Yes, he has the proper respect for the document, thought Millie, with relief.
Thomas and Millie fell asleep with the suitcase between them, the rope looping twice through the sturdy suitcase handle and then tied tightly to each of their wrists.
Louie thought that, if anything, the presence of the rope announced that the suitcase contained something valuable and might tempt a thief. But none of their fellow refuge seekers looked remotely larcenous.
In the morning, they ate breakfast in a restaurant that advertised its Hungry Man Special in the window. They each ordered the special and the joke was Millie ate hers and what was left of theirs and she wasn’t a man, but hungrier than a man.
“Sometimes I dream I am a man,” said Millie, which was the sort of statement neither of them could meet with a response.
“Good thing the snow stopped,” said Louie, squinting out the window.
“Hope we don’t have to use that tow chain,” said Thomas.
“Anyway, it’s clearing up.”
“Still kicking myself because I didn’t put the chains on the tires yet.”
“Maybe we should order Millie here another breakfast,” said Louie. “Wouldn’t hurt to wait until the sun hits the road a little.”
“I’ll take more coffee,” said Millie. “But you might have to stop for me on the way. I’ll run off behind some trees.”
Louie had forgotten that conversations with his daughter were almost always interrupted by just this sort of uncomfortable statement. Both men responded to the waitress when she came to take their plates away and weren’t sure, really, what it was safe to speak to Millie about.
“One M, one E, two Ls, two Is,” said Millie, out of the blue. “That’s me.” She smiled at them and said, “As long as we’re waiting here, let’s talk about the findings of my study.”
Good News Bad News
Thomas mulled over the detailed report.
The good news is we’re poor enough to require that the government keep, and even improve upon, the status quo.
The bad news is we’re just plain poor.
The good news is that the county, the state, and our neighbors in off-reservation towns do not want us on their hands.
The bad news is this isn’t just because we’re poor. They don’t like us.
The good news is we are sheltered by roofs.
The bad news is 97 percent are made of tar paper.
The good news is that we have schools.
The bad news is that so many of us are illiterate.
The good news is a cure was found for the latest scourge to hit us, tuberculosis.
The bad news is so many parents died and their children grew up in boarding schools.
The good news is we have this report.
The bad news is also this report.
Flying over Snow
Patrice slowly dusted her workstation with a small, soft brush. The snow was falling in heavy sheets. Now there would be no chance to test the possibilities of Betty Pye’s information until spring. She had decided on Wood Mountain for the test because if it didn’t go well he was less “sticky” than Barnes. She had in mind the tiny dots of burrs that slapped all the way down pants or a coat, folding the fabric into a new seam. Sticky. It seemed that Wood Mountain had many admirers. He might even have his eye on someone, which would make him less liable to stick to her. Also, if something went wrong, which she didn’t expect, she could give him the baby to raise. Yes, it was an outrageous thought! She’d never heard of a woman doing that. But look how good he was with babies. The only place she could think of to try out sex was outdoors in the woods, but now that snow was falling thickly that wouldn’t work. Unless she somehow made it work. She adjusted her equipment and began her meticulous task. Yesterday, Betty Pye had sneezed all over her magnifying glass, necessitating Mr. Vold’s application of a special spritz of glass cleaner and some polishing with a soft cloth. Today Betty was out with a terrible head cold, so there were no distractions. How she missed Valentine. And coffee breaks. Also light. Darkness fell so early this time of year.
Doris and Valentine were already in the car when she walked out.
“Sorry,” she said, getting into the backseat.
“We almost left you,” said Valentine. “Doris is itching to get on the road.”
“No, we didn’t,” said Doris. “I had to warm up the car anyway. Valentine, you always exaggerate.”
“I don’t!”
