by Jim Harrison
“You don’t look like you’re supposed to. You’re the other guy at the bar with that old man,” Fred said, puzzled but amiable.
“A case of mistaken identity in the great north,” B.D. said, glancing over to where two Red Power guys were hauling out the big sign Rose had been painting. The sign read WILD WILD MIDWEST SHOW and everyone but B.D. stared at it with solemn admiration. You had to be light on your feet to keep up with Marten.
“Give me a ride to town,” Marten said, drawing him aside. “The shit-sucking Nazis came and got their rent-a-car.”
They went to a used-car lot down Route 2 owned by the brother of the realtor who sold Marten the fort. B.D. stood nervous and well aside as Marten made a thousand-dollar down payment on a three-year-old black Lincoln Town Car with a phone that had been repossessed from one of the thousands of developers who tour the Midwest every summer looking for fresh land meat. The dealer was enthused as the car had been on the lot all fall and winter eating up interest. He decided to sell it to Marten, who his brother told him was a “live one,” for only twice what he had paid at the wholesale auto auction. When they were drawing up the papers a local signature was also needed, or so the dealer told B.D., handing him a pen. B.D. noted that Marten had signed “Luke Olsen, Pres., Windigo Corp.,” so he signed B.D. Robicheaux because he was thinking of Marcelle’s fanny.
B.D. followed Marten downtown in the Studebaker to the army-navy store and when Marten got out of the Lincoln he gave the finger to the detective passing in his car. While Marten was in the store, B.D. wondered how much, if anything, his phony signature meant. “B. D. Robicheaux” had a certain substance to it. Marten came out with a hard-billed cap and put it on B.D.’s head while explaining the whole deal. Because his injury prevented him from doing hard work, B.D. would busy himself driving Marten around so Marten could keep his mind clear for the goal ahead. The proceeds of the fort would go into a kitty, but since B.D. had started the whole movement and couldn’t live on air he would receive five percent of the net profits of the Wild Wild Midwest Show, the cover for the revolutionary activities which would start with a demonstration at the burial site when the anthropologists showed up. Marten had a spy at work down at the University of Michigan who would tip them off.
“I told you I got an injunction on me,” B.D. said angrily.
“Injunctions are made to be broken. It is clearly unconstitutional to keep you out of Alger County for a purported unconvicted crime. Also it’s time for lunch.”
Lunch at the diner wasn’t all that pleasant because Travis had punched Marcelle around and she had a few bruises on her face, neck, and arms. B.D. couldn’t remember when he had been too angry to eat. He seethed as he stared down at the congealing fat of his liver and onions, finally demanding from Marcelle Travis’s number at the supply depot up at Sawyer Air Base. They didn’t want to put B.D. through, so he said he was Travis’s brother and there was a tragedy in the family. B.D. smiled out at his diner audience as if on stage.
“Travis, B.D. here. In case you don’t remember, I kicked your ass out at the Buckhorn. If you lay another hand on Marcelle I’m going to squeeze your fucking head clean off and cram it up your ass. You understand?”
Many of Marcelle’s customers cheered and clapped. Marcelle reheated the liver and onions in the microwave and B.D. was able to sit up and take nourishment, his anger subsiding, though Marten was pushing to get to a camera shop.
“You got a prize coming and it’s not a tamale,” Marcelle said after French-kissing him at the door, the taste of her snapping Dentyne merging with the liver and onions. Love was grand again.
A few days later the mystery of Marten’s camera was received rather brutishly by Detective Schultz when he was suddenly called back far south to headquarters in East Lansing. The chief of all chiefs and an ACLU lawyer from Ann Arbor met Schultz with a large envelope of photos that Marten had taken of him in the act of spying on the Windigos, including a photo of Schultz asleep in bed with Rose at the Best Western. Schultz felt as if his bowels would empty while viewing the adverse evidence. His curiosity about the Chippewa had gotten the best of him and when he had met this handsome, albeit husky, Indian maiden at the casino she had been all over him like a washcloth. After fucking him into a rag pile she had obviously opened the door to the photographer. The real point the lawyer was making was that the State Police had been instructed years before by the legislature and governor to stop spying on political groups. The lawyer said he was keeping the photos for insurance against further noisome forays against the Windigos and walked out of the office after demanding and receiving Schultz’s files on the case. The chief had a real aversion to the threatened rush of newspaper reporters and handed over the pathetic sheaf of notes. Schultz was sent off to do the prep work on a case of pill-popping osteopaths in Kalamazoo who purportedly were black-marketing the French abortion pill, or so tipped a pro-life group.
