Toivo started. “No, no, the boy’s right. The snow’s heavy. We best be going. I’ll leave this wine drinking for another time.” And before you could count to ten, father and son were bundled up and out the door.
“Someone’s gotta tell that boy to lighten up,” said Thelma. Josh said nothing.
A few days passed. As it had for the past several days, the sun rose in a clear blue sky. The weather was too cold to snow, and there was a crackling crispness to the air. By mid-morning, the Saturday crowd was in place and we all longed for an end to winter. Mr. Packer, Bromley and Claire were savoring their standard fare. Danny was in the back helping Thelma. Claire was looking out the plate glass windows onto the square. A large collie sat in the snow on the edge of the sidewalk, right outside the front door, staring into the restaurant, as though looking for its owner. The dog had been there since Cynthia first arrived.
“I’m worried about him,” Cynthia fretted. “He was outside our door when I left home this morning. And he followed me here. It’s like he knows me, but I’ve never seen him before. Have you, Mr. Packer?”
“Never laid eyes on the canine before,” he replied.
“He’s going to freeze to death. Wally, we should let him in.
“Absolutely not,” I replied, remembering the scene with Caleb Wheeler when Danny showed up with his dog.
“I just can’t look at him any more,” she said and hurried into the kitchen.
“That little thing will freeze to death if he doesn’t move soon,” said Claire. “It was so cold this week that my little men didn’t come at all. When it gets this cold, you know, they have trouble maneuvering their saucer. Once it lost power completely, a few years back, and landed right in the middle of Homestead Park. It left a giant depression that was icy smooth. You remember that time, don’t you Bromley?”
“No such thing ever happened.”
“I think, Claire, you’re remembering the time they tried to flood an ice skating rink in the park,” offered Mr. Packer.
“That’s Bromley and Red’s story. But I tell you that’s a cover-up because no one wants to hear the truth. Truth can release the dam’s waters before it’s filled. You know, there’s a reason why the little men come here. They need the minerals.” Her voice turned to a whisper. “The same minerals that certain people are now trying to buy up.” The bell at the door tingled and we all turned to watch Red Trueheart walk in. Claire lowered her voice to her tiniest of whispers. “And speaking of certain people, I think I’d better be quiet now. Because he knows I’m not crazy.”
Red had a scowl on his face, and he slammed himself onto the seat. “Give me the god damn biggest cup of coffee you have, and put a couple of shots of brandy in it.”
“A little early to start drinking isn’t it?” I asked.
“It’s been a god damn awful morning so far. Might as well make it enjoyable. Spent all morning in the back cutting up meat because that damn Rueben Cord didn’t show up. Not that he’s much of a butcher anyway, and I can’t get the guy to cut off his stupid ponytail. Damn health hazard. It’s like he thinks he’s still living in the Sixties. Today’s not the first time he hasn’t shown up either. He’s fucking irresponsible. I tried calling him, but no answer. The asshole probably went off on a drinking binge.”
“It is that time of the year,” offered Mr. Packer. “The highest rates of alcoholism are in Scandinavian countries where there are long winters and little light. It might explain why there are so many bars in a town so small.”
“The reason there are so many bars in this town is because we got too many drunks,” said Red.
“And half those drunks are Indians from Lattigo. They can’t hold their liquor. They shouldn’t be allowed to drink,” pontificated Bromley.
“Don’t get started on the Lattigo,” threatened Red, “I’ve just about had it up to here with their conniving ways.” I had a feeling he was talking about American Seasons and not Indian drinking habits.
How had I forgotten the underlying racism of this town? Whenever Chip and his sister Jacqueline were in the cafe, I noticed the same reactions. While out-of-towners always seemed drawn to look at the handsome couple, most of the locals simply didn’t look at the two, as though if they never made eye contact they could somehow imagine that their paths had not been crossed by the two. Chip and Jacqueline relished their food, and seemed to never notice the snubs.
Threadites were enormously aware that the reservation was only ten miles away. Yet they constantly pretended it didn’t exist. Lately, as Indian rights stories were beginning to appear in the big city papers, and the occasional story even made it on the news broadcasts out of Duluth, it was becoming more difficult.
