by Ron Levitsky
Still chewing on the straw, Al asked, “Should I have Elroy get over there? That’s part of his patrol area.”
Tom looked at Grace, then shook his head. “He’s probably on his way in. I’ll take the call myself.”
He didn’t bother with the siren. At ten minutes to midnight Bear Coat had long ago tucked itself into bed, except for the five bars whose lights winked like fireflies, a last call before closing. A block ahead a tavern door opened, and in the warm night air, Grace heard a man and woman giggling. Passing the door as it closed, she smelled stale beer and cigarette smoke and shivered, because once Steve would’ve walked from such a place, his face suddenly illuminated in the darkened doorway as he lit a cigarette and smiled at somebody’s joke.
As they reached the north end of town, the road went from concrete to gravel. Slate-colored clouds obscured the moon and stars; in the great blackness of night, even the car’s headlights drifted away like smoke. Somewhere ahead lay the ridge and the Black Hills, but at that moment Grace felt bound neither by space nor by time. Around her she sensed the prairie grass blowing gently in waves, and the car seemed to drift in a great ocean. Then no longer the ocean; she might have taken flight, tiny dashboard lights the constellations she was leaving far behind.
Any moment the vast darkness would open and she would see the spirit world with its tall grass, herds of buffalo, tipis of her ancestors, and the faces of those who had gone before her. Maybe even her husband; some of the old ones believed that there would be a place for those whites good of heart. She needed somebody to confide in, and her father . . .
Will had said their father was all right, or had he? It couldn’t be happening again, not after so many years. She heard her fingers drumming on the car door. Tom must’ve heard it too. Could he be thinking the same thing? Would it start all over again?
Light shone through the first-floor windows of her house. Will appeared suddenly in the headlights. He blinked hard and pushed back a black wave of hair as they stepped from the car. Grace’s brother leaned heavily against the hood; his undershirt, soaked with sweat, stuck to his chest. Tall and well built, still he looked like a little boy standing next to Tom.
Tom asked, “Where’s Gates?”
“Up on the ridge.”
“Your father up there too?”
“Yeah.”
While Tom went into the trunk for a flashlight, Grace pulled her brother aside. “What’s Father got to do with this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, God, I can’t go through this again. What’ll it do to Stevie? You haven’t told him, have you?”
Will looked down at his shoes. “Stevie’s not here. I went upstairs to his bedroom, and he’s gone.”
“He isn’t up on the ridge with . . .?”
“No, I checked. At least he ain’t there now. Maybe we oughta tell Tom.”
“You don’t say one word about Stevie. You understand?”
“But . . .”
She shook her head to silence him, as Tom returned. They drove slowly up the ridge.
Will pointed from the back seat. “That light up there’s Gates’s flashlight. Ain’t too strong anymore—I left it when I ran to call you.”
A few minutes later they parked at the top of the ridge, beside the sweat lodge. Will hurried out. He picked up the flashlight and walked a few yards to their left.
“Over . . . over here.”
Grace followed Will’s gaze to the ground. She thought of Halloween, the way Gates’s head lay like a pumpkin in the darkness, illuminated only by the dim light. She could barely see the body stretched behind.
Tom examined the corpse. “Back of his head’s smashed in. He’s dead, all right. Been awhile—body’s getting stiff.” He searched Gates and removed a piece of paper from an inside coat pocket. “Some kind of bill of sale”—he looked up—“between Gates and Will.”
He ran his flashlight back and forth across the ground between Gates’s corpse and the Indian remains to their right. He followed his beam of light toward the skeleton. “It looks like there was a struggle over here—a toolbox is knocked over. Then Gates dragged himself as far as he got and gave out. Don’t see what killed him, though. Will, you sure you didn’t touch anything?”
Will’s gaze was transfixed by the corpse.
“Will, you all right?”
His brow furrowed. “Yeah.”
Tom went back to the corpse. “You touch anything?”
