The Round House

  I went anyway. Once I got to the overlook, I went through all of the actions that had become routine by now. I sat under the oak tree with the rifle, safety on. The water beside me. There was low cloud cover and the air smelled like rain. I had been there for maybe an hour, waiting for the clouds to break, when Lark walked onto the tee dragging his clubs in a stained old canvas wheeled cart. He disappeared behind the planted pines. Cradling the rifle the way Cappy had taught me, I stepped down the hill. I’d told myself exactly what to do so often that at first I thought I’d be all right. I found the spot marked out just at the edge of the bushes where I could stand, nearly hidden. From there I could sight and aim just about any place Lark might be on the green. I thumbed off safety. I gulped in air and let it out explosively. I held the rifle gently the way I’d practiced, and tried to control my breathing. But each breath got stuck. And there was Lark. He hit from a low rise near the pine trees. The ball arced and landed at the edge of the clipped circle with a bounce that took it another yard toward the hole. Lark walked down quickly. The scent of minerals began to seep out of the earth. I brought the rifle to my shoulder and followed him with the barrel. He stood sideways, staring down at his golf ball, squinting his eyes, opening them, squinting again, completely absorbed. He wore tan pants, golf shoes, a gray cap, and a brown short-sleeved T-shirt. He was so close I could read the logo of his defunct grocery store. Vinland. The golf ball rolled to a spot half a foot from the hole. He’d tap it in, I thought. He’d bend over to scoop it out. When he straightened up I’d shoot.

  Lark walked forward and before he could tap it in I shot at the logo over his heart. I hit him someplace else, maybe in the stomach, and he collapsed. There was a loud silence. I lowered the rifle. Lark rolled over on his knees, staggered to his feet, found his balance, and began to scream. The sound was a high squeal like nothing I’d ever heard. I got the rifle back to my shoulder, reloaded. I was shaking so hard I rested the barrel on a branch, held my breath, and shot again. I couldn’t tell where that shot went. Once again I worked the bolt, reloaded, aimed, but my finger slid off the trigger—I couldn’t shoot. Lark pitched forward. There was another silence. My face was drenching wet. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Lark began to make noise again.

  Please, no, please, no. I thought I heard those words, but I could have said them. Lark was trying to get up again. He pedaled one foot in the air, rolled over, onto his knees, and rose in a crouch. He locked eyes with me. Their blackness knocked me backward. The rifle was lifted from my arms. Cappy stepped forward beside me. I didn’t hear the shot. All sound, all motion, had stalled in the sullen air. My brain was ringing. Cappy picked up the ejected casings from around my feet and put them in the pockets of his jeans.

  C’mon, he said, touching my arm. Turning me. Let’s go.

  I followed him uphill in the first drops of rain.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Child

  At the oak tree, we turned and looked down. Lark was lying on his back, the golf clubs neatly waiting in their cart. His putter cast down at his heels. He hadn’t moved. Beside me, Cappy dropped to his knees. He leaned over until his forehead touched the earth and put his arms over his head like a child in a tornado drill. After a while, he lifted his head and shook it. We wrapped the rifle back up in its bag, and set it aside as we tried to restore the ground where it had been buried. Cappy used a branch to brush up the grass I had trampled.

  Nobody’s home at my place, said Cappy. We gotta hide this. He had the rifle.

  We waited until a passing car was out of sight before we crossed the road. Now the rain was misting down. When we got to Cappy’s, we went straight to the kitchen tap. We washed our hands, put water on our faces, and drank glass after glass of water.

  I should have thought of where to hide it, I said. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this.

  I don’t know why I didn’t either, said Cappy.

  He went and rummaged around on the junk-laden coffee table until he came up with a set of keys. Doe had taken his car to work and Randall had gone off in his pickup, but Randall also had the red beater Olds that Cappy tinkered with. It had a black driver’s-side door and a cracked windshield. We went out, put the rifle in the trunk, and got into the front.

  The starter’s bad, said Cappy.

  It groaned the first time he turned it over. He gave it a spurt of gas. It died.

  You gotta sneak up on it, Cappy said. While I’m psyching out this car, you think of where we’re going.

  I know where we’re going.

  He tried again. It nearly caught.

  Where are we going?

  To Linda’s. To the old Wishkob homestead.

  We sat back, looking out at the shed through the two halves of the windshield.

  That makes weird sense, said Cappy. Suddenly, he leaned forward, cranked the key hard, and pumped the gas pedal.

  Engage, he said. The engine roared.

