Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Timber Yard
The address was No. 14 Old Mill Road—a desolate stretch of gravel and rusted iron located five miles outside the town limits, where the river turned gray from the silt of the mountain runoff.
Robert’s heavy Volvo station wagon crunched to a halt beside the perimeter fence of the Blackwood Timber Corporation. The rain had started again, a cold, needle-like drizzle that blurred the yellow halogen lamps of the main loading dock.
Joanna sat in the passenger seat, Lucas tucked securely into the car seat in the back, while Robert kept the engine running to keep the heater humming.
"This is where he worked?" Robert asked, looking through the wiped glass at the stacks of raw pine logs.
"He worked the night shift," Joanna said, her eyes fixed on the small, rusted trailer sitting behind the main office block. "He said the noise of the saws helped him think. He used to come home at four in the morning with his hair full of sawdust and his hands so cold he couldn't undo his boots. I used to keep a pot of potato soup on the hot plate for him."
She reached for the door handle, but Robert placed a gentle, firm hand on her arm.
"Let me go first, Joanna," the old doctor said. "If he left anything behind... if there are things there that explain where he went... I should be the one to face it. You’ve carried enough weight for two people this year."
I watched from the window as the older man stepped out into the rain. He didn't look like a chief of surgery right then; he looked like a father who had been walking through a storm for ten years, his long tweed coat soaked through within seconds, his silver head lowered against the wind as he walked toward the trailer.
The door to the trailer wasn't locked. It had been secured with a piece of wire since the mill closed for the winter season. Robert untwisted the wire with his bare hands, his knuckles turning a deep, painful blue from the cold metal, and pushed the door open.
Inside, the air smelled of old grease, damp paper, and the sharp, chemical tang of kerosene.
On the small wooden table beside the built-in bunk lay three things: a copy of a pregnancy test from the Mercy Creek clinic dated seven months ago; a small leather-bound notebook filled with rows of figures—calculations of diner tips, timber wages, and the cost of an infant car seat; and a single, unsealed envelope with the name Joanna written on the front in Logan’s thick, unpracticed handwriting.
Robert didn't open the letter. He carried it back to the car, his boots splashing through the puddles of muddy water, his face pale and set like stone as he slid back into the driver’s seat and handed the paper to Joanna.
"It’s for you," he said simply.
Joanna’s hands shook as she tore the edge of the envelope. The paper inside was a leaf from a ledger book, the ink smeared at the corners where his thumb had pressed too hard.
Joanna, the letter read.
The clinic clerk told me today that the baby is a boy. I went to the cemetery after my shift. I found the stone for my mother, but my father’s name isn't there. They told me at the rectory that he died in a facility in the north—that he didn't even have enough money for a marker. I looked at my hands tonight, Joanna. They look just like his. I can feel the same dark weight in my chest that my uncles told me about. If I stay, the state will come for him. My family will find out he exists, and they’ll take him away from you just like they took me from Blackwood. I have twenty-four hundred dollars saved in the tin under the floorboards. Use it for the room. Don't look for me. I’m going to where the name Wright doesn't mean anything to anyone.
Joanna dropped the paper onto her lap, her breath catching in her throat as she turned to look at Robert.
May you like
"He went north," she said. "The iron mines near the border. That’s where his uncle’s company had their old freight contracts."
Robert shifted the car into drive, his eyes reflecting the sharp, yellow light of the dashboard. "Then that’s where we’re going."
