Traveling Light (15 page)

“I know, Bernie.” She tried to rekindle the enthusiasm of the previous day. “I’ll be there tomorrow, early evening about five.”

“Fine, fine, Paula, no rush.” He sounded distracted.

Her hand migrated toward her purse until she remembered that she’d smoked her last cigarette in New Jersey. After Eleni had cast aspersions on Paula’s “cockamamie scheme,” everything was doubtful.

The sun had set by the time she reached Eau Claire, Wisconsin. The fresh, cold night air made her shiver. Looking at the dashboard, she began pressing buttons, searching for the heat. Who would have thought she’d need the heat on in late August? The wrong button triggered the windshield wipers.

“Shit.” After a blast of air-conditioning and a squirt of blue fluid blurring her windshield, warm air finally started flowing in through the vents.

She was road weary. No matter how she shifted the electronic seat controls, her bones ached. The last time she’d spent this much time in a car was twenty years ago in graduate school, driving back to New York for Christmas. Tall brightly lit hotel vacancy signs were visible from the highway—better take one or risk driving through miles of nothing but woods. It seemed darker by seven here than in New York. The farther north she drove from Chicago, the more dramatic the autumn colors.

After getting the last room at a Days Inn, she watched the desk clerk switch on the NO sign. Entering the room, she pulled down the blankets and climbed right into bed. Fotis nestled up against her and she welcomed his warmth through the covers. She’d neglected to close the drapes, brush her teeth or slip off her jeans. To her surprise the sun woke her for a second morning in a row.

*   *   *

Early the next afternoon Paula caught her first glimpse of Lake Superior; the water’s blue-whiteness erased any evidence of a horizon. The illusion was perfect.

As she drove through the city of Superior toward the bridge that crossed the twin ports into Duluth, Minnesota, and then onto Highway 61, the buildings reminded her of depressed towns in New England. Or even Long Island City before infusions of big money had turned it into a funky upscale artists’ community where the average person could no longer afford to live.

What struck her most were the huge rusted structures along the shoreline, spanning into what appeared to be rivers and estuaries. Paula felt the weight of a different kind of urban blight. Tall beige granaries densely packed the docks; boxy prefab warehouses and imposing rusted structures dominated the landscape. Just over the bridge in Duluth she turned to ask a young man standing on the other side of the gas pump, “What are those?”

“What are what?” The tall college kid turned.

“Those rusty-looking things,” she said.

“You mean the ore docks?” He’d wrinkled his nose, then glanced at her temporary New York plates.

The giant structures fascinated and terrified her. They looked like huge mechanical creatures that could spring to life at any moment and tromp across the landscape as the ground quaked.

Roger had called early that morning before she left Eau Claire. It was as if they were sitting in a restaurant somewhere on the West Side, mulling over the day’s events. One of his colleagues had had too much to drink on the flight and slept in such an awkward position he couldn’t fully straighten his neck after they landed. Fotis barked at someone at the door. “Scasai,” she told him to shut up.

Roger’d spent hours driving the man to a chiropractor in a provincial village. He prattled on about the research facility, concerns over security, and nothing about their marriage or her trip. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

The outskirts of Duluth were behind her. She glanced out the passenger’s side window at Lake Superior; the quiet color of the water slowed her mind, her thoughts. Her chest and neck muscles seemed to let go. There was no place to pull over, though the lake demanded complete concentration. Even her breathing interfered with her ability to absorb its depth.

Roger’s phone call had left her unsettled, but she was soon distracted by the first sighting of rock outcroppings in the water; cliffs; boulders and spiky evergreens. She sought out the view in each clearing, catching herself weaving like a drunkard toward the center yellow line, staring at something breathtaking—but everything was breathtaking. She was frantic to take it all in, to know it before it disappeared.

Across the road, cliffs of red granite jutted up in cylindrical shapes. Evergreen trees grew out of the rock at angles she’d not thought possible. Drill marks like stripes were still visible along the face of the cliffs where road crews must have tucked in sticks of dynamite. Within a five-mile span she’d passed through two long tunnels. Though they were not as long as New York’s Midtown Tunnel, the lighting and the vanilla-colored subway tiles were identical—her mind kept tricking her into expecting either the Long Island Expressway or 34th Street at the end.

