New Year’s Eve. Clear. Celebration tonight.
Quite a night of nights!” Shorty booms. His voice carries down the inlet. Bright stars pin-dot the sky. The glacial air permeates every crevice not covered in fur. Eliza’s nose tingles in the cold and she adjusts her woolen scarf. In that split second her hands begin to numb. She quickly replaces her gloved hands into the fur muff and works the lining with her fingers. A thin blue-green wisp wavers across the sky, followed by a halo of orange and yellow, slithering behind the blues and greens, undulating, as if alive, as the Aurora Borealis streaks through the night sky.
Spirit People, Eliza thinks. They’re waving their torches in the sky.
A quiver runs through her body as she and Pearly walk arm in arm with Shorty. She wonders where Na-Oot-Ka is tonight, and if Na-Oot-Ka’s husband is still alive.
Hundreds of people ring the inlet huddling around small and large bonfires. Laughter. A gun shot into the air. Then another. A low hum of voices intersperses with louder voices, and more laughter. The trio scans the assembled crowd, looking for Rose and Dr. Phillips amid the whole of Skagway’s cast of characters. Familiar faces gather in an uneven arc around an enormous bonfire at the edge of the mud flats. Eliza spies the Phillips family and steers Pearly and Shorty to the right. Eliza steps gingerly through the muddied flats, her boots squishing into frozen muck.
“Mr. Edwards, Cilla,” Pearly says, as the threesome maneuvers through the throng. Eliza echoes the regards.
“You’re looking lovely tonight, Mrs. Brown, as are you, Mrs. Waite,” Edwards says. He bows to the women in Shorty’s tow. Cilla drips in new diamonds, an Alaskan-sized brooch adorning her throat. She holds Edwards’s arm like a bird perched on his elbow.
“Why, Cilla, you are looking quite sparkly this New Year’s Eve,” Pearly says. She moves closer to Cilla and whistles through her teeth as she fingers the brooch. “My, my, now. You’ve hooked a big one, now, haven’t you?”
The men snigger. Eliza nods to Cilla, who turns her head in the direction of Chinese fireworks further down the beach.
“Excuse me, Shorty, Mr. Edwards, Pearly, Cilla.”
Eliza extricates herself from Pearly’s grasp and moves toward Dr. Phillips, Rose, and Baby Thomas, who sit on a large piece of driftwood not a hundred feet away.
“What a sweetheart!” Eliza says. Baby Thomas, wrapped up so tightly that only his nose protrudes from the shawls, meets Eliza’s gaze. Eliza snuggles her face in close to the infant. She whispers and coos. Baby Thomas squirms and smiles.
“OOOO,” he says. “OOOO-OOOO.”
Eliza positions herself next to Rose and leans in.
“I’ve posted a letter. To Mr. Burns. We enjoyed a lovely time together just this Christmas last, and I hope to see him again in the not too distant future.”
Eliza feels a rush of adrenaline and continues. She leans forward, past Rose and Baby Thomas.
“You wouldn’t know if Mr. Burns plans to visit again soon, do you, Dr. Phillips?”
Phillips turns first to Rose and then to Eliza.
“Why, I couldn’t rightly say. But an invitation for his return is also in the mail. My Rose, here, she encouraged me to write him. We offered to take him on a train journey up White Pass on his return, and to entertain him properly, now that we’ve got the space to do so. May we include you in our plans, if Mr. Burns returns to us this springtime?”
Eliza sees Sugi Ito in the periphery of her vision, and watches as Sugi moves through the throng. Her daughters and grandchildren follow her. Sugi stops and looks up at the illuminated sky. She stands transfixed at the edge of the inlet. Eliza thinks Sugi looks like a small tree with her bird family flocking around her.
“Of course you may, Dr. Phillips. I would very much like to be included in your merry band. I’ve longed to take the railway to White Pass myself. Count me in. Oh! And by the way, you’re addressing a now-famous newspaper columnist!”
Rose gasps.
“Is it true? Did Mr. Draper come through on his word?”
Earlier in the day Eliza had held a slightly dated copy of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat in her hand, sent by post, as promised, by the intrepid reporter Jack Draper, all the way from St. Louis, Missouri. She smiled to herself, thinking of Draper.
Hail from Missoura, I do, yes.
“From a Klondike Kitchen: Featuring the Extraordinary Sweets of Mrs. E. Waite, lately of Skagway, Alaska” had stared out at Eliza from page nine of the twelve-page rag, and she read the piece over and over to see if any mistake had been made. There were no typographic errors. Eliza hugged the newspaper to her small chest and smiled. She wondered if her mother or her sisters, or even her aunt—God forbid!—took the Globe-Democrat. And what of Mrs. Chopin?!
