It is only me. He whispered to the noises and their nature changed. They became a whispery chorus, willing to accept him. He fell asleep, at last. He slept so fervently that he couldn’t remember dreaming when the loud birds woke him in the morning. Now he was thirstier, and hungry, but also deliciously weak. He didn’t want to move at all. His body needed food; it was stretching out. Everybody said he was getting his growth. It would be so easy to show up early at Nola’s and say that he’d been dropped off. He’d done what he needed to do—that one night. But he decided to stay because he was strangely comfortable. His throat was so dry and scratchy that it hurt to swallow, but he didn’t care. The heat of the day clenched down, pressed through him.
After a while LaRose heard, or felt, someone approach, but he was held too fast in the hot lethargy to move. He did not feel afraid. Most likely, it was his father. Landreaux liked to range around the woods too. But it wasn’t—in fact it wasn’t one person at all. It was a group of people. Half were Indians and half were maybe Indians, some so pale he could see light shining through them. They came and made themselves comfortable, sitting around him—people of all ages. At least twenty of them. None of them acknowledged or even looked at him, and when they started speaking he knew that they were unaware of him. He knew because they talked about him the way parents do when they don’t know you can hear. He knew right off it was him they were talking of because someone said, The one they took for Dusty, and another asked, Is he still playing with Seker and the other Actions?, which of course he was, but which he tried to hide. All of a sudden one pointed.
He’s right there!
They glanced at him and acted like relatives who suddenly notice you.
Oh my, he’s big now.
The woman who said this was wearing a tight brown jacket, a billowy skirt, and a hat cocked to one side decorated with the wing of a bird. There was another woman with her, holding her hand, who looked very much like her. She pointed out LaRose and they spoke together. The older woman spoke Ojibwe. There was approval in her voice, but something about her was also quick, formidable, and wild. She bent close, looked at him very keenly, examined him up and down.
You’ll fly like me, she said.
There were a few Indians who looked like from history, wearing the old kind of simple clothing. They spoke Ojibwe, which LaRose recognized but could not understand very well. They seemed to be discussing something about him because they nodded their heads at or glanced at him in speaking. They agreed on something and the woman who knew English spoke to him. She spoke kindly, and her eyes rested on him in a loving way. As he looked into her fine, bold features, he recognized his mother. Intense comfort poured into LaRose.
We’ll teach you when the time comes, she said.
In one of the presences he could see traces of the four-year-old picture he had seen sometimes in Nola’s hand. It was Dusty, his age now.
Are you okay? LaRose asked the boy.
Dusty shrugged. Nah, he said. Not really.
Can you come back? Remember we used to play?
Dusty nodded.
I brought some heroes and stuff.
Yeah?
LaRose opened his pack. He took out the action figures and Dusty examined them. They began to play, quietly because adults were right there.
If you come back, you can be Seker.
Dusty’s face brightened and he ducked his head.
A short time later, everybody got up and left. Just walked off in all directions, murmuring, laughing. LaRose sat up and looked after the woman in the hat. He folded his blanket in half, then rolled it up again. He swung the backpack on, put the roll under his arm, and began walking. He felt fine. He took the trail to Maggie’s house and got in through the back door before Nola even knew he was home. Went into the bathroom and put his mouth under the tap. Just let the astounding water pour in.
LaRose?
I came in through the back, he called down.
I didn’t hear anybody drive up.
They dropped me off at the road.
He lay down in bed. The sudden comfort made him pass immediately into a hard, dreamless sleep.
AFTER HIS FAVORITE childhood teacher and the other ladies had committed sabotage, Romeo could never again get wasted with the same conviction. Their betrayal skewed him. The fluid arrangements he had made all of his life, the scams and petty thefts, did not come naturally. To make things worse, or better, he was not sure, he got the job he’d applied for. The real, true job. He was chosen for this job over others. At first, surprise made him industrious. Then he got interested in the stories that took place all around him. He worked extra hours because it was like existing in a living TV drama. To get into the different wards, and find new information, he did more than lean on his push broom. He emptied trash incessantly, especially during staff meetings. He polished floors with a big electric floor polisher because people liked the floor polished. They trusted him more after he polished. He swept, wiped, cleaned up puke and blood with proper protocol. He began to like following rules! He loved wearing rubber gloves! People began to think he had sobered up, and he let them think that. He went more regularly to the AA meeting on the hill, with Father Travis. Everybody was a washout there. Now he was one of the success stories.