“Those Lattigo are trying to pull one over on us,” opined Bromley. “I was talking to Assemblyman Jackson earlier this week about what’s going on in Madison. The Lattigo are making all sort of ridiculous claims, tied to some forgotten treaties from a hundred years ago.”
“It’s a well-established fact,” said Mr. Packer, “that the Lattigo and the United States Government first signed a peace treaty in the 1850s that created the Coeur de Lattigeaux Reservation and established the Lattigo as a sovereign nation within the United States with certain inalienable rights. That was reconfirmed when President Grant made his famous visit to the state to pay his respects to the original Uncle Sam bald eagle that came from their reservation.”
“You’re talking like a Communist,” yelled Bromley, “They can’t have any god darn rights we don’t have. Everyone’s equal.”
“That treaty was from another century,” said Red. His hands were fidgeting as though he would rather be outside doing anything other than talking about the Lattigo. “Time passes. If they haven’t been allowed these rights for a hundred years, then they can’t have them now. Our whole tourist economy is based on certain expectations—like there will be fish in the water and deer in the woods. We can’t have a bunch of wild natives tramping around doing whatever they feel like doing.”
“Just what rights are they seeking?” I wanted to know. I didn’t think Red could have much cause to complain about any rights the Lattigo might be claiming, since the sovereign nation stance would be the linchpin to American Seasons and its legalized gambling.
“You name it; they want it. They say they can hunt as much as they want. Even out of hunting season. Even doe and fawns. Same thing with fishing. You know how the walleye spawn in the Sapphire Run between the two lakes during the spring runoff. There’s thousands of fish there, flopping over one another, fertilizing eggs. Those fish are only interested in one thing: fish fucking.”
“Oh my,” Claire said.
“Give me a break,” Red said. “Like you haven’t heard worse things in life. The creek would be nothing more than a lobster tank in a Chinese restaurant if we allowed fishing. I mean you can pick the fish up with your hands at that time of the year. They have to be protected, or all the adult fish would be taken, and pretty soon there wouldn’t be any walleye left.”
“The Lattigo know that,” I said. “They aren’t going to destroy the land.” I was thinking of the obscene re-landscaping Red and Van Elkind were planning to do as part of American Seasons. Their latest brainstorm was to create a miniature mountain where only swamps existed—all so Van Elkind could add downhill skiing to the resort. Where was Red’s outrage when it came to destroying wetlands?
Red wasn’t convinced. “That’s not the way they talk. And besides fishing and hunting, they claim the same thing about logging and wild rice harvesting. Then they claim they’re exempt from state taxes, and selling fucking cigarettes on the reservation for half the price I have to sell them in my store.”
Now we were getting to the heart of Red’s concerns. “Next thing you know,” I said, “they will try to set up gambling casinos.”
Red’s eyes flashed a warning, but he quieted down. It became one of those lingering quiets that grew more discomfiting each second.
“Sure is cold, isn�
�t it?” Bromley said. “Could freeze a witch’s tit.”
“That it could,” Red agreed quickly.
The silence returned.
The tinkling of the bell and the arrival of Josh saved us. Danny walked out with a tray of clean glasses for the bar. He and Josh exchanged glances.
“How’s everyone in my favorite cafe?” Josh asked with unfeigned enthusiasm. “Don’t you love this snappy cold weather?”
“Only a man selling heating oil would like weather this cold,” Red muttered.
Josh slapped Red on the back good-naturedly. “Well then you must be a happy man. I hear that‘s one of your many businesses. God, I love this cold weather. When I lived in Los Angeles, cold was the one thing I really missed. Everyone else talks about fall colors. For me, it’s that sharp cold when you feel like your nose is going to turn into ice. In Los Angeles when the frost is threatening oranges in the back yard, it’s just a wet cold that makes you uncomfortable. Here cold puts you in touch with living!”
“You’re really weird,” Danny said.
