Chapter 14
Beneath the cloudy morning sky, Leif split oak logs in his backyard. He hadn’t returned to the party at the Propeller. He was in a foul mood and furious with Inger for tampering with the dinghy.
Inger rounded the corner of the house. He set one of the logs on the chopping block, raised the axe over his shoulder, and swung it down with such force that he split the log with a single blow. She was the last person he wanted to see.
“Morning,” he mumbled. Inger had dark smudges beneath her eyes and looked green around the gills.
“Nothing good about it.” She cradled her head in her hands. “I’ll never drink aquavit again.”
He kept splitting logs.
“For Loki’s sake,” she sighed. “Would you stop taking your aggression out on that wood and look at me.”
He leaned the axe against the stump.
She frowned. “The party wasn’t the same without you.”
“Be glad I stayed away,” he said.
“Whatever. How’s the tourist?”
“She’s fine, no thanks to you.” He set another log on the stump.
“What did you tell her?”
“Don’t worry, I covered for you, though I’m not even sure why. Then I listened. You should try it sometime.” He scowled at Inger, split the log, and tossed the pieces onto the growing pile of firewood. “Why are you here?”
“Erik is passed out on his dock, and I need help putting him to bed. I would’ve asked Axel, but he’s also in pretty bad shape.” She lit a cigarillo and puffed on it.
“Right.” In the month of June, when Erik drank enough to put King Odin of Asgard under the table, Inger often took it upon herself to clean up after him. She loved her uncle with a fierceness she reserved for family. Leif buried the axe in the stump. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he nodded.
· · ·
By the time they reached Odden Island, Erik was no longer on his dock. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the ground, and Leif squinted at Erik’s cottage, then into the water. He picked up the empty bottle. Please, Njord, let Erik be asleep in bed.
“I should have tied him up with a rope,” Inger said and stepped on her cigarillo butt. “One day he’s going to stumble off the dock, hit his head on the rocks, and sink.”
“Stop it.” Leif’s gut twisted at the gruesome mental image of Erik’s body washed up on the rocks, lacerated and blue.
Inside the cottage, the smell of bacon grease and cigar smoke hung in the stale air. Loud snoring came from the rear of the house, and Leif and Inger exchanged relieved looks.
In the hallway, Erik lay on a wool runner, wearing only a pair of snug gray briefs.
“Leave him, I’ve seen enough already.” Inger covered her eyes with her hand.
“We can’t leave him! Not like this.” Leif gripped Erik’s arm and lifted him to his feet. “Come on, old man, let’s get you to bed.”
“I’ll get him some water,” Inger said.
Leif guided Erik as he moaned and stumbled his way to the bedroom at the end of the hall. He squinted at Leif and sobbed. “It should’ve been me!”
“What?” Leif said, and tightened his grip on Erik, who swayed on his feet.
“I could’ve prevented it,” Erik slurred.
“Here we go again. Oh, what a joy June is!” Leif chuckled at his own sarcasm and then gnashed his teeth, barely managing to keep a hold on his patience.
Drunk or sober, Erik put up walls. The two men were like father and son, and just like many sons before him, Leif felt he’d never really known the older man at all.
“She was swept out to sea!” Erik let out another sob.
“Who?” Leif asked. He sat Erik on the bed and lifted his legs up onto the mattress.
Erik ignored the question. He curled his body into a fetal position, clutched his stomach, and let out a moan.
“Shh, it’s OK. Everything’s going to be fine.” Leif gathered up the duvet heaped at the end of Erik’s bed, shook it out, and draped it over him.
Erik grasped Leif’s forearm. “Bjorn. Stay with me.”
Leif flinched. Never had Erik mistaken him for his father, although the local folk insisted that Leif was the spitting image of Bjorn.
As Leif pried himself away from Erik’s grip, he felt a familiar twinge of despair, knowing his father was responsible for that tragedy.
The last thing Leif wanted was for Erik to look at him and see Bjorn’s face.
“Sleep it off,” Inger said soothingly as she placed a glass of water on Erik’s bedside table.
“Get out!” Erik punched at the stale, boozy air.
“Love you too, Uncle Erik.” Inger blew him a kiss.
“No one loves me, it’s all my fault!” Erik cried into his pillow.
Leif was too shocked to speak as he closed Erik’s door behind him.
Terrible enough that three men had died in the accident, but now it seemed Erik had added a woman to the death toll.
Typical of Erik to get drunk and agitated and talk in riddles.
A bad case of survivor’s guilt. God knows, Leif wished he could help him.
“I’m worried about Erik,” Inger said as she lit another cigarillo. “Axel is concerned too. He told me that Erik seems worse than ever this week. Why do you think that is? Maybe I should sit him down and ask him what’s going on.”
Luckily, Inger didn’t hear Erik mention the woman in the accident. Even though Leif considered it the mumblings of a drunk, he knew that she’d tell everyone in the village.
“Do me a favor and leave it alone,” he replied.
Even so, he wondered what made Erik say this, after all these years. He reminded himself that Erik drifted in and out of reality after a night of heavy drinking, and especially during June.