by Ron Levitsky
“Yes. It’s a present from Stevie’s grandfather. I didn’t realize how wonderful it could sound.”
Dr. Hartrey sipped her second cup of coffee. “Grace tells me the instrument is a courting flute. You’re a lucky man.”
“I need all the luck I can get, especially with what happened in court this morning.”
“I didn’t mean to bring up—”
“I’m glad you did.”
Grace set her jaw tight, not wanting to let the words begin, knowing how they’d taste of anger and fear. But Rosen stared at her; he wasn’t going to let Stevie alone.
“What’s the matter, Grace?”
Shaking her head, she finally said, “Why don’t you leave the boy alone?”
“I’m not bothering him. As a matter of fact, we have many things in common. We’re both interested in baseball, music, and other traditions. And we both like his grandfather very much.”
“He told the truth in court this morning. Can’t you leave him alone? What his grandfather did has nothing to do with the boy.”
Dr. Hartrey nodded in agreement. “Stevie is telling the truth.”
Rosen said, “Why don’t we let the boy speak for himself?”
Stevie put the siyotanka to his lips and began playing. The music was no longer sweet, but low and mournful—something, Grace knew, that shouldn’t be coming from a courting flute. No one spoke, even after he’d finished the melody.
Finally, Stevie lowered the flute. “That was a song for the dead, to help a restless spirit on its journey. Maybe it will help Mr. Gates’s spirit.” He looked across the table to Rosen. “I didn’t lie. I told everybody what I heard Mr. Gates say. I wish he hadn’t told me, but he did.”
“There, you see?” Grace said. “Now will you leave us alone?”
Slowly, Rosen put his left hand on the table and rolled back the cuff to reveal a small scar. Grace shuddered. It looked so much like . . . No, it couldn’t be.
“Remember this, Stevie?” Rosen asked.
The boy nodded. He spoke in the same detached way he’d been speaking ever since taking that medication. “I didn’t mean it. I just got scared. I used to be scared all the time.”
“That’s all right. I think I understand.” To Grace, “The night Andi and I brought Stevie home from Deadwood, he cut me.”
She was too afraid to speak, but Dr. Hartrey said, “Stevie told me about the incident. He was very confused at the time. It was a blind reaction, as he said, based on fear. He was afraid you’d get him to tell the truth, because of what might happen to his grandfather.”
Rosen nodded, then used the index finger of his right hand to lightly trace the scar. “When I was a boy, before morning services I used to wrap the tefillin, a leather strap, around my hand and arm. It had a leather box with passages of the Torah inside to keep one’s thoughts on God.” Again he traced the scar. “One of the straps went right there. I think the courting flute is something like that—it keeps your thoughts on God. It reminds you what it means to be an honorable man.”
For a minute everyone stared at the scar on Rosen’s wrist. Grace knew where he was going but didn’t know how to stop him.
He said, “When the medical examiner looked at Gates’s body, besides the blow to the back of the head, he found a cut on Gate’s wrist. It had been bandaged but could’ve been made earlier that same day. Did you do that, Stevie? Did you cut Albert Gates with your knife?”
Stevie fingered the courting flute. “Uh-huh.”
“Gates poked my father with one of his digging picks,” Grace said. “Stevie was just protecting his grandfather. You said yourself how much the boy loves him.”
“How close was Saul, when Stevie cut Gates?”
“He was right there. He stopped Stevie and took away his knife. It was self-defense. Anybody who’d seen it would’ve said the same thing.”
“The wound bled?”
Grace furrowed her brow. “Bled? Yeah . . . sure.”
“Could Gates’s blood have gotten onto your father’s sleeve?”
“I guess so.”
Dr. Hartrey asked, “Are you suggesting that’s how the victim’s blood got onto Saul’s sleeve?”
Rosen nodded.
Grace wasn’t sure how to react. She wanted desperately to believe that her father was innocent, but not if that meant her son was guilty. Is that what Rosen was getting at?
