by Kelly Irvin
Although . . . the other unspoken exception was courting with Andy. Her muscles turned to mush every time she relived that moment Andy kissed her with such gentleness by the pond. His face as he said those words “meet in the middle.”
How could she take care of her unfinished business while confined to this house and its yard?
Christine stuffed the mop in the bucket with more force than necessary. She went to the refrigerator and removed a covered tub containing some largemouth bass Jasper had brought in after an impromptu early morning fishing trip. Tonight’s supper. She planned to bread it in a spicy panko and pan-fry it. That the rank smell of fresh fish didn’t bother her spoke volumes. Raymond would be proud. She chopped off the heads, slit the bodies open, and removed the guts.
Danki, Gott, for this bounty of food. Raymond’s ancestors hunted and fished for food. Not for sport, but to provide for their families. There was honor in their hunting. She leaned into the work. The fish still stank. But she had changed. If only she could tell him how the time spent with him had changed her.
She laid the glistening fillets on a clean plate and covered them with plastic wrap. The guts went into the trash. She would take it out to the barrel between trips to hang the laundry. The scent of a fresh round of cleanser on the countertop cheered her. When all else failed, cleaning kept a body occupied.
The chug-a-chug-a-chug stopped. Christine went to work wringing out the clothes into the rinse sink. The machine did all the work, but her body ached. The tension returned tenfold. Andy was right. She couldn’t live with her feet in two different worlds. She loved—yes, loved—talking to Raymond. She loved spending time with him. She loved the way he loved the natural world.
But she didn’t love him—not like that. She was not a biblical scholar, by any means, but some things she understood. Scripture said if anyone doesn’t love his brother whom he has seen, he cannot love God whom he has not seen. She loved Gramma, and she’d only met her once. Tonya might require more work, but she was fascinating. She would be worth getting to know. The whirlwind of emotion she felt when she saw Raymond had more to do with the fire, the evacuation, and the first heady taste of freedom in the world that came because of them. She’d have to be dense not to see that.
Gott, help me.
Three simple words were all she could muster. She snatched up a basket, heavy with wet dresses, and marched out to the backyard clothesline. There she inhaled the smell of autumn and wrestled with one of Aunt Lucy’s voluminous dresses. The breeze caught it so the wet material flapped in her face like a slap.
“Okay, Gott, I get it.” She pinned the dress with two wooden clothespins to the rope line. “I have a brain the size of a peanut, but I’m not completely stupid.”
What exactly did she get?
That she needed to return to her roots, to cleaning houses and taking care of babies and planting vegetables and canning fruit? That was her people’s connection to God’s creation.
There was more than one way to peel an apple.
Only then would she know how to clean up her messy life.
A shrill honk made her jump and drop her cousin’s lilac dress in the grass. She grabbed it and turned toward the road. A dusty white van pulled into Uncle Fergie’s gravel-and-dirt driveway that led to the barn where he housed his buggies and horses.
The front passenger door opened. Father emerged. A second later, the middle door slid open. Mother.
For the first time in weeks, the enormous boulders of uncertainty and insecurity on Christine’s shoulders teetered. She shrugged. They fell away with a silent thud. “Daed! Mudder!” She dropped the dress in the basket and scurried toward the gate. Mother beat her to it. She shoved the gate open and held out her arms. The hug felt like heaven.
Mother’s arms dropped, and she took a step back. Her forehead furled, and she shook her head. “You look tired, Dochder, and thin.”
“It’s only been three weeks.”
“Busy ones, apparently.” Her father approached at a more dignified pace. “According to Fergie.”
“I’m so sorry. You didn’t need to come all the way back because of me.”
“We did.” Father’s fierce growl accompanied his frown. “Fergie’s concerns are real, there’s no doubt in my mind. He wouldn’t have called us otherwise.”
“I know. I only meant to say, I’ve been staying home, cleaning and cooking and watching the babies.”
