LaRose (19 page)

ON SNOWSHOES OF
ash wood and sinew, Wolfred and the girl made their way south. They would be easy to follow. Wolfred’s story was that they’d decided to travel toward Grand Portage, for help. They had left Mackinnon ill in the cabin with plenty of supplies. If they got lost, wandered, found themselves even farther south, chances were nobody would know or care who Mackinnon was. And so they trekked, making good time, and made their camp at night. The girl tested the currents of the air with her face and hands, then showed Wolfred where to build a lean-to, how to place it just so, how to find dry wood in snow, snapping dead branches out of trees, and where
to pile it so that they could easily keep the fire going all night and direct its heat their way. They slept peacefully, curled in their separate blankets, and woke to the wintertime scolding of chickadees.

The girl tuned up the fire, they ate, and were back on the way south when suddenly they heard the awful gasping voice of Mackinnon behind them. He was blundering toward them, cracking twigs, calling out for them, Wait, my children, wait a moment, do not abandon me!

They started forward in terror and loped through the snow. A dog drew near them, one of the trading post’s pathetic curs; it ran alongside them, bounding effortfully through the snow. They thought at first that Mackinnon had sent it to find them, but then the girl stopped and looked hard at the dog. It whined to her. She nodded and pointed the way through the trees to a frozen river, where they would move along more quickly. On the river ice they slid along with a dreamlike velocity. The girl gave the dog a piece of bannock from her pocket, and that night, when they made camp, she set her snares out all around them. She built their fire and the lean-to so that they had to pass through a narrow space between two trees. Here, too, she set a snare. Its loop was large enough for a man’s head, even a horribly swollen one. They fed themselves and the dog, and slept with their knives out, packs and snowshoes close by.

Near morning, when the fire was down to coals, Wolfred woke. He heard Mackinnon’s rasping breath very close. The dog barked. The girl got up and signaled that Wolfred should fasten on his snowshoes and gather their packs and blankets. As the light came up, Wolfred saw that the sinew snare set for Mackinnon was jigging, pulled tight. The dog worried and tore at some invisible shape. The girl showed Wolfred how to climb over the lean-to another way, and made him understand that he should check the snares she’d set, fetch anything they’d caught, and not forget to remove the sinews so she could reset them at their next camp.

Mackinnon’s breathing resounded through the clearing around the fire. As Wolfred left, he saw that the girl was preparing a stick
with pine pitch and birchbark. She set it alight. He saw her thrust the flaring stick at the air again, and again. There were muffled grunts of pain. Wolfred was so frightened that he had trouble finding all the snares, and he had to cut the sinew that had choked a frozen rabbit. The girl finished the job and they slid back down to the river with the dog. Behind them, unearthly caterwauls began. Quickly they sped off. To Wolfred’s relief, the girl smiled and skimmed forward, calm, full of confidence. Yet she was still a child.

MISS BEHRING HEARD.

Maggie, please come to the front of the class, she said.

Maggie had poked her head into her desk for a straw sip of apple juice. She had a little box of it for emergencies. She stuck it under her shirt, in her waistband. Humbly, with shy obedience, Maggie walked down the row of desks, dragging her feet for drama.

Right now!

Yes, Miss Behring.

Or is it Miss Boring?
asked Miss Behring.

What, Miss Behring?

Maggie! You will walk to the corner and stand there with your face to the wall.

The children tittered with excitement. Maggie turned and smiled, too nice. They stopped. She walked to the corner and stood there, next to the watercooler, with her face to the wall.

Now you will see what boredom is really like! exclaimed her teacher, who was right behind her.

This time the children really did laugh. Maggie tried to turn around again, but Miss Behring was still there. The teacher held her head with flat patty-cake hands at either temple. Maggie’s stomach boiled. She had told LaRose that when someone made her stomach boil she always got them. Miss Behring took her hands away from Maggie’s head and began a lesson on fractions. Maggie stood there, thinking. After a time, she asked.

Please, Miss Behring, can I go to the bathroom?

You went at recess, said Miss Behring, and smoothly continued with ⅛ +
⁴
/
⁸
.

Maggie jiggled.

Miss Behring, Miss Behring! I need to go anyway.

No, Miss Behring said.

Maggie allowed the lesson to continue. But silently she plucked a paper cup from the stack next to the watercooler. She waited.

Miss Behring, please, she said at last. Her voice was strained. I had to go so bad I peed in a cup.

What?

Maggie turned around and held out the cup of apple juice.

May I please empty this?

Miss Behring shut her mouth. Her eyes darted around like trapped flies. She pointed at the door. Then she sat down at her desk staring at some papers.

Maggie carefully bore the brimming cup down the aisle, every eye in the classroom on her. Miss Behring put her head in her hands. Maggie turned and made sure her teacher wasn’t watching. She grinned at her classmates. Then she drained the cup, and slammed out the door. She paused outside a moment to enjoy the shrieking gabble and Miss Behring’s storm of useless threats. When she came back, she sat down as though nothing had happened. Miss Behring didn’t send her back to the corner. She seemed to be making notes. Maggie had been hoping she would cry.

