The Northwoods Read online

  As Sarah and Abigail spent more time together, Sarah would steal glimpses of Abigail whenever she wasn’t looking, tracing the lines of her body with her eyes. She waited for those moments when their fingers would brush against each other or when their bodies briefly touched. She never suspected that Abigail might feel the same way that she did.

  When the house that Abigail and Sarah had shared came into view, Sarah remembered the first time that she and Abigail had made love. Abigail was tailoring a pair of trousers for a young, small-built man who lived in town. He couldn’t make it by the shop for a fitting, and since they were approximately the same size, Abigail had Sarah step in for him. Abigail first fitted the waist and then moved on to the inseam of the pants. She ran her hand along the inside of one of Sarah’s legs, and as she moved her hand toward the crotch area, Sarah trembled and caught her breath. She felt herself moistening between her legs. Her knees nearly buckled as Abigail spoke.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No,” Sarah said. “I simply…”

  As Abigail continued to adjust the pants, Sarah shuddered and spoke again.

  “Please,” she said.

  Before Sarah knew what she was doing, she found herself pressing against Abigail, seeking out her lips with her own. They kissed, long and hard, tongues twisting. Abigail led Sarah to her bedroom and closed the door behind them.

  * * *

  The wagon finally lurched to a stop in front of a small, quaint house, the only home Sarah had known since she left the orphanage. Sam climbed out of the wagon, walked over to Sarah’s side, and helped her down. For a moment, they both stood in silence, staring at the house.

  “I want you to know that you can keep the house,” Sam said. “As you know, it belonged to our parents, and I have the farm and my own home to look after. I’ve got no need for another house, and Abigail would want it this way. From the day you arrived, she wanted this to be your home as much as hers.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said. “You have no idea how much your kindness means to me.”

  She was, indeed, relieved. She had spent the three days since Abigail’s death in a state of both mourning and fear, sometimes edging on hysteria. Where will I go? What will I do? How will I handle life on my own?

  Without saying anything else, Sam left her side and climbed back up into the wagon.

  “I’ll check in on you in a week or so to see how you’re doing,” he said. “I have no idea what my sister’s and your financial situation is, but you might need some additional income now that Abigail is gone. You can let me know.”

  “I will,” Sarah said.

  She stood in front of the house and watched him turn the wagon around and head back down the dirt road. When the wagon became a distant dot, Sarah finally entered the house, closed the door behind her, and began to aimlessly wander from room to room. When she reached the bedroom, she sat in a rocking chair near a window and gazed out at the pale gray clouds and the barren trees. At twenty-three, she was again alone in life, with no anchor, nothing to hold on to, except for the house that Abigail had shared with her—home. She gulped in a deep breath and started to sob. She lay down, pulled a blanket over her, and closed her eyes to darkness.

  * * *

  The next morning, Sarah woke early; the sun was slanting through the bedroom curtains. She rose, somberly prepared herself for the day, and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. When it was done, she poured herself a cup and went into the parlor, where she sat at Abigail’s desk. She ran her hands over the smooth, polished wood. She then methodically began to go through the drawers, trying to find the bank records and ledgers that Abigail had kept. She spread them out on the desk and began the process of laboriously going through them. Abigail had always managed their finances, and Sarah had never thought to inquire into their situation. She had taken so much for granted.

  As Sarah paged through the ledgers, gazing at Abigail’s handwriting, she remembered watching Abigail, perched at the desk, penciling in numbers in the various books. Abigail was a meticulous record keeper, maintaining one ledger for the tailoring business and another for the household. The business ledger revealed that the income from the tailoring was barely sufficient after monies were deducted for sewing supplies and the household expenses. Sarah knew her situation could be worse, much worse, but she realized how frugal Abigail had been while providing a most comfortable life. Now Sarah would have to do the same, but she would be making money from her work only. She perused the bank records, which showed a small amount of savings.

  By the time Sarah took a break to make some lunch, she realized that her financial outlook was rather grim. With Abigail gone, she would definitely need another way to make money. She would never draw in as much income as they had together. She pushed the chair away from the desk and began to pace around the house, wringing her hands. She had no idea how she would manage in the future, standing on her own. Her and Abigail’s few friends were as strapped as she was, if not more, each struggling in her own way. She and Abigail had felt fortunate. Now she knew she would need to speak to Sam, though she had no idea what he might be able to do to help her.

  * * *

  Nine days after Abigail’s burial, Sarah was outside preparing the yard for winter, the cold November wind creeping up her dress, when she heard the clatter of a wagon and turned to see Sam drawing near. He pulled up in front of the house.

  “Sarah,” he said as he climbed out of the wagon.

  “Good morning, Sam,” Sarah said.

  She was relieved to see him, as each day she was growing more worried and anxious about her situation. She’d had no customers since Abigail passed away, and though she thought some folks might be allowing her time for grieving, she didn’t know what to expect in the future.

  “How are you faring?” Sam asked.

  “The days are difficult,” Sarah said. “Perhaps things will improve over time.”