  The rain was coming down like sixty now. Cappy opened his window and craned his neck to peer out as he drove. The windshield wiper worked on the passenger side, but not the driver’s side. He drove slowly and sedately as an old man. The Wishkob land was at the other end of the reservation in the dunelike brown hills of grass that were mostly good for grazing. It was a nice old place with plantings of lilac and a few twisted oak, battered shrubs that could stand the heavy wind. On the way there we’d passed maybe two cars and there was nobody to see us turn into Linda’s drive—the place was isolated. Cappy eased the car into Park and kept it idling because he didn’t know if it would start again. We got out and walked around the house to decide where. Linda’s old dog set up an asthmatic barking inside the house. We ended up pulling off a piece of the tan latticework tacked to the underside of Linda’s front porch. I crawled in and shoved the gun as far back as I could. We used a tire iron to pound the lattice back in place, then we noticed all the lattice was gone on the other side where the dog liked to sleep. We got back in the car and pulled out. We didn’t talk. Cappy paused the car to let me out on the road to my house. On the upper road leading out of town, we saw the tribal police car driving east, toward the golf course, lights going. No siren.

  He’s dead for sure, said Cappy.

  Otherwise, they’d rocket.

  Their sirens would be going off.

  We sat in the idling car. The rain was hardly a sprinkle now.

  You saved my ass, brother.

  Not really. You would have shot that—

  Cappy stopped. Around here we don’t speak badly of the dead and he caught himself.

  He would’ve died though, I said. You didn’t kill him. This is not on you.

  Sure. Okay.

  We were speaking without emotion. Like we were talking of other people. Or as if what we did had just happened on television. But I was choking up. Cappy swiped at his face with the heel of his palm.

  We can’t talk about it after this, he said.

  Affirmative.

  Isn’t that how your dad says people get caught? Bragging to their friends?

  They get drunk, whatever.

  I feel like getting drunk, Cappy said.

  With what?

  The car’s idle faltered and Cappy pressed tenderly on the gas pedal.

  I don’t know. Randall’s on the wagon.

  I could make it up with Whitey, I said.

  Yeah? Cappy glanced at me.

  I nodded at him and looked away.

  After you bring the car back . . .

  Right.

  Meet me at the gas station. I’ll go talk to him.

  I got out. I stood away from the car, then reached out and hit my palm on the window. Cappy drove off and I walked slowly over to the gas station, past the old BIA school and the community center, past the one stop sign and past Clemence and Edward’s house. Over the highway and down the weedy ditch and back up. By the time I got there, the rain had completely dried off except for some random dark patches on the gravel or cement. Whitey stood in the doo
rway of the garage wiping his hands on the greasy rag. He watched me for a moment and then faded back into the darkness. Came out dangling two cold open bottles of grape Crush. I walked up to him and took a bottle. His receiver was crackling police signals. I took a gulp of pop and it nearly came back up.

  Your stomach must be turned over, said Whitey. You need a slice a bread.

  He got me some white bread from the cooler and after I ate a slice I felt better. We sat down in the lawn chairs in the shadow the garage cast, where Sonja and LaRose had sat what seemed a very long time ago.

  Remember when I was little, I asked, you used to give me a swig now and then?

  Your mom sure hated that, said Whitey. Hungry? Fancy a rez steak sandwich?

  Not yet, I said. I sipped the grape pop.

  This time it went down good, said Whitey. He was looking at me closely. He opened his mouth a couple of times before he spoke.

  Someone dusted Lark, he said. On the golf course. Made a mess of him like a kid shooting at a hay bale. Then one clean head shot.

  I tried to sit very still, but couldn’t. I jumped up and ran around back. I just got there in time. Whitey didn’t follow me. He was helping a customer when I came back. My knees were weak as water and I needed the lawn chair.

  I’m switchin’ you to ginger ale, my boy. He went into the store and came out with a warm can.

  This ain’t been in the cooler and it should go easy on your gut.

  I think I got the summer flu.

  The summer flu, he agreed. It’s going around. Your friends catch it too?

  I don’t know. I haven’t seen ’em.

  Whitey nodded and sat down beside me.

  I been listening to the squawk-box. Whoever did it left no traces, he said. There’s nothing to go on. Nobody seen it. Nobody seen nothin’. Then it rained so hard. You’ll be getting over this flu quickly. Still, maybe you should take a lay-down, Joe. There’s a little cot in the office. Sonja used to nap there, and she will again. She’s coming home, Joe. I tell you?

  Did she call you? I asked, hating him.

  Damn right, she called me. Gonna be different now, she said, her game. But I don’t care. I don’t care. Whatever you think—he looked away from me carefully—I’m stone in love with that old girl. You understand? She’s coming back to me, Joe.

  I walked in and lay down on the cot for a good half hour. It didn’t smell like Sonja. I was glad because I couldn’t have taken that. When I got up and went back out, Cappy still had not shown up.

  I could maybe eat that sandwich now, Uncle.

  Whitey went to the cooler and took out the baloney, cheese, and bread. There was a head of iceberg lettuce in there and he carefully tore off three pale green leaves and placed them on the meat before closing the sandwich.

  Lettuce? I asked.

  I’m on a health kick, me.

  He handed over the sandwich and made one for himself. Then he gave me that one too.

  Your friend’s here.

  Cappy came in the door and I handed him a sandwich.

  The three of us went back outside and ate sitting in the lawn chairs.

  Uncle, I said, we could use a little something.