Rosen leaned back and said to Stevie, “This place looks like it has a great soda fountain. Why don’t you go over there and have something on me?”
“You want to talk to my mom about me in private. That’s okay.” Handing Rosen the siyotanka, he slid from the booth and walked to a stool at the far end of the counter.
Dr. Hartrey asked, “Do you still have suspicions about the boy? Because in my professional opinion, he’s telling the truth. Of course, experts who testify in court are often labeled as hired guns, so I doubt you’ll take my word for it.”
“On the contrary, I believe you. I admit that after court adjourned, I called Sioux Falls to check your credentials. They’re very impressive. But I didn’t need you to confirm his honesty.” Rosen picked up the siyotanka. “I believe Stevie isn’t the kind of person to lie—not about this or anything else. I like to think we’re similar in that way, bound by the strength of our beliefs.”
“Then why these questions?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think he could lie, but I wasn’t sure if he could kill somebody.”
“That’s crazy,” Grace said. “You see how he is. He couldn’t—”
“How he is wasn’t the way he was last summer, before seeing a psychiatrist. Dr. Hartrey, can you honestly say that Stevie was incapable of the murder?”
She hesitated, searching for the right words. “I think he was in an extremely sensitive state and, if threatened, might have lashed out at his attacker.” She shook her head. “But the way the attack on Gates was described . . .”
“Exactly. If Gates was struck on the back of the head, how could he be physically threatening his assailant? No, Stevie isn’t the murderer.”
Grace relaxed against the cushion. The words came out without her thinking. “Thank God.”
Dr. Hartrey asked, “Then why all these questions about the blood? If you believe Stevie, doesn’t that make his grandfather the murderer?”
Rosen turned the siyotanka in his hands, as if the answer were written somewhere on the instrument. “I’m sure you know, doctor, there are usually several ways of seeing something.”
“Like a Rorschach test?”
“Sure, or the chanunpa—the sacred pipe Stevie and I smoked in Saul’s sweat lodge. To most people the pipe bowl is just an old piece of red stone. But to the Lakota it’s something quite different, isn’t it, Grace?”
She nodded, remembering what she’d so often been told by her father. “It’s the blood of the buffalo that gave their lives, so our people could exist. It seeped into the ground and turned to stone. For our people, it’s the blood of life.”
“The blood of life.” He paused for a moment, deep in thought, then slowly stood, one arm cradling the siyotanka. He laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Lunch is on me, ladies, as is the dessert Stevie seems to be enjoying. You’ve helped me not only to understand the boy but perhaps to clear Saul, as well.”
“Saul?” Grace repeated. “My father?”
Before she could ask him more, Rosen had picked up his briefcase from the other table and left the coffee shop. She looked at Dr. Hartrey.
The other woman shrugged. “I understand as little as you what he meant. But it sounds like good news, doesn’t it?”
“I . . . suppose so. Yes.”
Dr. Hartrey patted Grace’s hand and flashed one of her warmest smiles. “Well then, to hell with the cholesterol. Let’s have a piece of that delicious mud pie you were talking about.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rosen spent the next few hours in his motel room. Andi promised him the use of her car later in the afternoon.
Just as well; he needed time to think things through. He was almost certain what really happened to Albert Gates. Almost.
Lying back in bed, he blew gently into the courting flute while drifting in and out of sleep. As in an absurdist play, the people of Bear Coat passed through his mind. Saul and Ike sitting naked in the sweat lodge, while Judge Whistler rapped his gavel from inside the circular pit of heated stones. The stones glowing the same color as Pearl Whistler’s hair and giving off an aroma far stronger than cedar. Grace galloping her horse through a Tin Town bustling as it had a hundred years before. Will, Huggins, Cantrell, and Tom Cross Dog walking from the tin mine with a hundred other workers directly into a gambling casino, where Saul’s sweat lodge stood in the middle of the floor. Will’s hand opening to reveal a single nugget of gold. Instead of a band playing, the sweet, sad music of the courting flute filled the room. Stevie, standing on a balcony above them all, playing the siyotanka.