  An awkward silence settled between them. Sarah didn’t really know Sam that well. He had never been a frequent visitor, with his farm to tend to, and he was away during the winter months.

  “Is there anything you need?” Sam finally asked.

  Sarah hesitated for a moment and then spoke.

  “I’ve gone through all the financial records, as you suggested,” she said. “I’m unsure of how prosperous the tailoring will be in the future, with Abigail gone. I’ll most likely need to supplement my income somehow.”

  She watched Sam as he shifted from foot to foot. He scratched his head and cleared his throat.

  “I wish I had the means to help you, but I’m a bit strapped myself,” he said. “You could come to the logging camp with me this winter and work in the cook shanty until you figure things out. I lost one of my flunkies last year, so I’m a few arms short. The money will be enough to sustain you here for the next year.”

  Sarah gulped hard, feeling as if her breath was stuck in her throat, anxiety coursing through her. She had heard tales about the logging camps—long hours of endless work, cramped quarters, freezing conditions, lice, months without bathing. The logging camps were all grit and no glamour. Sam had been the head cook at the Hodag Camp for years.

  “What would I be doing?” she asked.

  “Cooking, cleaning up the shanty,” Sam said. “I won’t try to deceive you. The days are long and hard.”

  “How long would I be there?” Sarah asked.

  “At least until April, maybe longer. Everything depends on the weather, what kind of winter we have.”

  A part of Sarah thought that going away for a while might help her overcome her grief and loneliness.

  “When would we leave?” she asked.

  “Two weeks,” Sam said.

  Sarah looked at the huge, strapping man, his arms as thick as logs, and his hair a curly, brownish-blond mane. His face was pocked, and he had a beard that fell to the middle of his chest. Sarah knew that at the camp they called him Mighty Man Sam. He was a man of few words,
and he and Abigail hadn’t been that close, with a number of years between them. Abigail had told Sarah that Sam had rather drifted off, become more isolated, after their parents had passed away.

  “I guess my predicament leaves me little choice,” she said as knots tightened in her stomach.

  She felt as if she might be sick.

  “Pack your warmest clothes,” Sam said. “Other than that, bring only what you absolutely need. There will be a younger girl at the camp this year, my helper’s daughter. They’ll stay with me in the cook shanty. You can stay in a small shack near the shanty. There’s a cot in there and a small stove. I’m thinking you’ll need some privacy.”

  Sarah felt only slightly relieved.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll check on you in a week to make sure everything’s in order,” Sam said.

  “I’ll start to get ready, then,” Sarah said begrudgingly.

  “Good enough,” Sam said.

  He returned to the wagon, climbed in, and grabbed hold of the reins.

  “See you next week,” he said as he pulled away.

  “Bye, Sam,” Sarah said.

  Nausea nudged its way into her belly. She couldn’t move. My God, a winter in a logging camp. I’ll be surrounded by men. She knew some of them would be decent, like Sam, but the others…She didn’t dislike men, but she felt no attraction to them or their ways, wanted no dependency upon them. During her years living with Abigail, Sarah had been approached by a few of the town’s men, asking for courtship. Sarah always felt that those men, even those with more timid and mild personalities, saw her only as a vessel for sex and motherhood. Even if she did desire to be with one, no man would ever see her as an equal partner.

  When she finally went back into the house, she wandered to the kitchen. With trembling hands, she picked up an empty cup, and in a surge of both defeat and rage, she hurled the cup against a wall and it shattered into splinters.

  “Why did you leave me, Abigail?” she wailed. “This isn’t how life was meant to be.”

  She sank into a chair and sobbed.

  Sarah spent the days that followed Sam’s visit sorting through her clothing, selecting only the heaviest garments, anything that might protect her from the harshness of the Northwoods in wintertime. She grimaced at the thought of being surrounded by the burliest and rowdiest of men for the long, drawn-out winter—from November until the end of March or April. The only other female in the camp would be the other flunky. She, at least, would have the companionship of her father. But Sarah…She would be on her own. She tried to push that thought away. If she thought about it too much, Abigail’s absence became too agonizing, and she could feel herself plunging into darkness.

  * * *

  Two weeks after Abigail’s funeral, Sarah and Sam headed to the logging camp. They needed to arrive ahead of the others so they could prepare the cook shanty before the throngs of hungry loggers were upon them. Everyone knew that a camp was only as successful as the cook shanty was good. If the men weren’t fed decent food, in rather copious amounts, they wouldn’t survive the rigors of the forest or logging.

  Sam and Sarah spoke little on their day-long trek to the camp. The wind bitterly blew around them the entire trip, and Sarah kept herself covered beneath a big wool blanket, exposing only her eyes. As they entered the Northwoods, the land so different from that surrounding Pine Creek, Sarah was both mesmerized and frightened. The dark pine trees towered above them, scenting the air in evergreen, and the winds traveling through them sounded like muted voices and muffled screams.

  When they finally reached the camp, Sarah panicked at the sight of the primitive, drab scene—her home for the coming winter months. She and Sam climbed out of the wagon, and as Sam unharnessed the horses, he explained the layout to Sarah.