Making people cry was one of Maggie’s specialties, so she would have enjoyed her teacher’s distress. As for herself, she could luxuriate in tears, she could almost command them into her eyes. She was training herself.

ONE SUNDAY WHEN
Nola was at Mass, it occurred to Peter that he might go over to Landreaux’s house. He took Maggie along. It wasn’t that he missed LaRose. It was the friendship—it was all
he had. His brother down in Florida was someone to visit maybe, someday. Landreaux and Emmaline’s family were his closest people.

What are we doing? asked Maggie as they drove up.

Just visiting, he said.

Landreaux had already come to the door, and they went in.

LaRose was sitting on top of Coochy pretend-punching. He looked up in surprise. Peter looked down in surprise. LaRose never roughhoused or fake-punched at their home.

Is it time? LaRose asked.

No, said Peter, I’m not coming to get you. Me and Maggie were just rattling around at home, so we thought we’d visit you guys.

Hey! Landreaux’s big face went wider and his soft smile came out. He shook Peter’s hand, whirling with apprehension, but maybe pleasure. I just made coffee.

They sat down at the kitchen table, and Maggie went straight to Snow and Josette’s bedroom. She could smell the nail polish.

Maggie! C’mere. Snow was painting each of her nails with a white undercoat and painting black spirals alternating with black checkerboards. Josette was applying a set of stick-on nails with toxic glue. She sat waiting for them to dry, moving only her face, blinking and rolling her eyes to the music plugged into her head.

Can you do mine?

What you want, Maggie?

Purple? And white skulls on them.

Geez, I can’t make skulls. Snow laughed. Something easy. She took from her plastic case a tiny jar of purple polish and shook it, rattling the bead. Maggie loved the sound of that.

Maybe just dots?

I can do that.

They became absorbed in the intricacy of the undercoats, the first color, clear coat, second color, clear top coat. They held their
breaths as Snow filed and then painted Maggie’s fingernails. While each coat dried Snow and Maggie talked.

How come you guys are visiting? You never visit.

I think my dad was lonesome. Mom’s at Mass.

It’s good, better that you guys came over. We used to play! Makes it less weird, huh?

Yeah, I mean, sometimes I think . . . Maggie frowned, then brightened. There could be a whole revenge plot going between our families. But now I don’t think there ever will.

Snow was startled.

’Cause why . . . ’cause we guys all love LaRose?

Huh-huh. Me and him, we stabbed ourselves to be brother and sister.

Holeee, what?

With pencils. To give a blue dot. Maggie pulled her sweater down.

Can I see? Oooo. Look, Josette. Right on her arm. LaRose and Maggie tattooed themselves to be a family.

LaRose got stabbed by a kid at school. I took care of the kid. Then I stabbed myself so we could be engaged, at first. But I didn’t know what engagement meant.

Yeah, gross. He’s your brother, so . . .

Keep your fingers still now, said Snow. Put them back on the newspaper.

I like this, said Maggie, almost shy with delight. She stretched her hand out for her purple polka-dotted fingernails to catch the light.

What do you mean you took care of it? said Josette. You beat that kid up?

He had to be revived, said Maggie in a modest way.

For real?

Did you get in trouble?

Not that time. If I do get in trouble, I can handle it.

Josette nodded at Snow. She can do the time, ayyyy. She’s looking out for our baby brother, no shit, she’s for real.

If we were all a family it would be much better, Maggie said. You guys could sleep over.

Noooo, Josette smiled. Just that we’re too old.

We could have the same tattoos then, Maggie said. I know how to give them.

Whoa, hold on! The girls collapsed, laughing.

I just sharpen up a pencil real fine, then pow. She made a quick stabbing motion with a pen.

Assassin! said Snow.

Coochy stuck his head in the door and made a girly face. Your dad says it’s time to go.

The girls held their arms out for hugs.

Kiss, kiss, one on each cheek, like we’re in the mafia.

WOLFRED ASKED THE
girl to tell him her name. He asked in words, he asked in signs, but she wouldn’t speak. Each time they stopped, he asked. But though she smiled at him, and understood exactly what he wanted, she wouldn’t tell her name. She looked into the distance. Near morning, after they had soundly slept, she knelt near the fire to blow it back to life. All of a sudden, she went still and stared into the trees. She jutted her chin forward, then pulled back her hair and narrowed her eyes. Wolfred followed her gaze and saw it, too. Mackinnon’s head, rolling laboriously over the snow, its hair on fire, brightly twitching, flames cheerfully flickering. Sometimes it banged into a tree and whimpered. Sometimes it propelled itself along with its tongue, its slight stump of neck, or its comically paddling ears. Sometimes it whizzed along for a few feet, then quit, sobbing in frustration at its awkward, interminable progress.

The Pain Chart