B.D.’s trout season opener was without the usual solitary grace. Marcelle had slept over at the cabin, which he couldn’t very well blame her for because he insisted, partly to avoid the walk up the trail on crutches in the dark to take her home, and partly because she had been telling him her sexual history starting with when she “came out of the chute, kicking and bucking” at age thirteen. Southern girls weave a better tale than those in the North and B.D. lay there with a sore weenie listening to her dulcet-voiced confessional, quite sure that he had missed out on a lot of life but that couldn’t be helped.
The upshot was that he didn’t get up at dawn to fish, though he had taken the precaution of catching a half-dozen illegal brook trout for dinner the night before. Marcelle did a beautiful job frying the fish, evidently another Louisiana art, while describing a set-to with a couple of good old boys from the New Orleans Saints at a Breaux Bridge motel. Several times he put his hand on his head to see if his hair was standing straight up. He was rigging his fly tackle at the time, looking at the Wheatley box of terrestrials given to him by one of his cordwood clients, an old cottager from Birmingham, near Detroit, who was the best fisherman that B.D. had ever known. The man would look at the bugs in the air and the ones crawling around on the banks of the stream or beaver pond and then select the closest imitation from his fly box. B.D., who had always fished with worms or spinners, had been astounded at the man’s skill and success, guiding him back to a number of top-secret beaver ponds. Once, at B.D.’s holy of holies, his more remote pond, the man had caught a four-pound brook trout on an ant imitation, an incalculable trophy, then broke down in tears and gave B.D. his six-foot Bill Summers midge rod as a present, an expensive item indeed.
So B.D. blew the opening morning by taking Marcelle to work in the Lincoln. On the way she called on the car phone to advise that she’d be a few minutes late—her feelings toward B.D. had warmed considerably since the advent of the fancy car. She pushed the electric seat back and put the heel of her good leg on the dashboard and scratched her lovely thigh with no more modesty than if she were serving a slice of banana-peach pie.
He was supposed to pick up Marten at Doris’s house but figured he’d fish for a couple of hours first. Marten had been distressed by success of late. Not only had the gumshoe been withdrawn but the university had announced to the press that no excavation would begin until their right to do so had been established in court. Marten was pissed that his infighting skills had sent the excitement flying out a dirty legal window. He was reassured, though, when his Ann Arbor spy reported that Shelley and some other graduate students were still coming up to Grand Marais in May to survey the site, a technical exercise to establish the boundaries of the dig. To Marten that was blasphemy enough to plan some sort of assault, especially since he was running low on money, his troops from Wisconsin were getting surly and restless, and his latest arts fellowship required that he be back at UCLA in mid-June to head a colloquium: “Will Whitey Ever See Red?”
While B.D. was struggling to make it along the creek into the swamp to where a burbling spr
ing emptied its contents into a stream, causing a deeper hole, Delmore was taping a note to the Lincoln’s windshield: “B.D., take this auto back to the dealer. I know him and also know you didn’t sign your right name. I won’t tell if you return the auto. You should know that falsifying a credit application can get you three to five years. Your guardian angel, Delmore.”
Delmore was splenetic over Marten, who reminded him of the low types who stuffed the confines of Vegas, full of glassy-eyed greed and rabid behavior. Delmore had tried to talk to Doris about the problem but she was mostly pleased that Marten wasn’t violent like David Four Feet and had limited his criminal activities to credit cards, dope, and an infatuation with fireworks that had started early. Delmore even stopped by to see Gretchen, hoping she could figure out how to extricate B.D. from Marten’s clutches. She began the encounter in a hyper-abusive state over Delmore and Fritz’s con job in regard to B.D.’s accident, relenting enough to hear the old man out.
