LaRose

  First day of school. Hollis dressed and schlumped out to the kitchen, where he thought today, maybe, was the day. Maybe he would reveal his mad hopeless love for the mad hopeless glory of Josette.

  Always, as soon as he came in the room, she began pouring cereal.

  Hey.

  Hey.

  She was strong, had a wicked jumping overhand volleyball serve, her curves were powerful. She could put a thousand voice-layers into that one morning greeting and so could Hollis. The shadow in her Hey said, I’m into you! They rarely said more than Hey and Hey. But the way it was said would stay with each of them as the day wore on. Their Heys were a pilot light that could possibly flare up if Josette ever took her eyes off the cornflakes falling into her bowl.

  If that occurred, Hollis imagined a stare-down in which the animal tension became unbearable. But maybe it wasn’t supposed to happen that he was taken in by good people and he then poached the daughter of the house. Who was younger. So he took his bowl of cornflakes back to the boys’ room, and waited for the girls to call when they were ready for school.

  That same morning, Emmaline woke with a clenched heart and could hardly breathe. When? She asked the star quilt hanging on the wall, and then answered herself. Now. LaRose was supposed to go back to the Ravich house, but when Emmaline touched his heavy brown hair she knew for sure. There had to be an end and this was it. From behind the closed door of her bedroom, she called the Ravich number. Peter answered.

  I can’t stand it anymore, she said.

  Peter felt the heavy sadiron of his heart lurch. He waited but it was stuck on the wrong side of his chest.

  Ah, god, please, Emmaline.

  I just can’t do it anymore. It was never supposed to go on forever, was it? Her voice began to shudder. She gathered herself, stood straight, tucked her hair behind her ears.

  Listen, said Peter, stepping aside to look out the window. School is starting. It will get better.

  I’m enrolling him here. With other Indians.

  Nola was already up. She was outside fixing up the old chicken coop, painting it. Her thin arm swept back and forth.

  Please let’s just keep going for a little while longer. Peter stopped. He was about to beg her for LaRose. That would make him angry. He would become hateful were he driven to that.

  Nola’s so much better, he said. She’s finally getting over Dusty. She’s, ah, integrating. Right now she’s painting the chicken coop.

  This detail pricked at Emmaline. Painting a chicken coop? Why was that some kind of leap?

  Almost three years, she hasn’t talked to me, said Emmaline. We’re sisters. She acts like half sisters aren’t real sisters. She’s my sister and she won’t talk to me. But that’s not even it, not really. I’m enrolling him here, in the reservation school, where his family goes to school. LaRose is with us now.

  Oh, Emmaline, said Peter, in an unguarded way that brought Emmaline back because she liked Peter fine; he was solid, and had never hurt anyone. She trusted Peter’s goodness and was sure that in past times he’d kept the lid on Landreaux by just taking his own slow way and leading his friend along the innocent dirt road of a Peter kind of life.

  I understand, said Peter, careful. He had to stay in control. He knew enough not to escalate this, not to become emotional. Why don’t you keep him with you a few more days? I’ll explain to Nola.

  She won’t understand, said Emmaline.

  No.

  Still. I am taking him back, said Emmaline. It’s time.

  She came out of the bedroom and spoke to the others, who were nearly ready: she told them that she was going to take LaRose to their school.

  You’re going to school with your sisters, she said brightly to LaRose. Surprise.

  He looked from Snow to Josette, who widened their eyes in a silent message, Mom says. He went back to the boys’ room to get dressed. They were talking out there in the kitchen now. Things were always like this. Although LaRose was used to going where he was supposed to go, and doing what he was supposed to do, sometimes they just threw these big surprises at him.

  Coulda told me. Like more than a minute ago, he whispered.

  He put on fresh jeans, a clean T-shirt. He smelled his yesterday’s socks, threw them down, and took a pair of Coochy’s from the sock pile.

  Peter stood frozen, the phone droning in his hands, gaze fixed on the cipher of a woman out there painting a chicken coop with old white leftover gummy paint. Even though she wouldn’t talk to Emmaline, his wife was better, he thought. Maybe. Maybe men just think women are better if they have sex with us, but even so. A few nights ago she put her hands on him, stroked him without saying one strange word. And they had loved in utter peace. He came back into his body. He could not inhabit himself without her. He had that roughed-up Slav shell and inside a milky tender heart. He had guarded it carefully before Nola. There was nobody else for him but this one woman—he might hate her sometimes, but he would go to hell for her and save her cakes.

  Two days later, he tried to have the conversation.

  I just don’t like her, Peter, I don’t, because she is a self-righteous bitch.

  Why do you say that?

  Peter had read magazine articles that advised questions when you wanted to divert a way of thinking in another person. Or you wanted to stall.

  Why? he asked again, then ventured. She’s your sister. You could try.

  Okay, I’ll tell you why I can’t try. She’s got that program director’s attitude for one thing. Like, here’s Emmaline. Posing at her desk. Wehwehweh. I can listen. Listen with my hands folded and my head cocked. You know? Emmaline puts on her listening mask and behind that mask she’s judging you.

