Backwater (18 page)

I also got an excellent boyfriend who was smiling at me now.

Jack had just walked in the door, and believe me when I tell you, if there was ever a reason to cross an icy ledge in the middle of winter, that reason was standing there in the hallway looking up at the balloons.

The blessings of those who pursue history are many.

Jo was ready to go home, but she still wasn’t strong enough to rebuild her cabin by herself.

An argument began at this point between Dad, Archie, and Josephine.

Dad said Josephine needed the family to help her rebuild.

“Dan,” Archie sneered, “have you ever
built
a log cabin?”

Dad announced that the essence of a meaningful life was attempting new, challenging things.

Jo said forget it, it was her cabin. She would rebuild it when it was time.

But lawyers like to win. Dad faced down Josephine like she was a defendant in court. “Josephine, I want to be very clear about this. If I need to get used to your ways of being, you need to get used to mine. That’s compromise.”

“We will help you build your cabin,” Archie insisted, “and you’d bloody well better say yes.”

“Yes,” said Jo, throwing up her hands, laughing.

So in early April Dad hired two loggers to cart away
the fallen trees near the cabin and to bring up the supplies we would need to rebuild. A few weeks later Archie, Dad, myself, Egan, and four cousins showed up during my spring vacation.

Jack came to help, too. He led us up the mountain.

Newness was breaking out everywhere in the woods. Tree leaves were sprouting, birds were courting and building nests, ferns poked up from the ground, moss grew on trails, the smell of pine seemed fresher. The lake that saved me and Jo had a few chunks of ice floating on top of the deep blue water. I liked seeing it that way.

We didn’t work well together in the beginning, log cabins and Breedloves being what they are. The basic problem was that Dad and Archie weren’t in charge (Jo was) and they kept competing over whose side of the cabin was better (Dad’s was—he took more time). Hammering and sawing aren’t natural gifts of mine, but doing them with Jack shielded the blows—and from the look of my black-and-blue thumb, the blows were many. Jo’s hermit needs kept coming out; her face would get cloudy, her body would get stiff, and she’d walk into the woods alone to pull herself together.

It was a tough week—the men slept in tents; Jo and I bunked in the chapel. It was so sad seeing the loss of so many of Jo’s treasures, but she kept saying she was glad to be alive. She would replace what she needed over time.

Halfway through the week, a ranger brought Malachi up to Backwater. That wolf was so happy to be home that he ran toward Jo and almost knocked her down.

The men grunted and groaned like men do when they’re building things that last.

The birds circled overhead, but were frightened away by the noise and the shouting. Only a few stayed to watch at first, but the numbers grew as the cabin took shape.

I stood on the roof and put the last of the shingles on as dozens of birds fluttered above.

That’s when my personal chickadee swept in for a free meal. I had seed in my pocket, too, and I stood there on the roof like a wilderness woman, held my hand out without swallowing, and gave that bird his lunch.

Remember me this way.

Everyone was impressed.

The cabin was finished in late April.

Some of Jo’s carvings had been saved in the rubble, but I sensed the best ones were yet to come. Jo put them around the house, over the repaired mantel, and we saw Dad’s face open in wonder at the statue of himself as a boy going fishing.

That’s when Jo threw him a fishing pole and pointed him down the trail.

He took the rod like a purposeful lawyer and came back a gentler man. Jack said lake trout can do that.

It seemed right being here, and it seemed just as right when we left. We held hands in the chapel and bowed our heads in silence as the birds watched us from their ledge. Josephine looked relieved when we hugged her and marched down the mountain. She could finally be herself. Alone.

But there were Breedlove whispers everywhere in Backwater now.

Not the kind that divided, the kind that brought hope.

That’s what keeps people connected and trying and pushing past fears to make things better, even in the darkest moments.

You can’t pursue history without finding hope.

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Books by

JOAN BAUER

Backwater

Best Foot Forward

Hope Was Here

Rules of the Road

Squashed

Stand Tall

Sticks

Thwonk