“He’s just a big baby,” Delmore said. “He acts so ordinary he can’t see anything coming. If you don’t help, he’ll end up in the Big House.” Delmore had a flash where he envisioned B.D. as James Cagney up on a tower, taunting the police, firing on them until he was riddled with bullets and his world burst into eternal flames. “In the old times he could have gotten along acting that way but nowadays the world is full of sharp edges.”
Gretchen promised she’d look into the matter and Delmore left the employment office casting about mentally for reinforcements. Back home it occurred to him to call his third cousin Carol, since B.D.’s eyes had lighted up when he met her at the powwow. Her family were fire-breathing traditionalists and had always made Delmore feel uncomfortable, as they thought he had the makings of a spiritual leader and shouldn’t have run off to Detroit to make money. While at college Carol also worked as a stringer for the Native newspaper in Minnesota, and her mother had proudly sent Delmore some of Carol’s articles, which were dry and analytical. The thinking of the sanest of the Anishinabe seemed to be you could only fight the white man for land and fishing and hunting rights with superior lawyers, since the entire white modus operandi was conducted in legalistic rather than moral terms.
He called Carol and she wasn’t encouraging, saying she was aware of what Marten, B.D., and the other worthless nitwits were up to—all you had to do was read the newspapers—but she’d give it a try to honor Delmore. The only other thing Delmore could think of was to withhold the fifty-bucks-a-week payment but Fritz had warned against any loss of punctuality that might invalidate the agreement. Delmore held his turtle claw necklace to his chest, trying to remember the details of an old movie about an alcoholic woman called Leave Her to Heaven.
Moment by moment, B.D.’s days altered in mood from manic confidence to feeling like a dead fish, the contents of his life dissolving in the push-comes-to-shove slag heap that is the substance of nearly everyone’s life, but a conflict with which he had little experience. He dreamt twice of the Munising judge’s stern warning to stay out of Alger County, and in the dream the judge’s face was scaly green and his tongue forked like a snake’s.
After the night in the cabin he had tried to see Marcelle but the proprietor of the diner told him she had flown the coop back to her husband up at the air base. B.D. couldn’t help but see a very pink, featherless chicken flying above the forest from Escanaba to Gwinn, soaring low over one of his fishing spots at the confluence of the West Branch and the Big Escanaba, a pink chicken with women’s parts dipping her wings goodbye. Marcelle had been the best he ever had, saving perhaps Shelley, who wouldn’t have been afraid of the dark at the cabin like Marcelle had been. According to Marcelle, way down where she lived cabins out in the swamps were threatened day and night by alligators longer than a car and moccasins bigger around than a man’s arm. The fishing was supposedly good but given the other horrors it reaffirmed B.D.’s notion that he lived in the right place.
That afternoon Marten tracked him down at the cabin where B.D. had been rigging a rope and small pulley to hang his bearskin. While he was out fishing some mice had worked over a paw and he felt that in itself this was a dire omen. Marten was utterly pissed and lectured B.D. on his failure as a limo driver and revolutionary, saying that he was nothing but a pussy-crazed backwoods rooster. B.D. was inattentive to the dressing-down, lost in the thought that his beloved skin had been raped by rodents while he was fucking off elsewhere.
It was definitely time to pay attention to the things that mattered, though he couldn’t pin them down with Marten prancing around and shouting. He took the cane that had replaced the crutches and jerked Marten’s ankle, upending him, putting the foot of his good leg on Marten’s neck, and explained Delmore’s note about the car purchase. He released the foot pressure and Marten scrambled up, white-faced with rage.
“I’m fucking sick of your middle-class worries. Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting for rehearsals. But if you want to betray the people over a car, maybe you should stay here and trade your balls for another can of beans.” Marten hurled a can of beans through a window which delayed their departure until B.D. made repairs with cardboard and duct tape.
