I saw a lot of fires when I was a cop in Detroit. I was supposed to help secure the scene and then get the hell out of the way, but sometimes I’d stick around and watch the firefighters doing their work. I saw some real battles, but when they were done, the building would always still be standing. That was the thing that got to me. The windows would be blown out, and maybe there’d be a big hole in the roof, but the building would still be there.
Years later, I watched a Lake Superior storm taking down a boathouse. When the storm let up, there was nothing left but a concrete slab, covered with sand. It wasn’t surprising. Anyone who lives up here knows that water is stronger than fire. Water wins that one going away. But at least water cleans up after itself. It does the job all the way. When water destroys, it makes everything look new. It can even be beautiful.
Fire doesn’t do that. When a fire is done, what’s left is only half destroyed. It is charred and brittle. It is obscene. There is nothing so ugly in all the world as what a fire leaves behind, covered in ashes and smoke and a smell you’ll think about every day for the rest of your life.
That’s why I had to start rebuilding the cabin. Maybe I was fooling myself, but it was something I had to do. Even though the days were getting shorter. Even though the pine trees were bending in the cold October wind. No man in his right mind would have started rebuilding then. So of course I did.
I had already taken away most of the old wood, those logs that would have lasted another three hundred years if they hadn’t burned. I had hauled them away along with the pipes burned black and the bed frames twisted by the heat. There was nothing now but the stone foundation, stripped of the wooden floor, and the chimney, the last thing my father had made with his bare hands before he died. I knew that the snow would come, and it would cover the black stains on the ground, and the chimney would stand alone in the cold silence like a grave marker. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
The rebuilding didn’t start well. The man who said he’d be there on Monday with my white pine logs rolled up on Wednesday morning, acting like he had nothing to apologize for. He had one of those long flatbeds with the crane on it, with enough lifting power to set every last log down as gently as a tea cup. But it took him all morning to clear the truck, and he damn near knocked over the chimney in the process. Then he stood around for a while, trying to tell me about his own cabin down in Traverse City. “The cabins I passed on the way in,” he finally said. “You built those?”
“My father did.”
“Looks like you had a big one here,” he said. He hitched his pants up as he looked around the clearing. “What happened, did it burn down?”
“It did.”
“Hell of a thing,” he said. “You gotta be careful with those wood stoves.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Looks like you learned the hard way.”
I let a few seconds tick by. “It wasn’t a wood stove,” I finally said. “Somebody burned it down.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“This gentleman and I, we had a little disagreement.”
It took a moment for that one to sink in. “Are you shittin’ me, man? You gotta be shittin’ me.”
“You don’t have to believe it.”
“I suppose you’re gonna rebuild this all by yourself, too.”
“I’m gonna try.”
“Seriously, where’s all your help at?”
“If I need help, I’ll get it.”
“It’s October,” he said. “You’re not thinking of starting this now, are you?”
“I’d have to be crazy, you mean.”
“Is what I’m saying, yeah. Unless you’re just shittin’ me some more.”
“Well, I appreciate your concern,” I said. “And I appreciate you bringing up my logs. You were only two days late. Have a good trip back home.”
He was still shaking his head as he drove away. I listened to the distant sound of his truck as he rumbled onto the main road and headed south. When he was gone, there was nothing left to hear but a steady wind coming off the lake.
“Well, Pops,” I said to the wind, “let’s see if I remember how to do this.”
*********
This was the cabin he had built in the summers of ’80 and ’81. I helped him for a few weeks in that second year. I was already out of baseball and working as a police officer in Detroit, and this was my last attempt to make peace with him. The days were hot. I remember that. And as I helped him peel and scribe the logs, it brought back yet another summer, back in 1968, the first time I had ever been up here in Paradise, Michigan. I was only seventeen then, with one more year of school ahead of me before heading off to single A ball in Sarasota. He wante
d me to go to college, but I had my own ideas. Thirteen years later, he finished this cabin, his biggest and best. His masterpiece. Six months after that he was dead.
The cabin may have burned to the ground, but at least we had those summers.