“No.”
“Hmm—his right hand’s bandaged. What’s this?” He pried something from Gates’s hand and held the object to the light. “It’s some dirt—no, too hard. Maybe an old piece of rusty metal.” After putting it in his shirt pocket, he walked over to Will. “You said your father was here. The sweat lodge?”
“No, over there.”
Tom took a few steps, then stopped suddenly, bending his knees. “There’s a stone here, and it looks like some blood’s on it. We’d better see your father.”
Grace walked with Tom to the vision pit. He shone his flashlight into the blackness. “Saul True Sky.”
Her father looked up.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m talking to White Bear.”
Tom’s light crisscrossed the pit. “Who’s White Bear?”
“The one who’s been dug up over there. His wanagi called me.”
“Wanagi—his ghost?”
“I’ve been flying with him, through the clouds, back to our ancestors. I’ve seen the buffalo chewing on this grass.”
“Come on out of there.”
Her father crawled from the pit and stood beside Tom, who asked, “Do you know why I’m here?”
“It must be something bad, or you wouldn’t have come.”
“Albert Gates is dead. His body’s over there—back of his head’s crushed. You know anything about that?”
“No. I’ve been with White Bear.”
“You know why Gates came here in the middle of the night?”
Grace stepped beside her father. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“He came here for White Bear’s wotawe. He came this afternoon, but I wouldn’t let him take it.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Tom asked, “The two of you fight this afternoon? Gates’s right hand is bandaged—you do that?”
“No.”
“Did White Bear?”
Her father’s face slowly broke into a smile. “You think I’m crazy.”
“Did you kill Gates?”
“That’s what’s wrong with you. You don’t believe in the spirits. You are a full-blood, more than my own children, yet you are too much of this earth. You need to fly with the spirits. When you finally fly, then you will truly be Lakota.”
He tried to put a hand on Tom’s shoulder, but Tom grabbed it and stared at the sleeve.
“That looks like dried blood. There’s blood on a stone back there. Could be what smashed Gates’s head in. You know anything about it?”
“It’s one of the stones for Ike’s inipi.”
Taking the flashlight from Will, Grace looked at the stone and recognized its pattern—the face in green moss resembling Albert Gates. She held her breath, not daring to look at either man. Where was Stevie?
Far below them, points of light punctuated the darkness. For a moment Grace imagined they were stars and pictured herself above them, flying with the spirits to find her son. Blinking, she realized they were the headlights of the paramedics. The ambulance jerked to a halt, as did several cars behind it. Men ran toward Gates’s body.
Tom took the small piece of metal from his pocket, holding it in an open palm. “Do you know what this is?”
Her father shook his head.
Suddenly light flooded their eyes.
“Jesus!” Tom said. “What the hell are you doing?”
Andi stood beside them with her camera. “Isn’t it evidence?”
“Just take the usual pictures of the body and send them over. I keep telli
ng you, the town’s not going to pay for a hundred shots of the crime scene.”
Returning the piece of metal to his pocket, he glanced at the corpse, then said, “True Sky, you’d better come with me.”
Grace shook her head. “Tom, this is crazy! Father couldn’t kill anybody!” She put a hand to her mouth, knowing it was the worst thing she could’ve said.
He grabbed her so close, she could feel his heart pounding. “No? It’s not like he never done this before.”
Chapter Three – WEDNESDAY MORNING
All morning the airplane wing had played tag with the sun slipping through clouds as it moved west. Now, as the jet began its descent, Rosen saw from his window the southern end of Lake Michigan. Its azure water shone smooth and fragile as glass; drop a stone from this height and the lake might shatter. The three of them used to skate on the frozen lake, laughing while their blades made designs in the ice. He shook his head. Of all the airports in the world, he hated O’Hare the most.
“Are you finished with this, sir?”
The flight attendant was pointing, across an empty seat, to his cup of tea.
