Purgatory Ridge

The book, the author explained briefly, was the story of a rich young woman who fell in love with a poor young man. Over the objections of the woman’s powerful father, they married. The young man finally won the father over with his intelligence and integrity and his obvious love for the man’s daughter. A child was born. Life was good. The future looked perfect. Then one day the husband sailed off, as he often had, for an outing on Lake Superior. He never returned. The sailboat was found, adrift and abandoned, but no trace ever of the man who’d sailed it.

Grace Fitzgerald read an excerpt, a scene in which the woman stood on the shore of Lake Superior. It was a cold winter day, months after her husband had vanished. Snow spit from a gray sky and gray waves washed at her feet with an incessant voice that was “the bleak whisper of a bleak forever.” It was the moment she wrapped her heart around the cold truth: He would never come back to her. The voice of the water called to her. She considered the black unknown of death, something that seemed at that moment far better than the stark cold air that sustained her. She teetered, her foot poised to take that longest of steps.

Grace stopped reading. The room held its breath. But Grace Fitzgerald did not go on.

“I’d be glad to answer any questions,” she said. “If you have any.”

A hand went up from one of the chairs near the front. “Ms. Fitzgerald-”

“Call me Grace.”

“Have you had any movie offers, Grace?”

“Honestly, I have no intention of letting Hollywood have my story. I’m sure they’d find a way to slip in car chases and exploding buildings.”

Jo was surprised to see Jenny put up a hand. “Are you really related to F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

“Absolutely. He was my grandfather’s cousin. I’m sure that’s where I get whatever literary talent I have. And just in case you’re wondering, I got my nose from my mother’s side.”

There was general laughter, polite.

“Grace,” Maggie Nelson said. “You’ve written one of the most beautiful books about a man and woman in love. I guess we all know it’s based on your own experience. Does Karl ever get, well, jealous of how you feel about your first husband?”

Grace Fitzgerald shook her head slightly. “They were good friends. Karl’s been very understanding that way.”

“Ms. Fitzgerald, I have a question.”

It was the young man from the tent city on the rez.

“Yes?” The author smiled encouragingly.

“Your current husband rapes the land for his living. He slaughters the forests. He destroys the future for us all. You write about the death of one man. How about the deaths of thousands of other living things?”

Maggie Nelson stepped in quickly. “We’re here to discuss other issues.”

“The trees have no voice. For them, there are no other issues.”

“You’re not going to have a voice either in just a minute,” someone up front called out.

The young man’s face was red, burning with a fierce passion. He moved forward, talking quickly now. “The woman you just read about is thinking of killing herself. Your husband and those like him are killing us when they kill the trees-”

A woman stood and moved to block his way. Jo knew her. Paula Overby, a very large woman with easily enough bulk to squash the young man like a boulder on a beetle. “My husband puts food on our table cutting timber. He’s no killer, you little-” She held herself back from finishing.

Jo, who was more than sympathetic to the cause of Our Grandfathers, found herself irked by the young man’s intrusion and irritated that there seemed nowhere anyone could go anymore to escape confrontation. She was also worried that such tactics did more harm than good.

“That’s all right.” Grace Fitzgerald left the table and walked to the young man. She put a finger to her lips, looking at him closely, thinking. She was a woman with great presence, something Jo noted and appreciated. “I understand how you feel. I share your concern for the environment, I really do. My husband and I don’t see eye to eye on this issue. A lot of issues, actually. But you know-what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Brett. Brett Hamilton.”

“You know, Brett, I’d like to ask you to use a different venue to express your concern, because tonight, we’re just here to have a good time. Have you read my book?”

“No,” he admitted.

“It’s about losing what we most love. So I do understand how you feel about the trees. I’d be more than happy to talk with you about them, but not tonight. Okay?”

She smiled, reached out, touched his shoulder.

He was silent.

“I think it’s time for refreshments,” Maggie Nelson said. “Thank you, Grace. She’ll be signing up here for all of you who brought books.” She slipped quickly between Grace Fitzgerald and the young man, took his arm, and with gentle force, guided him from the room. He didn’t resist.

Jo and Jenny found themselves near the end of a line that formed for Grace Fitzgerald’s signature. When they reached the author, she smiled at them warmly. “Hi, Jo.”

“Hello, Grace. I’m sorry about the disruption.”