Twenty years later, on a cold October day, I started all over again. I cut the sill logs first, the logs that would run along the bottom of each wall, then secured them to the foundation with J-bolts. I cut a groove along the outside edge with the chain saw, just like he had taught me. When it rained, the water would collect in the groove and drip away instead of running down the foundation. Then I cut the grooves for the floor joists. I put rough plywood down for the time being – I’d put the nice hardwood floor boards down when the outside was finished.
That was the first day.
When the light was gone, I went down to the Glasgow Inn for dinner. My friend Jackie owns the place. If you ever find yourself in Paradise, just go to the one blinking light in the center of town, then go north another hundred yards or so. It’ll be there on the right. When you step into the place, you won’t see a typical American bar – there are no mirrors to stare into while you drink, no smoky dark corners to nurse a bad mood in. The chairs are comfortable, there’s a fire going in the hearth every night, regardless of the weather, and there’s a man there named Jackie Connery who looks like an old Scottish golf caddie. If you ask him the right way, Jackie will even risk his liquor license and give you a cold Canadian beer.
I take that last part back. Those Canadian beers are just for me.
*********
I felt like hell the next morning. My hands were sore, my arms were sore, my legs were sore, and my back was sore. Aside from that I was fine.
I had my coffee and looked up at the dark clouds. Rain was the last thing I needed, because today was the day I’d start building the walls.
I scribed each log the way my father had done. I did most of the heavy cutting with the chain saw, stopping every half-hour to sharpen it. I used an ax to cut the notches, keeping both hands together as I swung it, like a baseball bat. That much he didn’t have to teach me. You can’t be accurate with your hands apart.
Of course, cutting the scarf just right is the hard part. Or as the old man liked to say, this is where you separated the men from the boys. The idea is to cut it so perfectly that one log will rest on top of the other with no daylight in between. If you do it right, you don’t need any chinking. If you don’t do it right, then God help you. You’ve got no business building a cabin in the first place.
The first log I tried cutting that morning, I didn’t get right. The second log was worse. The third log you could have put in a carnival and charged people five dollars a head to come laugh at it.
The wind picked up. It looked like rain was coming. I kept working. I was halfway through the fourth log when the hornets attacked me.
The nest was hanging from one of the birch trees. They had already been smoked out the night of the fire, the nest partially caved in by the spray of the fire hoses. They were trying to rebuild, just like I was, but they had run out of time. Now half-crazed by the cold weather, most of them near the end of their natural lives, they saw me moving around below them, rattling around with my chain saw. They decided to go down fighting.
I slapped two off the back of my neck, another off my arm. “Crazy fucking things! Get away from me!” The next one caught me right on the cheek and that was it for me. The day was already going bad enough.
I had my extension ladder there, figuring I’d need it eventually, so I braced it up against the birch tree and climbed
up with my ax. I was just about to swing at the branch. I was going to take the whole thing down with one good whack, and then I was going to soak the nest with gasoline and set it on fire. Knowing me, I would have emptied the can. A full two gallons of gasoline and then I would have thrown a lit match right in the middle of it. All the leaves on the ground would have gone up at once and I’d be running around with my pants on fire and both eyebrows singed right off my face.
I stopped myself just in time.
I took a deep breath and climbed back down the ladder. I dropped the ax.
It wasn’t worth it. Watching the nest burn, sending the rest of those hornets to hell. They’d all be dead in another week, anyway.
It was a lesson I had taken most of my life to learn. Sometimes you have to let things go.
The rain came. The dark clouds stayed in the sky. I went back to work.
I had come back up here in 1987. My marriage was over and I was off the police force, with a dead partner in the ground and a bullet in my chest. I came up here intending to sell off the land and the six cabins my father had built, but I didn’t do it. Somehow the Upper Peninsula was just what I needed. It was cold and unforgiving, even in the heart of summer. There was a terrible beauty to the place, and I could be alone up here in a part of the world where being alone was the rule and not the exception. I moved into the first cabin, the cabin I had helped him build myself, back when I was seventeen years old. I stayed up here and lived day to day and never thought I’d have to face my past again.
That didn’t work. It never does.
Hours after I called it a day, I could still feel the buzz of the chain saw in my hands. There was a deep ache in my shoulder, right where they had taken the other two bullets out.
