The forest god that reigned west of Port Angeles, Washington, was Brice Disque, commanding officer of the Spruce Division. To Jouka it seemed that whatever Disque wanted—rails, locomotives, saws, men, food—he got.
One of the locomotives was Sergeant Kaukonen’s. He’d proved his reputation was deserved in the first week and made sergeant immediately. In the engine cab, right above the throttle, was a tiny snapshot of Aino holding Eleanor in front of the Saaris’ house, too small to really see what Eleanor looked like, but he found it comfortable and reassuring. What money he kept, he’d been saving to go see them on his leave, which was granted for five days, starting August 21.
On the day before he left camp, Tuesday, August 20, his commanding officer, an affable National Guard captain named Royce, helped him write a telegram that he’d have the signal officer send to Aino, saying Jouka was on his way.
He arrived at the Astoria train station about seven thirty Wednesday night, proudly wearing his uniform. He could see the great river from the station platform, the Washington side so far off that the hills were a two-dimensional monochrome darkness between the river and the sky. He felt a tug of nostalgia as he tried to make out Margaret Cove.
Aino wasn’t on the platform. Of course, she’d have Eleanor where it was warm. He rushed for the waiting room, imagining Aino, her black hair flowing over her shoulders onto their daughter. He chuckled. Aino would never wear her hair down in public. He burst into the waiting room.
Aino wasn’t there.
He shouldered his knapsack and walked to the little basement apartment. Should he knock? No, of course not. It was his place, too. He straightened his shoulders and strode through the door, grinning. A startled teenage girl shrieked, her book flying. Eleanor, tucked in a bureau drawer on the floor next to the bed, started screaming.
“I’m sorry,” Jouka said in English. “Where’s my wife? So, this is my daughter?” He took the crying baby up by her armpits and held her in front of his beaming face. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he cooed in Finnish. “Daddy’s home.” It sounded so wonderful and strange to hear himself say that. He pulled Eleanor in closer. Her grimacing face was red from crying, but he knew she was the most beautiful little person in the world.
He turned to the girl, asking in Finnish, “Where’s Mrs. Kaukonen?”
“I’m sorry …” her voice trailed off. “I can’t speak Finnish.”
He held Eleanor out from him and did a dance turn. Eleanor stopped crying. “Where’s Mrs. Kaukonen?” Jouka asked in English.
“She’s at work,” the girl said, puzzled by the question.
“But isn’t work over by now?”
“Well, you know, everyone’s the boss at the co-op. No union hours for them.” She smiled at her joke. “Here, let me have her.” The girl put Eleanor against her shoulder.
“But the captain sent a telegram. She knew I was coming,” Jouka said.
“I sure didn’t.”
“You stay here,” Jouka said. “I’m going to get her mother.”
The late-August sun was going down across the Youngs River, lighting Saddle Mountain with orange, and the second shift was in full swing when he walked into the office.
“Jouka! My God.” She was alone and clearly surprised. Something must have gone wrong with the captain’s telegram. She rose. “You’re home.”
“I … I’m working.”
“I send you good wages every two weeks. There’s no need to work. But, I came home to … I wanted to come home to …” He’d rehearsed the speech all the way to the mill, but now the words just stopped. He sent her nearly everything he earned. It felt as if she was throwing the money in his face.
“I was there at dinner to nurse Eleanor. She’s—”
“I want you home, not some babysitter.”
“Let’s not fight. Please.”
“OK, let’s go home.”
“Just give me a second.” She started to rearrange something on her desk. Jouka exploded. Screaming, he swept the top of her desk clean and she stumbled backward in fear. He picked up the typewriter from the floor and threw it through the window. He stalked past several workers who’d been attracted by the noise.
Aino assured them it was just a marital spat, but knew she was trembling and it showed. She cleaned up the mess and walked home in the twilight, her stomach in a knot of— what? Guilt that she’d hurt him again.
Aino paid Mary Alice and tidied the apartment. Several times she went out into the dark, hoping he’d be coming up the hill, wanting to see her, wanting to see Eleanor. Deep down, however, Aino felt sick with dread. She knew she could probably find him at the Desdemona Club, but she couldn’t go there with Eleanor.
Aino was right. Jouka was at the Desdemona Club, well on his way to a drunk the likes of which he hadn’t seen since the Old Camp Two bachelor days.
“Hey soldier, don’t I know you?” He turned to see Jane Townsend. She’d started at the Lucky Logger, but when Oregon prohibition shut it down, well, the prostitutes improvised.
It felt like driving pilings—and it was no fun. To his surprise, she seemed genuinely to like it.
“Trouble at home, soldier?” She was lighting a cigarette.
“Jouka. My name’s Jouka Kaukonen.”
She blew out a cloud and gently picked a bit of tobacco off her tongue. “I do know you. You used to play fiddle at dances. You were good. You’re married to that Wobbly.”
“Aino.”
“What’s it like being married to one of those free-love reds? Not so good I guess, given you’re paying for it here.”
“She’s no free-love red, just red.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
Jouka had been putting on a shoe. Her words stopped him short. “What did you hear?”
“Well,” she smiled, almost wickedly. “You remember, before the war, when this Wobbly called Joe Hill got framed for murder down in Utah?”
Jouka just looked at her.
