by Kelly Irvin
“You gonna say something or just stand there and stare? Didn’t your mama teach you that it’s rude to stare?”
“Are you Cap Dawson, by any chance?”
The man’s face held little interest in the stranger he saw standing a few feet away. Dawson had curiously pale-yellowish-brown eyes and a gray five o’clock shadow that matched bits of hair that stuck out from a red Kansas City Chiefs cap. “As good a chance as any.” He chuckled, a sound as abrasive as sandpaper. “Who wants to know?”
“Raymond Old Fox.”
No sign of recognition in his face, Dawson turned back to the water. For a long moment he kicked his bony feet back and forth, back and forth.
Raymond shifted his Nikes. Maybe this was a fool’s errand. Maybe he should have stayed by Gramma’s side as they prepared to put her in the ground. Maybe he was stupid to think he’d find something in this man that he lacked after all these years. Maybe the Native blood ran stronger for a reason.
He turned to go.
“You look like her.”
The muscles in Raymond’s shoulders tensed. Pain ping-ponged through his brain. He did an about-face. “I’m surprised you remember what she looked like.”
“Ouch.” Dawson licked his forefinger and sketched a one in the air. “Point for you, Son.”
“I don’t think you get to call me that.”
Dawson leaned to one side of his flat butt and tugged a worn leather billfold from the back pocket of his faded cargo-style camo shorts. With calloused fingers he dug through it and plucked out a faded photo. He held it out.
Raymond hesitated.
“You traveled this far, dude.” Dawson stretched his arm up and out. “I don’t bite.”
“Whatever.” What made him act like a rebellious teenager around this stranger? Was it because he never had the chance in those days when Gramma had been the only person who stood between him and juvenile delinquency? He stomped across the dock and snatched the photo from Dawson without touching his grimy fingers. “A photo doesn’t change anything.”
“Depends on how you look at it. Depends on what the photo is and who took it. Photos have history.”
The man might be white, but he was channeling Gramma.
The picture had been taken when Raymond was eight or nine, not long before Mom died. They leaned against her 1999 midnight-blue Dodge Ram. Her long raven hair hung down around her shoulders. Her head thrown back, she smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She wore a red embroidered blouse open at the neck so her turquoise-and-silver necklace glinted in the sun.
She was beautiful. He’d forgotten that about her. An equally huge grin on his face, he leaned against her, his head almost to her chest. Her arms were around his neck. His hair hung in his chubby face. His pudgy hands grasped her wrists. He’d been a fat kid who grew into a husky man made into solid muscle by years of playing football and baseball. He looked so young and so happy.
So innocent.
Raymond touched the base of his throat with his free hand. Her fingers had been soft on his skin. The sun shone warm on his face. The breeze picked up and rustled the leaves in the cottonwoods. Just like it had that day. They’d been to the July Fourth powwow in Arlee. She loved the powwow. She loved to dance and play the stick game and eat grilled moose on a stick. They set up tents and slept there three nights. He and his brothers in one. Velda and Mom in another. Gramma insisted on her own because Velda snored. Velda claimed it was Gramma who snored.
Those days were some of the most uninterrupted time they’d spent together as a family. Vic and Tony were there, but only on the periphery of his memory. Who took the photo? Velda? Gramma?
One of the men she dated but never brought home after Tony’s dad faded from their lives?
“She sent that to me.” Faint surprise scented Dawson’s words. “A long time ago. Look at the back.”
On the back his mother’s loose cursive writing read, “Do you really regret making this boy with an Indian?”
“Did you regret it?”
“Not at the time of conception, no. The only reason she sent it was because she heard through the grapevine about me and the Church of the Creator.”
An ugly chill crept up Raymond’s spine. “Why would she try to contact you after learning something like that?”
Dawson patted the dock. “Take a load off. I’m getting a crick in my neck.”
“Are you sure you want to be seen with a subhuman species such as myself?”
“Hey, man, I disconnected from that garbage a long time ago.”
“Because she reminded you that you had a kid with an Indian?”
“No, because I got unstupid. A guy does all kinds of stupid stuff before he gets his sh—his act together.”
Why he would choose not to swear in front of Raymond was a small mystery in the midst of many bigger ones. “I know about that.” Raymond plopped down on the dock but kept a reasonable amount of space between himself and this stranger who’d given him life.
He handed the photo back. “Why that stupid thing? You had a relationship with a Native. Then you went white supremacist on her. That’s a huge leap.”
“Is that why you showed up now, after all these years? To find out why your old man was so stupid?”
“She never talked about you. Neither did Gramma. I didn’t know until a few days ago how stupid you were—other than doing the disappearing act instead of hanging around with my mom and being a dad to me.”
“Thank God for small favors—about the stupid part.” Dawson patted his pockets and produced a pack of Marlboro 100s. He took his time lighting one with a silver butane lighter. The stench wafted over Raymond. “I had a motorcycle. I was hanging out with a bunch of bikers. I listened to the wrong people. I was looking for something and I thought I’d found it. Nobody’s ever called me a genius.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” He shrugged skinny shoulders and took a sip from the bottle. “So what are you doing here? What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
Anger burned through him. No How are you? or What have you been doing with your life? No I’m sorry I wasn’t around to give you advice or wop you upside the head when you needed it. No nothing.