“What was it this time?” Jackie said. He slid a cold Canadian my way.
He was talking about my face, of course. There was a nice little swollen knot under my eye. Whenever something goes wrong, I end up wearing it on my face.
“Hornets,” I said.
“How’s the cabin going?”
“It’s a little slow.”
He nodded his head. He didn’t say a word about how late it was in the season, or how much of a fool I was. Jackie understood why I needed to do this.
“You know who could help you,” he said.
I knew. I took a long pull off the bottle and then set it back down on the bar. “I’ve got to get some sleep,” I said. Then I left.
I was just as sore the next morning, but somehow everything felt different. It was all coming back to me, the way you let the chain saw and the ax do the work, the way you work with the grain of the log instead of fighting against it. The logs starting fitting together the way t
hey were supposed to. I had the walls two logs high by lunchtime. Of course that meant it was getting harder and harder to wrestle the logs into position. I’d have to start using the ramps soon, and eventually I’d have to set up some kind of sky line. That would slow me down.
Hell, maybe Jackie was right. There was one man who could really help me. But I’d be damned if I was going to go ask him.
*********
My father bought all the land on both sides of this old logging road, nearly a hundred acres in all. He built the six cabins and lived in each one of them off and on over the years, renting out the others to tourists in the summer, hunters in the fall, and snowmobilers in the winter. When I came up here and moved into the first cabin, I kept renting out the rest of them. It was a good way to stay busy without having to go anywhere.
A few
years after I moved in, somebody bought the couple of acres between my father’s land and the main road. I was a little worried about what the new owner might do to that land. I had visions of a triple-decker summer home, with every tree knocked down so they could maybe get a view of the lake. But it didn’t happen that way. It was one man, and I watched him build his own cabin by hand. If my father had been around to see it, he would have approved of this man’s work.
I got to know him eventually. You don’t live on the same road up here with one other person without running into each other. I’d plow the road for him. He’d give me some of the venison from his hunts. He didn’t drink, so we never did that together, but we did share an adventure or two. I even played in goal one night for his hockey team. The fact that he was an Ojibwa Indian never got in the way of our friendship.
Until one day he had to make a choice.
I didn’t hear his truck pull up. With the chain saw roaring away, I wouldn’t have heard a tank battalion. I happened to glance at the road and saw his truck parked there. Vinnie Red Sky LeBlanc was standing next to it, watching me. He was wearing his denim jacket with the fur around the collar. I had no idea how long he’d been there.
I shut the chain saw down and wiped my forehead with my sleeve.
“You’re gonna go deaf,” he said. “Where’s your ear protection?”
“I left them around here someplace. Just can’t find them.”
He shook his head at that, then walked right past me to the stacks of logs. Like many Bay Mills Ojibwa, you had to look twice to see the Indian in him. There was a little extra width to his high cheekbones, and a certain calmness in his eyes when he looked at you. You always got the feeling he was thinking carefully about what to say before he said it.
“White pine,” he said.
“Of course.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Place down near Traverse City.”
“I thought I saw a truck going by,” he said. “That was what, Wednesday?”
“He was supposed to be here Monday.”
“Couple of these logs I wouldn’t use on a doghouse,” he said. “Like this one right here.”
“I know. I was gonna put that one aside.”
He slipped his hands under the log and lifted it. He was maybe three inches shorter than me, and thirty pounds lighter, but I wouldn’t have wanted to fight the man, on the ice or off. He carried the log a few steps and tossed it in the brush.
“That’ll be your waste pile,” he said. “I see another one right down here.”
“You don’t have to do that, Vinnie. I know which ones are bad.”
He went over to the cabin, knelt down, and ran his hand along one of the logs. “You know which ones are bad,” he said, “and yet this one right here seems to be part of your wall already.”
“When
did you become the county inspector?” I said. “I didn’t see it in the newspaper.”
He let that one go. “Can I ask why you’re doing this by yourself?”
“My father did it by himself.”
“Did he start building in October?”
“I know I’m not going to finish it,” I said. “I just had to start. I couldn’t wait until spring.”
He smiled at me as he stood up. “Patience was never your strong suit.”