  He ate his whole sandwich. I don’t wonder, he said when it was gone. But if you tell Geraldine or Doe, it is my saggy old red ass on the line here. Plus any future supply of stuff for you. And you have to drink it out back behind the station in those shade trees where I can keep on my eye on the botha youse.

  We’ll abide by your conditions, said Cappy in a formal tone. His face was expressionless.

  Handle the trade, said Whitey. There was no one in sight. He went back to open the safe, where he kept his booze. He brought out half a quart of Four Roses and pointed it toward the trees. Cappy took the bottle and put it underneath his shirt. A customer pulled up. Whitey waved and walked over to the car.

  Does he know?

  I think so, I said. I puked when he told me about Lark.

  I puked riding over here, said Cappy.

  It’s just the summer flu, I said.

  Is that a medical opinion, Joe?

  We looked at each other and tried to smile, but instead our mouths dropped open. Our faces fell into our real expressions.

  What are we? asked Cappy. What are we now?

  I don’t know, man. I don’t know.

  Let’s sterilize our insides.

  Right on.

  Beneath the trees there were four or five cement blocks, a litter of crushed cans, a circle of ash. We sat down on the blocks and opened the bottle. Cappy took a cautious drink, then handed it to me. I took a fiery mouthful and let it trickle down. The burning mellowed as the stuff reached inside of me, loosening my chest with a slow warmth and easing my gut. After the next sip I felt better. Everything looked amber. I took my first deep breath.

  Oh, I said, bowing my head and passing the bottle back to Cappy. Oh, oh, oh.

  Yes? said Cappy.

  Oh.

  He drank more deeply. I picked up a branch and scraped the bits of charred wood and speckled gravel away from the ash, destroying the circle. Cappy watched the movements of my branch and I kept moving the branch until we’d finished the bottle. Then we lay down in the weeds.

  Brother, I said, what made you come to the overlook?

  I was always there, said Cappy. Every morning. I always had your back.

  I thought so, I said. And then we slept.

  After we woke up, Whitey made us rinse out our mouths, gargle with mouthwash, and eat another sandwich.

  Gimme your shirt, Joe, he said. Leave it here. Touch the bottle again. You, too, Cappy.

  I gave him my shirt and walked home. Cappy coasted beside me. We did not feel particularly drunk. We did not feel anything. But we wove from side to side on the road, unable to keep on a straight course. We thought that Angus and Zack would be looking for us.

  We should all four be hanging out all the time, now, together, said Cappy.

  We’ll keep training for cross-country in the morning.

  That’s right.

  Pearl came out from beneath her bush and walked with me up to the house. Before I went in the door, I played with her and made myself laugh. I took her inside with me because I was afraid that my parents would be sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me, as indeed they were. When I opened the door and saw them, I bent over and rubbed Pearl’s neck and talked to her. I stood up to greet them and let the smile drop off my face.

  What? I said.

  Whitey’s booze had settled inside of me by then, separating me from who I was, say, when I’d dug those seedlings out of the foundation, when I had wept outside my mother’s bedroom door, when I had watched the angel, my doodem, cross the sun-grazed walls of my bedroom. I knelt down with my arm around Pearl’s neck and disregarded my parents’ endless stare. I stayed across the room hoping that they would not smell me, but I felt my mother look at my father.

  Where were you? asked my mother.

  Running.

  All day?

  At Whitey’s, too.

  Some small thing eased between them.

  Doing what?

  Just hanging around. Whitey fed us lunch. Me and Cappy.

  They wanted to believe me so much that I saw they’d make every effort to believe. All I had to do was stay plausible. Not break. Not puke.

  Sit down, son, said my father. But although I drew a step closer, I did not take a chair. He told me Lark was dead. I let all my feelings cross my face.

  That’s good, I finally said.

  Joe, said my father, his hand on his chin, his eyes on me, the weight intolerable. Joe, do you know anything, even the slightest thing, about this?

  This? This what?

  He was murdered, Joe.

  But I’d used the word before. I’d hardened myself. I’d used it with Cappy and I’d used it in my head. I had prepared to answer this question and to answer it the way the old Joe from before this summer would answer. I spoke childishly, in a su
dden fury of excitement that wasn’t fake.

  Dead? I wanted him dead, okay? In my thoughts. If you’re telling me he’s murdered, then I’m happy. He deserved it. Mom is free now. You’re free. The guy who killed him should get a medal.

  All right, my father said. Enough. He pushed back his chair. My mother’s eyes did not leave my face. She was intent on believing anything I said. But she shuddered all over, suddenly. A ripple passed over her body. The shock of it reached me.

  She sees the murderer in me, I thought.

  Dizzy, I reached down for Pearl, but she had crept to my father’s leg. I sat back up.

  I won’t lie. I’m glad he’s dead. Can I go now?

  I walked past them and continued until I reached the stairs. I carefully took the steps. As I went up, drawn in my weariness as if by a rope, I felt their eyes on me. I recalled this happening before at some time and me watching. I was halfway to my room before I remembered my mother climbing to that place of loneliness from which we feared she never would descend.