“Well, just after they shot this Hill guy, one of the Wobblies who comes in here said he’d been sweet on some Wobbly girl from across the river. He thought they’d gotten together. Was it Nordland? Maybe Centralia? Anyway, one of those free-speech fights.”
Jouka stood. He carefully counted out the two dollars, but his hands were shaking.
Two hours later he was let-it-all-out, confessional drunk, venting his anger and hurt on all who would listen. They delighted in telling their wives.
Jouka didn’t come at all the next day, or the next. Aino called the police and they found him unconscious, his pockets empty, vomit on his uniform, lying where the bouncer had thrown him in the early morning hours. They brought him home and deposited him facedown on the bed. Aino dragged Jouka onto the floor, throwing her coat over him.
When Jouka awoke, the apartment was empty. He went through the usual places, found a dollar and a quarter, put on his civilian clothes, and went back to the Desdemona Club. There, he bet a man a quarter on a pool shot and won. The man doubled down and lost, leaving Jouka with two dollars, a dollar of which he doubled on several poker hands, giving him three dollars, which got him into a quarter-ante poker game. By six that evening, he had enough for a five-cent hamburger from the grill behind the bar and a whole night of drinking.
He returned home about two in the morning. He switched on the single bulb hanging over the kitchen table, waking Aino and Eleanor.
“You’re drunk,” Aino said.
“Yoh.”
He threw his shirt onto the table and shrugged out of his suspenders.
“You’re not sleeping in this bed.”
He laughed. “You’re right.” He kicked off his trousers. “I’ll go to other whores. They’ll only take part of my paycheck.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, sorry. You’re not a whore. Whores charge for it.”
She knew that Jouka had found out about Hillström. She also knew that Jouka was never coming back—even for Eleanor. Never. It hung like a life sentence. She had never really loved him, but he’d loved her. He was a good provider. They danced together so well. And always his whistling and singing …
She took it head-on. “Yes. I slept with Hillström. It was a mistake.” His face was a mask. She reached to touch him. “I’m ashamed.”
He shook her hand off. “When?”
“At the Centralia rally just before he was framed in Salt Lake City.”
“Everyone knew but me. Have you not shamed me enough?”
“I told you I’m sorry.”
“He’s a murdering, whoring red, and you slept with him.”
She knew she’d slept with a flawed man who was not her husband and she would regret it all her life, but he was a man who gave everything for what he believed in and was not a murderer. The words seemed to fly from her mouth as if it belonged to someone else. “At least he’s not a drunken toady to any boss who’ll let him play with a steam engine. He died for a cause. He gave his life for a cause. He was twice the man you’ll ever be.”
She braced herself, holding Eleanor, and wondered where she had found the arrows.
Instead of retaliating, Jouka was putting on his shoes, as if she weren’t in the room. He stuffed his uniform into his knapsack. “I took a dollar and a quarter from the coffee can behind the dresser.” He threw two dollars on the table. “Keep the change.”
Four days later, Jouka went to Captain Royce for help with the divorce papers. Sitting in front of Royce’s desk, he carefully wrote his signature. Rain slashed against the single windowpanes in the raw wooden headquarters building.
Jouka pushed the papers across the desk and walked into the rainy twilight. The melody to “Påskliljan Schottis” and its G-major chord progressions flooded his mind along with memories of the feel of Aino, her dark hair and eyes, how light she was on her feet, that first night they’d danced at the Knappton net shed. What had happened? Was it he who turned her so cold? Was it because she’d become even more of a red? Somewhere, he had fallen short—or failed. She took this Hillström, this “Joe Hill,” over him. Hillström probably had never held a decent job. As for Hillström’s songs, Jouka shook his head. Clever lyrics, but he stole the melodies.
He was walking by his locomotive, number 12. Twenty trucks were neatly lined up next to the rails. They could carry only one log or two logs each but didn’t need rails. Cheaper to operate, if you could punch the roads in. But they’d never replace trains. Just think of the inefficiency—one engine per log versus one engine for fifty logs.
He remembered staring with wonder into Eleanor’s hazel eyes. He imagined her in a little calico dress playing jump rope. Maybe her auburn hair, seemingly a cross between his blond and Aino’s black, would grow rich and full like Aino’s. He remembered the heft—that was it—the heft of Aino’s long black hair. To hell with her. He’d see Eleanor. Take her for ice cream.
Rain still slashed across the compound as he walked to his sleeping quarters. One thing for sure about the army, they lived like kings, right down to the lowest buck private. Sheets! Rich khaki wool blankets. Stoves in every bunkhouse. Outhouses all over the place and away from where they slept—and an eight-hour shift. He wished the war would last forever.
The divorce papers reached Aino a week later. She’d gone with them to the county courthouse on Commercial Street but stood outside holding Eleanor, unable to go in. No wind. A light rain drifted down, like fog with tears.
She tried to tell herself that a divorce was as bogus as a marriage, but it didn’t feel that way. It had been gut-wrenching enough when he’d walked out the door of their flat, but this … It felt more final than the wedding. She took in a deep breath and turned away toward Kyllikki’s house, stuffing the unsigned papers into her purse.
The war ended two months later, on November 11, 1918. On hearing of the armistice, the Spruce Division loggers had literally dropped their tools where they were working. They left behind vast amounts of train track, cables, yarders, trucks, empty barracks and mess halls, huge unyarded logs and cold decks of giant spruce, as if a sudden wind had simply swept through the woods, silencing all.