Counterpoint

By Stephen Pearsall

Counterpoint is a story told from five points of view. Book One, is about Lars Norquist, the patriarch, and transports the reader to the first half of the 20th century. It portrays three generations of a family growing up in a small Illinois town. The Norquists build a second home on Emerald Lake in Wisconsin and it is here, at their lake lodge, that they bond as a family and develop the values and aspirations that carry them into the second half of the century. Lars’s story grapples with his growing awareness of his mortality and the need to make use of what time remains of his life.
Book Two tells the story of Lars’s son Quinn and his life in the tumultuous 1960s. It’s a tale of perfect love and dangerous adventure and sweeps from skiing in Austria to the fjords of Norway, from San Francisco to the jungles of Malaysia, to living in Singapore, and ultimately confronts the real and crushing misjudgments by the United Sates government of geopolitics in Southeast Asia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490753676

Stephen Pearsall

On a dare from my children, I wrote a memoir (Yesterday) of my early years. I attempted to expose them, and their children, to the Great Depression years, the WWII, and the compliant decade that followed. Writing about the years after I turned twenty-five became tenuous as now I was exposing people who are alive and might object to my stories’ skew. So I switched to fiction and settled on a trilogy that would encompass the turbulent sixties, a fascinating decade during which I lived in Singapore and London. Extensive travel in Southeast Asia and in Europe formed the background for the first two novels (Counterpoint and Focus). My Swedish wife, Marianne, and I now live at the north end of Lake Tahoe where we enjoy nature in its perfect form, as well as skiing, biking, hiking, and kayaking. We cook, garden, and read and critique each other’s writing. Five children are spread around the country doing interesting things.

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Copyright 2015 Stephen Pearsall.

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ISBN: 978-1-4907-5368-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5367-6 (e)

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CONTENTS

Lars: Book One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Quinn: Book Two

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

For Marianne

Counterpoint (kównterpóynt) n.

(music) art of combining two or more independent melodies simultaneously

or

(arts) in a work of art, a theme or element that forms a contrast with another

Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language

I’d like to write a book in counterpoint; a fugue using cancrizans and inverted themes and augmented themes and diminished themes and mirror-fugues; all the contrapuntist’s techniques in one book.

The Hanging Tree

David Lambkin

MAP_GS.jpg

Southeast Asia

The river explodes out of two

small, connected lakes and runs rapidly

south, frolicking through the forested hills

and caressing green pastures. As it

matures into young adulthood, the Fox

River grows in size and strength and

becomes quite beautiful with glistening

rapids and numerous waterfalls. By the

time the river sweeps into Elmwood, it is

mature, still strong, and beautiful but

more sedate. Then it continues down

the rolling Illinois valleys, connecting

towns and growing substantial in girth.

Eventually, the old waterway joins other

Rivers, loses its identity and its water

joins the Mississippi as it courses down

the center of the nation to the sea.

LARS

Book One

ONE

September 1973

T he gazebo perched on the crest of the lone hill in Elmwood’s riverside park. The freshly painted white sideboards glistened in the weary, autumn sunlight. A solitary figure sat on the top step, an angular gray-haired man, his long legs dangling over the edge of the steps. He seemed lost in thoughts as he gazed down on the murky, greenish waters of the Fox River as it flowed lethargically past the park and on through town.

The man, Lars Norquist, had lived in Elmwood since his birth at the beginning of the century. The town had framed his life and possessions: his family, friends, and his beloved woodworking mill. Elmwood was Lars’s cornerstone—he felt comfortable and secure here. Even the gazebo had been his gift to the town. His wife, Elizabeth, had suggested it. Her death three years ago had left Lars with emptiness and the gazebo offered propinquity to her and to his past.

A late afternoon rainstorm arrived without warning, with no heralding wind, just a soft shower that compelled the softball game to be called and scattered the families sitting on picnic blankets. Lars moved inside the gazebo and watched with amusement people scurrying toward their cars. The rain intensified, pelting the roof, and gushing onto the stairway and down the hill toward the river. The sound and smell of the rain cleansed his senses. He felt relaxed.

His thoughts drifted to his childhood and the precious times he spent with his father here in this park playing baseball. His dad loved the game, and it was here that father and son bonded. Lars smiled to himself at the cliché. But in truth, aside from the sport they both loved, his father never shared his innermost thoughts with him. Was it simply Nordic stoicism, or did his father repress his passions and secrets? Lars squinted as he dug deeper into his memory. His mother and father had struggled to improve their lives in their chosen country. Oh, they had been demanding—and stern at times—but they fiercely believed in their values, and they passed this strong commitment to decency on to their two sons. Lars had struggled to live by his parents’ ethos. His father and mother’s love of family had taught him to take joy in his own children. He would see them all soon. They were coming home for his seventieth birthday.

