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This is the first part of Chapter 2 of I Am The North, the first installment of the Sitka Saga trilogy.
Shared with permission, written by Rae Wojcik.
Chapter 2: Among Old Photographs | Tanya
Part 1
Wild Rose, Minnesota
“It’s just…not that good.”
Matthew leans back in his leather chair, flipping halfheartedly through the last few pages of the manuscript. His greying eyebrows furrow over the round frames of his glasses as he looks from the last page to me.
I fold my arms against my chest. “What do you mean, it’s not that good?”
The clock behind Matthew Nicholson’s desk ticks closer to five. I had been waiting for this meeting for almost an hour, nervously watching as the start of my work shift drew nearer. The far-too-patient receptionist in the lobby of Iron County Press had kept telling me to wait—that the Editor-in-Chief’s job was very demanding and that he would get me in as soon as possible. I had thought, foolishly, that it would all be worth it.
“I mean,” Matthew begins with a strained sigh, “it’s not bad, but it’s not good. And it’s not the sort of thing we publish.”
He flops the manuscript down onto the mahogany desk, where it lands atop a weathered guide to trout fishing. The manuscript’s pages are just as crisp and clean as when I had first printed them. I wonder if he even read it. He pulls down his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose as if warding off an impending migraine.
I shake my head. This manuscript is my life. I had been working on it for over two years and had sent the proposal to Iron County Press last summer. When Matthew Nicholson responded requesting to read the entire thing, I was certain it was going somewhere.
“But you publish books about Iron County,” I protest. “You said in your email that you wanted to publish more history books, and that this has the ‘local connection’ you’re looking for. You even told me you’ve been curious about the disappearances yourself.”
“I can appreciate your enthusiasm, Tanya, but I had assumed this would merely be a history book.” Matthew’s voice is slow and weary. “To be perfectly honest, I think your theories are a bit far-fetched.”
“Far-fetched?”
“Not only that, but some of these disappearances you cite happened within the last few decades—to people whose families still live here. Attributing those families’ tragedies to, what was it?” He flips open the manuscript to the table of contents. “Ah yes—possible supernatural causes—is just not the sort of thing we want to deal with. Frankly, it’s insensitive.”
I grind my teeth and snatch back the manuscript. “Fine.”
“Look, I’m sorry, Tanya, I know you worked very hard on this—”
But the loud scraping of my chair drowns out Matthew’s voice.
What a stupid waste of time.
“I understand,” I interject. “Thank you for your time. I’m going to be late for my job.”
The welcome sign on his door rattles as I slam it behind me and race to get out of the building.
“How did it go?” the receptionist calls, but I fly past her desk and fall out of the building and into the dreary evening. I don’t want her sympathies. I want nothing from this godforsaken town.
The only thing worse than getting your manuscript rejected is having a slow shift immediately after getting your manuscript rejected.
It’s 8:00 on a Tuesday night and The Happy Beaver is almost completely devoid of people. The patter of freezing rain against the building’s metal roof accompanies the dull ticking of the walleye clock above the bar, together counting down the ever-dragging minutes until the end of my shift. While The Happy Beaver is busy on the weekends and downright hopping throughout the summer tourist season, on October weeknights like this it’s almost painful to be here in this cavernous old building. Thin strings of twinkle lights hang pointlessly over an empty stage and long-broken jukebox, the whimsy tunes of a Lumineers song echoing from the lounge’s tinny sound system. Exactly two people sit at the bar: an out-of-town couple conversing closely together over the same glasses of wine they’ve been nursing all night.
I’m in hell.
I crack open a can of pop from the cooler and try not to think about this afternoon’s meeting, but it’s incredibly hard. Two years’ worth of work and for what? I wasted so many stupid nights staying up late for the sake of research, ignoring my classes, and obsessing over each carefully typed word just to have my book slapped down, unread, on a stupid trout pamphlet. And to think I had let myself hope I had a shot at getting out of here, of making something of myself other than bartending in this crappy old supper club. I feel like the biggest sucker in the world.
“Excuse me!”
A woman calls from the end of the bar. I set my pop down and shuffle over. Her blonde hair is cut into an angled bob I’ve only ever seen on women who come up from the Twin Cities. Several oversized rings adorn her suspiciously tanned hands. She eyes my baggy flannel and ripped jeans without even trying to hide her wrinkling nose.
“What do you have that’s vegan and gluten-free?”
I think for a moment. “Vodka.”
The woman gives a small laugh. “I mean food.”
“Hmm. Then nothing.”
She gasps as if I’ve just said something horribly offensive. “What do you mean, nothing?”
I don’t have the patience for this. “I mean, the kitchen’s closed, and you can’t really expect much from a place called The Happy Beaver, now can you?”
The man with her flashes me a disgusted look, puts enough cash on the bar to pay for their drinks—no tip—and walks out the door, leaving me truly alone.
And I wonder why I get the crappy Tuesday night shifts.
I go back to my pop and check my phone to find a text from Ingrid. My heart leaps a little until I read the message:
I put my phone face down on the counter, having no intention of answering. I’m wondering how I’m going to explain the woes of this afternoon to Ingrid when a voice from behind me cuts the silence.
“You gonna get me somethin’ or what, kid?”
I jump so violently at the gruff voice that I spill half my pop all over my jeans. I swear and spin around to find a lone man sitting on one of the barstools. He is a grizzled type with long, salt and pepper hair, his thick shoulders encased in a cotton duck coat still damp from the rain. His wide hands bear the irremovable stains and calluses of one who works a tough job. I’ve never seen him before, and I didn’t hear the bell above the door ring when he came in. Had he entered the same moment the other couple left?
“What do you want?” I ask quickly, hoping he didn’t notice my soda slosh.
His dark eyebrows rise for an instant, then he coughs. “Ardbeg. Neat.”
I search frantically before finding the dusty bottle and pouring a generous glass of the pale liquid, its pungent aroma filling the room. Something about the man puts me on edge. Maybe it’s just the fact he showed up out of nowhere and watched me spill pop all over myself. I put the bottle away and watch him closely. He takes off his coat, revealing a worn flannel shirt and forearms completely covered in tattoos. I try to get a better look at them, but most of them are blurred and difficult to make out beneath his ample arm hair. Runes, perhaps?
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Like what you're reading? Scholar & Scribe is hosting a writing contest set within the world of the Sitka Saga, for details check out: @jfuji/win-20-hsbi-and-more
I'll continue sharing more of the Saga over the coming days.