Morgan drops what I assume are her bags on my bed, and then flops down beside them. “What was that all about?”
“It’s a game Marty and I play,” I reply. I’m not sure how much she heard of our conversation, but I sidestep the question. It is difficult for me to talk about, especially now that Charlie is missing and my memories are being refreshed by the journals rescued from the wrecked Wind Dancer. “He tests my visual memory by describing the artwork of famous painters to me, and I guess them. Correctly, I might add. He hasn’t been able to stump me yet.” I feel around on the table in front of me until I find what I am looking for. “I had Marty pick you up a little something.”
Morgan takes the book from me, flipping it from front to back.
“Tom Sawyer?”
“Thought you might find some inspiration for your fence painting,” I say, trying to make a little joke between us. Perhaps she does not get my humor.
“Umm. Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.”
It lands on her pile.
“So . . .” She lets the word hang in the air between us, hoping I will pick it up. She is early. We had not planned to read today, and I wonder what has motivated her to come.
“So?” I reply.
“Apparently I’m early.”
“Apparently.”
“So I thought we could continue where we left off.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose we could.” By my calculations, she should be in school right now. Perhaps there is something she seeks that cannot be found within the brick walls or among the groups of children that cram the hallways and classrooms in contrived society, pressured toward futures when their youth still hovers so lightly on them. I can speculate, but it is not my place to judge. “What year does the next book start again?”
She has already collected the pile of journals and is removing the cloth. She sets them down on the table near me, and selects one to bring back with her, kicking off her boots, which drop to the floor with a double thud, and settling on my bed. “It’s dated 1930 to 1933”
And we begin.
Saturday, 25 January—Day three of a nasty storm that has brought with it strong winds from the SW. The Lake is open to the south as waves continue to roll across the fetch between Isle Royale and Porphyry. Peter and Charlie have been hard at work on their lessons, although it may be many days, if not weeks, before we can find a way to have them delivered to their instructors in Port Arthur. Peter is showing great aptitude. I have some concern for Charlie, whose mind tends to wander, who leaves tasks half accomplished. He is marvelous with the twins, however, and I am grateful for that. Lil has retained some vestiges of the illness that swept through our family several years ago. She does not share the same joy in the twins that she did before. It is understandable, given all that has transpired. I have begun reading with Elizabeth, and she seems to have an excellent grasp of language, even though she is not quite five years of age. Emily much prefers to amuse herself and remains silent as ever. I fear she will never learn to talk, let alone read. It matters little, as Elizabeth is her constant champion. She seems to understand her every nuance, every unspoken thought. They share a silent language that seems to make it unnecessary for our little Emily to acquire any words of her own.
Thursday, 30 January—The winds of last week have abated, and we have settled into a low-pressure system that brings with it cold temperatures and bright skies. I have cleared the ice surface in the bay on the NW side of Porphyry Point, and we have been skating almost every day.
Monday, 10 February—Richardson arrived by dogsled from Silver Islet. He will be staying with us for several days, as he has offered his team and his help to harvest more wood. We will be cutting on Edward Island and will stay in Walker’s old shack while we complete the work. Peter will come with us, but Lil and the youngsters will remain at home. Charlie threw a fit of temper at being left behind, but I feel he would still be more of a burden than a help. Besides, if I took him along, who would entertain the girls? He was consoled when I said that I needed him to be the man of the house in my absence. His chest puffed out like a partridge, and he nodded, accepting the responsibility.
He did entertain us. Then and always. Whittling crude dolls out of pieces of cedar for us to play with. Fashioning bark boats that we piled with loads of twig-size firewood and sailed across the wooden floor for the little village we built beneath Pa’s chair. Pulling us around the point in the sled. Stumbling through a chapter of a novel. And Emily and I adoring the attention. Mother, efficient, practical mother, always in the background.
Morgan and I settle into the quiet routine of reading, and the months continue to unfold. Time passes quickly on the pages, with spring nudging out winter. Pa’s words are fluid, articulate, almost poetic. They enhance the great contradiction that he was, belying his humble beginnings in Scotland and his decision to spend his life responsible for the machinations of a navigational aid on the largest inland lake in the world. What was it in his past that led him to settle deep in the heart of Canada, married to a woman who was half Ojibwe, far from the shores of his native Scotland and far, it seems, from a background steeped in classics, the novels of Austen and Carroll, the music of Mozart and Beethoven? And more so, to instill that passion in his children amid the pine forests of Canada and expansive waters of Lake Superior?
Friday, 21 March—Vernal equinox and the first day of spring. I explained it to the children using a large canning jar still filled with preserves and the kerosene lamp to simulate the sun. Peter began to apply math principles, calculating the number of days until the solstice. He is bright. I see a future for him that will take him beyond the island.