Deep River Page 47

“It’s going to increase log prices and lower lumber prices,” Rauha said. “Am I not right, Ilmari?” She looked at Ilmari for support, making him squirm, not wanting to be caught between the family hard rock and flat place.

  “Well, it’s a big market,” Ilmari said.

  * * *

  Aino returned to Astoria and Kullervo to his lean-to. January was typically cold and wet, with occasional slushy snow that would melt after a few days, the temperatures never climbing out of the low forties. Rauha seemed to begrudge every meal she provided to Kullervo, and Kullervo became increasingly disgruntled with her and the weather.

  On the last day of January, Kullervo sat on his haunches, the ground far too soaked to sit on directly, smoking the second half of the cigarette he had rolled that morning. He was shivering. He did some jumping jacks, cigarette in his mouth, and then squatted again. He’d asked the ice queen for a coat and she told him if he saved his money instead of throwing it away on cigarettes and Saturday nights, he would have one of his own. A spatter of rain came on a cold gust and hit his back.

  He walked over to throw some wood on the smoldering fire in front of the makeshift lean-to where he slept. He squatted with his back to the fire, looking toward the north end of the meadow where a broad muddy path had been trampled alongside the small stream that ran from the meadow through a cleft between two hills and then fell rapidly toward Deep River. Rauha Koski would be coming up that path with his food, he hoped. She was supposed to have been here yesterday but hadn’t showed up.

  The cattle all lifted their heads toward the gap. Kullervo quickly ground out his cigarette and put the remains in his shirt pocket. He grabbed his cattle goad and was walking along the south side of the herd when Rauha, panting with the short climb, emerged into the meadow carrying a dinner pail.

  He watched her make her way around the herd, bundled in one of Ilmari’s coats, which she easily could have lent him. He also watched her counting the herd as she moved along.

  A fine rain fell straight and soundless in the cold air, so still he could hear the large drops that had formed in the boughs of fir and hemlock trees smack onto the leaves of the underlying salal and Oregon grape.

  Rauha held the bucket out to him and said, “Here.”

  Kullervo took the bucket without speaking and opened the lid. Inside was a congealed glob of boiled potatoes and parsnips set next to some hard-boiled eggs. He looked at her. “This is it? What about dinner?”

  “Plenty there for lunch and dinner.”

  “You said room and board.” He pointed to the rough shelter. “That’s not room.” He poked his finger into a boiled potato and held it in front of her face. “This is not board.”

  “And what you do is not work.”

  God damn her. He felt the anger tensing his entire body. “I want Ilmari’s coat,” Kullervo said. “I’m freezing to death here.”

  “Use the blankets. I gave you two.”

  “If I use the blankets outside, they get wet and are no good for sleeping. If I use them in the shelter, I can’t watch the cattle.”

  “Use one for rainy days and then the dry one at night.”

  The comment evoked a memory of his mother telling him to shut up when he’d begged her one rainy cold night for blankets for him and his sisters. No matter what he asked, no matter what he said, she gave an answer that belittled and mocked him. The rage of a little boy, rage that had to be buried so he wouldn’t be hit, so his sisters wouldn’t be hit, took him over. He slung the lunch pail at Rauha, hitting her full on the side of the head. Rauha screamed and slapped him across the face. Then her face turned into his mother’s and he hit her with the cattle goad—and hit her again—and again.

  The rain was still falling soft and silent. Depending on one’s mood, it could feel like a mother cooling your feverish forehead or like the Chinese water torture. The rain never changed.

  It wasn’t his mother; it was beautiful, cold, blond Rauha Koski, crumpled and lifeless in front of his knees. Blood from her face and head slowly dissolved in the mud. He knelt beside her body and looked at the cold, gray sky and cried the cry of all who are pushed beyond the point from which there is no recovery.

