by Bret Tallent
Mardell was a trim woman of thirty-five with a pleasant, if not totally pretty, face. Her hair was a deep red and she wore it in an unflattering shoulder length style. Her eyes were an icy blue and she wore a little too much makeup. But her smile was what lit up her face. She could have had a hard face with all she'd been through. She could easily have been used up. But Mardell was a survivor and adversity made her stronger. It gave her determination and conviction. It made her see past today and hope for tomorrow.
She and Gary could start a new life in Denver. She knew that he wasn't happy here, hell, neither was she. But, for a boy it was tougher. Gary needed things. He needed more than Copper Creek had to offer, or the school in Craig had to give. But Mardell knew that she needed things too. She needed more than Copper Creek had to offer as well. And, she wasn't getting any younger.
Mardell stirred the pan of Malt-O-Meal and, its consistency appropriate, pulled it from the stove. She set it on the table, wisps of steam rising from it enticingly. She was just about to call Gary when she heard the toilet flush and the seat drop back down with a THWACK! That was one thing Gary had over most men she mused, he always put the seat down.
Gary shuffled up the hall to the kitchen and plopped down at the table. It was an ugly little thing with a chrome frame and a fake green marble top. The chairs were chrome as well, with rounded backs and round seats covered in a vinyl that matched the table. The whole kitchen was like circa early putrid, Gary thought. A bunch of fifties rejects that came with the place.
As he scooped a helping of the gritty cereal, his mom was just putting on her coat. "Do ya have to go in today? Couldn't you just call in sick or something?"
"I'd love to honey, believe me. But you know we . . ."
". . . Need the money," he finished for her. "But it's so nasty today. How can he expect you to come out in a blizzard?" Gary pleaded.
"Some people will show up there no matter what, and I am the only waitress. Besides, it's only a half a block away, right at the end of the street. Surly your poor old frail mother can make it that far?" she kidded. "The phones are out anyway. I already tried to call and say I was going to be late," she added.
"That sucks," he observed. "So now I really am stranded here. I can't even talk to the, like, two friends I've got," he said, irritated.
Mardell looked at him understandingly, "Why don't you come down to the diner for lunch, on me?"
Gary knew the invitation was for her as much as him. "Old Ray won't mind?" he asked, incredulously.
"He's not that bad," she defended.
"He's an asshole."
"True," she agreed, "but an asshole with free food."
"Point taken. I'll see ya at noon," he conceded.
"Okay Babe. Try not to get into too much trouble today, and clean your room." She removed his cap and kissed him on the top of his head, then replaced the cap. Then Mardell bundled up, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Gary waved with the spoon then shoveled a glob of cereal into his mouth. It was the last conversation he would ever have with his mother.
***
The sun had already risen but the heavy cloud cover and the blowing snow gave the appearance of twilight. Bud Boscoe had been getting up with the sun for nearly all of his sixty years. There was so much more that you could accomplish. He really couldn't understand how people could sleep until nine, ten, or even eleven. Half of their day was gone. But this morning, Bud didn't want to get up with the sun.
This morning, for some reason, he was especially tired. He didn't remember anything out of the ordinary last night. In fact, he would have sworn that he'd slept like a baby. But, he was still exhausted. And he refused to admit that it was because of his age. Why he was more active today than most men half his age. Never the less, he was tired and inexplicably anxious.
Bud listened to the wind tap dance around his window for a while. Its cry was mournful. He pulled the blankets up over his head and concentrated, but he couldn't get back to sleep. Too many years of the same habit he guessed. He heard no other movement in the house, which didn't really surprise him. After what seemed like hours of lying around in bed he finally dragged himself out to meet the day.
He was glad Ruth hadn't seen it at any rate, Mr. Morning not wanting to rise and shine. He'd never live it down. She and Bryan should be here today, he thought blithely. He'd really wanted them to come up with him. He didn't like them making that drive alone. Although he trusted Bryan's driving, he still would have preferred it if he were with them.
Bud stood before the window of his bedroom in his long underwear and peered out into the gloom. A storm had hit sometime during the night, and it looked like a bad one. He turned and pulled his Levi's from the chair in the corner near the closet, and put them on. Then from the closet he retrieved a faded denim shirt and donned it as well. He tucked it into the Levi's and held it all together with a thick brown leather belt. Finally, he sat down in the chair and stretched his feet into white cotton socks. He rose and headed toward the door, casting a glance back out the window. He hoped that Ruth and Bryan wouldn't get caught in this.
His grey hair was still askew from sleeping and he didn't bother to comb it. It was thinning on top and he didn't see much need. He'd just cover it up with a hat anyway. Bud was an interesting looking man in his sixties. He resembled the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz. His cheeks were saggy and he had tremendous bags under his blue eyes. He had a bit of a gut from years of beer but he was a very active man, and had at one time been rather stout. Barefooted, he stood right at five foot ten but looked shorter because he was now a little stoop shouldered. He looked like a sweet old man but he could be a bear when he needed to be.
