The O. Henry Prize Stories 2015

by Laura Furman

  “Birdsong from the Radio” by Elizabeth McCracken, according to juror Kristen Iskandrian, who chose it as her favorite (this page), “has the aura of a fairy tale.” Fairy tales fascinate, enchant, and frighten us. Leonora is a loving mother who wants to eat her children. “Children long to be eaten,” the authorial voice tells us. “Everyone knows that.” But Leonora terrorizes her children, Dolly, Marco, and Rosa, and then she becomes another kind of monster altogether, a monster of grief. McCracken merges the impossible with the all-too-real in her story of a woman bolstering herself against the worst of all possible losses.

  “Details,” V. S. Pritchett tells us, “make stories human, and the more human a story can be, the better.”

  As you read The O. Henry Prize Stories 2015, look for the details that fill all the stories with human beings.

  —Laura Furman

  Austin, Texas

  Percival Everett

  Finding Billy White Feather

  OLIVER CAMPBELL HAD NEVER met Billy White Feather. He had never heard the name. But the note tacked to his back door had him out on the reservation at nine on a raw Sunday morning. Twin Appaloosa foals at Arapaho Ranch, the note said. To purchase, find Billy White Feather. The note was signed, Billy White Feather. He’d stepped out to find the note and no sign of anyone. He looked at his dog on the seat next to him. The twelve-year-old Lab’s big head hung over the edge of the seat.

  “You’re not much of a watchdog, Tuck,” Oliver said. “You’re supposed to let me know when somebody’s in the yard.”

  The dog said nothing.

  Oliver didn’t want to make the drive all the way up to the reservation ranch just to find no one there, so he stopped at the flashing yellow traffic signal in Ethete. Ethete was a gas station/store and a flashing yellow light. He got out of his pickup and walked through the fresh snow and into the store. He stomped his feet on the mud-caked rubber mat. The young clerk didn’t look up. Oliver moved through one of the narrow aisles to the back and poured himself a large cup of coffee. He picked up a packaged blueberry muffin on his way back and set it on the counter.

  “Three dollars,” the young woman yawned.

  “Three dollars?” Oliver said in mock surprise.

  “Okay, two-fifty,” the woman said, without a pause or interest.

  He gave her three dollars. “I’m looking for Billy White Feather.”

  “Why?”

  “He left me a note about a horse.”

  “No, I mean why are you looking here?”

  “I think he lives here. On the reservation, I mean.”

  “Indians live on the reservation.”

  Oliver tore open his muffin and pinched off a bite, looked outside at the snow that was falling again. “Do you know Billy White Feather?”

  “I do.”

  “But he’s not an Indian?”

  She nodded.

  “His name is White Feather?”

  “That’s something you’re going to have to talk to him about. He ain’t no Arapaho and he ain’t no Shoshone and he ain’t no Crow and he ain’t no Cheyenne. That’s what I know.”

  “So, he might be Sioux.”

  “Ain’t no Sioux or Blackfoot or Gros Ventre or Paiute neither.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s a tall, skinny white boy with blue eyes and a blond ponytail and he come up here a couple of years ago and started hanging around acting like he was a full-blood or something.”

  Oliver sipped his coffee.

  “He liked on Indian girls and dated a bunch of them. Bought them all doughnuts ’til they got fat and then ran out on them. Now he’s in town liking on Mexican girls. That’s what I hear.”

  “His note said there are some twin foals up at the ranch,” Oliver said. “Heard anything about that?”

  “I heard. It’s big news. Twins. That means good luck.”

  “So, what’s White Feather have to do with the horses?”

  “I ain’t got no idea. I don’t care. Long he don’t come in here I got no problem with Billy whatever-his-name-is.”

  Oliver looked at her.

  “Because it sure ain’t no White Feather.”

  Oliver nodded. “Well, thanks for talking to me.”

  “Good luck.”

  The door opened and in with a shock of frigid air came Hiram Shakespeare. He was a big man with a soft voice that didn’t quite fit him.

  “Hiram,” Oliver said.

  “Hiya,” Hiram said. “What are you doing up this way, brown man?”

  “I came to see the twins.”

  “Word travels fast. Twins. Something, that. How’d you find out?”

  “I got a note from somebody named Billy White Feather.”

  “You know him?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Stay away from him, though. He’s bad medicine.”

  “I’m gathering that.” Oliver looked at his cup. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee if you take me up to see the foals.”

  “You drive.”

  “You bet,” Oliver said.

  “I hate driving in snow,” Hiram said. “Can’t see shit in the snow. Course I can’t see shit in the bright sunshine.”

  Hiram grabbed his extra-large tub of coffee, and Oliver paid for it. They walked out into the wet falling snow and climbed into Oliver’s truck. Tuck moved to the middle and sat, his head level with the humans.

  Hiram rubbed the dog’s head. “He’s looking good.”

  “For an old guy,” Oliver said.

  “I wish somebody would say that about me.”

  “I’m saying.”