  He jabbed the cattle goad into his thigh and the pain coursed through him, meeting the terrifying rising panic. He then leaned over her and wept, repeating, “God, God, God …”

  He dragged Rauha’s body to the muddy path between the hills and laid it in a fetal position on its side, the arms over the head, as if trying to protect it. He took two pitch-laden limbs that he sometimes used for light at night and put them in the fire. When they were blazing, he ran into the herd, separating yearlings from cows, making the cows nervous. Their rolling eyes reflected the firebrands. They began lowing and bumping into each other. He ran to the south end of the meadow, screaming, cougar-like, screaming his madness. He rushed again and again at the herd. Again and again, waving the firebrands above him, stabbing at their eyes, screaming, he got three cows running. Within seconds, the lowing had turned to bawling and, as if united by a single, crazed mind, the cattle stampeded for the narrow pass.

  When it was over, Rauha’s body lay in the mud, recognizable only by the bloody, trampled clothing.

  The cattle had come running down the bank of Deep River and had slowed to a walk by the time they passed in front of Matti and Kyllikki’s empty house, moving to their familiar pasture in Ilmahenki. Ilmari heard them lowing. Wondering why Rauha would want them down from the meadow, he stood up by the head rig, looking. The cattle seemed to be milling aimlessly. Seeing neither Kullervo nor Rauha, he immediately knew something was wrong. He walked to the house where Jorma, age five, looked up at him from where Rauha had set him cleaning the kitchen stove’s firebox. Mielikki and Helmi were both at school.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She took Kullervo’s dinner.”

  Ilmari ran. Dodging the occasional stray cow that had lagged behind the herd. Ilmari turned up the creek from Deep River, following the ever-increasing violence of the churned mud. He found Kullervo weeping over Rauha’s body. His face and hands were badly bruised. Blood was slowly oozing from a bad gash on the back of his head. He was covered in mud.

  Ilmari went to the ground, soundless. He lifted Rauha’s smashed head from where it had been pulverized into the rocks and mud and held it gently against his knees. He looked up at the gray sky in anguish, saying nothing. Then he buried his face on Rauha’s chest and said the Lord’s prayer. “… Thy will be done … For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.”

  He stood looking down at Rauha’s body and then, turning to Kullervo, said, “Let’s take her home.”

  They laid Rauha’s body in the empty living room of Suvantola and covered her with a sheet. Ilmari asked Kullervo to inform the sheriff of the death. He then waited for the girls to come home from school, helping little Jorma with the firebox chore, treasuring him, seeing Rauha in his face and hair. When Mielikki, just turned nine two weeks earlier, and Helmi, seven, came home from school, he sat the children down and told them that their mother had been trampled and died. They sat in stunned silence until Helmi started to cry. Mielikki put her arm around her sister, pulling her head into her own body to muffle the tears. Little Jorma just stared at his sisters, too young to understand. Then Ilmari pulled Jorma in next to his sisters and the four of them swayed together, close, and silent. Then Ilmari said, “Aiti’s happy and safe with the angels. No need to cry.” He stepped back. “I have to go tend to your Aiti now. I want you to stay here. Mielikki, can you get started with supper?” Mielikki nodded, fully aware she’d just stepped into her mother’s shoes.

  At Suvantola, Ilmari laid Rauha’s body on boards across two saw horses. He washed the body, nearly alabaster white where the sun never reached, and then he washed the mud from Rauha’s shining hair, drying it with towels before combing and braiding it. Leaving the doors and windows open to keep the body cool, he left her under the sheet, with a single ca
ndle burning at her head.

  He checked on the children. Mielikki already had them in bed. Then he walked through the dark into town. There he sent telegrams from Higgins’s store to Louhi and Matti, including Kyllikki and Aino in the greeting, saving the cost of one telegram, but adding the cost of two words.

  He set the funeral for Sunday, three days hence, so no one would miss work.

  He worked all night in the barn making a coffin. When he’d finished, he walked into Tapiola to arrange for burial on Peaceful Hill. He passed the little church. It stood there, forlorn and empty. He looked down and kicked a small rock. When he looked up, tears were streaking down his cheeks. He looked up to the steeple and beyond it into the gray clouds and beyond the gray clouds. In anguish, he cried out, “Miksi, Isä?” Why, Father? Then he stood there, waiting. There was no answer.

