Twelve Years Gone, He Returned With a Cabbage

The Man Who Sold Sunshine

Mr. Mercer came home to the Yukon carrying a wedding ring and a cabbage.

I was nine that summer, helping my Aunt Ada at her boardinghouse outside Dawson. The gold rush had filled our yard with muddy boots, hungry miners, and men who checked their pockets whenever someone smiled.

Mr. Mercer stopped beside the chopping block.

“Does Ada still live here?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

He took off his hat. “Her husband.”

I looked at the cabbage.

“Was that where you’ve been?”

He laughed, then stopped when Aunt Ada stepped onto the porch.

She held a wooden spoon. He held his hat against his coat.

“Hello, Hugh,” she said.

“Hello, Ada.”

The soup bubbled behind her. Somewhere down the hill, a hammer rang against iron.

“Twelve years,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That cabbage had better be fresh.”

Years later, I learned what Hugh Mercer had been. He had sold worthless mining claims and bottles of “gold-finding powder.” Once, he had charged people to see a tame northern light. It was a lantern behind green cloth.

But that afternoon, he only opened his palm.

A thin gold-colored ring lay across it.

“I bought it back,” he said. “And I’ve paid the people I could find. There are others yet.”

Aunt Ada did not reach for it.

“Are you here to make another promise?”

“I’d rather wash dishes.”

She studied him. Then she pointed her spoon toward a mountain of greasy pans.

“There’s your chance.”

He put the ring in his pocket and rolled up his sleeves.

A Pocket Full of Nothing

Hugh slept in the woodshed that night. Aunt Ada gave him two blankets, a pillow, and no invitation to stay longer.

By breakfast, he had stacked the firewood.

By supper, he had broken a cup.

“That comes out of my wages,” he said.

“You haven’t got wages,” Aunt Ada answered.

“Then I’m starting badly.”

Her mouth twitched.

Hugh stayed. He scrubbed pots, fetched water, and peeled potatoes so thinly that the skins looked like curled paper.

I followed him everywhere.

“Can you really make money disappear?” I asked.

“I was much too good at that.”

“Show me.”

He borrowed my penny, closed his fist, and opened it empty.

“Where is it?”

“Behind your ear.”

It wasn’t. It was behind his ear, which made me laugh so hard I dropped the potato bucket.

On Saturday, the camp held a supper to raise money for a school stove. Hugh offered a show.

Aunt Ada folded her arms.

“No gold-finding powder.”

“Only tricks. And I’ll say so.”

He painted a board and propped it by the tables.

HUGH MERCER’S HONEST TRICKS
Nothing magical. Nothing for sale.
Coins for the school welcome.

Miners came to see whether that was a trick, too.

Hugh pulled a carrot from an empty hat. He made three cups hide one potato. Then he showed everyone how it worked.

“You’re giving away the secret!” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “Feels rather nice.”

The coin jar grew heavy.

Then Aunt Ada asked, “What about the ring, Hugh?”

His hands went still.

The Door Left Open

Hugh put the ring on the table.

“That needs explaining,” he said.

Chairs scraped. Nobody reached for another biscuit.

“When we married, I told Ada it was solid gold. It isn’t. There’s gold outside and brass underneath.”

He rubbed one thumb across his palm.

“Then I pawned it before I left. Ada thought it was being mended. Buying it back doesn’t mend that.”

Aunt Ada picked up the ring.

“I knew about the brass.”

Hugh blinked.

“My finger turned green, Hugh. I wasn’t likely to miss it.”

A chuckle traveled around the tables. Hugh stayed quiet.

“You could have written,” she said.

“I kept wanting a better story to send.”

“I could have done with a true one.”

He nodded.

She slipped the ring onto her finger. It stopped at the knuckle.

“Well,” she said. “Twelve years of kneading dough.”

“A jeweler could widen it.”

“With your wages.”

He looked up. “I’ve got wages?”

“Starting Monday.”

By the time the first snow dusted the woodpile, the school had its stove and Aunt Ada had her ring widened.

Hugh was still there. Every week, he put aside money for someone he owed. Every evening, he dried the dishes beside her.

Then one night she handed him a pillow.

His face fell. “Am I moving on?”

“Out of the woodshed. Your side of the bed looks ridiculous without one.”

I remember him standing in the kitchen, holding that pillow with both hands.

I am older now than either of them was then. Still, whenever someone speaks of finding treasure in the Yukon, I think of my uncle.

He came back with a brass ring.

It was the empty pockets he finally stopped hiding that brought him home.