The farther up the coast she drove, the more dramatic the scenery. In places it reminded her of the coast of Maine, or Northern California or Ireland, yet it had its own delicate yet rugged sensibility. She placed her hand on her chest without even realizing, searching for a spot to pull over and get a better view, but the road closely hugged the narrow edge of the shore. Finally she veered off in the town of Two Harbors into a red dirt parking lot. She saw a sign for BNSF’s Allouez Taconite facility and wondered if this was one of those ore docks she couldn’t stop thinking about.

Climbing out of the car, she grabbed Fotis’ leash. They walked down a narrow red path through wispy pine trees lined up along the edge of a steep cliff. To her left a covered railroad bridge spanned the highway, feeding out onto a trestle. The ore dock extended for a quarter mile over the lake.

On top of the ore dock was a line of railroad cars; the structure was so massive they looked like toys mounded with reddish rust the color of the dock. To her amazement a giant tanker was roped to the side of the dock; its engines murmured quietly as men on deck signaled to one another with their hands. The side of the dock was composed of narrow rusty louvered chutes. Each was gently lowered by chains along the length of the ship; some chutes groaned as they were lowered, crying like a suffering animal.

After the chutes were in place, reddish pellets of iron ore began sliding into the cargo holds. Each chute emptied in turn along the ship’s length. She watched as the white markers on the outside of the ship lowered into the water slowly and evenly as the cargo holds filled. Once the chutes were raised, activity buzzed on the ship’s deck with men sealing off top hatches. The water surrounding the back of the ship turned a teal color and slowly the ship pulled away. She’d never seen anything like it. It filled her with wonder—what the lives of those men must be like.

She looked at her watch; an hour had passed. And while this place was restful, she thought she’d better get driving. The thought of being on the highway to Thunder Bay after dark with deer catapulting in every direction made her cringe. She’d die if she hit one.

Paula liked the tall evergreens packing the tops of red granite outcroppings, like spectators craning to see the outcome of a football game. The air was chilly. Through her windows it felt thin and clean.

She thought about calling Celeste but didn’t believe she could talk. In that moment she understood jewelry. Embedded in the mystery of an aquamarine jewel was this lake—a drop of seawater trapped in stone, believed to have properties that could save a sailor from drowning. Greek women would give their men stones as talismans. Paula wore an aquamarine ring on her right hand almost every day, except for the day Celeste had called. Maybe Paula had been drowning, too, and it was why she’d reached for the same ring every morning. As she gazed into the blue-green stone during staff meetings, on the subway or flying to conferences, it stilled her. The lake, surrounding cliffs—all of it hundreds of millions of years old—had been created by the same earthly forces.

Approaching the next little town, called Beaver Bay, she pulled off into a Culver’s. She’d seen several of these—their sign advertising the “Home of the ButterBurger.” Recreational vehicles filled the parking lot, like sailors lured by the sirens of Greek myth, but here the ButterBurger did all the seducing. She drove up to the window, ordered a coffee for herself and two ButterBurgers for Fotis (what the hell). She figured she’d park and walk around.

The sound of chain saws had drawn a crowd. She had a ringside view of “Chainsaw Treasures”; a yellow banner was planted into the grass next to the Culver’s sign where a man wielded his chain saw like a dance partner. No storefront window or display case, only the open tailgate of the man’s dented truck. Wooden sculptures of eagles in various poses perched atop the back gate, along with wolves and a few bears. The taller sculptures, three feet and above, stood on the grass in front of the banner.

Sitting down on the curb next to the Escape, Paula watched. Sawdust blew in swirls, and as sunlight broke through blustery charcoal clouds it sparkled like gold. The scent of freshly cut wood was intoxicating. With only a few strokes, the beak of an eagle emerged, a wingtip, then its chest. On the front the artist managed to whittle little wooden points to resemble feathers. Bark was left intact to look like the feathered back. The carver then triumphantly lifted the chain-saw blade skyward, signaling his creation was complete. Applause exploded. The buyer lifted his sculpture, looked it over and then held it up as people pushed in for a look. A man stepped up and put his money down. Paula sipped her coffee; the cement curb was warm from the sun and felt like a heating pad. She figured five more hours if she drove straight through, but then her pace was slowing the farther north she drove. She yawned as she walked toward the Escape. They climbed in and got back on the road. Maybe she’d stay one night in Grand Marais, find a hotel and call Bernie, make plans to see them tomorrow. What was a day when she had eight weeks?