  12

  Aino and Kyllikki caught the General Washington on Saturday afternoon and made their way in the dark to Ilmahenki. Louhi arrived two hours later, having caught the last boat from Willapa to the mouth of Deep River, walking the rest of the way, alone with her thoughts. Ilmari suggested she not open the coffin, but she did anyway and sat on the porch all night with a single candle looking at the trampled beauty of her daughter.

  Pastor Hoikka gave the funeral service on Sunday afternoon.

  That night, Louhi slept with Mielikki. The next morning, as she was leaving, she told Ilmari that as had been agreed when Sampo was formed, Rauha’s share of Sampo had passed to her and she now was the majority shareholder. Still, he was to run it as he had all along. Ilmari pointed out that with Rauha’s share of the profits now going to Louhi, there would barely be enough to keep the children and the farm going. “They’re your grandchildren,” Ilmari said.

  “You didn’t need to make them,” she replied and left.

  Ilmari stopped going to church. Instead, on Sundays that weren’t too wet and miserable, he would take the children to see Vasutäti. Helmi and Jorma would do what most children did in the woods: dam the creek, look for birds’ nests, dig up licorice root, throw things. Mielikki stayed at the camp along with Ilmari, who took on chores that Vasutäti had difficulty doing.

  Vasutäti was moving Mielikki into increasingly beautiful patterns and designs—each basket assigned being correspondingly difficult. Mielikki would bring the basket she’d been working on during the week. Vasutäti would inspect it carefully, pointing out flaws, treating Mielikki as an adult with pudgy fingers. The Ini’sal had little room for a long childhood. Vasutäti taught Mielikki basket weaving the same way she taught Ilmari to enter the space between the kantele notes, guiding Mielikki into the spaces between the basket wands. Being nine and gifted, Mielikki could absorb Vasutäti’s teaching at an uncanny rate.

  Being nine, she also could get tired and frustrated. One day she threw her basket onto the ground and sat down abruptly on a log. “When is a basket good enough for you?” Mielikki asked, near tears.

  Vasutäti sat down next to her. “There are three good-enoughs in basket weaving. The first is that your basket does the job it was made for.” Mielikki nodded. “The second is that your basket will hold water for a year.” Mielikki showed despair. “The third is when you can make a basket without worrying about whether it is good enough. The third one is hardest.”

  Mielikki rubbed away a tear with the back of her hand and smiled.

  When Ilmari finished the chores, he would sit by the fire meditating while Vasutäti and Mielikki worked together at the entrance to the shelter. When Ilmari entered that world, that space between moments, even the children’s interruptions were simply part of the whole.

  Members of the church came by Ilmahenki on several occasions. Mielikki served coffee, as was the duty of the woman of the house. Ilmari was polite but adamant. If there was a God, He or She or It—as Ilmari mildly put it, knowing this would disconcert them—wasn’t around Deep River.

  “Why don’t we go to church anymore, Isä?” Mielikki asked one day.

  Ilmari put his hand on her head, as if in blessing, and said nothing for a long time. Then he said, “I don’t know.”

  Mielikki, hugged him around the waist and put her cheek on his stomach. “Don’t be so sad, Isä. Please don’t be so sad.”

  Two months after Rauha’s funeral, Louhi was back, sitting next to a driver in a black 1915 Dodge touring car. Convict labor had helped push a gravel-and-rock road south from Nordland all the way to Ilwaco, but Tapiola was still connected to that road only by the old wagon road, muddy most of the winter and spring. The going was slow and rough. Still, what had taken two days a decade earlier now took only six or seven hours.

  Ilmari watched the car lurch across the field between Ilmahenki and the mill. Maybe he would get an automobile someday. A Packard—he’d seen a picture in a newspaper—now that was a real piece of machinery.

  Louhi got down from the car with a valise and leaned in to say something to the driver. He drove off. She waved at Ilmari, shouting, “When you quit work.”

  He was proud of Sampo and had wanted to show it to her in action, but she was already disappearing into the house. Sampo Manufacturing wasn’t Pope and Talbot, but it was profitable and the eleven men he employed in two shifts liked working there. The old waterwheel had been replaced by steam boiler, so the mill now ran at full speed winter or summer. Hard shovel work had enlarged the millpond the previous summer. That got the log inventory out of the river, which ranged seasonally from gentle stream to roaring torrent. Now, instead of wrestling the current to move the logs to the chain conveyor belt that lifted them from the water to reach the head rig, the first and largest saw in the mill, they could move logs around in still water and sort them by length and grade to maximize mill profits.

