From the corner of his eye, he saw Jorgan jump down. Not in the mood to be outnumbered, Thor shoved Haakon away. After rising, Thor strode off and didn’t look back to see the disapproving look Jorgan would have for him. Or the utter horror from Aven. He just aimed for his shop, stepped inside, and slammed the door.
He took up a jar of cider and flung it at the wall. It shattered. The amber wetness glistened down the boards to the floor. Wasteful, but he unfortunately had more than plenty. He loosened the lid on a second jar and gulped down desperate swallows. The liquor didn’t burn as it had when he was a boy. Now it was a sickening comfort. One he couldn’t even get through a morning without.
Drinking more, Thor felt a sob rise from his throat. It escaped and he nearly choked. He spat out the mouthful to heave a breath. With the back of his hand he wiped his beard.
I hate you. The three words he used to sign to Haakon whenever the baby was sitting there on his blanket, the house void of their mother’s presence. Thor would sign that wretched oath to young Haakon when no one was looking. At first it was an honest confession. Some way to make sense of why Thor had come home from boarding school to find that his mother wasn’t warm and wrapping her arms around him but buried beneath a cross near the woods. Leaving in her place a newborn who flailed his arms and stretched his mouth wide, squalling for a mother who wasn’t coming back for any of them.
As time wore on, those three words had been a painful release. Until the day a one-year-old Haakon had peered up at him, and with innocent eyes and dimpled hands, he flicked little fingers in Thor’s direction, trying to mimic the shape of hate. The baby babbled and cooed like it was a game.
The first thing Thor had taught him.
Eyes clamped closed now, Thor guzzled from the glass rim, but it did nothing to wash away the sight of those little hands or the feeling of crushing Haakon to the dusty ground. Of the pain in Haakon’s face as Thor braced him in place with all his strength.
A slit of light broke through the dimness, and Thor looked over to see Jorgan step around the giant door. Hands in his pockets, Jorgan strode nearer, looking first to Thor, then to the splattered cider along the far wall. Last to the broken glass just below. If he’d heard the crash, Jorgan didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say anything. Thor’s guilt was sufficient, and Jorgan’s companionable silence only deepened it.
Thor set the jar aside and twisted the lid back on. The quart was nearly empty—and this was the strongest proof he made. He’d be walking lopsided by dinner time.
Jorgan tugged the shop stool near and sat. “He looks up to you, you know.”
Thor shook his head.
“You don’t see it, maybe, but it’s true.”
Well, he need stop.
Jorgan glanced out the dingy window to the yard where the scuffle was still marked in the dirt. Hands flat to the workbench, Thor lowered his head. Stared at the floor and the way a thousand glinting jars sent flecks of golden sunlight across it.
Head still bowed, the light spilling in from the window was hot on his hair. His mind was growing fuzzy as the pain subsided, but he felt worse, not better. Thor searched for a way to express what was clawing inside him. Just as it had been for years.
Finally, he looked at Jorgan and pointed to himself. I need make different.
Jorgan’s brow furrowed, and Thor searched for a way to explain it better. What was the English for what he meant? He pointed to himself again, then hooked his fingers toward one another and twisted them the other way. I change. He added a hard must at the end to try and make Jorgan understand his desperation.
Jorgan’s surprise was evident. “What are you gonna do?”
Thor thought hard and deep of how he wanted—with everything inside him—to wake up in the morning without his first thought being his first sip. How he wanted to drink coffee with nothing else but cream. To be around Aven and not wrestle a headache so fierce that it threatened to break him. Worse yet was knowing that he couldn’t care for anyone in the state he was in. Let alone her.
“You thinkin’ of tryin’ again?”
Yes. Thor had already placed an order for the boards and nails he’d need to seal this place up. When he finished confessing that, his brother’s jaw had fallen an inch.
Justifiably so. For many reasons. The last being that it was how they made their living. Thor didn’t know how to kick this need for alcohol while still keeping the cidery open. When he relayed that to his brother, Jorgan nodded slowly.
Rubbing at his beard, Jorgan studied the shelves of cider as if calculating. Finally he looked at Thor. “We’ve always gotten by and we always will. How about you not worry about the earnings for a spell? Lord knows you’ve carried it long enough. Haakon and I will see to things until you’re on the other side. Then we can talk it through some more. If you want to do this, it needs to be done.”
The assurance was more freeing than Thor could express. If Jorgan was willing to face the uncertainties, Thor would rest in that.
No tell Aven. Please. Thor didn’t want her to know until he’d committed. Until nails were pounded into place, and he couldn’t change his mind. Sealing things up wasn’t something he’d thought to do with his failed attempt five years ago. One that ended so badly it nearly cost them Haakon and had left Ida on the bruising end of Thor’s madness. They couldn’t risk that again.
And now with Aven here . . .
Doubts threatened to smother him, but when Jorgan gave a sturdy nod, it felt like a shield going up. One that blocked Thor’s nightmares of once again hurting others as the liquor lashed out for being neglected inside him.
“Alright.” At the crinkle of Jorgan’s eyes, there was a smile blooming somewhere in his beard.
It gave Thor hope. A deeper faith that maybe he could do this. That he could beat back the demons he’d let torment him for far too long.
Jorgan reached out and gripped Thor’s shoulder, then leaned closer so their foreheads nearly touched—a way for Thor to know just how sincerely he meant the movement of his mouth. “You can be free of this. And I’ll do whatever you need me to do to help.”
NINE
Breakfast the next morning was a quiet event. Thor and Haakon didn’t acknowledge one another from across the table. Aven tried not to recall the upset from the day before, but it was as impossible to ignore as the silence.
Yesterday Jorgan assured her that his brothers had always been this way. That their row was nothing to worry about. Jorgan had spoken with such ease that Aven clung to the hope that if tension was a regular occurrence, perhaps it would quickly fade. The hope was kindled when Haakon rose, strode out, and Thor lifted a regretful glance after him.
Jorgan stood as well. “Haakon and me are gonna mend a window on the west cabin, then see if the fish are bitin’. We’ll be back.” He tossed his napkin onto the table, and though he’d scrubbed at the washbasin before breakfast, the creases of his hands were still somewhat blackened. He’d worked with Thor at sunup to tug down the burnt wood crib. With the help of one of the horses and a sturdy chain, they had it pulled down before the coffee even began to steam.
Aven nodded as Thor pushed his way from the table and strode deeper into the house.
With Ida abed resting her legs, Aven set the kettle to steam and prepared a tray of breakfast comforts. After bringing it to Ida in the back bedroom, Aven returned to the kitchen and hefted up the bowl of berries that had scarcely dwindled. An idea dawned. She went to the pantry and pulled out both flour and sugar. Perhaps a pie was in order. Two, judging by the abundance of the fruit on hand and the tension still in the air.
By the time she finished mixing and rolling dough, Thor had gone outside toward the orchards.