“You know what we should do,” Josh said. “This cold snap has completely frozen over the flowage. Not only is the Lattigeaux river solid ice now, but because it hasn’t snowed all week since it froze, it’s perfect for ice skating. You could skate for hours across ice as smooth as . . . well, as smooth as ice.”
“You’d freeze your ass off,” Red looked at Josh with a contempt that seemed quite undeserved. Red kept an ice-fishing shack in the middle of Big Sapphire Lake and he had been out fishing every day this past week.
“No you wouldn’t,” Josh countered good-naturedly. “You just need to wear a ski mask and a good snowmobile suit. It’s above zero during the day, and there’s hardly any wind. And it’s sunny. What more could you want? Danny, want to go ice skating this afternoon?”
“I got to work,” he replied reluctantly.
Claire piped in with a motherly smile. “Wally, let the boy go,” she said, “there’s hardly anyone in town this weekend. You’re not going to be busy, and besides it’s a rare winter when you can ice skate on the flowage. I loved to skate when I was a little girl. You know, I had a brother then. Two of them. And a dog. It was a collie, like that dog out there.”
“Is that dog still out there?” Cynthia shouted from the kitchen. I was convinced Cynthia had placed bugs in the main part of the cafe to keep tabs on our goings and comings. She walked out of the kitchen and went straight to the front window. The red-haired dog got up from its watching position and stood with nose to window, its tail wagging. “It knows me,” she insisted.
“Let’s do it, Danny,” Josh continued. “I got an extra snowmobile suit if you don’t have one.”
“I got one,” he said. “But I have to work.”
I decided to let the boy have some fun. “Claire is right. It’s a great day for ice-skating. No need to shovel snow from the river. Truly a rare day in January.” Besides Danny looked eager for the outing.
Josh smiled broadly. “Let’s call it a date. I’ll pack a couple of thermoses of hot chocolate. We’ll skate up the flowage, build a bonfire, have some chocolate to celebrate and skate back.“
“What would you be celebrating, young man?” Mr. Packer asked.
“I unloaded the family swamp land,” Josh crowed. I had lately seen the American Seasons maps, and Josh’s land was part of the site where Red wanted to build the ski hill using swampland excavated to create a lake. The acreage had been a pivotal piece of land needed. I looked over to see if Red was smiling. But his earlier scowl had greatly intensified.
“I sold it to the Lattigo,” Josh continued. “I don’t know what they need with more swamps, but Chip Frozen Bear showed up at my door to convince me to sell the place. Of course, I told him he had to sleep with me before I’d sell.”
Claire dropped her teacup.
Josh smiled broadly. “Hey, I’m just kidding. But I signed on the dotted line because the Lattigo offered a great price. Much better than what the hunting camp people wanted to give.”
Another crash of crockery. Red’s coffee cup had rolled off the counter and onto the floor. “Sorry,” he said through tight teeth.
Cynthia rushed over with a rag to wipe up spilled coffee, but her attention was on the forlorn collie staring in the window.
“There’s something spooky about that dog,” she said. “It doesn’t belong here.”
“Maybe it’s a spirit from the other side,” Josh said with a faked hollowness to his voice. “I’ve been visited by ghosts before.”
“Yes, you’ve told us before you’re clairvoyant,” I said, “but that dog looks quite real to me. And damn cold.”
Josh was not perturbed by skepticism. “Ghosts can look real. I saw one once in my house. It appeared totally three-dimensional.”
Cynthia jumped in excitedly. “So did I. Not in your house. I mean in my house. Remember Daddy?”
Red looked at his daughter with surprising tenderness as though she were about to tell a story he had heard many times. She smiled, “Daddy doesn’t believe me. Neither does Mommy. But it really happened when I was five.
“It was one night in the winter, just like this, when it was really cold, and I couldn’t sleep. I think Daddy was out of town, and just Mommy and me were at home. I went into the living room and asked if I could sleep with Mommy. She said she would sleep with me instead.