Patrice leaned back. She could feel the heat inching toward her feet, which were already going numb in her thin boots. She needed heavier socks. A sweater beneath her coat. Her lucky-find blue coat had been good only through October. She thought of how Pokey was dressed so warmly thanks to Barnes, and felt guilty again for choosing Wood Mountain over him, even though it was a meaningless choice given the snow. At least the road was clear enough, the driving not impossible. Up front the argument was turning to teasing and laughing, so Patrice let her own thoughts float free. What if she visited Wood Mountain’s house when Juggie was gone? Or what if they happened to borrow Juggie’s car? What if . . . oh what if . . . what if they made their way to that old abandoned cabin up the hill, the one Vera used to work on, thinking it might be the start of her own house someday? No, how ridiculous. It was just as cold as outdoors in that cabin, and maybe branches had even grown through the walls. But there was still a rusty little tin stove up there, she thought, and she could bring blankets. However, that would mean she planned this whole thing out, which made her head whirl. She closed her eyes. Wood Mountain’s strong chest, bare and glistening with sweat and heat. The look on his face the first time he adored the baby, but that adoring look directed at her—wait, she didn’t want that. Wood Mountain was a personal experiment. She was only planning to try him out, not be adored or loved or anything that would make him sticky, like Barnes. But wasn’t he a little sticky anyway? Coming over to see the baby?
No, he was not sticky. He never even looked at her anymore. And now that snow had fallen he wouldn’t be riding Gringo up there. That horse was too valuable to stake out in the cold. She wouldn’t see him, in fact, at all. A flicker of disappointment. And again the thought of that old cabin, or Juggie’s car. That fancy car that Bernie Blue got for her. With the money that Bernie made, somehow. Patrice’s thoughts shifted.
How had Bernie made the money? Bad ways, for sure. Bernie was living with a shady, violent man who perhaps gave her money. For some reason. Maybe love. But did a shady, violent man give a woman that much money out of love? Patrice had no idea. She’d made a pile there as a waterjack, so maybe there were other things Bernie did to make a pile. Sex things Patrice hadn’t known were even jobs, the way she hadn’t known swimming in a tank dressed as a blue ox was a job. Or maybe, she thought, the sort of drugs that Jack had obviously taken. They had to be worth money, like liquor was worth money. Her thoughts veered. Maybe Bernie had something to do with the collars and the chains and the menace of that boarded-up house. Maybe Bernie had something to do with where Vera went, and maybe the money that bought the car had something to do with where Vera went. The things that Betty had tried to tell her about were true, and maybe had to do with where Vera went. Also the things that Wood Mountain had tried to tell her on the train and later about the boats so big she couldn’t imagine them were also the things Betty Pye had talked about, and had to do with where Vera went.
These were possibilities that she knew other people knew, and had always known. They were things that she, Patrice, tried to keep from thinking about. But now with full weight they crashed upon her and she gave a sharp cry, there in the backseat. She thought Valentine would turn around, but no, she was engrossed in a passionate conversation about doily making and embroidering pillowcases for a hope chest being so boring and irritating that she couldn’t do it anymore. The nuns had taught her. But no more! She wouldn’t do it! Not for anything. No to the hope chest. She’d get married without a hope chest. Doris agreed with vehemence. Valentine tos
sed her head and looked angrily out the window. She was silent. Her face was reflected in the glass and from the backseat Patrice could see how Valentine’s eyes shifted from side to side, glittering with sadness. Valentine had never embroidered for a hope chest. She had embroidered for nuns during the years she spent as a little girl in boarding school, poking her fingers and trying to get the designs right. Her mother had nearly died of tuberculosis and Valentine had nearly died of loneliness during those years.
* * *
Patrice put on her long underwear, padded overalls, two layers of wool socks, her father’s overboots, and took a coil of wire from its nail beside the door. It was her day off, but she wasn’t going to walk or hitch a ride to town. More snow had fallen during the windless night and now it lay suspended in the trees, outlining each branch and twig. There was a magical hush. It was the sort of day Patrice liked for snaring rabbits.