Bud walked out into the main room and its stillness hit him like a brick wall. He moved on out into the main room and looked up into the loft. It was empty. Though he couldn't see the beds, he knew it was empty. It felt that way. He turned to regard the coat rack at the right of the front door and it was empty save for his coat and snow suit, and his niece's ski coat, there were only two pair of snow boots there as well.
He shrugged it off and began to gather wood from his wood box to build a fire. Although the cabin had electric heat, he still relied heavily upon his stove. In a matter of minutes he had a blaze toasting his front side. The orange crackling flame danced across the wood and tried to make a quick escape out the front of the stove. Bud replaced the metal screen and stepped back, allowing the fire's warmth to circulate into the room.
The room did not seem so dark now, the day not so gloomy or sullen. He turned to the kitchen area and hit the wall switch as he entered. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickered and hummed and finally took, lighting the kitchen in an unreal glow against the darkness of the day. He began about the business of preparing breakfast. He assumed that it would just be Sarah and him.
In the other bedroom Sarah had stirred to the first sounds of Bud making the fire. She'd been awake for some time but had just laid there. Her muscles ached. She certainly didn't think that she should be this sore from skiing, but she obviously was. There was something else though, something on the fringe of her memory that would not come forth. Not something that she was trying to recall necessarily. Just something that she thought she should remember.
The way a word or name will be on the tip of your tongue, and you know what it is but you just can't quite grasp it. Only this was a thought on the edge of her mind, but she just couldn't quite hold on to it. It was really strange. She decided to let it lie. That's what she did when trying to remember and it usually came to her. So would this, she suspected, if it was anything at all.
Sarah pulled herself out of bed, donned her robe, and staggered into the bathroom. After a hot shower and some clean clothes she would be ready to hit the world. With her hair up in a towel and an overly large black and turquoise sweater hanging off her torso, covering most of the black Danskins she wore beneath, she headed out into the main room. It was far warmer out here than in the back and
she reveled in it. She took in a deep breath of the fragrant air and exhaled a sigh.
"Good morning Uncle Bud! What're you fixing? Need any help?" her voice its usually bubbly self. Whatever anxiety she had been feeling earlier was quickly dissipating.
"Oh!" startled by her, "Morning. I'm making some eggs and sausage. You could work on the toast and plates if you want?" His voice was soft but strong. He didn't look at her, his back was to her and he was busy with the eggs. She walked past him to the refrigerator and looked into the skillet as she passed, breathing deeply the aroma of the cooking food.
"That doesn't look like nearly enough for all of us," she said surprised.
"It's just you and me kid. I don't know where the others are." He cast her a glance then returned to his chore. Sarah looked puzzled, then concerned.
"Last night when we came in, Marty and Taylor had fallen behind. Nick thought they probably got stuck again and went back to look for them." She didn't say any more. Not quite sure how worried she should be. Bud looked at her thoughtfully, this concerned him as well.
He handed her the spatula and walked over to the phone across the room. He picked it up but there was no signal, it was dead. "The damn phone's out. It must be the storm." He paused for a moment, thinking, "Let's wolf down this breakfast and take the snowmobiles over to the Ranger Station, it's only about three miles cross country."
Sarah looked down at the eggs. She wasn't very hungry all of the sudden. She was worried. "Do you think something has happened to them?" her tone was low, her voice soft and almost quivering.
"They probably just got stuck in the storm and spent the night at the station. I've seen it happen a lot up here." He tried to be positive but he was concerned too and a hell of a lot more than he was letting on.
***
Johnny arrived home at half past six. The storm had made the roads worse than he had anticipated and driving them was treacherous. As he turned left onto Silver Street he noticed the Sheriff's Suburban parked out front of City Hall but only gave it a casual thought. He continued down Silver, past where the pavement ended and the gravel started. Although it was impossible to tell in this weather, that was only about a block from Route 14.
He followed the road down to the river and turned north along it for another mile or so. His house was at the end of the road and in fact, was the only one since the turn at the river. The dark foreboding sky pulled tiny embers that glowed brightly for an instant then died, out of the chimney and swept them away. Faywah was up and already had a fire going. Johnny knew inside that he would have a hot breakfast waiting for him as well. He smiled at that. Johnny loved Faywah. His grandfather was the only family that he had left. Well, him and his two dogs.
Johnny realized then how hungry he was. He licked his lips and could actually feel his taste buds squirt. He thought of what treats Faywah might have prepared. Corn bread and molasses, strips of venison done up like bacon, and maybe a couple of eggs. As if in appreciation of Johnny's imagination, his stomach growled. Johnny licked his lips again.
He parked the truck near the front door of the squat pre-fab house with aluminum siding and gathered up his things. It was a simple two bedroom house, pretty much square, with one main room, a separate kitchen, and a single bathroom. But, it served him and Faywah fine. Johnny'd bought the house new when he was discharged from the marines in '96 and moved his grandfather there to live with him.
It stood in a stand of balsam pine with a few spruce strewn about. The front of the place was a compilation of sage, oak brush, and saurvus. Now it was all just clumps beneath the snow. Across the river and further up the lower slope of Sand Mountain, were thousands of aspen trees. In the fall it was the most beautiful place in the world. But in the winter, when the leaves had fallen, it looked like a burial ground. The creek ran about one hundred feet to the west and if you followed a small deer trail to the southwest from his front door, you would end up right behind City Hall.