She had no choice because Andy had left and Raymond had made no attempt to contact her since their trip to the medicine tree. Something had happened at the tree. Something they didn’t want to talk about with a stranger. Since then, complete and utter silence had reigned.
“After Fergie’s bishop got involved—”
“Let’s go inside and talk there.” Mother took Christine’s arm. “I’m glad to see you, Dochder.”
She stopped short of saying she’d missed Christine, but everything about her reddened eyes and watery smile said as much. Christine hooked her arm through Mother’s, and together they trudged into the house, Father a few steps ahead. There she busied herself making coffee and cutting pieces of her fresh-baked cherry pie for them. She asked about the rest of the family. Mother answered while Father sipped his coffee and stewed in the chair across from her. Everyone was fine. The children liked Kansas. They liked playing with their cousins. They’d settled in at the new school, and they liked their new teacher. She wasn’t Mercy, but she would do.
“Enough chitchat.” Father interrupted Mother’s detailed description of the birthday party they’d given for Grandma. “How could you stray so far from everything we’ve taught you? Sneaking out to travel across the country with an Indian.”
His tone and the words stung. Christine took a breath and said the first thing that came to mind. “He’s a Native.”
Not the right response. “I don’t care what you call him. He’s not Plain, and you’re not sixteen and on your rumspringa. We left you here with Fergie because we believed—wrongly—that you would be no trouble to them. We thought you would be getting married soon. What of Andy? How could you treat him so poorly?”
The torrent of words poured over her, scalding hot and blistering in their disgust for her behavior. She opened her mouth and stuttered worse than Esther Marie. “I just, I-I-I wanted—”
“This isn’t about what you want.” Father smacked his hand on the pine table. His mug shuddered and coffee spilled down the side. Grimacing, he sopped it up with a dish towel. “It’s about what’s right, what’s decent, and what’s acceptable. What has happened to your faith and your obedience to the Ordnung?”
“I didn’t think—”
“Nee, you didn’t.”
“Ben.” Mother slid her hand over his. “Give the girl a chance to speak.”
“I don’t need her excuses,” he growled. “We’ve come to take her home.”
“Nee.” Shame mingled with fear and rebellion. After all she’d done and all the repercussions, she still rebelled. How could that be? Had she not learned her lesson? Her rebellious soul wanted to be in the only home she’d ever known—Kootenai. Her portion would be a punishment that took her away from her friends and from Andy, the man she loved. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave Montana. It’s my home.”
“It’s not about what you want. It’s about what’s best for you.” Father tugged his hand from Mother’s. He stood and paced the floor like a caged mountain lion. “You can’t be trusted to make gut decisions. You still need your parents’ supervision. This does not make me happy. I’ve failed as a parent.”
“You’ll like Haven.” Mother picked at remnants of the piecrust with her fork. “They have a goodly sized group of young people your age. They have singings regularly. It’s a bigger group than we have here.”
Translation: more single men of marrying age. “I’m not interested in singings. Andy and I are trying to work things out. He will return to Kootenai. So will my friends Nora, Mercy, and Juliette.”
“Juliette was never a gut influence.” Father tossed aside her feelings like so much garbage. “Why would Andy bother with you after what you’ve done?”
“He’s trying . . .”
Mother’s slight shake of the head reminded Christine of her mother’s advice during her teenage years. “Never argue with Daed when he’s angry. Wait to talk to him when he has cooled off.”
“I’m sorry, Daed, Mudder. Truly I am.” The quiver in her voice gave her away. She swallowed tears and cleared her throat. “I never meant to shame you. I only wanted to learn more about St. Ignatius’s history. It seemed harmless.”
“Maybe at first, but when you started sneaking around to spend entire days alone with a man—an Indian—you knew. Maybe you lied to yourself about it, but you knew what you were doing went against everything you’ve been taught.”