Zhaanat had made her daughter a pair of snowshoes out of bent ash and sinew. Wearing them, Patrice could go anywhere, suspended like the snow in white cold. Down along the frozen slough she tied reeds together over rabbit trails, securing her snares. She was carrying a large cloth bag looped around her waist, and as she crossed the slough she pulled fluffed-out cattails off their woody stems and filled the bag. She set snares in the underbrush leading up to Vera’s cabin. The cedar trees that Zhaanat had planted in damp spots were almost black in the cold, asleep. Their medicine was gentle this time of year. At last she climbed through a tangle of raspberry and birch to the clearing where the cabin stood. There it was, a tiny pole-and-mud box hung with snow. It still had its doors and narrow windows, the glass miraculously still intact. She could see, it was true, a few popple trees growing out of the roof. These were laden with snow and added to the air of enchantment. It was so quiet there. So dear. Oh, Vera. How could she have imagined taking Wood Mountain up here for crude love, no matter how curious she was?
Am I just curious, or am I like Betty? Is there something wrong with being like Betty? I’m no better, she thought. A swooning, dripping, hungry sensation came over her. No, I’m no better than any other woman. But the thought didn’t help her longing, so confused with shame. Instead she thought of how cold, how dark it would be inside the cabin, even if you made a fire. Probably a skunk was living there. Patrice turned and traced her way back, not along the same trail. She wanted the slow drifting-down remains of snow to cover her scent around the snares. She took a more difficult way home, traveling beside a ravine where the snow was heaped up and the footing uncertain. Halfway home, she stepped out upon a patch of snow that collapsed into a depression lined with leaves.
It happened so suddenly that after she fell she sat in the leaves for a while, bewildered, but comfortable, and with no wish to move. She took her snowshoes off. Above, on top of the ravine, she heard small birds murmuring—the plump gray ones who scratched up the snow for food and traveled in flocks. Her snowy plunge had only briefly disturbed them. She turned her head. Behind her, a narrow aperture through leaf-clogged roots, and behind that, a profound and friendly darkness. It looked cozy, the bed of leaves, the curves of dry bare roots. This could be my love nest, she thought; if a man liked it here, I might like him.
But yes. The place looked alive, the bank of the ravine, the leaf cave. Felt alive. From its mouth she caught the unmistakable fug of bear, but it was a quiet kind of odor, seeping up from under the dense oak leaves. She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She knew the bear was sleeping hard. Now she was sorry she hadn’t carried the rifle along. This was the best way, the only way, really, to kill a bear with the old contrary gun her family owned. Still, she’d have fallen with the rifle slung over her shoulder. She was lucky enough to have landed unhurt in her snowshoes. She shifted around to make herself comfortable. Outside, the snow drifted down the layers of air, flake by flake. Watching the snow glide down put Patrice into a trance, and now she could sense the slow inflation and release of the bear’s lungs, which made her even sleepier. Perhaps the leaves were warmed by the bear’s bulk and slow heave of breath. Patrice rolled herself into a ball and closed her eyes. It was time for her weekend nap, anyway, and how often did a modern working woman get to sleep with a live bear?
She woke in the cave of leaves with a tingling sense that something good had happened and might happen. Then she remembered that she’d been sleeping only feet away from a bear. She put her snowshoes back on and left quietly, walking at first, then loping lightly, knees high so her snowshoes would clear the snow, all along the bottom of the ravine. The cold air flooding her throat was a source of power. Sleep was a fuel, too, making her springy and buoyant. She was so much stronger than she’d thought. And fearless. As she went downhill she was nearly flying across the snow.
“The old man, he’s close,” said Zhaanat when Patrice came in the door.
“How do you know?”
“I found a track this morning. I smelled him out there. Signs.”
“And his luck’s due to run out.”
There was a certain timing. After two or three months of wandering around, Paranteau would generally stagger and steam into the yard, raving.
“I’ll be the night watchman,” said Patrice, and went out to get the ax.
The night was clear but the wind had changed.