Two dogs jumped up excitedly on the door of the Parks vehicle, leaving muddied and smeared paw prints atop the others that were weeks old. One was a huge black pit bull named Roscoe. His ears were uncut but otherwise he looked like the ferocious muscle bound breed that he was. In truth, he was pretty much a pansy, Johnny thought. He was savage when it came to hunting or any other dogs, with the one exception of Ouray, but was rather timid around people.
Ouray was the other dog and Roscoe's companion since he was a pup. Ouray was an old and wise golden retriever. The fur on his muzzle was beginning to turn white but he was as energetic as ever. Ouray was Johnny's first dog since the military and had been named after the Chief of the Ute. Johnny loved them both and it lightened his heart to hear their barks above the doleful wind.
Johnny exited the truck and they assaulted him, tails wagging wildly. The front of his pants instantly muddied and he was pushed back against the door of the truck with the force of their felicity. He bent down and patted them each in turn on the top of their heads, an action that brought yips and yowls and a lick from a quick tongue across his face. Johnny's smile was wide and beaming.
He ordered them down and proceeded to his front door. Roscoe and Ouray, somewhat dejected, sauntered behind him with their tails raking the air. They stopped at the door and sat down as Johnny entered. They knew what was expected of them and what they could get away with. They sat there a moment longer then retreated to their hole beneath the house, where they could fight off the cold and watch for their master.
Johnny burst in through the front door in excitement and anticipation and was immediately taken aback. The room was dark save for the fire and close to fifty candles scattered about. The heat inside was incredible and Johnny felt uncomfortably warm. He dropped the gear he was holding and removed his gloves and hat. His coat and boots fell by the wayside as well. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on his upper lip and forehead, and soon his entire face was damp.
In the center of the room sitting cross-legged on an old deerskin, was Faywah. The old man ignored Johnny and continued with his chant, mumbles and grunts and inflections of the old tongue. Johnny recognized it, but not the chant. Faywah's eyes were closed and his lids fluttered as he spoke. It was rhythmical, almost singing. Johnny stood there engrossed, swaying unconsciously to the melody.
Finally Faywah looked up at Johnny with cold, hard eyes. Johnny walked over and sat down across from him, cross-legged as well. Johnny could now see the deerskin they were sitting on, it was the Ute Chronicle. The old recorded history of the Ute, by the Ute. It was a simple piece of deerskin with a spiral of pictures on it.
The spiral started in the center of the skin and worked outward from the first incident, a thing of importance that happened to the Ute that year and was represented by a design or picture. Below that picture was another of similar significance for the opposite season that same year. Thus, each year was represented by two pictures, one for winter, and one for summer. At the center of the spiral was a crescent moon surrounded by streaking stars. Johnny knew that this was the big meteor shower of November 12, 1833. This was the first year of the Chronicle for the Ute. And for them, it was The Winter the Stars Fell.
Another picture was of an eclipse thirty-six years later, and so on. The spiral continued outward and ended in the early 1900's. For reasons that Johnny didn't understand, the importance of the Chronicle was lost after that. But his grandfather still clung to the old piece of leather and would not give it up. Not even when the Bureau of Indian Affairs asked him to give it to the museum. It had been given to him by his grandfather and it held a strong sentiment with the old man.
Johnny understood all of this, but he couldn't understand why he would drag it out now. After all, Johnny had only seen the Chronicle three or four times in his lifetime. Suddenly, Faywah's voice was stronger and Johnny snapped out of his contemplative daze to see the old Indian staring at him. His long hair was a silky white and deep grooves of age beset his face. Around his forehead he wore the beaded headband he had made
as a child. His dark eyes had faded with time as well, though they were still hard.
His hair fell loosely about his cheeks and shoulders, and its snow white color gave a deeper definition of brown to his already dark skin. He was a man who had seen much weather and his face proved it. It was once hard and proud, but was now softened with age. The pride was still very evident but the hardness was only a shadow.
Faywah smiled an all-knowing smile at Johnny, both warm and affectionate. Several of his teeth were missing but the gape only added to the sincerity of it. He reached out and took Johnny's hand in his own. They had once been strong hands, but were now feeble and skin seemed as thin and soft as tissue paper. Faywah pulled Johnny'd hand to his own chest then placed it on Johnny's, then placed it palm down on the Chronicle.
Faywah spoke in the old tongue which seduced Johnny with its rhythm. He was there, yet he wasn't there. He could hear the old man's voice as though he was at a distance, yet he understood everything being said. The chimes and oration flooded Johnny's mind like a whirlwind, catching him up in the words. Forcing his body to dance on the recitation, to become one with them, Johnny was paralyzed in the speech.
He sat there with his eyes opened and glassy, their dull gaze distant and unfocused. Faywah continued on and that was all that Johnny could hear. He was in the trance of the old man's talk. Johnny knew what the old man knew. He saw what the old man saw, what he had seen. Johnny had all of his own memories as well, but now he knew stories he had never heard before. They were all pressed onto his brain like a recording, a DVD that he could pull out and play at will.