Father was right. She’d always known that, but she’d weighed ignorance of the world against being able to see how her faith and beliefs held up when compared to those of people like Raymond. Father would never understand that. He preferred to put his head down and his shoulder into the task of living up to the cornerstones of their faith—obedience, humility, and Gelassenheit—dying to self.
“I promise to do better.”
“You will because you’ll be in Haven—”
A door slammed somewhere in the recesses of the house. A few seconds later Uncle Fergie trotted into the kitchen. Aunt Lucy followed close behind. Their faces creased in broad smiles.
“You’re here. That was a quick trip.” Fergie clapped Father on the back while Lucy went to Mother. The two sisters hugged long and hard. “I was hoping you would be. I have news. My friend in Eureka called. The evacuation has been lifted. People can return to Kootenai. I thought you’d want to know.”
“We can go home.” Christine stood so quickly her chair fell over with a bang. “Please, let’s go home.”
“Kansas is our home now.” Father shook his finger at her. “It’s your home.”
“Ben, let’s take some time and think about this.” Mudder rose from the table and went to him. Her placid face filled with such love Christine couldn’t look away. “Shouldn’t we make a trip to Kootenai to see the condition of our property? We have furniture to pick up, and we need to prepare it for sale, anyway. Shouldn’t we help the people who have been our neighbors for the last twenty years to rebuild?”
Daed stood very still, as if mesmerized by his wife’s voice. No one else moved or spoke. Finally, he drew a breath and nodded. “I’ll pray about it.” His gaze wandered to Christine. “No promises.”
Prayer was good. It allowed for a sliver of hope to remain.
34
Arlee, Montana
Little fanfare accompanied the burial of Sadie Runabout. Gramma wanted a plain pine box and a hole in the ground next to the one that held Great-Grandpa Runabout in the Jocko Valley Cemetery. That’s what they gave her after a service at the Arlee Community Center.
The sun broke through woolly clouds, making Raymond squint. His eyes burned from unshed tears. His clenched jaw ached. Not even the northerly autumn breeze cooled his face. It rustled the leaves on the faded plastic flower arrangements left on simple graves in rows beyond a small white church.
Gramma had never gone back to church after those years at the Mission school. What would Christine say about that? Did Gramma burn in hell because she rejected the white man’s Savior? Did it matter that white men caused her disbelief?
He shrugged off his unease and focused on the mountains in the distance. They beckoned. Come away from that sad little place. Heat in the middle of his chest throbbed and spread. He wanted to rip off the black jacket he wore over a long-sleeved white shirt and blue jeans. He edged away from the throngs of tribal members who’d gathered for the burial. Later they would have food and stories at Velda’s, where they would play cards and reminiscence about a much-respected elder who’d gone on to the spirit world after a long, honorable life.
His stomach heaved at the idea of food. He gritted his teeth and picked up his pace toward the road that held a long line of cars, including the Volvo. He’d run it through a car wash in Gramma’s honor and discovered that one of the windows leaked.
“Raymond. Wait.”
One of his brothers called. He turned back to see Vic striding toward him. The middle child, the stoic one, the most aboriginal in looks. Nothing of his mother could be seen in his face, so he must have the attributes of an unknown father. As kids they’d never talked about their fathers. How could that be? Like it was a taboo topic. Raymond drew a line in the dirt with the toe of his good boot while he waited for Vic to speak.
“Are you going back to Velda’s?”
“I don’t think so.” Raymond cast about for an excuse but could find none that would be deemed acceptable. “My stomach is a wreck. I might go home.”
Not a lie. His stomach had been messed up since his visit to Swan Lake. It lurched at the idea of going home to his solitary one-bedroom, one-bath apartment over a garage on a dead-end street in Arlee, but time spent with a bunch of people rehashing Gramma’s life did nothing to make it feel better.