TWO

S ven Norquist, Lars’s father, emigrated from Norway in the early 1890s. He worked his way across the Atlantic as a shipwright, left the old steamship at the Port of New York, and spent three weeks on Ellis Island before America opened her arms to him. A friend of his father lived in upstate New York and Sven carried a letter of introduction. He had just turned twenty when he settled in a small town in the Finger Lake district where he quickly found employment as a journeyman carpenter, a trade he had learned in Norway as a boy. Within a year of his arrival, he met and married Josephine, a young Norwegian girl, and along with what seemed like the rest of the country, Sven and Josie moved westward. They settled in Elmwood in northern Illinois because it offered them both opportunities to work. Sven’s trade was home construction; Josie had been a maid. Houses were built of wood and Sven brought to Elmwood a quality woodworking knack that the construction trade coveted. He started by working for established contractors and they soon assigned him to build window and door casings that needed joinery skills. Soon all the homebuilders in town wanted Sven for his talent.

Greater Chicago became prosperous, people from the east were flooding into the area, and buildings were going up everywhere. An affluent contractor, who admired Sven and his skill, approached him one day with an offer.

My name is Frank Edwards. I’ve had my eye on you, Sven. You are an industrious worker, and you have talents that are worth more than what you are being paid as a carpenter.

Sven’s blue eyes gazed at the stocky man who seemed too well dressed to be a construction worker. My talents are nothing special, but I am interested in earning more money, he replied stoically. What do you have in mind?

Edwards puffed on his cigar while appraising Sven. This town could support a millwork. I own a building south of town that would be perfect for this purpose. If you will help me buy the machinery and run the millwork, I will finance the startup cost. We’ll be partners.

It took Sven one week to check on Frank Edwards and the local market for milled wood products. To his surprise, Josie was all for the idea.

Sven and Frank became equal partners. The building had been a storage shed for farm equipment and was dilapidated. Sven hired a young boy named August and the two of them set about putting the building in shape. They decided on the machines they needed to begin operation and Edwards ponied up $20,000 for the woodworking machinery. A shingle on the front of the building said, Norquist Joinery. Edwards died within two years of the millwork startup. His family preferred hard cash to ownership and settled with Sven on a buyout price. Sven’s business reputation had grown rapidly. The Elmwood National Bank was happy to loan him enough money to pay off the Edwards family and run his business.

Sven’s joinery became the Norquist Architectural Millwork and by the time Lars began working there in 1924, they were building woodwork products for prestigious homes along the north shore of Chicago and even a well-known hotel on the Chicago Loop.

Lars was born in 1903 and grew up in Elmwood, a curious and pleasant little village in northeast Illinois just south of the Wisconsin border. It lacked the size and stature to be called a town and the designation suburb had not yet come into use. The rail connection arrived years later. The two-lane macadam country roads accommodated horses, cattle, and cars for those who could afford them. A few residents commuted to the big city which included a fourteen-mile drive to the nearest railroad station. The village took care of its own needs, and its self-sufficiency was the envy of neighboring townships. Small close-in farms delivered fresh food to town every day. The region’s dairy industry was centered here. Small factories supplied full employment; the Norquist Millwork was one of the largest. Everyone seemed busy in those days. The only institution missing was a high school and its absence became the subject of town hall debates, mayor’s election promises, and front porch arguments.

Elegant elm trees shrouded the town with a canopy of beauty. They lined the treebanks along the village streets and grew so tall and dense that streets were in endless shade. The village hugged the river and each year its boundaries claimed increased shoreline in both directions. The Fox River provided the spinal cord for the village, controlling the direction and energy of the town’s activities with the streets stretching out like ribs, for six or seven blocks. The town center remained a one-street affair near the river and most of the businesses fronted this main street.

In the early years of the twentieth century, the people in Elmwood, as in most small American towns, reached out to their neighbors. There were few fences, and the porches faced the street so that people could see and exchange greetings with everyone who passed by. Two bridges spanned the river joining the west and east side. The river split the village but did not divide it, and families from both sides congregated in Fox Park where the Norquist gazebo stood on the hill.

The Norquist house, where Lars and his brother Arne spent their youth, was on the east side. The grocery store, church, barbershop, and grade school were within a couple of blocks. Lars roamed freely and his trusty bicycle empowered him to reach out to the woods, creeks, and swimming holes that became part of his domain. The house was a two-story Victorian with an expansive porch on the front and a cobbled path that meandered from the porch to the street. Huge elm trees stood in front and a giant oak dominated the backyard. The great oak produced large, shiny, odd-shaped acorns which became collector items for the neighborhood kids. The narrow gravel driveway hugged the north side of the house and circled the backyard to the coal chute where the coal truck would deliver its messy cargo once a month during the winter. The old garage harbored a cornucopia of possessions and junk that thwarted its use for automobiles.