The boy had the same look as when he’d played the flute in the restaurant. Trying to hide his emotions, Stevie didn’t realize the music made more obvious the pain he felt for his grandfather. The pain and the love, and suddenly Rosen remembered seeing that same look on his own daughter’s face as, soon after his divorce, she sat at the piano. He should’ve taken the boy aside at lunch, but now that would have to wait. No, he couldn’t see Stevie, but at least he could talk to Sarah.
It was four o’clock. He liked calling her that time of day, five p.m. Chicago time, because usually she was home and Bess wasn’t. Sure enough, Sarah answered the phone.
“Nothing special,” Rosen said, “I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”
She laughed. “You must’ve had a bad day in court.”
“Don’t be a wise guy. So what’s new?”
“Not much,” she replied, then proceeded to recount a dozen events in her life, in such random order it was hard keeping up. That didn’t matter; he enjoyed simply listening to her enthusiasm—how much she relished life. That’s all he really wanted, for her to be happy.
“. . . . and Shelly’s opened up another office. That’s his fifth or sixth, I think.”
“You mean he has a chain of podiatrist offices?”
“Yeah, he’s even got commercials on TV. They’re kind of stupid, but funny too. One starts out with this baby counting its toes, and a voice says, ‘If you can’t count on your feet, what can you count on?’ You know, he works on some of the Cubs’ feet—Mark Grace, I think.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I asked Shelly to get you an autographed baseball. He’s taking Mom and me out Saturday night to celebrate the grand opening. We’re going to this neat restaurant with a huge salad bar. Wish you could come.”
“Me too,” he replied, without thinking.
“You mean you’d really come, even with Shelly there?”
He was surprised how easy the words came. “Sure, if that would please you. Unfortunately, I’m tied up with this murder case. When it’s over, maybe we could arrange something.”
“Daddy, I—” She stopped suddenly; someone behind her was chattering insistently.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Mrs. Chang, my piano teacher. She wants me to get back to my lesson. ‘You no break your concentration—very bad!’” She giggled.
“I didn’t know you had a lesson. Go ahead, but do me a favor. Leave the phone off the hook for a few minutes. I don’t get much of a chance to hear you play.”
Lying back in bed, the receiver cradled to his ear, Rosen listened to his daughter playing Chopin and pictured her brow furrowed in concentration as her fingers danced across the keyboard. Again his mind wandered, and he heard Stevie’s flute, the music’s sweet sadness reflected in the boy’s face.
Someone was knocking. Rosen hung up the receiver and returned the flute to his briefcase. Opening the door, he let Andi inside.
“Whew, it’s cold!” she said, pushing back her hood and unzipping her jacket. Removing her gloves, she gripped her purse with both hands.
“Thanks for lending me your car. I’ve got to run an errand. I’ll just get my coat and . . .”
“Wait a minute, Nate. Can I talk to you for a couple minutes?”
“Sure.”
Andi sat on the end of the bed, her legs pressed tightly together. Still clutching her purse, she looked older and pale and made him feel sad. She started to speak, then looked down at her lap.
Rosen leaned back against the headboard and waited. He’d never known her to be at a loss for words. Maybe she was upset about Stevie’s testimony against his grandfather, which seemed to guarantee a guilty verdict, but he sensed this was more personal.
“Nate, we didn’t get much chance to talk after court adjourned today.” She took a cigarette from her purse.
“If you’re upset about the way Saul’s case is going, I think it’s too early to give up . . .”
“I’m not giving up on Saul.” She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“What is it?”
She shrugged, but he waited, knowing she couldn’t stand the silence.
“You . . . you know that the True Skys and I are pretty close. Didn’t I tell you once that Grace is sort of an older sister to me?”
“Yes.”
“I hate to . . . well, I feel like a traitor.”
“Are you telling me you know something that will hurt Saul’s case?”
“No.” She shook her head violently. “God, no. It’s just . . . I’m gonna have to leave town before the trial’s over.”