“Me and Janie are going back tomorrow. Our bereavement leave will be up.” Vic jerked his head toward his wife, a pretty dark-haired Native with a voluptuous body and light-green eyes. She had propped herself against their Jeep Cherokee with the dazed look of a person who’d talked to too many strangers in one twenty-four-hour stretch. “It’s a long drive and her stomach has been bothering her too.”
A goofy grin on his face belied his words and their meeting spot in the middle of a graveyard. Raymond studied him. “What aren’t you telling me, little brother?”
“We’re expecting. It’s early. That’s why we haven’t told anybody.” The goofy grin stretched across his face, then disappeared. “I was hoping Gramma would stick around long enough to meet her grandson.”
“It’s a boy?” Raymond asked as he folded Vic’s skinny body into a hug. The guy never gained weight. He was three inches taller than Raymond but weighed less. “Congratulations.”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.” Vic let go and backed away. “Anyway, I’m reupping when my contract’s up.”
“I thought you were coming home.” Raymond’s disappointment came as a surprise. Vic hadn’t been a part of his life in a long time. Not since high school when they played football together and worked at the grocery store at the same time. “You said you would use the GI bill to get your degree.”
“Not with a baby on the way.” Vic shrugged. “Besides, there’s nothing on the rez for us. Down there, no one really knows we’re Native Americans. I think they probably figure we’re Mexicans. It’s kind of nice. Although Latinos don’t always get treated great, either.”
“With a name like Old Fox, I doubt it. Only if you don’t say something.”
“Nothing to say.” He nodded at Janie, who made a let’s go gesture. “She probably has to pee. She does that a lot.”
Raymond hugged him a second time. “I wish you could stay longer. We could go fishing or something.”
“You should ask Tony. He’s the fisherman in the family.” Vic nodded toward the cluster of people around their younger brother. Tony seemed to be telling a story. They were smiling. Some whopper about Gramma and her parenting methods seemed likely. “He’s doing good. Did he tell you he and Sheila are getting married?”
Sheila was an Arapaho originally from Wyoming. They met at a powwow in Oklahoma during Tony’s wanderings after high school. She was friendly. Kind of bossy, but Tony didn’t seem to mind. Tony was the easygoing brother. He looked nothing like them or Mom. Short, round, high cheekbones, long nose, wide mouth, big hands, big feet. No athletic abilities, but a mathematical brain that could do physics problems in his head. He must’ve gotten that from his dad too. “He didn’t tell me. I’m glad for him.”
“That leaves you.”
“That leaves me.”
“Gotta go.” Vic
stuck his hands in the pockets of his gray dress pants and turned toward his waiting wife. “Come visit sometime. Don’t be a stranger, bro.”
“Hey, Vic.” Raymond called before his brother reached the car. Vic turned back, his keys jiggling in one hand. “How come we never talked about our dads?”
“Nothing to talk about. No-good deadbeats who bailed out on Mom.”
That was one story. Not the one Cap Dawson told. “Did Mom tell you your dad bailed?”
Vic walked back toward Raymond. Janie threw up her hands and began to pace around the Jeep. “No. She died before I was old enough to wonder or ask. Why are you asking now?”
“I just wondered why we never talked to each other about it. Seems weird. And why didn’t you ever try to find your dad after Mom died?”
“Did you try to find yours?”
Not until a few days ago. “Not as a kid.”
“And now?”
Vic was quick on the draw. Raymond sketched the events of the last few days. His brother’s hewn features sharpened. His ochre eyes flamed. “Wow.” He stared at his dusty ostrich-skin cowboy boots. “I guess Gramma and Velda were always enough for me. They were so . . . bigger than life. The two of them made up for six men. I never felt like I lacked for anything. Did you?”
“Not really.”
“So why now?”
Good question. “You better go. Janie looks like she’s about to bust a blood vessel.”
Vic glanced back, waved, and grinned. “She’ll live.”
“Did you know my dad was white?”
Vic’s bushy eyebrows rose and fell. “I guess I did. I dunno. Does it matter?”