  They were outside, at the edge of the yard. Nola ripped up a stalk of grass and put the end in her mouth. She narrowed her eyes and stared out over the horizon, that line at the end of the cornfields, between the sweeping coves of trees.

  For emphasis she dipped her head to each side. Right. And left. Judging me.

  She tossed the stalk of grass away.

  Oh, I guess I could. Talk to her. If she would give back LaRose.

  Peter glanced at the ground, disguising his hope.

  It’s been four days. I get it, said Nola. I really do.

  I never said.

  But I get it.

  Peter nodded, encouraged.

  I mean, it’s wrong, but I get it. She’s holding him hostage because she wants my attention. She wants me to be like, Oh, Emmaline, how are you, how is your project, your big deal, your this, your that, your girls that Maggie likes so much? How generous you are, Emmaline, what a big-time traditional person to give your son away to a white man and almost white sister who is just so pitiful, so stark raving. So like her mother that Marn who had the snakes. People never forget around here. And they will never forget this either. It will be Emmaline Iron the good strong whaddyacallit, Ogema-ikwe. The woman who forever stuck by that big load Landreaux and even straightened him out so he could, so he could . . . I’m just saying I would kill him for you. I see your face when you’re chopping wood. I’d kill him for you if it wasn’t for LaRose. So their damn unbelievable plan worked its wonder because now I’m better.

  Peter questioned that now, but said nothing.

  And nobody’s going to kill the big freak. He’s too fucking tall.

  He’s only six three, murmured Peter. I’m six two.

  I hope our son doesn’t get that tall. I hope LaRose doesn’t turn into a killer hulk.

  It’s been a while now, said Peter.

  Yeah, the years have gone by, haven’t they, Nola said. Her top lip lifted in the mad little sneer that sometimes jolted a shiver of lust in Peter.

  C’mere, he said.

  Why? She ripped another piece of grass out and stuck it between her lips. Maggie was over at the Irons’ house, as usual. They were alone.

  Peter took the stick of grass from her mouth and lightly struck her cheek with it. She was still. He searched into her face
. Kissed her until she kissed him back. She nodded at the house. He picked her up and carried her to the barn.

  Not there, she said.

  He carried her in anyway. They passed the old halters on hooks, the junked refrigerator, the green chair, the empty stalls. He threw bales down in the last one, a canvas tarp over the bales. There was that good smell of an old barn where animals had eaten, shat, breathed, an old clean barn full of hay and sun. He untied and removed her paint-streaked worn-out running shoes, peeled down her tight jeans, slipped each foot from the creased-up ankles. He knelt before the bale, lay her back, crooked her legs.

  She looked over his shoulder. The crossbeam black oak. The rope gone. Gone. Nola flung her arms straight over her head. Her breasts tipped up.

  He placed her feet on each side of his chest, placed his hands under her hips, pulled her onto him, rocked into her. And then they both went back and farther back, to the beginning, where there was nothing else, no bad things happened, where there was no child to grieve, no loss, no danger, where a few wasps hovered over but did not land on Peter’s ass, and the sun shafts lighted up with falling ever falling dust.

  And why couldn’t she just see the peace and glory in it anyway? Why did she have to think of all the dead and one fine day herself among them, sifting through bright air? She wouldn’t do it. The rope was gone! How? Don’t ask. No, no, of course. Not now. LaRose told her how much he needed her. Maggie watched over her. She could feel it. She had a new life. Still, she had to think about it sometimes, a little, it wasn’t wrong, was it? Just to fall endlessly and rise forever on soft currents of warm air stirred by bodies of the living. There was nothing wrong with giving over to the melty swoon of it, the null. There was nothing wrong with having more in common with the dust than with her husband, with Peter, was there?

  I thought I’d call, said Nola on the phone. Just because it’s a rainy day. Just wondering how LaRose is . . .

  Then she heard LaRose laughing in the background. One of the girls had maybe answered. It wasn’t Emmaline. Nola’s voice wouldn’t come out of her throat. She set the phone down and passed her hand over her eyes.

  Are you okay?

  Maggie came into the kitchen. Mom, you are staring at the phone. Was there a phone call?

  Maggie still had the stone LaRose had pressed into her hand when he left. It was on her bedside table. She didn’t want it there, or anywhere. She had total responsibility for Nola, and she was weary.

  No call.

  Nola hugged Maggie. She was hugging her too hard and she knew it.

  Honey, she said, LaRose is being kept against his will.

  Maggie just hugged her mother harder. I mean, what to say?

  Akk, said Nola. You’re getting strong.

  Maggie laughed engagingly. Well, you too. You were squeezing me!

  They won’t let him come back to me. He’s my only son. Am I too crazy, Maggie? Is there something wrong with me? Is that why? I love him so much. There’s nothing else in my life.

  Nothing else. Well. Maggie turned herself off. She spoke in a cool, careful voice.

  Dad loves you. I love you. Mom. You have us.

  Nola squinted and peered forward as if Maggie were standing at the end of a long tunnel. Maybe at the end there was LaRose or someone else, because for a moment she did not recognize her daughter. She put her hand on Maggie’s face in a gentle way that creeped Maggie out, but Maggie did not move. She stayed in control.