“Mommy can fall asleep so fast. When she lay down beside me in my twin bed, all of a sudden she was sound asleep. I was between the wall and her. I felt really warm, really safe. But that’s when I noticed him. He was a little boy about my age, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with ice skates around his neck. And there was a dog. They were very quiet. They walked into the room like it was their room, and he seemed surprised to see me. His eyes were big with astonishment, and I felt he wanted to tell me something.
“But then he noticed my shelves along the side of the wall filled with toys. He went straight to the bottom shelf and my musical jack in the box. He was going to touch it, and I didn’t want him to so I sat up in bed to tell him to leave it alone. But I wasn’t fast enough. He turned on the switch and the music started, loud circus music.
“It woke Mommy up. She jolted from bed. The boy and his dog ran from the room so she never saw them. She tried to find the music box in the dark and knocked my dolls and stuffed animals off the shelf wanting to get rid of the sound. Finally she found the jack in the box, turned it off, and came back to the bed.
“She wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell her about the little boy with the skates. I wanted to tell her that there was no way I could have crawled over her, turned on the toy and rushed back into bed before the music woke her up. No one ever believed me about that little boy and his dog.”
Red looked at his daughter tenderly, “Honey, it was a dream. When you were a little girl, you would sleepwalk a lot. Didn’t Mommy take you all around the house that night? Was there a boy anywhere?”
“He had already left,” she said stoutly.
Claire asked softly but firmly, “What did the boy look like?” Her wrinkled face seemed wet. A sense of understanding crossed Cynthia’s face, and for a moment she seemed unable to speak. “He looked like you,” she finally said.
“Then it was Arthur,” Claire said to no one in particular, but looking at Bromley. “Arthur came to see Cynthia, because he needed her to help him. Maybe he couldn’t get over to the other side. That happens with spirits.”
Bromley seemed embarrassed. “It wasn’t Arthur. Arthur died when you were a little girl, Claire. He can’t come back.”
“No one ever believes me,” Claire said nothing more. She merely reached for the jar of strawberry jam and applied another spoonful to the bit of English muffin remaining on her plate.
Another uneasy moment of silence began.
Josh sprung into action. “Cynthia, I’m sure there was a boy. And I believe you Claire. It probably was Arthur, whoever that might be.” With that, Josh twirled h
is muffler back in around his neck in a most dramatic way.”
“Arthur was my brother. He drowned,” Claire sniffled. “He never got to say goodbye.”
“Claire,” Bromley warned, “don’t get started.”
“It all sounds like a stew of Indian superstition if you ask me,” Red said dismissively. “Ghosts, spirits. There’s no such things. We’re here while we’re here. And we just got to do the best with what we got.”
Another silence.
Outside, sunlight invaded every corner of the town square, dancing over the blinding white snowbanks, jumping up to glint in the giant icicles that hung from building corners, light particles getting caught in the snow-decked Christmas garlands that had yet to be taken down from the street lamps. Icy golden light everywhere—frozen in brilliance.
Red broke the silence. “I need to get back to the store. Rueben probably still hasn’t shown up, so today I’ll have to do his job as well as mine.”
The bell on the door tinkled its clear cold sound once more. An icy rush of air heralded the entrance of Thelma’s favorite, Gilbert Ford. He had on a dark green great coat and a bright red muffler. He loosened the muffler and let it fall to the side. His trademark bow tie, blue with white polka dots, was in its proper place.
“Do I smell freshly-baked caramel rolls?” he asked. He inhaled deeply, and one could almost hear him lick his lips.
“Yes, you do,” I replied.
“Well, I must have one of them, but only if it can be delivered by your delightful and beautiful pastry chef.” He smiled wickedly.
“Thelma,” I yelled out, “your beau’s here.”
“Wally, watch your mouth! I’m older than you. You should treat me with respect,” she yelled from the kitchen. “Tell Gilbert I’ll be out in a minute.”
Gilbert smiled contentedly. He looked around the room to see if any other of his admirers were in attendance. Cynthia had a certain soft spot for the man, as she did for anything or anyone suggestive of romance. Gilbert caught sight of Red. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,” the salesman said.
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 27
