is to lie to someone I love. And until Harry himself vanished up the river last month, I never knew what it was to let go of something I didn’t think I ever could. And because I’m an honest woman, I can say his disappearance hasn’t brought me one iota closer to understanding Rebekah Grimm. If anything, his vanishing and the stories it has provoked in his son have made her even more of an enigma.
—
I can’t say standing up in that same window these days has lent any clarity, either. And there have been a few such days lately, now that we’re set to begin work on the historical society, a project made possible because Gus’s sister donated the apothecary to the municipality of Gunflint, population 1,201.
It’s been a strange string of ownership for this place. Strange and tangled, as so many things are. The apothecary was sold to Lisbet when Rebekah moved to the Lutheran Home back in the spring of 1963. By any definition it was a slap in Harry’s face that a place he so deplored was suddenly his property. Even if it was only his property until he and Lisbet divorced less than two years later.
Not long after the divorce, Lisbet moved back to Chicago. By then I had moved into a rented house up on Eighth Avenue and on my walks through town I would often pause and stare up at the old apothecary. For years afterward it loomed over the town like some stately and remnant white pine. Paint peeled from the siding. Weeds overtook the lawn. The porch swing fell from its chains. Every five years the plywood over the windows was replaced by Harry or Gus. They must have felt they owed it to the townsfolk to keep what was in there hidden away. And then Signe, putting her estate in order, wiped her hands free of the place, with not a single condition to her donation. She only wanted out from under it. So now it has another chance to become a part of the fabric of life in Gunflint.
Bonnie Hanrahan and Lenora Lemay talked me into helping to curate the historical society, and certainly we’ll do our best. Though to be honest I took their coaxing as a compliment and agreed without needing to think it over for even a second. Perhaps I should have. I’ve been back a few times by now and always feel a kind of presence in here. Please don’t think me a quack. I’m no Gnostic and don’t believe in sixth senses. Still and all, my memories have been especially piqued when I’ve stood up there in the apartment looking out that old pane of glass.
On the last occasion I got thinking that perhaps Rebekah was long past waiting. Maybe she’d spent her time in that high window wanting to jump through it. This thought put a chill right down my spine and left me feeling heartbroken for days. Because, for all of her coldness and eccentricity, I was actually very fond of her. I might even say I loved her.
There were moments when her guard went down, when she entered a room or a conversation as if she’d been delivered into another life that wasn’t smothered by personal history. It’s true those moments were infrequent, but suddenly she could be witty or blithe, even warm. Sometimes they’d come at the breakfast table. She’d recall a scene from the story I read her the night before and she’d laugh. Or maybe it was a story she heard on WTIP that led her to questions.
Does this new desegregation law mean the Norwegians and Swedes up here will be forced to walk the same road to school? Eight cents to send a letter? I’d better capture a hawk when they fly through this fall.
On the rare instance when she sold a hat, she was moved to something like giddiness. The tone of her voice would change. The tension around her eyes and lips would release and she could smile like a woman thirty years younger. Those moods might last a minute or an hour, but she was lovely then.
I’ve not thought often enough about those happy times, though I found myself reminiscing when last I was up on the third floor. It felt good—quite good—to recall the
—
I can’t say standing up in that same window these days has lent any clarity, either. And there have been a few such days lately, now that we’re set to begin work on the historical society, a project made possible because Gus’s sister donated the apothecary to the municipality of Gunflint, population 1,201.
It’s been a strange string of ownership for this place. Strange and tangled, as so many things are. The apothecary was sold to Lisbet when Rebekah moved to the Lutheran Home back in the spring of 1963. By any definition it was a slap in Harry’s face that a place he so deplored was suddenly his property. Even if it was only his property until he and Lisbet divorced less than two years later.
Not long after the divorce, Lisbet moved back to Chicago. By then I had moved into a rented house up on Eighth Avenue and on my walks through town I would often pause and stare up at the old apothecary. For years afterward it loomed over the town like some stately and remnant white pine. Paint peeled from the siding. Weeds overtook the lawn. The porch swing fell from its chains. Every five years the plywood over the windows was replaced by Harry or Gus. They must have felt they owed it to the townsfolk to keep what was in there hidden away. And then Signe, putting her estate in order, wiped her hands free of the place, with not a single condition to her donation. She only wanted out from under it. So now it has another chance to become a part of the fabric of life in Gunflint.
Bonnie Hanrahan and Lenora Lemay talked me into helping to curate the historical society, and certainly we’ll do our best. Though to be honest I took their coaxing as a compliment and agreed without needing to think it over for even a second. Perhaps I should have. I’ve been back a few times by now and always feel a kind of presence in here. Please don’t think me a quack. I’m no Gnostic and don’t believe in sixth senses. Still and all, my memories have been especially piqued when I’ve stood up there in the apartment looking out that old pane of glass.
On the last occasion I got thinking that perhaps Rebekah was long past waiting. Maybe she’d spent her time in that high window wanting to jump through it. This thought put a chill right down my spine and left me feeling heartbroken for days. Because, for all of her coldness and eccentricity, I was actually very fond of her. I might even say I loved her.
There were moments when her guard went down, when she entered a room or a conversation as if she’d been delivered into another life that wasn’t smothered by personal history. It’s true those moments were infrequent, but suddenly she could be witty or blithe, even warm. Sometimes they’d come at the breakfast table. She’d recall a scene from the story I read her the night before and she’d laugh. Or maybe it was a story she heard on WTIP that led her to questions.
Does this new desegregation law mean the Norwegians and Swedes up here will be forced to walk the same road to school? Eight cents to send a letter? I’d better capture a hawk when they fly through this fall.
On the rare instance when she sold a hat, she was moved to something like giddiness. The tone of her voice would change. The tension around her eyes and lips would release and she could smile like a woman thirty years younger. Those moods might last a minute or an hour, but she was lovely then.
I’ve not thought often enough about those happy times, though I found myself reminiscing when last I was up on the third floor. It felt good—quite good—to recall the
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