  You know what you need? Maggie kept her voice low and normal. It’s kinda cool and rainy. You need some hot chocolate.

  I need to speak to Emmaline.

  First the hot chocolate, with whipped cream.

  Nola nodded thoughtfully. We don’t have cream.

  Well then, marshmallows.

  LaRose likes marshmallows, said Nola.

  So do I, said Maggie.

  Okay, said Nola.

  Pouring the heated cocoa milk over the marshmallows, Maggie heard her mother press the buttons on the telephone, then hang up again. Nola came into the kitchen and sat down with Maggie.

  It’s really hot, don’t . . .

  But Nola had already gulped. Her eyes widened as the scalding cocoa passed across the roof of her mouth and continued down, a blistering streak. Maggie jumped up, poured cold milk in a glass. Nola took a drink of cold and sighed. Then she closed her eyes and put her hand over her mouth.

  Maggie’s teeth clenched her words back. She didn’t say that she was sorry, but she was sorry. She was sorry that she couldn’t do the right thing. Sorry that she couldn’t do what her mother needed done. Sorry she couldn’t fix her. Sorry, sometimes, that she had come across her mother in the barn. Sorry she had saved her. Sorry sorry sorry that she thought that. Sorry she was bad. Sorry she wasn’t grateful every moment for her mother’s life. Sorry that LaRose was her mother’s favorite, although he was Maggie’s too. Sorry for thinking how sorry she was and for wasting her time with all this feeling sorry. Before what happened with her mother, Maggie had never been sorry. How she wished she could be that way again.

  Maggie went to find Snow and Josette. It was after school for them. Hers would start Monday. She, at least, could go back and forth and see them and see LaRose. The girls were outside. LaRose had gone to town with Emmaline, they said. She should help them with this thing they were doing. The grass, or weed base of the yard, was torn and gouged. It was hard and trampled. The girls had set up a ragged old volleyball net. Maggie helped them spray-paint orange boundaries on the dirt and mashed weeds. The court was done. While they talked, they bumped the ball back and forth. Maggie had only played in gym. Josette taught her how to bump, showed her how to set. Snow spiked. They practiced serves.

  Don’t even bother with an underhand, Josette said. Watch.

  Josette set her pointy left foot forward, drew her right elbow back, like she was going to shoot an arrow. She smacked the taut, filthy, velvety ball around in her hand four times, then tossed the ball high overhead. As it fell, she skipped up and slammed it with the heel of her hand. It curved low and fast over the net, bounced down where you wouldn’t expect it.

  Ace!

  That’s her trademark, said Snow.

  I wanna learn it.

  Holy Jeez, said Josette, after Maggie tried to serve.

  Maggie missed six times and when she connected the ball just dropped down feebly, didn’t even reach the net.

  You gotta do push-ups if you want any power.

  Drop down, gimme ten, yelled Snow.

  Maggie did four.

  This girl needs building up, said Snow.

  Yeah, you need some upper body. Josette felt Maggie’s arm critically.

  Coochy came outside.

  Having your girl time? He mocked them, stepping back in a graceless pretend serve. When he turned to walk away, Snow served a killer to the back of his head. It must have hurt but he just kept walking. He was bulking up his neck to play football.

  Two points, said Snow.

  Josette popped the ball up on her toe and tucked it beneath her arm.

  Beaning Coochy is two points, she said to Maggie. Just hitting him is one.

  I wanna bean, said Maggie. Show me that serve again.

  At home, Maggie checked in on her mother’s nap, waited at the bedroom door’s crack until she saw slight movement. Then she went out to the garage. The big door was open, the air blowing around some papers on the floor. Her father had the hood of the pickup propped up. He was changing the oil and air filters, draining out the sludgy residue.

  Hey, said Maggie. Can I change schools?

  No, said her father. But grown-ups always said no before they asked why.

  Why? he asked. Because of LaRose?

  I have to go to the same school as my brother, right? Also, other reasons. Kids at my school hate me.

  That’s ridiculous, said Peter, though he knew it wasn’t.

  There’s this girl Braelyn one year older, and her brother in LaRose’s old class, and his bro
ther Jason, who’s older. That whole family hates me, plus their friends.

  You never said anything before.

  Maggie shrugged. I can handle it, that’s why. But I’d rather change schools.

  So you want to go to reservation high school? He laughed. Even tougher there.

  Dad, they have more afterschool programs now. Pluto’s a dead town. Our state’s so cheap. You know they’ll probably consolidate and we’ll be on the bus an hour more.

  What she said was probably true, but Peter didn’t like to think that way, except he did think that way.

  Reservation’s getting federal plus casino money.

  Peter wiped his hands on an old red rag and closed the hood. He looked down at Maggie, a whippet, finely muscled, her intense stare.

  Where’d you hear that?

  I heard it from you, Dad.

  Did I say our state was cheap? I wouldn’t say that. Plus, their casino’s in debt.

  You said the farmers around this part of the state don’t have any money. You said there’s more money on the reservation these days. You said . . .