She rolled down her window to smell the air. What she thought was smoke drifting across the road, obscuring the shoreline off to her right as she approached Silver Bay, was maritime fog. Banks of it wisped through the trees, obscuring the taillights of the car ahead, as thick as any fog out on the easternmost parts of Long Island. The quality of this fog was different, gently layered like bolts of thin organdy fabric as if someone were standing on the other side of the road, unwinding it across the land.

A road sign partly obscured by a pine branch said thirty miles to Grand Marais. A line of cars was backed up behind her as she followed a large RV. Ordinarily she’d have been among those jockeying to pass, but instead she let the others take on the dense fog and winding roads.

It was late afternoon by the time she saw the Welcome to Grand Marais sign. Drowsy, she took her cue from Fotis, who’d stood and shaken off, ready to get out of the car. Another cup of coffee would be nice. Spotting the Angry Trout Cafe in what looked like the center of town, she pulled into an empty parking space.

“Okay,” she said as she turned off the engine and unbuckled her seat belt. Fotis looked out the window, waiting for her.

She grabbed his leash and they headed toward a long line at the Order Here sign. Standing behind a blond Scandinavian-looking family, whose adolescent children were already a good head and shoulders taller than her, she wondered if they were tourists until she heard them speak unaccented English. She looked out at the water; the Grand Marais Harbor was a half-moon shape, the beach extended all the way out to rocky points on either side. Concrete and boulder jetties had been built across the harbor. A lighthouse-type beacon stood on either side of the jetty, marking the entrance to the harbor. Along the left side she could make out a U.S. Coast Guard station by the signature white buildings and red metal roofs. On the right was a marina filled with sailboat masts, cabin cruisers and networks of docks.

Fog began creeping into the harbor. One of the lighthouses was enveloped and mist was dreaming its way across the passage. People congregated on the beach, benches loaded with children, small dogs yapping, family reunions, couples laced arm in arm as if seeing Lake Superior for the first time. Lined up on the walkway along Harbor Park, people took photos of the sunlit drifting fog. The sky was steel gray as the sun poked though.

She too couldn’t take her eyes off the water, not noticing she was up next at the Order Here window.

“What can I getcha?”

“Umm.…” She looked at a painted wooden menu posted on the back wall, feeling pressure from the people behind her. She’d been too caught up in the harbor to make a decision and picked the first two listings.

“How ’bout an egg salad sandwich, two brats and a coffee, please.”

“What size coffee?”

“Medium?”

“It’s about a ten- or fifteen-minute wait,” the young woman apologized. Paula was taken aback by her sincerity. The woman was dressed in a navy blue polo shirt and a gingham checked blue and white kerchief.

“That’s fine,” Paula reassured. She looked at the overhead clock, almost four.

There was an empty picnic table on the beach near where she’d parked. Hurrying over to claim it, she muttered to Fotis in Greek, “You know you really have to start eating the dog food, too,” as if it were his fault he’d been living on ButterBurgers and brats. It felt mean to starve Fotis to get him on dry kibble. The stuff looked like the pellets she’d pour into the bowls of guinea pigs at Pet World.

She thought to call Bernie while waiting but instead decided to clean out the Escape. She tied Fotis’ leash to the table and stepped to open the passenger’s side door. The dog was torn between supervising Paula and watching the other dogs on the beach.

Reaching in, she grabbed two crumpled-up Doritos bags and inadvertently dumped orange crumbs onto the passenger seat. As she began brushing them out, images of the rose-colored mohair sofa flashed before her. It had belonged to Roger’s parents, Josef and Katya. Paula had covered it with bedspreads so the wool wouldn’t itch; shards of Doritos would poke through as she’d turn in her sleep—snacks instead of Roger to pass the night. She often wondered what Katya would have said about her son banishing his bride on their wedding night. Maybe Katya wouldn’t have cared. From what Roger said, she and Josef also had separate bedrooms—very continental.