The High Divide by Lin Enger Read Free Book Online

asked.
    â€œThat might be so.”
    â€œYou could have stopped them, talked to them, asked them where they were going,” she said, knowing he would have done no such a thing.
    The old man shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders.
    At home Gretta thought to look in the chifforobe, and when she found her husband’s rifle missing, also his winter coat and hat, she realized there was no choice but to go looking—and that meant a trip to St. Paul, where Ulysses still had a sister living, and a brother-in-law. Or did as recently as a two years ago, when they’d last heard from them at Christmastime. In July Gretta had written to Florence, asking if she’d seen Ulysses, but so far had heard nothing back.
    Panic twisted in Gretta’s stomach, and she sat down at the dining-room table to calm herself, making fists to keep her fingers from shaking. Her lungs had risen into her throat, and though she needed air, she couldn’t seem to take any more in.
    â€œThink!” she said aloud, then pushed away from the table, went into the kitchen, and drew a tall glass of cold water from the pump and forced herself to drink it all down. She took a breath and blew it out. At the China hutch she took out the silver candlestick-holders her mother had received as a wedding gift, and she set them on the table. They were fashioned in a plain, heavy style, and whenever Gretta polished them—at Christmas and Easter—their weight in her hands summoned to mind her mother’s silvery blonde hair, always pulled back in a tight bun on holidays, and her father’s eyes, which even at family gatherings seemed to search out windows and doors, a route of escape. There were other things, too, that she could sell—her lace handkerchiefs, the blue pitcher painted in the royal Danish pattern, her grandfather’s brass letter opener. The local undertaker, Burlingame, had a pawn exchange at the alley entrance to his store, and though Gretta had never sold him anything, she’d heard that he was more generous now that a new funeral man had set up shop in the town five miles east. She gathered her things on the table and wrapped each up in dishtowels, then put on her best coat and regarded herself in the mirror that hung in the front room. With the panic rising in her belly it was hard to stand up straight, but that’s what she did—pushed her shoulders back and stepped up close to examine her face. She brought her lips together in a line and pushed the bottom one out in a way that suggested confidence. She studied her brow, which was neither too thin nor too thick, and then her nose, which she had often been told was well formed. She collected a fallen lock from her forehead, tucked it behind an ear, and took a step back for a full view. Her black wool coat was smooth, with no obvious creases or wrinkles, and tailored well to her shape. Her hands looked chapped, though, and so she went to her room for the balm that Ulysses used on his fingers in the winter.
    She was sitting on the edge of her bed when a knock at the door brought her to her feet. She dried her hands on the bedspread, moved quickly across the house, and opened the door a crack, blocking it with the toe of her shoe. Mead Fogarty stood on the front stoop with his derby hat in his chubby hands.
    â€œI hear that your sons are missing,” he said. “I might be in a position to help you.”
    Gretta pulled back. The man wanted his money, that was all—unless he’d come to observe her pain, and to gloat.
    â€œLet me inside, please.”
    With no other choice, Gretta withdrew her toe from the door. Fogarty pushed forward, snagging the shoulder of his jacket on a nail jutting from the doorframe.
    â€œDamn it!” he said.
    â€œWhat do you know about my boys?” Gretta asked him.
    He gave his chin a careless toss. “They’ve gone in search of their father, I imagine.”
    â€œHave you seen