Then one day somebody said there would be drug testing at work. Even for sanitation engineers. Someday, not now. But it was coming. Romeo snarled, threw down his broom, and walked all the way into town. The job was also bearable because he was fortified. And yet, it had been a long time since his old injuries had been officially treated. Maybe he could work the system and get newer, stronger, legit prescriptions. His mood improved. His steps directed him to the Dead Custer, though even with his job he didn’t like to spend his money on bar drinks. Maybe there would be somebody he knew there, with cash, maybe on a bender and anxious for a drinking buddy.
Once his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, Romeo scoped quickly for the priest. He wanted to talk to Father Travis, not about the drug testing, but about the latest news. But the priest wasn’t there. He was amazed to see his son at one end of the bar.
He sat down next to Hollis.
What’s this? he asked.
It’s my birthday, said Hollis. I was born in August, remember?
Of course, of course, cried Romeo in surprise.
Hollis had entered school late because, when he was little, they were always on some mission involving lots of car backseat beds, party houses, Happy Meals. Romeo had forgotten to send him to school, but only for the first couple of years. Hollis was now turning eighteen before his senior year. He slid his driver’s license from his wallet to show the bartender, Puffy.
I am ordering my first beer!
Stand me too, my son.
Why don’t you buy me one for a change, said Hollis. Being it’s my birthday.
I would love to honor you but I am busted to bits. Romeo slumped.
Hollis ordered two beers.
What’re sons for? Hollis wearily said. But don’t try scamming on me, Dad.
No, no, I never would.
Right.
Except I got this arm here. Romeo winced, rolled his shoulder.
Your arm and leg. Hollis looked down at the leg. The last time he’d seen his father, that leg had been encased in black fake leather vinyl. Now it wore the sturdy brown cotton/poly of an honorable job.
You know how I got this? How it was Landreaux?
Yeah. You told me lots of times.
Since that day, always been a sad ol’ leg. Romeo laughed, he couldn’t help it. He was moved by the prospect of drinking a beer with his son. His son had not walked out the door. Romeo ducked his head, bobbed it up and down, smiling at the beer.
It is good to sit with you, my son.
I graduate this year, you know.
Wowzer, said Romeo.
I’m joining the National Guard. Got an appointment.
Speechless, Romeo gestured at Puffy to bring the beers, quick.
> Ever since they hit the Towers, said Hollis, I’ve been thinking. My country has been good to me.
What? Romeo was scandalized. You’re an Indian!
I know, sure, they wiped us out almost. But still, the freedoms, right? And we got schools and hospitals and the casino. When we fuck up now, we mostly fuck up on our own.
Are you crazy! That’s called intergenerational trauma, my boy. It isn’t our fault they keep us down; they savaged our culture, family structure, and most of all we need our land back.
Hollis took his first legal drink of beer.
Oh yeah, true. But I keep thinking how I could save people in a flood. Motor them out on a pontoon, their little children in life jackets. Their dogs jumping in the boat last moment. I keep seeing that. I mean, National Guard. I probably won’t leave the state.
Hope not, said Romeo, weakly. This acceptance thing was part of being a father, he guessed, and it was more difficult than he’d imagined. He had a jealous thought.
What about Landreaux? He tell you to join up? Because of Desert Storm and all?
Not really, said Hollis. He was on the supply side of it. Medical. Never went out on the Road of Death, just got things ready for the guys, serviced lifesaving equipment and such. But there’s more, anyway, to this decision I’m making. I’ll learn welding, bridge construction, maybe truck driving. Heavy equipment. I want to get some money together, and those benefits. Go to UND later on. Maybe travel to the Grand Canyon or Florida, even. Out of state, anyway.