What a shock to see my name in print! I must write to Mr. Draper to thank him.
Strains of Auld Lang Syne waft down the beach. The air bristles electric. If there is ever a time Eliza is excited to take in a breath, it is tonight. The Arctic air makes breathing out like an art form, as puffs of steamed air evaporate into the darkness with each long exhale. Firelight glows off ruddy faces.
“Come, let’s move closer to the fire.”
As it nears midnight, Eliza takes in the whole scene around her.
“Home is where your heart is,” her aunt used to say. For once her aunt was most certainly right.
I belong here. I belong. Here. Yes, here. I belong here.
Eliza accepts a Chinese sparkler from Shorty. Shorty lights the nub end of the sparkler and Eliza holds it alight. She waves the sparkler high above her head and watches its smoky tail winging up to join the Spirit People, the moon, the stars. Eliza tiptoes to the water’s edge, her sparkler still aloft.
The Spirit People continue to dance in rolling blues and greens low across the Arctic sky. Eliza looks upwards, mesmerized, and watches as hints of yellow emerge on the underside of the ribbon. Eliza turns and faces down the darkened Lynn Canal, the way from which she’d come nine months ago.
“The water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with . . . millions of lights . . .”
Eliza focuses now on the lights that dance across the skin of the water.
I will never be able to count that high!
The water hypnotizes Eliza, and she loses herself in its ever-changing movement. The constant lapping of small wavelets brings her out of her trance, and more of Mrs. Chopin’s words speak to Eliza as she stands at the water’s edge. She listens intently to the whap, whap, whap of the waves that threaten to lick her boots.
“The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring . . .”
Eliza wonders if she’ll ever travel south again.
Much depends on Burns’s reply, she thinks.
A loud familiar voice booms above the rest.
“Come one, come all!” Shorty yells.
Shorty organizes a rough tug of war under the moonlight, and fireworks explode into the night sky at midnight. Flasks of whiskey and small tin cups of champagne pass thirsty lips. The bonfire’s glow settles over the beachfront, illuminating hundreds of hopeful faces. Smaller groups form around campfires and burning barrels; no one wants to leave the revelry. The firelight rings the bay like a lighted necklace.
How coincidental, Eliza thinks. Here I am standing on the shore of Smuggler’s Cove in Skagway, Alaska, when a year ago I stood on the shores of another cove that bears the very same name, more than a thousand miles to the south. What is it about that name? And what have I been smuggling?
She stops for a moment to answer her own question.
Why of course! Happiness! And miracles!
She smiles internally, and thinks of Joseph Burns. She wonders if her letter has yet reached Seattle, and to what response.
I will await your reply forthwith.
“Eliza Waite! You’re looking all dewy-eyed. Come over here; we’ve got a New Year’s resolution to share with you.”
Eliza wonders if Shorty has finally asked for Pearly’s hand in marriage. It was an unspoken agreement that linked them together; would Shorty be making Pearly an honest woman after all these years? Eliza looks forward to the imaginary event already. She will make the biggest wedding cake she can afford for her unlikely friends.
“May I guess your resolution?” Eliza asks.
“Now that would be bad luck, especially if you guessed wrong! Here it is, plain and simple,” Shorty says. “We’ve decided to quit this hell hole and try our luck up Nome way. Talk is there’s more gold in Nome than ever was found in the Yukon. You’re more than welcome to come along.”
Pearly nods and smiles up at Shorty.
“Can’t stay in one place too long, you know, Lizzie. Gets stale after a while. And Mr. Richardson has asked for my hand, so I can’t let him go on alone.”
The admission of Pearly and Shorty’s impending marriage confirms Eliza’s suspicions, but the thought of moving again and losing such a precious friendship takes Eliza back.
So much change, and so soon again.
The choice to stay or go lies firmly within her power.
But tonight is not a night for decisions. For now it’s time to offer congratulations all around. Handshakes, hugs, hearty best wishes, that’s what tonight’s for.
Well after midnight, Eliza bids Pearly and Shorty good night.
Eliza notices the way Pearly and Shorty look at each other.
Why, they must be near fifty!
She wishes Joseph Burns was standing next to her looking at her in the same way.
What a happy evening, Eliza thinks. In so many ways.
