sat in a chair by the fireplace in the bedroom, occasionally stoking the fire or adding a piece of wood, and as she looked through the window at the fluttering whiteness, she wondered how much longer it would be before Franklin held her in the same way.

In the morning, Rebecca woke with her neck sore, slumped over in the rocking chair, the fire banked and still spreading warmth to the room. She heard her name floating softly toward her, “Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca,” and with her eyes still closed, she said, “I’m here, Franklin.”

“Rebecca.” The voice was louder, insistent, and Rebecca sat up to see Jeannot, already washed and dressed, staring at her.

My grandfather told me that had he not been so concerned about his wife, he would have smiled at his servant. His servant. It is still difficult for me to think of my great-aunt in that fashion, to believe that she ever allowed any person to order her about. I wonder how long into her marriage it was before Franklin recognized the steel in his bride.

As Rebecca woke from her dream, Jeannot said that he recognized the tone of her voice, the half-dreaming warmth in the way she said his brother-in-law’s name. He had seen the way that Franklin lingered over Rebecca, and the way that Rebecca tended to the dishes and cooked with a special care on the nights when Franklin joined them for dinner, but he had seen all of that without truly seeing it. He knew that for many people being in love meant seeing love everywhere, but for him, with my grandmother, the focus of his love was such that he could not conceive of any love or desire that was outside of
his own, and it was only that moment that he realized Rebecca had fallen in love with Franklin.

“Something’s wrong with Martine,” he told Rebecca. “She’s no longer cold, but she’s complaining that she’s tired and feels unwell. I’d like you to heat some broth for her.”

THROUGH THE WINDOW
in the kitchen, Rebecca marveled at the thick flakes of snow that kept falling. It had lightened some since the night before, but had not stopped. She could see across the meadow to where the trees wore the whiteness like a coat. The new mill stood starkly in the field of snow, piles of lumber beginning to be covered over, and Jeannot’s old cabin had drifts pushed halfway up the walls already.

She fed a larger piece of wood to the burning kindling in the kitchen stove, and then startled at the sight of a man’s face outside the window. The man did not pause, did not seem to see her, but shortly behind him followed another man, and then another.

She heated some biscuits on the stove and then brought the hot broth up to Jeannot and Martine on a tray. Martine sat up in bed, looking pale and trembling, and though Rebecca had her suspicions—the couple had been married for more than a month, after all—she said nothing as Jeannot sipped from his own cup.

“Winter has come,” Jeannot said, glancing out the window. “Here to stay, I suppose.”

“The miners are leaving,” Rebecca said.

Jeannot turned to her and then put his cup of broth on the nightstand and crossed to the window. Rebecca stood beside him and together they watched another man follow the broken path of snow along the edge of the clearing. His mule, loaded down heavily, tromped behind him.

“Last winter the snow held off, but this isn’t that sort of snow,” Jeannot said. “They won’t be able to work the river. Some of them will stay to set up pit mines or continue with what they have.”

They turned at the sound of laughter from the bed. My grandmother took another sip from the broth and sat up straighter. Some color had returned to her cheeks. “If you knew anything about mining,” she said, “you’d have been doing that instead of sawing boards.”

My grandfather rolled his eyes so that Rebecca could see, but there was looseness in his face that showed he enjoyed his wife’s teasing, relief that she felt well enough to do so. “True, but then, if I had known anything about mining I might never have stopped here.” He stepped over to the bed and sat down on the edge, reaching over and touching Martine’s hand. “Supplies are tight—you can ask Franklin about that.” He glanced quickly at Rebecca with the mention of Franklin’s name. “Men would rather winter indoors in Quesnellemouthe or further south. There isn’t much to spend their gold on here, and what’s the point of wrestling it from the earth if there is nothing to spend it on?”

“You may take this, please,” Martine said to Rebecca, nodding at the tray and then squeezing Jeannot’s hand. “And I have talked to Franklin about it. He said that gold has been coming with less ease from the ground, and sooner or later the men will leave for another rumor of gold somewhere else.”

“They’ll come back in the spring. And if not these men, then other men will come.” Jeannot sighed. “As long as there is gold, men will come to take it.”

Rebecca picked up the tray and then stopped in the doorway. “I’ve baking to start,” she said. “Is there anything else you would like?”

Martine shook her head, and as if the motion sickened her, she whitened a little. Jeannot did not seem to notice, however, and there was a light upward tremble on his lips, a suppressed laugh, when he turned to Rebecca. “Sunday dinner. Franklin will be coming. Could you make some sort of a cake? We’ll celebrate the fact that I managed to not quite kill his sister. I’m not sure what he likes particularly, but something.”