  As he lined up the next big log, doing the geometry nearly unconsciously to maximize the value of the cut, he wondered why Louhi was here. Prices for two-by-tens were up—floor joists for barracks. Rotating the log to maximize for two-by-tens, he committed to the first cut. The steam belched out of the boiler, the leather belts roared, the chains clattered. If he made the first cut wrong, he could lose half the value of the log. What did Louhi want? Profits were good. To see the grandchildren? Maybe. She was getting on and he’d heard women sometimes changed when they became grandmothers. He wondered if his mother had changed, but then Maíjaliisa had never seen her grandchildren, other than the pictures they took in Astoria at Palmer’s Studio and mailed to her two years ago. Sure, some people called Rauha an ice queen. But she was a queen, a beautiful queen—and a good worker who took care of the kids. Why did God take her? And that time God took his sisters, Mielikki and Lokka; and his little brother, Väinö? The end of the log slammed into the big saw and the screaming shut out all thought. The saw came clean out of the other end of the log, the heavy carriage slammed back, and the millpond man set the dogs to hold the new face of the huge cant ninety degrees to the next cut. Ilmari was again doing the geometry.

  When he turned the mill over to the night shift along with the cutting instructions, he washed his face and hands before walking up to the house. Set an example for the children. Grandma didn’t visit often, maybe once in the summer and then again at Christmas.

  Mielikki was making dinner. She had quit school to take on the work of the house and the care of Helmi and Jorma. The herd was neglected; leaving everyone in the lurch, Kullervo had joined the army. Requiring nearly five million men, over half of whom had to be drafted, the army didn’t seem too concerned about his hearing.

  Ilmari felt bad about all the children having to take on Rauha’s jobs, particularly Mielikki. Rauha had been a good mother, lack of public displays of affection notwithstanding. He and the children never expected otherwise. If he remarried, Mielikki could go back to school. Maybe one day. God willing. God. A real puzzle.

  He watched Louhi setting the table with Helmi who would be eight in October—the same month he would be forty. Old to have such young kids. Couldn’t be helped. Took time to get est
ablished. Now there wouldn’t be any more. Jorma was cutting kindling from larger pieces of firewood that Mielikki had selected for their straight grain. He used the hatchet with both hands, but he still did good work for a five-year-old. All three kids were good workers. Rauha had seen to that.

  Louhi was helping Mielikki with ladling the stew and had silently acknowledged his entrance. They all sat. Admonishing the children to sit up straight and have good manners in front of their grandmother, he said grace. Louhi motioned for them all to pass their bowls to her and she ladled out the stew. If Louhi’s hair were as blond as Rauha’s—maybe in ten years Rauha would’ve looked like her. He wished his mind would just stop going that way.

  Leaving the girls and Louhi to finish the dishes, he went to split more firewood from the rounds he’d sawed several days before and to tend to a bad hoof Helmi had spotted on a heifer. Jorma tagged along after him in the dark. Maybe Jorma could handle the farm when he got old. They returned to find Louhi reading the girls a story from one of the books she bought for them last Christmas. Jorma snuggled on the floor next to her feet to listen as well. They now had three books. The children knew the stories practically verbatim. After Bible reading came bedtime. Then it would be time to talk to Louhi. Time was something Louhi never wasted.

  “I’m selling the mill.”

  It stunned him. “Why? We’re making record profits. The mill’s in good condition, the crew well trained, none of them likely to get drafted.”

  “The war will be over by next year, maybe earlier.”

  Ilmari just blinked at her. She sighed, then she smiled. “You’re a good blacksmith and you’ve built a fine little mill, but you’re a lousy businessman, Ilmari. Without Rauha, well, I don’t have time to run the business myself.”

  He kept quiet.

  “The barracks are built. We’ve got airplanes coming out of our ears. Prices will start to fall before peace, not after. Mills will be going down like hay in August. We sell now. When the prices are high.”