Romeo nodded and sweat.
I’ve not been the greatest, he mumbled. Who am I to say?
It’s okay, Dad. I know you went to boarding school. People say that fucked you up so . . .
Romeo reared his head back.
Say? People say? They don’t know. Leaving boarding school was the thing that fucked me. I loved my teachers and they all said I was college material.
Right, thought Hollis. He didn’t hate his father—he knew some worse fathers. Mostly he grew exasperated and just had to get away from Romeo. He had no quarrel with his mother, either, only wanted to know who and where she might be. He fit in with the Irons, maybe too well, because he found himself thinking constantly of how great it would be if Josette liked him and maybe someday married him.
You got a sweetheart?
Romeo asked this in a shy doggy voice, afraid that his son would say something sarcastic. When Hollis didn’t answer, he thought he’d offended him.
I know I ain’ been a great dad to you, Romeo went on, but you can count on me now.
Hollis looked at his dad, so scrawny, so anxious to be loved, and dropped his gaze, embarrassed.
You can count on me too, Dad, he said.
Romeo frowned into the dregs of his beer and blinked back tears.
That’s one for the books, he said. He put his hand out for the soul shake and Hollis could break his grip only by ordering them both another beer. Hollis asked Puffy to change the channel on the TV over the bar to CNN, because he knew his dad liked it. Someone complained about the news channel, but Puffy hushed him. Sure enough, Romeo sat up and peered intently at the screen.
After a few minutes he slumped back and leaned confidentially toward Hollis.
So that hijacker Atta was maybe meeting some Iraqi in Prague, maybe? A year ago April.
What’s that about? Hollis asked without interest.
It seems to me like Rummy’s scattering crumbs, said Romeo. Rummy’s hoping reporters peck the crumbs up. But come on, Czech intelligence?
Romeo pressed his kung fu ’stache down his chin like a sage pondering.
Hollis shrugged.
They wanna clobber Saddam, said Romeo. Saddam’s a greedy crazy dude, but not like Doe Eyes. That’s definitive!
Doe Eyes was Romeo’s nickname for Bin Laden.
Hollis let his mind drift while his father enlarged his speculations on the motives of this or that public figure or politician. He didn’t hear the nervous fear for himself in his father’s voice. Hollis drank his beer sip by sip, not wanting to leave because once he got home, he’d have to find the summer-read book, Brave New World. Couldn’t even remember if he had a copy. Josette and Snow had stacks of paperbacks, probably including that one. He’d get the book off their shelf. He’d speed-read. Maybe Josette would help him write his paper. Hollis saw himself staring at the PC screen, Josette leaning over his shoulder. A critical frown. Her breath in his ear. Happy birthday. That sweet voice she used with LaRose.
Shut up, brain! Hollis tugged his own hair to jolt himself back. Here he was with his actual father, on his own actual birthday. It occurred to Hollis he might ask about his mother, again, although it was always the same—a song of memory lapse, a dance of drunken veils. These days he asked the question mostly to hear his father’s inventive swoops and swerves.
Hey, it’s my eighteenth birthday. So, Dad. My mother. What was she like? What was her name?
Her name? Mrs. Santa Claus Lady. She brought you, right? Seriously, my son, I don’t remember. Those were insane times, my boy. But seriously, once again, she was holy shit beautiful. She would walk into an establishment. The heads would swivel off their necks. The eyes would beg like a pack of starving mutts. The shit-ass fuckhounds. I was shocked when she allowed herself to be approached. By me.
Romeo shook his head, wagged his finger in the air. Ah, but you see . . . it was the drugs. Clouded her judgment. I hope she is alive today, my son, but the evidence of her addictions casts doubt on that. Don’t do drugs or nothing because . . .
Wait, Dad. Hollis ordered again, then another beer for his father. Wait, but according to what you’re telling me I would not exist if my mother’s judgment had not been clouded by drugs.
Ergo, laughed Romeo; his clattery heheheh went on until he wagged his finger again. Ergo sum.
That’s what for what?
Therefore I exist.
She took drugs, therefore I exist.
