“And from this you decided she was only in it for the husband?”
“Ah, what the hell do I know?”
“A lot more than I thought,” Noah said.
There was enough freight in the words that passed between them to require one of his father’s old ships, but Noah let it pass by way of fond memories. He recalled mornings from his early childhood when the three of them — father, mother, son — had luxuriated in their happiness. The feeling of security in the booming laughter of his father. The way he would wrestle Noah on the living room floor, the Duluth winter outside the big bay window little more than a backdrop for the times of his life.
“Of course a lot changed,” Olaf said, as if to check the mood. The tone of his father’s voice confirmed for Noah something he’d only ever suspected: that Olaf knew about his wife’s affair with Mr. Hember, the insurance salesman who lived across the street. Noah had always accepted her indiscretion as the solace in her long, lonely days. Whatever pain it had caused his father, if he knew about it at all, well, Noah had chalked that up as his due. But now the perverse pleasure he had for so long taken in his mother’s infidelity was replaced with the shameful recognition that there was another side of the story. The fact that this knowledge was shared passed between them as though an unspoken accord had long ago been reached. They continued talking now as though they had discussed Phil Hember many times.
Noah looked at his father. “What did you expect her to do?” he said. “You set her up for a very lonely life.”
“It’s not all your mother’s fault, what happened. Phil Hember.”
Noah got up and poured his father another glass of water. He brought it to him. “Phil came along ten years after your boat sank. What happened in between?”
“What happened,” Olaf said, pausing to take a long drink of the water, “was life. She was pregnant with you pretty damn quick. We bought the house on High Street. You were born. Solveig was born. My boat sank. I sank. Your mother and I sank. Hember took over for me while I kept the Freighter and the Tallahassee in business. That’s the story. Here I am today.”
“A little simplistic, isn’t it?”
“No,” Olaf said.
“No cause and effect? No regrets?”
“There’s nothing but regret.”
For twenty-five years Noah had been scratching his head over it, trying to see all the angles, to measure his disdain in proportion to the events that formed it. “Mom was screwing the dope across the street. You were sopping up gin drops in those rat holes. And your kids were at home trying to figure it all out. That’s as complicated as it gets?”
The old man looked at him as if in slow motion. “Are you looking for answers? For explanations?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” Noah said.
“Listen, Noah. I hated myself. It’s true I hated your mother, too, and I hated what our problems were doing to you kids. But your mother did take up with Phil.”
“Mom didn’t want Phil Hember. He was your fill-in, like you said. He was the cat in the yard while you disappeared.”
“I used to think he was queer. Living alone in that nice house with the lilac bushes. Sitting on his porch sipping tea.” He shook his head. “I used to lend that son of a bitch my toolbox.” He paused and shook his head again. “Anyway, what do you know about Phil? You were a kid.”
“I grew up pretty fast.”
“And you were an expert on marital relations?”
“I didn’t need to be. I saw her sitting in the living room window watching the harbor. I watched her in the hospital, holding on for one last look at you.”
Olaf put his chin on his chest. “She still shouldn’t have done what she did. I may have checked out, your mother may have wanted more, but she shouldn’t have done it the way she did.”
Olaf leaned forward. He picked the box of ashes from the table and held them on his lap. For ten minutes, maybe longer, he stared at the box while Noah stared at his father. The silence in the room was a tribute to sadness if nothing else. Finally Olaf set the box back on the table. He looked at Noah. When he spoke his voice cracked. “I’m very glad you love your mother so much. I’m glad you loved her through it all. I loved her myself.”
Noah looked at his father. He saw the age in the lines of his face. He saw the whiteness of his long beard. He saw him as a younger man, as the father of a young child. Of two young children. “I love you, too.”
At this Olaf smiled. “Take care of those for me, okay?” He gestured toward the ashes.
“I will. Solveig and I will.”
“Good.” Olaf stood with much evident pain. Noah helped him. “I’m going to try and sleep in my bed for a little while.”
“Sure.” Noah helped him across the room. He helped him into bed and spread the quilt. “You want me to close the blinds?”
“No. Leave the blinds open. Maybe I won’t sleep so long.”
ELEVEN
Now passed an hour of sadness beyond words. Noah stood at the kitchen window staring into the yard. The wood was split and stacked. The ground had frozen during the last two days. It sat hard as bedrock under the brown grass. It would not thaw until April. There had never been a moment better made for reckoning, still Noah could not think past his heartache.
He watched as the clouds broke. He saw noon come. The draft from the kitchen window tempered the warm room. He ate the second half of the jar of herring. He knew he should call Solveig. Had a strong inclination to call his wife. He thought the sound of her voice might quell his grief, thought, in any case, it would help him through the afternoon. But he had made a promise to his father and he would not leave him again, come what might.
It was soon after lunch that he saw the truck driving down the hill. A red piano painted on the driver’s-side door. In the heaviness of the morning’s conversation Noah had forgotten about the piano tuner. The man stepped from his truck, an ox and a slob. His shirttails hung from behind his barn coat, his haunches filled it out. His boots were untied and what hair he had appeared greasy. His black pants were flecked with something, paint perhaps. He took from the back of his truck a toolbox the size of a suitcase and carried it to the door. Noah met him, let him into the house, said hello.
“I almost forgot you were coming,” Noah said. “Any trouble finding the place?” “None at all.” He held his hand before him. “Gordy Nelsen.”
“I’m Noah.” They shook hands.
“Nice spot here. Quiet, peaceful.”
Noah raised an eyebrow, one of his father’s gestures. “That’s one way of looking at it.” “Here’s our culprit?” Gordy pointed at the piano sitting against the wall.
“It is.”
Gordy tapped a key. He tapped another. He opened the top of the piano, took a flashlight from his toolbox, shined it into the piano. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “Though not much.” “Can it be fixed?”
He sat at the bench, put a foot on one of the pedals. He ran his fingers across the keyboard. “I can fix it, but God’s truth is, it ain’t worth it. For what it’d cost you could nearly have a new one.” “All I want is to be able to get a sound out of it. One that won’t hurt the ears.” Gordy was up and in the piano again. He had already pulled two strings from the guts of it. “It’ll take all day. I’ll have to replace a few strings. Realistically, the whole action needs to be replaced. I think I see a crack in the soundboard.” His head disappeared into the piano. It came back out. “There’s a crack. Not the end of the world but not good, either.” He got on one knee, looked at the pedals. “Is it an heirloom?” “Something like that.”
“I can fix it. Check the action. Repair the pedal. I do all that and you’ll be able to play it. I can’t promise it’ll hold a tune for more than a minute or two. But I can do it. Heirlooms are heirlooms.” “Do whatever you can, okay?”