Eliza takes her time as she walks the six blocks to The Moonstone Café. She passes the wharves, illuminated by the full moon. Water rats scamper under the wharves, their retreating tails their only evidence. Other than the rats, the wharves stand empty. Three vessels are docked at Skagway Wharf. The SS Superior, slightly larger than the Ketchikan, dwarfs two smaller trawlers. The yawing of the lines creaks and squeaks in the silence. At the end of the pier a young couple stands in close embrace. Eliza yearns for Mr. Burns. She imagines herself as the shorter half of the couple in the distance, and watches as their heads bend to a kiss.
I await your reply forthwith.
Eliza turns up Broadway toward the “V” of White Pass, which is also illumined. All the storefronts stand shuttered against the winter night: E. A. Hegg’s studio, Taylor’s Drygoods, Clease’s Stationers. The doors to the Skagway Livery shut with a clang. Eliza sees another solo walker in the distance. A block ahead, a couple steals into an alley away from the cold. She passes a small group of rugged men.
“A Happy New Year to you, Ma’am.”
“And to you.”
Eliza hums under her breath, an old familiar hymn.
O for a thousand tongues to sing . . .
She climbs the back wooden stairs to the landing of her apartment. She opens the door to her humble abode. She thinks of Pearly’s invitation, but sloughs it off. A long moonless winter will unfold ahead before anyone packs up and leaves Skagway behind.
God and I will have a long conversation on this topic!
She undresses slowly and hangs her dress by the door. The full moon gazes through the small window, and Eliza admires the sight. She decides not to cover the window with her dress tonight. The moonlight slides in, her most constant companion, simultaneously tangible and intangible.
Like Jonathan. Tangible and intangible.
Eliza retraces every feature of Jonathan’s cherubic face, every curve of his limbs, every nuance of his smile. But she cannot touch him, hold him, or stroke his fine sandy hair. He is as real as any boy, as any of the newsies on the wharf, as any of the boisterous boys running rampant on the moonlit beach. But she cannot talk to him, or offer him comfort or advice. He lives in a photograph, a slim tintype bought for twenty-five cents.
In a feeling that surprises her, the pangs of her despair give rise to a deep satisfaction. The moon, like Jonathan, will be with her always, this Indian John told her. And Na-Oot-Ka reiterated the same.
Spirit People. All colors dance together until morning.
Eliza reclines in her deep featherbed, her arms folded behind her head. She looks up at the ceiling and smiles.
Precious, yes. Each day, each night, precious.
Her thoughts wander, in, out, over, above.
When I wake up tomorrow morning, the calendar will read The Year of Our Lord 1899. And what will the new century bring in a year’s time?
The prospect stands before her like the wide and turbulent Gulf of Alaska, always changing, and always to be respected; she knows, instinctively, that like the tides, life will cede and recede, ebb and flow. To try and catch the tide would be fruitless.
As for tomorrow, she thinks, there will be a line formed outside the café just after six in the morning.
My fruitcake will sell out before ten, and then I’ll take a long walk up into the valley, as far as I dare go while there’s any shred of daylight. I’ll take a small picnic and all my memories, and I’ll bury the past. I’ve beaten the devil around the stump too many times; tomorrow I’ll do what I should have done many years ago and put it all behind me. It’s time.
And it’s time I bought a typewriter. I can well afford it! Perhaps the Jack Drapers of the world ache to see more of my recipes. Why, I could be a syndicated columnist! I can just see my column appearing in newspapers all over Missoura. Or maybe beyond! And who knows who might read my recipes. Maybe Mother, or Margaret, or Mae. Or maybe even Mrs. Chopin!
Perhaps I will finally write to Mrs. Chopin. To thank her for, well, for everything. For her stories. For her words. For the ways she’s touched my heart.
The prospect invigorates her, and she finds she cannot sleep, although her body and mind are thoroughly exhausted. She turns onto her side and faces the back door, the bright moon framed in its center window.
“Goodnight, sweet boy,” Eliza whispers. “You are never far from my heart.”
In the distance, the northern lights dance around the frame of the sky, a fringe of blues and greens receding on the horizon. Eliza sinks into her feather pillow and wishes for a good sleep. Mrs. Chopin wrote about the white light of the moon that fell upon the world “like the mystery and softness of sleep.”
Ah, sleep, Eliza thinks, I am envious of sleep. But there is so much to life. Who needs to sleep through it?
Long about three o’clock, still hours before the dim Alaskan dawn, a sliver of moonlight creeps further into the room and inches its way across the rough pine floor and up onto Eliza’s thick eiderdown comforter. It lingers there, and she focuses on the bright moon shadow.
In that moment before sleep, when every movement is exaggerated and intentional, and fueled by an extraordinary effort of sheer will and desire, Eliza reaches for the moonbeam, and falls asleep with it pulsing in her hand.