“Yes.” He checked his watch. “We’ll be arriving a few minutes early.”
“Uh-huh. You flying in for business?”
“Just making a connection,” he said, again looking out the window.
He hadn’t quite told the truth, but then he hadn’t quite lied either. Anywhere else there was never any thought of lying. He would’ve been, as always, a stranger among strangers, like them slipping through the airport to grab a taxi to some hotel. Inside the gray or green room, with its paintings bolted to the wall, he would unpack quickly before going downstairs to eat, and no one would see that he hadn’t called home, because there was no one at home to call.
Chicago was different; in the city where he’d spent most of his life, he could play the stranger only by lying to himself. There were times when he did—running through O’Hare to make a connection without even a phone call, without daring to look around for fear he might meet someone who had known him long ago, when he wore his peyot, curled sideburns. How many times, as a boy, had he been told by the rabbi that emet, truth, was God’s seal. Still Rosen committed the abomination and lied to himself, because there were some things worse than a lie.
He watched the small houses and baseball diamonds near the airport grow larger as the plane dropped lower, until, skimming a highway overpass, its wheels suddenly touched concrete and it roared along the runway to a long, slow halt. Rosen took his time, straightening the blue plaid tie she’d given him last Hanukkah. He wouldn’t have to lie today. After the aisle had cleared, he took his briefcase from the overhead rack and walked from the plane into the airport.
She was in his arms before he even saw her. Turning up her chin, he kissed her gently, then they hugged again.
Sarah looked up at him, and her eyes glimmered, bleeding the mascara. “Daddy . . . Daddy.”
She wore her long black hair in a ponytail, the way she had as a little girl—the way he liked it. But the ponytail seemed out of place with the mascara and blush, and the earrings. When had she gotten her ears pierced?
They walked into the waiting area, and he sat beside her, still holding her hand. She wore a Cubs T-shirt that hung over her cut-offs. She looked at him for a long time, then giggled and wiped her eyes with a tissue.
“You look terrific,” he said. “I can’t believe . . .”
“You can’t believe how much I’ve grown. Daddy, you always say that. I suppose you wouldn’t recognize me walking down the street.”
“That’s right, especially with all that makeup.”
“It’s not that much. Besides, in a few more weeks I’ll be in high school.”
“I know, all grown up. Pretty soon you’ll be needing a face-lift and cellulite removal.” He looked past her. “Where’s your mother?”
“Parking the car. We were running a little late, so she dropped me off. Do you have much time?”
“About forty minutes. I have to make a connection for South Dakota.”
“What kind of case is it this time?”
“An American Indian’s been accused of murder.”
“How many people did he kill?”
“Isn’t one enough? Your mother isn’t letting you watch all those slasher movies, is she?”
“No. I didn’t mean anything.”
He sighed softly, stroking her hair. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just . . . I worry about you. How’s everything?”
“Great. I’m taking tennis in summer school—it’s a way of getting acquainted with the high school. I really like it. Mom and I’ve been playing. I can almost beat her.”
“She’s probably afraid of breaking a nail. You’re keeping up with piano?”
“Uh-huh. In fact, I took a three-week course at the music center on advanced theory. It was pretty interesting.”
“Your mother didn’t mention anything about the class.”
“It was a kind of spur-of-the-moment thing. You’re coming to my fall recital?”
“Have I ever missed one? How’s everything else?”
“Oh, Daddy, did I tell you I’ve learned to play stride piano? One of the albums you left me—Joe Turner, you remember.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve been fooling around with the keyboard, playing like he did. Sounds like a waterfall and drives Mrs. Chang crazy. She says, ‘Stop that racket! That not your lesson. You waste your time. You waste my time. Very bad girl!’” Sarah giggled nervously.
“I’d love to hear it. How’s everything else?”
Her toes dug into the carpet. “Okay.”
“Are you getting used to Shelly?”