Lars developed a work routine at an early age and usually received his instructions from his mother. His duties around the house were defined and he respected his responsibilities. Shoveling coal and stoking the furnace presented an odorous chore, and snow removal seemed a pleasure by comparison. During warm weather, he helped his mother clip washed clothes to the clothesline that ran from the house to the garage – back and forth – and when loaded on a breezy day exploded in a profusion of colors giving it the look of a sailing ship. In later years he would close his eyes and recall how a clean shirt would smell of sun and fresh air. His mother Josie had always been so positive about life. Her new country afforded her security, and the small town where she and Sven owned their home gave her an anchor that she grasped fiercely. The kitchen was her domain where she boiled coffee in a metal pot with eggshells in the bottom for clarity.

By the time Lars had entered the Littleton High School a mile down the river, he was also working for his father in the millwork. He learned woodworking from a young man not much older than himself. August had left high school and worked at the mill full time. Gus’s love of wood and woodworking was contagious and helped shape Lars’s lifelong affection for the millwork business. On the very first day of his after-school apprenticeship, August asked him if he knew the difference between hardwood and softwood?"

Lars quickly replied, I can easily make an indentation with my fingernail in softwood. It’s less dense and I also know it’s softwood because of its lightweight.

August handed Lars a short section of a 2 X 4. It was blonde in color with a little heartwood visible and so light it almost floated. What’s this?

Well, it’s a softwood, that’s for sure, Lars replied as he dug his fingernail into the wood grain.

Gus handed Lars a small piece of a pine 2 X 4. This is softwood. It is actually a little heavier than the basswood piece, but basswood is a deciduous species. It’s hardwood, Lars.

And thus, Lars’s woodworking education began. Gus, the teacher, and he became great friends. Lars learned to grade the multitudinous species of hardwood and to operate not just the lathes and other machines, but also the handheld wood plane. The days were long: school, sports, and the millwork.

THREE

M cHenry County exemplified farm country at its best. Everything grew in the rich black dirt that lay deep in the straight plowed furrows that had never suffered chemicals or crop drain. Farmers said that you needed to be careful where you flipped your cigarette butt because a tobacco tree would sprout. Many of Lars’s high school gang—girls too—worked on the nearby farms. Everyone turned golden brown in the summer sun and on weekends when they gathered at the quarry, they all worked on the small remaining parts of their body that remained pale.

The McHenry County Fair came to Littleton in early August. It was the most important event for everyone in the county, the town people as well as country folk. The farmers brought their livestock, the town people displayed their wares, the traveling fair clan added games, events, and glamour and the kids gathered to see and be seen. The memories of the sounds and smells would last a lifetime. The barnyard odor of the animals fused with the tantalizing smells of sausage, deep-fried food, and corn on a stick heightened the memorable experience. Barkers and hawkers selling their wares and entertainment played to everyone’s senses and added to the carnival atmosphere. The county fair provided the time and the place for everyone to mingle and jostle with neighbors rarely seen during the rest of the year. It delivered the venue to meet new friends or just to watch the parade of people one would never know.

At the first fair where Lars went without his parents, he met Ruth, a short, buxom farm girl. She also attended Littleton High School, a class behind him. Ruthie was a study in robust energy, and she seemed to know where all the fair’s excitements were. She became the Elmwood tribe’s leader and tour guide that year. One of the most popular attractions, boxing, took place in a large tent found on the edge of the fairgrounds. Here, the traveling pro boxer would take on anyone from the packed tent for three rounds. There were lots of takers, but few made it to the third round. Matches between locals caused the noise and energy in the steamy tent to become intense. Those who chose to take part were paired by age and size. They wore their street clothes.

Ruthie watched a husky broad-shouldered boy work his way toward the ring. Lars saw him as well but didn’t know him. He looks surly. Is he from around here? Lars asked.

That’s Rufus. He’s the class bully. He is always fighting and loves it, and he is forever watching me, which makes me uncomfortable. I think he enjoys causing pain. He needs someone to call his bluff and poke him in the face. I bet he is a coward under all that swagger. She looked back at Lars and her hazel eyes studied him for a long moment. Do it, Lars. Poke this jerk on the nose. You will be everyone’s hero, and then she hesitated slightly, especially mine.