“Vinnie, you always loved this cabin. You told me once you’d buy it off me for a million dollars. You remember?”
“I do,” he said. “This was the best cabin I’ve ever seen.”
“Put yourself in my place,” I said. “If somebody burned this down, what would you do?”
“First of all, I’d kill whoever did it.” He thought about it for a moment. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” I said.
“But he’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. The next thing I’d do is rebuild the thing, as close as I could to the original.”
“Exactly.”
“But I wouldn’t do it alone,” he said. “Not with a friend down the road who knows twice as much about building cabins as I do.”
“Excuse me, twice as much? Since when?”
“Make that three times as much. I was trying to be kind.”
“Yeah, well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
“You’ll never even get to the roof,” he said. “You want the snow to pile up in here all winter?”
“What are you saying? You really want to help me?”
“Your father’s spirit sent me,” he said. “He knows what this thing would look like if you did it yourself.”
“Ah, Indian humor,” I said. “I’ve really been missing that.”
“Let me go get my stuff,” he said. “I’ll see if I have an extra pair of earphones, too.”
“Y
eah, get me those earphones,” I said. “I have a feeling I’ll be needing them now.”
That’s how I got my help. That’s how we started being friends again.
We worked until the sun went down. I offered to buy him dinner at the Glasgow, but he took a pass. He said he was going over to the reservation to see his mother. The next morning, he was on the site before I was. He was spot-peeling logs with his drawknife.
“Let me ask you something,” I said when I pulled up. “Aren’t you supposed to be out in the woods this month?” Vinnie’s regular job was dealing blackjack over at the Bay Mills casino, but every fall he’d make extra money working as a guide for hunters.
“I’d rather be doing this,” he said.
“And your day job?” I said. “You’re still dealing, right?”
“I asked for some time off.”
“Vinnie, you don’t have to do this.”
“I needed a break anyway, Alex. Okay? Don’t worry about it. Just help me peel these things.”
“Those are already peeled, Vinnie.”
“By what, a machine? Here, let me show you the right way to do it.”
Somehow, I managed not to kill him that day. When we got to work, we found a good rhythm and added three more rows to the walls. We didn’t talk much about anything except what log came next, and where it should go. There was not a word said about what had happened between us.
When we had run out of daylight, I invited him to have dinner at the Glasgow again. He seemed to hesitate for a second before saying yes. “If you’ve got a hot date or something, just tell me,” I said. “I won’t be offended.”
“I’ve been over on the rez a lot lately,” he said. “They can do without me for one night.”
Ther
e was a whole story behind that one – Vinnie moving off the Bay Mills reservation and buying his own land. I knew it didn’t sit well with the rest of his family, even though he made a point of spending most of his free time there.
“Come on,” I said, “I’ll buy you a steak.”
Jackie did a double-take when we walked into the Glasgow together. “Well, look at this,” he said.
“Two steaks,” I said. “Medium rare. You know the rest.”
“Good evening to you, too,” he said. “I’m just fine, thanks for asking.” If he was genuinely mad at me, it didn’t stop him from opening a cold Canadian and sliding it my way.
“It’s good to see you,” Vinnie said. “It’s been a while.”
“Don’t tell me,” Jackie said. “You’re showing Alex how to build his cabin. Am I right?”
“It was too painful to watch,” Vinnie said. “I had to step in.”
“You guys are hilarious,” I said. “Just keep it up.”
That’s the way it went, on a cold October night. It had been another cold night, not that long ago, when the woman had come to me. She was an Ojibwa, someone Vinnie knew, someone he had grown up with on the reservation. She was in trouble and I did what I could to help her. In the end, Vinnie was involved and that’s when he had to make his choice – whether to trust me or his own people. I had no good reason to blame him, but the choice hurt me just the same. And it had stayed there between us ever since.
Until this night. We sat by the fire and talked about the cabin and what we would work on the next day. We pretended that nothing had ever changed. Maybe that’s how you get past it. You pretend until it’s real.