“Spit it out, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.” Not anymore. “You missed that part.”
“You here to bust my chops for being an absentee father? Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I’m tough. I can take it.”
The words fizzled like firecrackers, wicks lit, that failed to blow up. Raymond studied the muddied water below their feet. “Like I said before, whatever.”
“You drove all the way from Arlee for that? Come on, kid, take your best shot.”
“Why didn’t you stay?”
“I was about your age when I met your mom.” He sucked on the cigarette and let the smoke rush from his nose in a long, steady stream. “I was drinking beer and playing pool in a bar in Polson. She came in with some girlfriends, but I never even saw them. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Legs up to her waist. Tight jeans. Touch me and I’ll break your arm look on her face.”
“I get it. You liked the way she looked.”
“She was the only woman I ever loved.” He swiveled and leveled his gaze at Raymond. “I tried to forget her. I dated a lot of women over the years. Bedded a lot of women. But your mother was like alcohol and nicotine and weed all bundled into one addictive drug for me.”
“Not so it was noticeable.”
“She never told you anything about me?”
“Nope. But I was a kid when she died.”
“I didn’t leave her. She kicked me to the curb.”
Just like Gramma remembered it. The puzzle pieces of his life pushed and shoved until they created a painful new picture. “Why?”
“She said we had nothing in common. That hooking up with a white guy was a big mistake. The only good thing to come out of it, according to your mother, was you.”
It was Raymond’s turn to be silent.
Dawson flicked his cigarette butt into the water. It hissed and sank. Irked, Raymond rubbed his eyes. He should leave. This was a mistake. True, he knew more than he had when he arrived, but at what cost? This man didn’t fit any of the images he’d held close to his heart of an imaginary father. Clad in a superhero cap or riding a palomino bareback or saving the world from cancer. A white man, true, but one who appreciated indigenous people enough to fall in love with his mother. And then ran like the wind as far to the other end of the spectrum as he could go.
His mother, on the other hand, didn’t see Raymond as a mistake. Half white but all Native at heart. “So you gave up.”
“Not without a fight. But between Sadie and Velda, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I had to seek your mother out on her lunch hour after she went back to work. Or speed in a school zone so she’d pull me over.”
His expression pensive, he picked at a scab on the back of his hand. “We hooked up a few more times over the years—in between the guys who fathered your brothers. She always came flitting back to me and then flew away. It was like trying to catch and hold a lightning bug.”
“Vic and Tony aren’t yours, then?”
“Nope. All Indian.”
“So you became a white supremacist?”
“Your mother hurt me like no one else could. I was looking for a way to fill that hole. I got messed up.”
Raymond needed to fill a hole too. Did an Amish girl with sapphire eyes and rosebud lips serve as his new church? No, he wouldn’t mess with her tender heart like that. “Did you ever find someone else?”
“I tried.” His gaze meandered across the lake to the Swan Mountain range. “I tried hard. Tall women. Short women. Chubby women. Skinny women. Married women. Old, young, everything in between. Nothing worked. Adeline was it for me. Then she died and left me with nothing.”
“I’m not nothing.”
“Adeline didn’t want me to have nothing to do with you.”
“Because you’re white?”
“Because I never grew up. I never amounted to nothing. She wanted better for you.”
“What do you do?”
“I work for one of the outfitter companies doing guided hunting and fishing trips and horseback-based pack trips into Bob Marshall Wilderness.” For the first time his face grew animated. His pale eyes lit up. His smile looked hauntingly like the one Raymond saw in the mirror when he brushed his teeth. “We do two-, three-, even six-day horseback pack trips. People can hike, see wildlife, and do a little roughing it. My favorite is the fishing trips, though. Rainbow, bull, brooks, native cutthroat trout at Swan River.”
“Sounds like you found your groove. Your place to be.”
“Took me long enough. I can’t believe they pay me to do it. It’s not actually work. At least it don’t seem that way.”
Connected to nature, to the animals, and the fish. Maybe a little of Raymond’s mom rubbed off on this white man. “So you’re happy.”
“Content might be a better word. I’ve stopped beating my head against the wall since your mom died. I realized I lost her a long time ago and I was never gonna get her back.”
He didn’t sound sad but rather resigned.
“Do you have any other kids?”
“Not that I know of.”
Not the same thing, but given his roaming lifestyle, likely accurate. That left Raymond, his half-breed son. “Why did you come to the funeral?”
“I wanted to pay my respects. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Velda said no and you just gave up.”
“She said to do you a favor and let you grow up in your mama’s world. She said a boy like you shouldn’t have to straddle two worlds.”
“A boy shouldn’t grow up without a father.”
“I think we can agree on that.”
A tiny sliver of light peeked through the darkness that had descended on Raymond when Gramma took her last breath. “I like to fish.”
