Solveig paused before commencing her litany of questions and concerns: She begged for clarification, asked Noah to repeat his story and elaborate on what he meant by sickly and feeble, instructed Noah on their father’s habits and proclivities, spit out her husband’s trial docket — he was an attorney in Fargo, where they lived — and her kids’ hectic schedules. Noah could practically hear the machinations of her distraught mind. Finally she told Noah she would get there as soon as possible, though she admitted she had no idea when that would be.
It was only after he had hung up that Noah realized he hoped her arrival would be delayed, realized that he wanted some time alone with the old man, come what may.
THERE WAS AN agate and smoked-fish shop on the northern edge of town. He’d seen it on the day before. When he walked in, a synthesized loon call startled him from above the door. On the left a refrigerated deli case — an antique thing that hummed and clinked and dripped — was filled with smoked fish. There were sockeye salmon, ciscoes, lake and rainbow trout, whitefish and smelt, all whole, all golden, desiccated, and eyeless. On the right another glass case full of agate jewelry sat under canned lights. A counter spanned the two cases, and an antique cash register sat in the middle of it.
“How do?” a man said from behind the fish counter. Thin and long-fingered, he offered his hand. The two sides of his gray goatee were unevenly trimmed. “Rocks or fish?” he said as Noah shook his hand.
“Agates,” Noah said. “I’m looking for something for my wife.”
“Normally it’s my own wife who handles the rocks, but she’s visiting our daughter out in Portland.” He wiped his hands on a dirty apron as he circled behind the counter to the agate case. “I can help you, though. What’re you looking for? A nice necklace? Maybe a bracelet?”
The only piece of jewelry he’d ever bought Natalie was the half-carat diamond ring he’d given her when he proposed. “A necklace maybe. Something simple, not too gaudy.”
“What color eyes has she got?”
“Green-gray.”
“You like the green or the gray better?”
“The green, I guess.”
“Then you want a green agate.” He fumbled with the latch on the case. There were hundreds of pieces of agate jewelry on display, arranged without any regard for appearances. Gold-and silver-chained bracelets and necklaces lay heaped and tangled together, earrings and rings were dumped in ceramic bowls. There was even a tiara on a Styrofoam bust.
The first couple of necklaces he pulled out of the case had agates the size of Ping-Pong balls attached to thick gold chains. Noah asked if he had anything with a smaller agate, something on a silver chain perhaps. As he said it the absurdity of buying her an agate hit him. Just as he thought it, though, the man behind the counter pulled out a pearl-sized, emerald-green agate attached to a very thin, very pretty silver chain. “This one’s actually a real Superior agate,” he said, putting on a pair of glasses and reading from the little tag. “An Agate Beach agate. Not all of them are.” He winked.
“How much is it?”
He checked the tag again. “Says here thirty-five dollars.”
Noah would have paid ten times the amount. “I’ll take it,” he said. “And while you’re at it, how about a pound of that salmon over there?”
II. The Rag Is Burning
FIVE
It wasn’t until Noah got back to the house that he remembered the chain, and he might not have remembered it then if not for the padlock on the shed. The shake shingles and cedar siding that had been so inconspicuous at first — sitting under the overgrown trees, among the overgrown grass and bunchberry bushes — had taken on a new significance with the knowledge that the shack was doubling as his mother’s tomb.
The smoke coughing from the tin chimney on the house smelled wintry. It was a good smell, clean and faint. As it rose and dispersed into the flurries, Noah forgot about his mother’s ashes and felt an urge to hunker down and spend his afternoon with a big book — a book of myths or the biography of a king. The thought of bundling up and heading back to the gulch to finish with the oak seemed not only arduous but a waste of time. There was no way his father would live to burn a tenth of the wood that was already split and stacked around the house.
Inside, Noah kicked off his boots, set them on a braided rug beside the door, and hung his coat on a peg. He put the smoked fish in the refrigerator.
“He’s back,” Olaf said, setting a magazine on his lap.
“Hey. How are you doing?”
“Fine, fine.”
The fire was searing, he could tell, not only from the heat pouring out of the stove but from the faint whine and pinging of its cast-iron flanks. Noah took off his turtleneck and tossed it into the spare bedroom.
“Have any trouble with the truck?”
“No. But I forgot the chain. Sorry.”
“I’m going to need that chain. And soon.”
Noah sensed more than heard agitation in his father’s voice. “I can go back and get it.”
“Next time you’re in town. You’ve been there more in the last handful of days than I have in the last handful of months.”
Noah sat across from his father. “I talked to Solveig today. She’s going to come as soon as she can.”
“I asked you not to call her.”
“I can’t leave her in the dark even if you can. She’s worried about you and she loves you and she wants to help.”
“I guess that’s her prerogative. Though I don’t see why it’s necessary. She’s got a busy life.”
“We’ve all got busy lives.”
“I guess between your wife and your sister coming, we’ll just be a regular meeting place.”
“I guess we will.”
Olaf set the magazine he’d been reading on the coffee table and settled back into the sofa.
“What’s that?” Noah said.
“Magazine article Luke gave me. You remember Luke?”
“Your partner in survival. Who could forget Luke?”
“He’s a good man.” Olaf held the magazine up. “Anyway, it’s about shipwreck property. Can’t make the first bit of sense of it.”
“You thinking about diving for the booty left on the Rag?”
Olaf declared, “Rest assured of this, nobody’s ever salvaging the Rag. She’s too deep.”
“You know, I always wanted to hear the story from you. About the Rag, I mean.”
Olaf looked down into his coffee. “I wouldn’t know how to tell it.”
“Start in Two Harbors.”
“It’s a long story, Noah.”
“And we’re sitting in the middle of the woods. It’s snowing. We’ve got nowhere to go.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“It was snowing then, too,” Noah coaxed.
Olaf took a deep breath and looked squarely at Noah. “We took twelve tons of taconite,” he began. “It was the first mate’s job to oversee loading, but you knew that.”
Noah nodded.
“Well, it snowed like a son of a bitch, and before we could start with the hatch covers we had to shovel her clear. We got started, but before even one of them was clear, Jan called us off.”
“It was the fuel line, right?” Noah asked, knowing perfectly well that it was.
“On the trip up, we noticed a leak. It wasn’t too bad at a glance, and we managed to get from Toledo to Two Harbors without any trouble, but after we unloaded the coal and were refueling, the bilge started to fill with diesel. That’s when Jan got jittery.