Word of the challenge spread quickly around the fairgrounds and the tent soon filled beyond regulation. It billowed with excitement. The fight lasted three rounds, and in the end, two very bloody and weary fighters stood in the middle of the ring where the referee raised their gloved hands. Neither was declared the winner. One would never forget the fight and the other had already forgotten it and was thinking of other possibilities. Lars learned later that he had broken the bully’s nose.

That same lazy sweltering summer Ruthie took Lars to a secluded meadow along the river and delivered her promise. She was raised on a farm where the coupling of animals was commonplace. Comfortable with this intimacy, she delicately moved the tall handsome boy into a physical world he had only dreamed about.

FOUR

B oth Lars, and later, his brother Arne, went to the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign near the center of the state. Arne was studious, bright, and ultimately earned a law degree and upon graduation was hired by a large law firm in Washington, D.C. Lars, on the other hand, studied just enough to pass and while doing so, had a good time. His charm and good looks attracted women. During school vacations, he would always return home with a girlfriend in tow. Over the years his family lost track of their names and faces. Lars also loved to sing. He had a deep mellifluous voice and became president of the University glee club. In his senior year, he and three buddies formed a quartet and traveled the country singing for their dinner and favors. The West, especially California, intrigued Lars. After the tour, he lingered in San Francisco, visited Hollywood, and debated in his mind whether he should settle in the west or return to Elmwood.

In 1924 Lars returned to Elmwood with a university degree. His polish and sophistication caught the town’s eye, and he was quickly absorbed into the social circles that lived in the rolling hills that surrounded the town.

He began to work again at his father’s millwork and continued what became a lifelong love affair with the craft. The texture and earthy smell of the hardwood attracted Lars. His old friend and mentor Gus greeted him enthusiastically and he refreshed Lars’s ability to name each wood species and grade the quality. Lars loved black locust because of its elegant color contrast, and he became adept at using it to form wooden pegs to add strength and beauty to a joint. His father wisely insisted that Lars work with each machine until he had mastered its operation. He started with the box miter saw, and after he became competent, and still had all his fingers, he moved on to the radial saw, and then the band saw.

What intrigued the community, particularly the young women both single and married, was Lars’s raw masculinity that lurked just under the veneer of refinement and self-confidence. His height and chiseled features and the timbre of his voice made him stand out in any crowd. He drank ale in the tavern with the men from the shop on Fridays and sipped champagne in elegant homes on Saturday evenings. He looked as good in overalls as in fine suits. A man for all seasons. The joke around town circulated that his amorous exploits were so blatant that Sven had to change the shop name from joinery to millwork.

FIVE

September 1973

T he rains slipped away as quickly as they had arrived leaving the now empty park with a fragrance of damp grass and sweet air. The scent opened a floodgate of memories for Lars as he abandoned the gazebo and headed along the footpath that followed the riverbank. He and Elizabeth had walked this path often, through the sprawling woods and across the narrow footbridge to a reedy spit of land that protruded into the river. Now, the sluggish current seemed to linger and toy with the reeds and willows along the bank. Silence suffused the trail as he trudged back across the bridge and then north through the trees. He watched a large tree branch carried by the current further out. Like time, it moved along swiftly, briefly before him in the moment and then gone.

Two women had dominated his life. Their influence on him differed—there were few similarities. Elizabeth, blonde and statuesque, had never intruded on his affairs. They respected each other while enduring the fissures in their marriage. Yes, they had produced four children and it was this commonality that added the glue to the marriage. When the kids left home, he and Elizabeth drifted further apart and became strangers living in the same house. They were always proper and courteous, but the warmth had evaporated. It was only at the end of Elizabeth’s life that a new fervor arrived in their relationship. As he walked, Lars thought about so many things in their life together and relished them now, searching for meaning, wishing he could change some of it and sad that it was too late.

SIX

L ars met Elizabeth at a Christmas party. She lived on the west side of town but was away most of the year attending an eastern girl’s college. Everyone in Lars’s crowd considered her a catch. She was from an old family in Elmwood: lots of money, devout Baptists, and notoriously conservative. Liz radiated health and beauty—her tall curvaceous figure reflected this. She seemed more a woman than a teenager, very sensible and disciplined—never silly or discourteous. She could talk at length on any number of subjects: books, travel, religion, politics. She relished diving into sensitive subjects and did so dispassionately and was usually well-informed. Her patient willingness to consider another viewpoint allowed heated conversations with friends. During a dinner party, she would sit quietly and focus her large blue eyes on the person expressing an opposing perspective and then coolly and efficiently dismantle his or her argument and justify her own. Sometimes the opposing position appeared unassailable and then it would crumble under Liz’s onslaught.

Everybody wanted Liz on