  “The longest building you see there is the bunkhouse, where the loggers stay. They don’t spend much time in there, only nights and Sundays.”

  Sarah gazed at the building, long and low, constructed of logs laid lengthwise. The bark was still on the logs and the chinks were filled with moss. She saw only two tiny windows, and she couldn’t imagine how fifty or more jacks could squeeze into those quarters.

  “The smaller building right on the left side of the bunkhouse is the cook shanty. That’s where we’ll be spending our time, us and the other two. My helper’s name is Mack, and his daughter’s name is Annie. You’ll be staying in that tiny shed over there.”

  He led the way to the shed and Sarah followed, carrying the satchel with her belongings. When they reached it, he pushed the door open. The shed had one tiny square of a window, a cot, a little table and chair, a kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling, and a small woodstove. Sarah swallowed hard. The air in the shed was stagnant, and she felt as if she might suffocate. She had no idea how she would be able to sleep there, though she knew it would be better than bunking in the cook shanty with Sam and the others. She set her satchel on the cot. I’m never going to survive this. What was I thinking? She and Sam went back outside, and Sam continued describing the logging camp.

  “The building to the right of the bunkhouse is the stable for the horses. The shed next to that is used for shoeing the horses. That’s where the teamsters and the foreman sleep. The outhouses are in the back, between the bunkhouse and the cook shanty. There’s a stream a short walk beyond them. That’s where we’ll be getting our water.”

  “This is it?” Sarah asked. “This is the entire camp?”

  “That’s right. Our supplies start coming in tomorrow. Tonight we can settle in, and tomorrow we’ll start to prepare the shanty. We need to scrub it down good with boiling water, try to get rid of the lice, though they’re bound to come back.”

  Lice. Sarah nearly gagged at the thought. She followed Sam as he took the horses to the stable and put out some feed for them. He then guided her toward the bunkhouse, opened the door, and gestured for her to step in. Even though it hadn’t been used since the previous winter, the wall of odor that hit her as she entered was rancid—a vile mix of tobacco, dirty socks, and stale sweat. Sarah nearly choked on the smell.

  “You’ll probably never need to come in here, but you might as well take a look at where the loggers will be living,” Sam said.

  Kerosene lamps hung from ropes that ran across the room from the ceiling’s rafters. Sam struck a match to one and it dimly lit the room. Sarah scanned the quarters. The bunks were built along the two longer sides of the room in two-deck style, and each bunk had a bale of hay and a blanket on it. There weren’t any chairs. Instead, a bench made of a wide board that projected from the lower tier of bunks provided sitting room.

  “Besides the bunks, that’s the only place the jacks have to sit,” Sam said. “We call it the deacon’s seat. The jacks gather there for cards, music, and storytelling. That’s about the only entertainment we’ve got up here. No drinking or gambling. Over there’s where the jacks wash up and sharpen their axes and tools, repair their equipment.”

  He pointed to a corner where a washbasin, water pail, and grindstone were in place. Sarah’s eyes traveled from the corner to the center of the room, where a huge potbellied cast iron stove stood.

  “That stove provides the only heat,” Sam said. “At night, the jacks hang their wet socks and mittens on the stringers above and beside it so they can dry by morning time. That’s a smell that’ll nearly knock you out.”

  He chuckled to himself. Sarah almost became ill with the sight and scent of the quarters. What kind of men could live in these conditions, she wondered, knowing that she was soon to find out. Sam put an arm over her shoulders, a bit too comfortably, and pulled her close to him.

  “You let me know if any of the jacks give you a hard time,” he said. “I’ll put an end to that.” Without removing his arm, he led her to the door. “We should move on to the cook shanty now.”

  Sarah was uncomfortable with Sam’s closeness, but she didn’t want to say anything. She would need him in the upcoming
months. She just hoped that she would find him trustworthy, and she then remembered an incident that had happened so long ago that she had almost forgotten.

  About six months after Abigail and Sarah became intimately involved, Abigail had noted a change in Sam.

  “My brother seems to be intruding on my territory a bit lately,” she said. “He’s been coming around more than usual. I think he might sense that there is something more between us now.”

  “Wouldn’t he say something?” Sarah asked. “Do you think he would care?”

  “Only if he’s taken a liking to you,” Abigail said. She wrapped her arms around Sarah, nibbled on her ear, and whispered, “Which wouldn’t be hard to understand.”

  “Should we be worried?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t think so, though I will be keeping an eye on him in the future,” Abigail said. “I don’t particularly like him lurking around, and I do believe I’ve seen him taking rather longing glimpses of you.”

  “Maybe you should tell him about us,” Sarah said.

  “Our business is our own,” Abigail said. “Besides, as you know, Sam and I aren’t that close. We have ten years between us, and he was always working in the fields with Father when we were young. My mother kept me close to her side, teaching me how to cook and sew. Sam never was very talkative. He’s always been rather ornery, gruff in his own way, but he is my brother.”

  “Has he ever courted any of the women in town?” Sarah asked.