He was there to help me the next day, the day after that, and then the next. I bought him dinner every night. Hell, it was the least I could do. We were putting those walls up so fast, we actually had a shot at getting the roof on before it snowed. That’s what I thought, anyway. And then, of course, it did snow. It wasn’t much, just a few flurries overnight that turned to rain in the morning, but it was enough to knock us out of the game for the rest of the day. Vinnie ran off to do something on the rez, and I checked on the renters in the other cabins. It was bow season in Michigan, so I had all the usual men from downstate, the men who appreciated the fact that my l
and was right next to the state land, and that I’d leave them a cord of firewood outside their door and otherwise leave them alone. Bow season was easy, because bow hunters are the true gentlemen of the sport. They don’t make a racket, and they keep the cabins clean. Firearm hunters were usually okay, although I’d still get my share of drunken clowns.
Snowmobilers, of course, were the worst of all. Just one more reason to dread the winter, and to hope like hell that the snow wasn’t coming for good.
It wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. The next morning, the sun came out and melted away the thin traces of snow on the ground. When I got to the cabin site, I was surprised to see he wasn’t there yet. An hour later, I started wondering. I was doing as much of the work as I could on my own, but it was getting harder and harder to set the logs. Without Vinnie to help me, I’d have to set up the sky line. Of course I wasn’t even paying him, so what right did I have to complain?
By lunchtime, I thought I’d head down the road and check on him. His truck was gone. I couldn’t help but think of another day, when I had sat in this exact same spot, looking at his empty driveway, wondering where he was. It turned out he had spent the night in jail, having taken a hockey stick to the face of a Sault Ste. Marie police officer. That was the beginning of a very bad week.
Good God, Vinnie, I said to myself. I hope to hell you weren’t out finding trouble last night.
I went down to the Glasgow for some of Jackie’s beef stew and a Canadian. “Where’s your man?” Jackie said as he served me.
“You got me. He didn’t show up today.”
He gave me a look. “Whattsa matter, trouble in Paradise?”
“No trouble. I just don’t know where he is.”
“Last time you ended up in the hospital.”
“Jackie, he’s been helping me all week, okay? Don’t you think he deserves a day off?”
“If that’s all it is, fine,” he said. “I’m just saying, the last time Vinnie got in trouble, you’re the one who ended up almost getting killed.”
“Okay, I hear you.”
“Okay, then.”
“Okay.”
Vinnie walked in just then and saved us. He came to the bar and sat down next to me.
“Give the man some beef stew,” I said.
“No thanks,” he said. That’s when I knew something was wrong. If you have any appetite at all, you don’t turn down Jackie’s beef stew.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around today. Something sort of came up.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “Hell, it’s not like I’m paying you anything.”
Vinnie thought about it. “You realize,” he said, “that I’m the one paying you. For what happened. This is how I’m settling my debt to you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said. “We’ve been through this, remember?”
I sure as hell didn’t want to go through it again. Not when we both seemed to be finally getting over it.
“I remember,” he said. “But still…”
“For God’s sake,” I said, “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
He sat there for a long moment, while Jackie looked back and forth between us, clearly expecting the worst.
“It’s Tom,” he finally said.
“Your brother.”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t know a hell of a lot about Tom LeBlanc. I knew he was a few years younger than Vinnie, and that he had caused his family enough trouble to make Vinnie look like the golden boy. There was one incident at the Canadian border that Vinnie never wanted to talk about – I had to read about it in the Soo Evening News. That was the last time I had seen Tom, in fact – right before had gone off to serve his two years at Kincheloe.
“What’s the problem?” I said. I knew he was out on parole now, and saying all the right things about staying straight. But hell, if was in trouble again, it wouldn’t exactly shock me.
“He was on a hunting trip in Ontario. He was supposed to be back a couple of days ago.”
“And he didn’t make it back?”
“No.”
“You don’t think…”
“What, that he’s passed out in some bar in Canada? Is that what you mean?”
“Vinnie, come on.”
“It’s different this time, Alex.”
Here it comes, I thought. He’s been going to the meetings, he’s a changed man. The whole speech. That’s what I expected.
That’s not what I got.
“This time,” Vinnie said, “he’s me.”
Excerpted from Blood is the Sky by Steve Hamilton. Copyright © 2003 by Steve Hamilton.