Patrice brought the ax inside and put it on the table. She had bought kerosene, and she could keep the lamp on all night. She got her book, some paper, and a pencil. Pokey curled up on his mattress. Zhaanat went to bed with the baby.
Halfway through the night, Patrice realized she hadn’t thought of Wood Mountain even once since she’d awakened in the leaf cave. Maybe she had even lost interest. The intense focus of those thoughts and plans seemed remote. Why would she waste her time figuring out men when she was a person who had slept with a bear? She was wide awake now because she’d napped that afternoon. She kept the strength she’d gained in the minutes she’d slept. Bigger ideas were called for. Why should anything be impossible?
In the deepest hour of the night, Patrice loaded the stove and put on her boots and her coat against the cold jabbing into the house. The wood crackled, burning hot. Then the split logs fell into coals. Everything ceased. She listened hard. Nothing, nothing, nothing. But she could feel the calm breathing of the night. She put on her mother’s mitts, took the ax, stepped out the door. Outside, there was resounding silence. The black sky was a poem beyond meaning. This World is not Conclusion. / A Species stands beyond—/ Invisible, as Music—/ But positive, as Sound.
Snares
“Wouldn’t Doris and Valentine like to see me out here setting snares?” said Patrice to her little brother the next day. “There, see the place where the rabbit jumped? Set it right above.”
“I know! Quit bossing me!”
Pokey looped the wire and fixed it to a branch that hung low over the spot.
“All my friends catch rabbits and hunt,” he said. “Your friends are useless.”
“They do have jobs. And they belong to the Homemakers Club. They sew and make gardens and raise chickens.”
“I wish we had chickens,” said Pokey. “I could put them in the little shed.”
“They’d freeze solid.”
“Maybe you should get it over with, Pixie.”
Pokey was the only one she let call her Pixie.
“Get what over with?”
“You know.”
Patrice was the person she’d been before her thoughts had turned all muddy. She felt superior to the person she was before she slept with the bear. She indulged Pokey with a smile.
“I suppose you mean Hay Stack?”
“He’s nice to me. But I know why. So not him.”
“Wood Mountain?”
“Wouldn’t be half bad.”
“So less than 50 percent awful.” Patrice shoved his shoulder lightly. “I’m aiming for something more like in the 90 percent good range.”
Pokey batted at her. “He does say you’re a smart one.”
“He says you’re probably too smart for him.”
“He’s probably right.”
Pokey looked skeptical, then dejected.
“Gego babaamendangen, nishimenh, don’t worry. Let’s check the snares I set yesterday up by the old place.”
Patrice had told her mother about the bear, but in Chippewa, which Pokey didn’t understand very well. She’d used the most complex words she could think of too, so that he wouldn’t figure out what she was talking about and get some idea about trying to shoot the bear himself. Zhaanat had listened to her with her eyes shining, the baby sleeping on her heart.
As they approached Vera’s cabin, they walked across the frozen slough, searching carefully along Patrice’s trapline. They found one large white snowshoe hare, frozen solid, and another smaller cottontail. They walked uphill, beating through brush, and then stepped into the presence of the cabin. The undisturbed calm of it made Patrice so lonely that she said no when Pokey wanted to look around inside.
“It’s Vera’s,” she said.
“I’ll just look in the window then.”
“No,” she said, but he walked up to the cabin anyway.
He stood at the window with his hands cupped around his eyes.
“Someone’s sleeping in there,” he said. “Curled up by the stove.”
“Come back,” said Patrice.
She knew whoever was in there wasn’t sleeping. There had been no tracks yesterday. Pokey’s were the only tracks up to the place today. From the way Pokey’s face looked when he returned, she knew that he knew also.
“Let’s go home. And don’t tell Mama.”
“I guess not,” said Pokey. “What you gonna do?”
“I’ll go into town. Get Moses Montrose. Or Uncle Thomas. But don’t tell Mama yet.”
The Night Watchman Page 25