Rehearsals turned out to be sort of fun because there was a case of cold beer and the day was warm and sunny. Marten played the director as the six Wisconsin braves rushed out of a pine thicket and mimicked a rifle attack on the fort, shooting B.D. and Fred, who stood in open windows, at which point B.D. and Fred would fall backward on cushions. When B.D.’s leg got better they would fall from a platform up on the top edge along with some other white boys they’d hire. Rose, in the part of a vicious squaw, would run into the fort and cut off everyone’s ears and balls and reemerge with a full bloody platter, what Marten called “a real showstopper.” B.D. wondered if this wasn’t going too far for tourists and Marten said his integrity required “absolute historical verisimilitude,” to which they all nodded in sage though uncomprehending assent.
The Wild Wild Midwest Show would be repeated every half hour between ten AM and six PM, and the charge to the inevitable hordes of tourists would be five bucks a head. B.D. quickly toted up that that would be sixteen plummets a day in addition to driving Marten around to keep his hands free for the phone. It would be a real busy summer, but then Marten assured him five percent of the net proceeds might well be an astronomical amount, certainly enough for a new custom van to replace the Studebaker.
They were all feeling effusive and glittery, a true showbiz high aided by the beer and joints Marten rolled, when up drove Carol to throw a wet blanket on the afternoon. She was calm and deliberate which made her points more effective, accusing them of political adventurism, histrionics, meddling, interfering in a process of grave legal consequences that tribal leaders and their white legal allies were already dealing with in negotiations with the university’s archaeologists and anthropologists. Marten was too stoned to deal with her, and she insulted him in Anishinabe, then turned to the six Wisconsin warriors and began shrieking at them in the same language. Marten had forgotten most of the words he did know, and helplessly watched three of the men pack up their Harleys and the other three scatter to hide in the woods. Marten, in his dope haze, flapped his arms like a wounded crow, thinking that if all the Native women in America joined the feminists, they could blow the country sky high. It would be a real party, he thought, relieved as Carol drove off.
B.D. generally avoided dope, as it made him cry at the beauty of nature or women, depending on where he was, then fall dead asleep, waking up an hour or so later with a passionate need for a cheeseburger. He was busy weeping over the afternoon light shining off Lake Michigan when Gretchen drove up, looked around with an angry maddened glare, especially at Marten, and drew B.D. aside.
“You’re coming with me. I can’t bear to see that dipshit lead you into prison.”
“It’s too late for that,” B.D. said, carried away by waves of sentimentality, his throat filling with sobs. He couldn’t seem to get off the upended pail he was si
tting on. He wanted to stand and embrace Gretchen goodbye.
“It’s not too late for anything, goddammit!”She stooped beside him and took a hand. “You can finish painting the rooms minus that slut.”
“Nope. We move out at midnight tomorrow. I have nothing to look forward to. Our love was never meant to be.” The tears were still streaming but he felt the approach of sleep. He buried his face in his hands, thinking that he’d likely fall off the bucket, but then, worse things had happened. She scratched his head as she had her girlhood dog so many years ago. He heard her walk away across the gravel and her car start. With tremendous effort he lifted his head but she was gone.
When they were fully conscious B.D. and Marten drove off to get topographical maps, then on a whim they picked up Berry and Red at Doris’s and took them to the Burger King for cheeseburgers, though as a precaution B.D. settled on the outside carry-out window. Marten let Berry make bird and animal noises to the operator on the car phone, and at Red’s request Marten dropped a lit string of Zebra firecrackers out the window as they left the Burger King. B.D. had snooped in Marten’s tote bag and it was full of wonders, including a couple of swiped license plates, all sorts of fireworks, dozens of credit cards, and various prescription bottles full of ominous-looking pills, a couple of slingshots, a makeup kit to disguise Marten in criminal situations.
That evening for their farewell dinner Delmore had made a batch of snapping turtle soup. B.D.’s spirits were diffused into melancholy by scratched Bach organ music on the old Zenith phonograph that Delmore said he had bought back in 1956. Delmore paid him a week ahead on the allowance, which was somewhat startling but Delmore said he had had a dream that B.D. was going away and would miss most of the summer of beautiful clouds, Delmore’s favorite natural objects.
“You mean jail?” B.D. was nervous.
“Worse than jail but not death. I sent you a plane ticket and you came home in a new haircut afflicted with insanity. You lost the last part of your ticket and I had to drive clear over to Minneapolis to pick you up. Then the dream ended.”