“Yeah?” Dawson’s sideways glance was assessing. “I got a boat.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not much, but it ain’t sunk yet. You could come back sometime, if you want.”
“I could.” Raymond hoisted himself to his feet. “Right now, I have to go see my brothers. They’re coming in for Gramma’s burial.”
“The old biddy—I mean Sadie—died?”
“She raised me after Mom died.”
“Sorry for your loss, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Last time I saw you was at the funeral. You were nine or ten.”
“Nine.”
“You’re frozen in time for me.”
“I grew up the hard way without my mom or my dad. I’m lucky I had Gramma Sadie and Grandma Velda.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I tried to talk to you that day, but Velda wasn’t having any of that.”
“I know. I saw her shoo you out.”
“Chew me out and then shoo me out. She practically shoved me out the door.”
“She is strong-minded.”
“Other words come to mind.”
“I gotta go.”
“You’ll come back?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Dawson dug another cigarette from its package. The cellophane crackled. “I’ll be here.”
“If those cigarettes don’t kill you first.”
“Worried about my health?” He grinned for the first time. He had a gap between his two front teeth, the way Raymond had before the tribal dentist fitted him with braces that Gramma claimed cost more than her first house. “Now I know you’re hooked.”
“Whatever.”
His father’s cackle followed him up the dock and across the street.
31
Eureka, Montana
Facing an angry grizzly empty-handed would have been easier than this. Despite a cool morning breeze, sweat dampened the armpits of Andy’s shirt. He wiped his boots on the welcome mat a second time, inhaled, and blew out air. John’s wife and sons lived in a neat two-story, redbrick house on a quiet street near downtown Eureka.
His decision to return here to see them seemed a rash one in the light of day. His unfinished business meant forging a relationship with John’s family now that John was gone. His sons would need men in their lives. Madison would think that he showed up because he needed a place to stay while in Eureka.
Caleb Hostetler had offered him a bunk bed in the RV he’d borrowed. Danki, Gott, for provision. Maybe Henry would be there. He’d been staying at the Clemson house since the evacuation. More likely, his cabin roomie was at work at the taxidermy shop.
Stop procrastinating. Get it over with. Best to rip the bandage off. Don’t be a coward.
Some pep talk.
He’d told Christine he had unfinished business. Just as she did. He had to be there for John’s boys. She had to talk to Raymond Old Fox. Only then could their journey continue. Andy closed his eyes. Heat flooded his body. The feel of her lips on his was as real as the cool morning air on his cheeks. Could they meet in the middle? She couldn’t be the simple Plain girl who cleaned houses. The experiences in St. Ignatius had changed her. John’s death had changed him. The question was whether the changes had been for good or for bad. Was he a better man for his suffering? Was she a better woman for having known a man named Old Fox?
The memory of Christine’s anguished face as she spoke of her concern for the woman she called Gramma flooded him. She had a soft heart for others. A loving heart. Andy loved her more for that, not less.
Could she feel the same for him?
Thy will be done, Gott.
“Andy? What are you doing standing out here?”
Startled, he jerked back a step and opened his eyes. Madison peeked through the half-opened door. “I thought I saw a van pull up and drop you off, but you never knocked.”
“I was thinking.”
“I see.” Her tone said she didn’t really. “Woul
d you like to come in?”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Please do. I’m going crazy in here. I should be boxing up John’s things for the Goodwill Store, but I keep stopping to reminiscence over each rip and every stain and when I bought that black bomber jacket for him for Christmas or when he wore that gray suit to my sister’s wedding. The Colorado Rockies T-shirt he refused to throw away because he wore it when I was in labor with Derrick.”
She put her hand to her mouth as if to staunch the flow of words. Her eyes filled with tears.
Andy understood a little. Plain folks’ clothes were all the same and, as such, held little sentimental value. Still it hurt when they gave away their dead loved ones’ possessions to those who could get some use out of them. No sense in keeping them when they could be put to practical use. It felt like losing those loved ones all over again. “Is Henry around?”
“You came to see him?”
“No, no, I just wondered.” Wondered if his presence would ease this awkward, painful encounter. “I haven’t talked to him since the funeral.”
“He’s at work. Having him around has been nice, though. The house doesn’t seem so empty.” She motioned Andy in and closed the door behind him. “He’s handy. He helps out with things I always counted on John to do.” Her voice quivered. She stopped talking.
Andy followed her into the dining room where three closed boxes sat on the floor. A fourth one sat open on a chair. Madison ran her hand through silver-streaked brown hair that curled around the collar of her long-sleeved blue turtleneck. “Sorry for the mess. I thought it would help not to have so many reminders around.”
Never mind that she had three boys who were the spitting image of her husband to remind her each day of what she’d lost. Andy focused on the woman in front of him and not the room where he’d eaten many hot, home-cooked meals with his English friend. “It’s okay. I wondered if there was some way I could help.” Searching for the words he’d practiced on the long drive from St. Ignatius, he found only bits and pieces of the speech remained within reach. “I don’t think I told you how sorry I am.”