Ain’t life odd? But still, please refrain from getting mixed up with substances.
Okay, Dad, said Hollis, not even sarcastic. So you’re not going to tell me her name even on my birthday?
Hollis felt the cheer leak away and decided to sacrifice his beer, slide out the door before he got mad. Not getting mad was a life policy with Hollis.
He paid Puffy, pushed his beer over to Romeo.
Live it up.
Hollis walked out the door and Romeo watched him go, wounded. Here he was, a loving father in the reject chair again. The beer was nice, anyway, a consolation, and free. But as the door closed, Romeo suddenly pictured his blood-kin son making his way over to the Irons’. And giving Landreaux his filial loyalty. Landreaux, who was responsible for his whack arm and his leg that ached and sometimes trembled. To consider this caused Romeo to gulp down both beers. A mini-relapse! He could tell about it at the next meeting. He abandoned the barstool, tried to keep his balance, and set out for home in the throes of a mellow buzz. By the time he reached his room and removed a low-level painkiller from his stash, he was almost weeping with the contradictory joy of having celebrated his son’s eighteenth birthday and the knowledge that Hollis preferred Landreaux’s family and house to his own dad’s apartment. With a year-round Christmas tree.
So much betrayal. So many lies. Although Romeo could not remember if he’d actually asked Hollis to live with him.
Resentment is suicide! This group slogan often helped interrupt a chain of tigerish thoughts.
Romeo rocked back in his minivan captain’s chair, appreciating what he’d wrought. There it was, a glittering sight. The year-round fake tree cheered a father’s lonesome heart. Still, he could not get positive. Snap out of it! Romeo glared at the walls hung with special things on nails. Such attractive sacred yarn and chicken-fluff dream catchers! He spoke to the faltering TV picture where old Mailbox Head was trying to jolly an interviewer. Such finesse! And the arrogant aplomb.
No one to trifle with, Slot Mouth. Nor am I. Nor am I, ol’ buddy ol’
pal Landreaux Iron. According to my exceedingly detailed memories of our so-called runaway escape, said Romeo to a sky blue dream catcher with iridescent threads, the reason which I am rubbing Icy Hot into my sad ol’ leg, you Landreaux Iron have much to answer for, things you never have addressed!
The good stuff penetrated and his leg felt immediately warm. Pain melted away into the luxury seat. Yet things did not feel very good at all when Landreaux’s avoidance of their mutual past was considered.
You ol’ war bitch, cried Romeo, happily, waking later to Rummy’s interview, sound off, the glow of his mango-scented sparkle tree. Having drifted off, he was now comfortable with the resentment he’d stifled before. Landreaux maybe should have not acted high and mighty to the point of stealing my son Hollis’s affections. Leading my son to join the military, even! Landreaux was the one who dragged me into his plan, and he should have not pretended all his life that he didn’t remember. Landreaux should have shared and shared alike the stuff that he could acquire. Landreaux should not have imagined people had short memories, or would forget. Because people had long memories and never stopped talking around this place. Romeo had heard them and Romeo knew. Landreaux should have not imagined it was over and done with—because a man had ears, tough little pinned-back ears that pricked up when people whispered. A man had a brain that decoded guarded talk between professionals. A man’s heart, shriveled raisin, prune of loneliness, burnt clam, understood what it was to lose out on love. And lose to a lying liar. Romeo bet his livid black heart could burst Landreaux’s baggy heart sack. If he could just get something solid on Landreaux to bring him down.
The Green Chair
THE BOREDOM OF late summer covered Maggie like an itchy swoon. Thirteen, but living in her girl body. No breasts. No period. Too old to act like a child, too underformed to feel like a teenager, she wandered. She packed herself a sandwich, a can of pop, and took off. There were old paths through the woods, made long ago when people still walked places, visited one another, or hiked to town, church, school. There were new paths made by kids with trail bikes and ATVs. If there was no path, Maggie crept in and out of tangled bush, slipping into places of peace or unrest. When she went off the paths, anything could happen but nothing bad ever did. Nobody noticed. LaRose was sometimes with his other family, and Peter was at work.