In “Homestead,” a plot of frontier land leads to a quick courtship

“Homestead” was a finalist for the 2024 Colorado Book Award for Novel.

God made the trees and men make the kindling, they say. One hundred and fifty acres of white spruce and paper birch, alder, aspen, cottonwood, and willow—spears of evergreen pointed at the sky, and the pale and peeling bark, and the leaves of every branch—all for the taking if the acres are proved. Fell the trees and clear twenty acres of land to seed a crop, raise a cabin with nails and timber, and weather the seasons. This is the way to earn and own the deed. 

Lawrence stands where the cabin will stand, the marsh and muskeg easing miles toward the marine inlet of Knik Arm, and beyond, the sloped rock of the Chugach Mountains, and the soaring crest of Pioneer Peak cragged in snow, the highest point on the horizon. Here, in this place, the low rising to meet the bluff on the northern ridgeline, and to the south, the thick-lain woods that lead to the lake that has water for hauling. On these acres in Point MacKenzie, in the territory of Alaska, is where he will homestead. 

He had considered the map at the Bureau of Land Management as the man looked on, the parcels divided and numbered, free, and no price to be paid, though there were conditions. Traced his hand over the paper and waited for a feeling, a jolt of decision. So many prospects before him, and he closed his eyes, and asked for a sign, and when he looked again everything in him aimed toward the dot of a small lake. “You sure?” said the man, stern. “Most take more than a glance.”

He was certain. With the weight of his left hand he wrote his signature, Lawrence J. Beringer, on the promissory title for lot 041180. Took the map he was given, and as he was leaving Lawrence heard the man say, “Bastard won’t survive the winter.” Grit in his teeth, the official papers in his grasp, and he drove to Point MacKenzie, the miles ticking, that man saying he would amount to nothing up here, that he would abandon and forfeit his claim. Had taken stock of him, lean and slight, and passed judgment, quick as that. Happened all his life. 

He drove for hours and the gravel road turned to mud and then there was not an access road that he knew, or any sense of a living. When there was a path no farther, he headed into the thick trees with a pistol and a compass, his rucksack filled with painted wooden stakes to mark the edges of his property. He unrolled the map and could not find the plot number or the terrain, and he blamed himself, and then he understood the wrong that had been committed against him—and he tore it in half. 

Should have checked the map, not trusted the man to do his job, this was not an honest mistake. Had it in mind to drive to the bureau and confront him. But he would not turn back now. He walked through the woods, the sweat of the search on his neck as the time wore, and the mosquitoes swarmed, and when he slapped the sting, the blood ran down, and he had to look away. Washed out the faint taste of metal in his mouth with water from his canteen, swished and spat, quickly dabbed his arm with a handkerchief. He went farther in, making his own trail, the needle on the compass his only direction. He crossed bear tracks dry in the dirt, the claws short of the length of his boot, bigger than a black bear’s. He knew to heed the signs of grizzlies, and he checked the bullets in the pistol, made his steps light. The ground edged to swamp with shallows, dark earth and muck, and he pressed on to find the lake. In the brush a cow moose grazed with twin calves flanked at her side, their downy heads poking through the low shrubs, and though he was quiet, the cow herded the yearlings back into the thicket. At a pass he came to a meadow, and in the open view of the grass, far in the climbing distance, a large white sphere, masted and man-made, a question. He drank more water from the canteen, leaned against a birch tree. Could belong to him, for all he knew, this birch, the dewed ferns bright in the blind of the woods, the sodden ground under his boots, the bloodthirsty mosquitoes. 

A chop in the air, and he searched the sky above, and he knew the sound, but out in this wilderness it could not be, and he sickened at the thought that what he heard was not of the world. Then a shadow appeared, and circled him, and a helicopter landed soft in the clearing, silver with a red nose and tail, a white star circled in blue painted on the side, air force. The engine tuned and the blades slowed, and he waited. The pilot opened a door and waved him over, and with caution, he approached. There were two men in the front. 

“Where you going?” asked the pilot. “You don’t seem like you know.” 

Lawrence showed him the title and the torn and useless map and did not mention his service. 

“One of those tenderfoots,” said the other pilot. He knew of a trail leading off the landing field at the outpost and could show him. “Looks like you could take that and drive through the marsh to your land. Lucky I spotted you,” he said. 

Lawrence pointed and asked about the white sphere and the outpost. The pilot said he had stumbled on a radar tower for Site Bay, Nike Missile Defense. Lawrence clenched his fist. Missiles, when he had tried to find a place far away from everything. “You won’t even know we’re here,” said the pilot. Lawrence almost laughed. He took in a breath. He had chosen the lot and he would find it. 

And so Lawrence was lifted up and flown into the sky, as he had been in the war, above the ridgelines and the jagged face of Pioneer, above the wide green of the trees, and he was lost, straining and searching, the stock of his life held up to clouds and air, his feet afloat, a pressure at his temples, his arms heavy and empty, and suddenly a bullet of light in the acreage below, the sharp gleam of a lake, his lake. There, his land, his homestead, where his children will call the years. Where he will cut the timber and till the ground and build a cabin of his own measure. He will claim what he is owed. 

And by the work of his hands this will all be his.

There are scores of men in Alaska, their faces a worn stare, and the first man Marie likes the look of who has prospects and could be tied down long enough to marry, she will have him. Visiting her sister and brother-in- law, Sheila and Sly, all the way from Conroe, Texas, with the money they sent and no return date, she walks with them into the Moose Lodge and mouths open and forks hang in the air. Talking to Sly is a way to be closer to her, be a big man and offer what before was a hassle, a favor to have hers. Marie laughs too much and too easily, the charm of being the shiniest thing in the room, and sips her beer to be polite and to avoid the swarm of do-gooders if her glass becomes empty. Two women at a table are collecting signatures for the support of statehood—now that there is an Alaska Constitution this should follow—and one talks about how Alaskans should be able to vote for the President and for their governor, who currently is chosen by the President, which is just not how things should be done, we’re taxpayers, after all. Sly and Sheila add their names and Marie takes a pamphlet, and then the raffle is announced. They bustle over to the buffet and fill their plates and sit down. 

To her left, a table over, is a man with a shadow on the sharp line of his jaw. The other men at his table steal glimpses of her but not this man, his hair black as polish, and he puts his knife down after each bite, and chews with care, and clears his plate. He fills his plate again, and the raffle ends, and the other men around him get up and return with dessert, bread pudding, but he eats his helping of pot roast and potatoes and gravy. She has a feeling about him, about the hunger he is slow to fill, and the edges of his face that cut the air, and she says, “Mister, they ever feed you ’round here?” with a hint of a drawl. He knows she is speaking to him, his back tenses, and he glances over. And nothing more. He does not answer her and stands up to leave. He is not wide or tall in strap, but wiry, a spine set straight. She dares not turn her head around and sinks into her seat. Then a tap on her shoulder. On a scrap of paper he has written: 150 ACRES. 

“Tomorrow,” he says, a rasp in his deep voice. 

That night she waits for Sheila and Sly to retire to their bedroom and she studies his handwriting, the lean to the right, steep and falling, the letters squared and pained. In this she sees a man with a will that defies his size. A man making his way. A man, and not the boys she knew in Conroe. And not the old getter who thought he was waiting for her. She rolls the note and places the paper underneath her tongue, holds the promise there. Land. Acre by acre. This one she would endure.

Excerpted from “Homestead.” Copyright 2023 by Melinda Moustakis. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books, a division of Macmillan Publishers. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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