Advent. Waiting.
On the sixth of December, Eliza realizes that the Advent season is upon the world, that time of waiting for Christmas.
Waiting. All I am doing is waiting.
She tries to put Samuel behind her. Wonders who ransacked the cabin. Who stole the foodstuffs. Who accepted all the gifts.
Who? Who? Who?
She pens letter after letter to Steiner. All end up in the Acme.
December drags on more than usual. Eliza spends evenings knitting a long green scarf for Steiner. She is careful not to make any mistakes.
Two days before Christmas, Eliza rows to Doe Bay. She spends extra time on her appearance. She irons her better blouse, fusses with her bun. In an act of rare femininity, she laces on her Sunday boots. When she is fully dressed, she examines her profile in the cracked mirror, turning slowly to view her slender physique from each angle. She layers gloves and covers herself with Jacob’s coat. Steiner’s finished scarf is wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. The message on the card stock reads: To keep you warm, Eliza.
The Peapod waits at the shoreline, small frigid waves lapping its sides. She takes her small purse, nothing else.
Today there is nothing to buy, nothing at all, she thinks. Today is a day for giving.
She knows from a deep space within that a mere fraction of a second will decide her future, that intangible second between being forever single or forever yoked. Her heart beats in anticipation, each beat mirroring her oar strokes.
Today I will accept Steiner.
The Doe Bay Store bustles with activity, a hum of voices evident before Eliza opens the well-worn wooden door.
“There’s gold just sitting in the rivers, all for the taking!”
“Can’t be, Miller, you’re joshing us.”
“No, it’s right true. Heard it from my brother. He was on the docks when the Portland came in last July. Hit the jackpot, they did, boys, a man name of George Carmack and his half-breed brother-in-law Skookum Jim. Didn’t you read the papers?”
Eliza inches into the store. A group of men surrounds the counter. The intoxicating smell of coffee pervades the interior, this mixed with tobacco and sweat. She cranes her neck to see to whom the men direct their conversation. To her slight disappointment, Old Steiner stands behind the counter.
“Heard tell there’s thousands itching to go north,” Old Steiner says. “‘Klondike Fever,’ I believe it’s called.”
“Yesiree, old man. My brother dropped everything and got the last boat up. Sent me word by post. Money’s on it that I’ll be following as soon as the spring thaw. And it’s not just me. All kinds of people are heading up there—and not just miners and shopkeepers. There are even some women heading up to Alaska. Actresses they call themselves—ahem—well, you know what that mean, boys.”
The men snigger.
Alphaeus bursts through the back door and stomps in, his boots thumping the wooden floorboards with heavy footfalls. He carries three large crates, and his face is obscured from view. Eliza’s heart quickens. His boots, his trousers, his apron.
Him.
She moves to the far aisle and watches Alphaeus as he approaches the counter. From this angle, she sees his strong profile, his cheeks now covered with a rusty beard. His hair hangs low over his shoulders and hides his eyes. He lowers from the waist and dumps the crates on the floorboards.
“Congratulations, you whippersnapper, you!”
Eliza moves toward the rear of the store to get a better angle. She stops by the flour bins and pretends to read the labels: buckwheat, cornmeal. She longs to run straight into Steiner’s arms, but knows the time for that is not far off. She smiles inside, and feels his invisible weight. She clutches the brown paper package in her hands.
One of the men slaps Steiner on the back, and Steiner’s hair sways forward. Eliza is fixated on Steiner’s every move.
“Why, thanks, can’t say that she deserves me.”
“Couldn’t meet a nicer gal, old boy. Sweetest thing on Orcas.”
Another man steps forward.
“You’re a lucky man, Steiner. Isn’t a girl a hundred miles from here who beats the likes of Jane Hemple.”
“Not only lucky, I’m the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
Eliza reddens, freezes in place. Her knees shake as she maneuvers toward the rear of the store.
The commotion at the front of the shop diverts attention from her movements. She steals quickly toward the back door and then out, and closes the door without sound. She rounds the far side of the clapboard building and makes a near run for the Peapod. Her eyes are moist. She runs a gloved hand over her eyes up and underneath her spectacles. She clambers into the dory and unhitches the lines. In between sobs she rows away from Doe Bay.
Halfway across the strait, she tosses the green scarf into the swirling current and watches it drown.
What a fool I am.
IN THE DIM LIGHT OF THE OIL LAMP, ELIZA ROCKS BACK AND forth on the edge of her three-legged stool in front of the stove.
Stampeders, shopkeepers, actresses, whores.
She wonders if she is up to the journey.
And why not? I’ve homesteaded alone on Cypress for three years now. But I am not a stampeder. And certainly not an actress nor a whore. What about a shopkeeper or a cook?
Eliza stares at the Acme.
Maybe a baker? That could be my ticket to success.
She runs the conversation around her brain, over and over again. She talks aloud to drown other thoughts that well up from the deep.
Sweetest thing on Orcas. You’re a lucky man. Lucky man, indeed.
Who? Eliza thinks. When? How?
She berates herself, and hits her knee repeatedly.
Why didn’t I see this coming?
She hates to admit to herself that Steiner’s lengthy absence belied another reason for not returning to her.
I waited too long! I missed my chance!
The words reverberate until she is deafened by the sounds. She tries to put Steiner out of her mind. But that is as futile as ignoring the wind.
His boots. His trousers. His apron.
His hair, his face, his eyes.
His body, his arms, his legs.
Please tell me you’ll think about it . . .