  Hiram looked through the back window into the bed of the truck. Oliver had thrown a bunch of cinder blocks into the bed over the rear wheels to keep the truck from fishtailing on the ice. Hiram nodded. “That’s good, them blocks.” He then started to fiddle with the radio. He settled on a country station.

  “You like that crap?” Oliver asked.

  “It’s country music,” Hiram said. “Indians are country people.” He sang along with the song. “So, how do you know Billy White Feather?”

  “I don’t know him. Never heard of him until today when I got the note saying to contact him about buying the foals. When were they born?”

  “Last night. It’s George Big Elk’s mare.”

  “So, they don’t belong to Billy White Feather.”

  Hiram laughed loudly. “Billy White Feather?”

  “His note said that if I was interested in buying the foals, I should contact Billy White Feather.”

  “More like Billy White Man. He doesn’t own the shirt he’s wearing. If he’s wearing a shirt.”

  “George’s, eh. Did George know she was having twins?”

  Hiram shook his head. “The mare looked plenty big, but not crazy big, you know? Nobody up here was going to pay for a scan. Nobody does that. You know how much them scans cost?”

  Oliver nodded. He turned his defroster on high and used his glove to wipe the windshield. “You must breathe a lot or something.”

  “Indians breathe a third more than white people. A quarter more than black people.”

  “Why is that?”

  “This is FBI air.”

  “FBI?”

  Hiram laughed. “Full-Blooded Indian.”

  “I wonder why that guy put that note on my door.”

  “Bad medicine. I wonder how he knew about the foals. I heard tell that Danny Moss and Wilson O’Neil run him off the reservation a few weeks ago. Beat him up pretty good.”

  “I wonder if I’ve seen the guy without knowing who he was,” Oliver said.

  “You’d remember him, all right. He’s a big guy with red hair and a big mustache.”

  Oliver took the turn onto a dirt road that had not been plowed. “Think we’ll be okay on this road?” he asked.

  Hiram shrugged. “Long as the tribe hasn’t plowed it yet. Those guys come by and make everything impassable.”

  “County does the same thing. They can take a messy ru
n and turn it into impassable in a few hours.”

  “Two gallons of shit in a one-gallon bucket. Probably go to the same classes.”

  “Have you seen the foals yet?”

  Hiram shook his head. “I hear tell they’re damn near the same size and pretty strong.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “I heard that. I haven’t seen them. They say the mare’s good, too. Vet came up and couldn’t believe it.”

  “Who’s the vet?”

  “Sam Innis.”

  Oliver nodded.

  The snow let up a bit.

  Hiram was looking out the window at the Owl Creek Hills. “My father wouldn’t set foot in these mountains,” he said. “Scared him. Said there were witches out here.” Then he laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Oliver asked.

  “That priest over at Saint whatever-it’s-called asked me the other day if I believed in God. I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Why the hell not.’ Then I told him the question is, does He believe in me. He didn’t like that. I don’t think he liked me saying hell in church.”

  “What were you doing in the church?”

  “I go in there for that communion wine. It’s the only booze I get. My wife won’t let me have beer or nothing.”

  “Mine, either.”

  “You’re married? Who would marry you?”

  “She’s crazy,” Oliver said.

  Oliver pulled the truck into the yard of the ranch. There were several people standing outside the barn corral. The snow had stopped falling, and the sun was even breaking through in the west. They got out and walked over to the huddle of men standing near the gate. Tuck stayed close to Oliver.

  The foals were standing, spindly-legged clichés next to their mother, a fat-rumped, well-blanketed Appaloosa. The two colts were identical, buckskin in color, with matching blazes. Like the sire, Oliver was told. Who could tell yet whether they would thrive, but they were standing.

  “What was the birth like?” Oliver asked.

  A fat man named Oscar threw his cigarette butt into the snow. “I knew it was happening at about nine last night. I called Innis and he drove up, got here about ten. Then it went real fast. Vet pulled the first one out, but it wasn’t easy. The head and hoof were showing. He said a bunch of stuff, talking to himself. You know how he is. He reached his hands in there to untwist her leg and I heard him say, ‘What the fuck.’ I never heard Innis swear before. He said he couldn’t believe it, but he felt another head. I couldn’t believe it, either.”

  A couple of the men whistled even though they’d heard the story.

  “Vet said there was another one and there he stands. He gave them some shots and left a couple of hours ago.”

  Oscar looked at Oliver. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got a note about these guys.”

  “Sam Innis was here all night,” Oscar said.

  “The note was from Billy White Feather.”

  The men grew quiet.

  “How do you know him?” one of the men asked.

  “Never met him,” Oliver said.

  “Why is he leaving you notes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Oscar said. “He owes Mary Willow two hundred dollars.”

  “For what?” Hiram asked.

  “Something about a horse trailer. She paid him to rewire it, but I guess he skipped with the money. Asshole.”

  “So, nobody suspected twins,” Oliver said.

  “Naw,” Oscar said.

  George Big Elk, a Northern Cheyenne man, came out of the house and moved to the rail. He greeted Oliver. “News travels fast,” he said.

