Free The High Divide by Lin Enger Page A

in which her husband came strolling up the street in front of their house, his hair cleanly barbered and beard trimmed, wearing a starched white shirt that smelled of soap. He walked up to where she stood in the yard, his eyes sparkling like river stones, and said, “It looks like you made out fine without me.” But Gretta couldn’t sleep again. She was thinking of the day he left and the strange feeling she had that night as she sat down with her boys for a late supper, the urgency in Eli’s face, the flat resignation on Danny’s. “What’s keeping him?” she’d asked, trying to keep control of her voice, in answer to which Danny said, “He won’t be coming back, and you know it,” his words so true to what she feared that she reached across the table and slapped his cheek. Gretta did not slap her children. Danny had pushed his plate of food away and blinked, accepting the offense as nothing compared to the cause of it. Then came that long, terrible night, waiting in front of the fireplace for hours before finally going to sleep on the floor, all three of them together. At first light she’d woken to find both boys gone—same as she would six weeks later. She ran outside and started for town, her stomach loose and bowels threatening, but hadn’t gone a block before she met them coming back toward her, Eli carrying his brother, who was shaking his head, flailing his arms, trying to break free. “No,” Danny was crying, “I want to go too, I want to go too.”
    Eli had always taken care of Danny like that, anticipating his spells, doing his chores, standing up for him when other boys pushed him around. Yesterday, though, during her panicked search through town and then her ride out to the river with Fogarty, Gretta had failed to see what she could see now in the clarity following the hard sleep of dreams: Eli, whose instinct was to ease his brother’s passage through the world, would never have taken him along on his search for Ulysses. Never. He wouldn’t risk Danny’s health in that way. Which meant, Gretta realized, that Ulysses must have come back for the boys, either that or he’d sent for them. It was the only explanation that made any sense. The problem was, it forced Gretta to look at something else, too, something she hadn’t been willing to confront, at least nakedly and straight on—the likelihood of another woman. Why else would Ulysses have failed to write even a single letter home or send a telegram to explain his absence? And why else would he have taken with him the beautifully beaded tobacco pouch, which he’d claimed was a gift from a fellow trooper in the Minnesota Ninth, a man from the Chippewa tribe? Wasn’t it an odd gift for a man to give another man? Of course it was, and Gretta knew it was high time she accept what might well be the truth: that after stealing her love and her trust—as worthless as they must have seemed to him—and trampling them under his boots, now Ulysses must want their sons, too.
    Behind her the door latch rattled, and she turned to see a lantern-bearing porter striding to the middle of the car where he stood with his chest thrown forward and chin lifted. “The conductor wishes to inform you that we will be laying over here for three hours, due to unforeseen mechanical problems.”
    From several rows ahead, a man shouted, “The damn engine quit again?”
    â€œEverything is under control. Stretch your legs, if you like. The depot’s open, and the station manager has coffee and tea.” He clapped his boots together and continued on to the next car.
    The old woman across from Gretta shook her head, snorted, and turned aside to sleep. Gretta stood and looped her handbag over her shoulder. Outside, the air was still and she drew the collar of her sweater high against the chill. She needed to think, and the motion of walking, especially at night,