“Leave town?”
“Uh-huh. This weekend.”
“Why?”
After stubbing out the cigarette in the empty metal trash basket, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper from her purse. “This was faxed to me this morning. It’s a job offer, Nate. I’m finally gonna . . . I just can’t believe it . . . I’m finally gonna leave this town.”
She almost ran out of breath before finishing the sentence, and her knuckles were white clutching the paper.
“Really? What city?”
Her smile grew larger. “Chicago. Isn’t it cool—that’s where you’re from. See, I talked to the editor last week, but there was nothing definite. That’s why I didn’t tell you Sunday. But then our story on Cantrell’s mob connections, and my photos, were picked up by the wire services. I got a definite offer this morning.”
“Which paper is it, the Tribune or Sun Times?”
“Uh, neither. It’s a smaller paper, not quite the same circulation as the ones you mentioned.”
“Which one?”
“You see, they liked my photographs and all, but they also wanted me because I’m a minority.”
“You mean, being a woman?”
“Not exactly. Here.”
She handed Rosen the letter, which he slowly unfolded. He read it twice.
“You’re going to work for the Polski Dziennik Glos?”
“Yeah. It means Polish Daily Voice.”
“But the paper’s printed in Polish.”
“So?” She stuck out her jaw, as if daring him to take a swing. The color had returned to her cheeks.
“You don’t know how to speak Polish.”
“Idz do diabla!”
“Excuse me.”
“It means ‘go to hell.’” Andi took a small book from her purse. Thumbing through the pages, she added, “Idz precz. That means ‘get lost.’ The language ain’t so tough. Besides, you don’t have to speak Polish to take pictures. Did you know that there are almost as many Polish people in Chicago as there are in Warsaw? Why the hell is the mayor Irish?”
“So they took you because your name’s Wojecki.”
“No. They took me because my name’s Wojecki and I’m a damn good photographer.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Forget it.” Kicking off her boots, she drew her long legs into a lotus position. “I’m just a little touchy. I feel bad about leaving Saul and Grace, and I’m a little scared about goi
ng to Chicago. I mean, I talked to Jack and he’s all for me going—you know, he’s selling the paper. And I’ve rented my house to this newlywed couple; I told you about that last Sunday. I’m just taking a few things with me—camera equipment, my portfolio, and some clothes. When I called the editor to accept the job, he told me I could move in with one of their reporters. She’s looking for a roommate. He said she’s got the best kolackies in the world. That’s not what I think it is, is it?”
“It’s a pastry. Looks like you’ve got everything covered. You’re a lot more organized than you let on.”
“I can take photography classes at the Art Institute. I hear there’re lots of galleries downtown . . . the Loop. That’s what they call downtown, right?”
He nodded.
“I really need to learn more about Chicago—and not just Polish. You do get in there now and then?”
“A couple times a year, to see my daughter.”
“When you’re in town, maybe you could . . . I don’t mean that we have to . . .” Biting her lip, she looked down at the bed.
This time Rosen didn’t wait for her to continue. “I know what you mean. I know what this is all about. Just like I know what Sunday night was all about.”
Her cheeks reddened, but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.
“You want me to absolve you for leaving Grace and her family in their hour of need. Okay, I absolve you. Go to Chicago and be a success. It’s just the way of the world. Besides, you got your story, your ticket out of here. That’s what this was all about from the start, what we were all about.”
He forced her chin up, so that she looked him in the eyes.
“Don’t, Nate.”
“That’s why you called my boss, Nahagian, in the first place. To get Saul’s case national publicity and your photos to the wire services. That’s why you were so nice to me from the start. You couldn’t wait to tell me how ‘kinda cute’ I was. Don’t ever flatter a lawyer. He knows right away you’re lying. You were using me to get a story.”
“Don’t.”
“And that’s what Sunday night was all about. You got your story and your ticket to Chicago. Our interlude on the living room floor . . . a little thank-you for my help.”