  “Around here,” Oliver said.

  “Looks like they’re okay.”

  “They’re beautiful. Has she thrown before?”

  “Twice. Lost the first one. Almost lost her, too. It was a mess. I thought she was all torn up inside, but then she had a foal the next year.”

  Oliver looked at the mare. She was tall for an App, with great conformation. “The sire as pretty as she is?”

  “You bet,” George said. “Handsome. He’s handsome.”

  “Billy White Feather offered to sell them to ol’ Ollie,” Hiram said.

  “I wish that wasichu would come around here,” George said.

  The men laughed.

  “Well, I can now say I’ve seen the twins,” Oliver said. “I will see you men later. Hiram, do you need a ride back down to Ethete?”

  “I’m all right. But if you want to come back later, I’ll have some buffalo triplets to sell to you.”

  “Come on, Tuck.”

  —

  It was snowing again when Oliver arrived home to find Lauren rearranging the furniture in the living room. The rug was rolled up and shoved to one side. She had put towels under the feet of the sofa so that she could slide it across the floor.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said.

  “I won’t complain if you help me.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “No.”

  “Well, okay then.” He helped her move the sofa across the room and turn it. He stood away with her and looked at it. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Nope. Back where it was.”

  They pushed it back.

  “So, where’d you run off to this morning?”

  “Went to see twin foals up on the rez.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “It was pretty cool. Big App mare, identical babies, mother and children doing well. A real beautiful scene.”

  “Somebody’s going to die,” she said.

  “You got that right.”

  “Why are you such a pessimist?” she asked.

  “Hey, I didn’t say it, you did.”

  “I only said it because I knew you were thinking it.”

  “Seriously though, I hope those babies make it. They looked strong.”

  “So, who called you?” She followed him into the kitchen.

  Oliver grabbed a couple of mugs and poured coffee from the pot that was sitting out. “Got a note. Tacked to the back door when I came in from feeding. It was from Billy White Feather.”

  “Who the hell is Billy White Feather?”

  “Some white boy with an Indian fetish from what I gather. I’d never heard of him.”

  “So, why’d he leave you a note?”

  “Beats me. It’s pretty weird.”

  “While you’re in town I want you to pick up a package waiting at the post office.” Lauren sipped her coffee.

  “Who said I’m going into town? I just got back. I’ve got work to do around here.”

  “Please? It’s snowing. I hate driving in the snow.”

  “Everybody hates driving in the snow,” he said.

  “Pretty please?”

  “I love it when you beg. I’m leaving Tuck here.” He looked at the dog. “Be a watchdog. Watch.”

  “Hey, he’s old.”

  “He’s still employed.” He gave the dog’s head a rub.

  —

  The new post office was right beside the old post office. Oliver wondered if a post office needed an address. The only part of the old one used was its parking lot. It wasn’t that the new lot was ever crowded, but the lines of the spaces had been so closely painted that no one could fit a truck into one. Oliver walked inside and handed the slip to Pam, the clerk, a large woman with large hair.

  “You don’t look like a Lauren,” Pam said, looking at the paper.

  “Haircut.”

  He watched as she waded through the piles of boxes in the back. He looked at the bulletin board beside him and wondered when they quit putting wanted posters on the wall. Someone was missing a tabby cat. There were some free shepherd-mix puppies to a good home. And there was a sheet with tear-off numbers offering guitar lessons from one Billy White Feather. Oliver tore off one of the tabs.

  Pam came back with the box. “Here it is, Lauren.”

  �
�Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Just sign right here.”

  “Pam, have you come across a Billy White Feather?”

  “Jerk.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “No. He came in here and caused a ruckus a while back while I was out to lunch. Drunk.”

  “You know his address?”

  “Yeah, Ethete.”

  “Ethete? But he’s a white guy.”

  “You get kicked by a horse? His name is White Feather.”

  “Folks up at Ethete say he’s a white guy.”

  “Well, maybe he ain’t Arapaho, but he’s an Indian. Got a jet-black braid down to his narrow ass.”

  “Then, you’ve seen him.”

  “I wish I would see him. After what he said to that Dwight girl.”

  “Duncan Dwight’s daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say?” Oliver asked.

  “I can’t repeat it. But Duncan Dwight will shoot him if he sees him. And I wouldn’t blame him.”

  Oliver picked up the package. “Thanks, Pam.”

  “You have a nice day now. Barn journey, as the French say.”

  —

  Behind the wheel of his truck, Oliver called the guitar-lesson number on his mobile phone. A recording informed him that the line was not in service. Of course, he thought. He put the phone away and stared ahead through his windshield at the old post office. He was near laughing at himself, taken, as he was, by what seemed to be a mystery. The irony was double-sided, as he on one hand really had no interest in Billy White Feather, whether Indian or white, and on the other he recognized that pursuing an answer here was the same as falling for whatever con game this Billy White Feather was running around playing. But why had this guy left him a note? Why had he been at his place?