“I guess. He doesn’t expect me to call him Dad or anything. He tries to be nice. We all went to a ball game last week. I like his house. He’s got a Jacuzzi in the backyard he lets me and my friends use.”
“That’s good.”
“He’s still kind of geeky. I mean, like a podiatrist’s supposed to be a real doctor, or what? And he’s got all this elevator music on tape—sometimes I think I’m living in a shopping mall. You know, he used to play the accordion as a kid. Talk about being a dork.”
“It’s all right, Sarah.”
“Huh?”
For the second time, Rosen lifted her chin. “It’s all right to like him.”
He looked into her eyes and smiled his best liar’s smile. Sarah seemed about to say something but, instead, wiped her eyes again. He moved his hand toward her, hesitated, then clicked open his briefcase.
“Here’s a little something you said you wanted. It’s extra large; I know you like them big.”
He handed her a Georgetown University jersey, with the Hoya bulldog emblem covering the front.
Grinning, she pulled it over her Cubs shirt. “This is great, just great. Thanks.”
“The bulldog kind of reminds me of my boss, Mr. Nahagian.”
Her index finger traced the emblem. “It looks like the dog on ‘Tom and Jerry,’ the one that’s always chasing Tom. I used to watch the show Saturday mornings while Mom graded papers and you worked on some legal stuff. Then you’d take me to the park. Remember?”
Rosen nodded but said nothing. Those memories were like scar tissue; words, any words, scratched them raw. So he clicked his briefcase shut and sat quietly.
“Oh,” Sarah said, reaching into her pocket, “this is for you.” She handed him a plastic key chain in the shape of a quarter note. “I remember how you were always misplacing your car keys. It glows in the dark. The quarter note’s just a little something to remind you of me.”
“Thanks, I can really use it.”
As he put the key chain into his pocket, Bess approached them.
“Hello, Nate.” She sat beside their daughter. “You look good.”
“You too.”
In a way, she did. Short hair cut into a flip, an even tan, a powder-blue blouse with matching shorts, and jewelry inclu
ding her piece of the rock—the diamond engagement ring and wedding band from Shelly.
“Nate, I know you don’t have much time, but there’re are a few things we need to talk about.”
“Sure.”
She handed a five-dollar bill to her daughter. “Honey, get me a cup of coffee with two sugars, tea with lemon for your dad, and whatever you want. No candy—we’re going to meet Cousin Donna for lunch in an hour.”
“But I want to stay with Daddy. He’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
“I promise this won’t take long. Then you can have him all to yourself.”
After Sarah left, they both shifted from the empty chair between them.
He said, “I’m surprised you remembered—about the tea with lemon.”
“I remember a lot. Like all those years picking you up here at O’Hare, at God knows what time of day or night.”
“That was good exercise. You’ve gained a few pounds since then. Better start taking your coffee without sugar, or pretty soon you’ll be lumbering into Weight Watchers, measuring your food like gold dust and eating zucchini whip. Does Shelly like his women plump, or just their feet?”
She allowed herself a small smile. “That’s good, Nate, those smart-aleck remarks of yours. Keeps me from getting too sentimental. You wouldn’t like that—neither of us would.”
Rosen watched Bess absently reach for her hair to play with the tresses no longer there, the ones she had let down slowly on their wedding night. Suddenly he wanted to touch her hair and kiss her, to see if she’d respond. She would. They had loved each other all those years—not just devotion, but the heartbeat quickening and blood pumping. Grappling in the tangled sheets . . .
“I just wanted to let you know about the school psychologist’s final report concerning Sarah. They’re mailing you a copy, but basically things have been much better. It’s been . . . what? . . . almost eight months since I married Shelly. The psychologist believes that Sarah’s showing the usual symptoms of anger and guilt as a result of our divorce, but he thinks there’s something more, something Sarah’s not telling. In any event, both he and I agree she’s been adjusting. It’ll just take time.”
Still watching Bess’s hand, Rosen said nothing.
