LaRose (31 page)

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.

When had her mother stopped looking after her? Stopped checking? Stopped spying?

Maggie sat in a tree and watched what she decided was a drug house, black muscular dogs chained to the porch. She watched for a week to see if any drug freaks went in or out. Finally a car drove up. A woman she recognized got out. It was her kindergarten teacher, the only teacher she’d loved. Kindergarten was the one year she had been good in school. The muscular dogs tossed themselves over on their backs for Mrs. Sweit to scratch their bellies. When she went inside, the dogs followed her like children. Maggie keenly wished
she could tag along with them, but she had to turn away knowing that inside the house Mrs. Sweit was feeding the dogs milk and cookies. She was reading them stories. She and the dogs were cutting lanterns from construction paper. Maggie went home.

The next day she saw a bear digging up some kind of roots beside a slough. Another time a fox arched-leaped high in the grass, trotted off with a mouse. Deer stepped along with their senses bared, stopping to twitch ears and nose-feel scents, before moving from cover. She watched the dirt fly behind a badger digging a den. White-footed mice with adorable eyes, blue swallows slicing air, hawks in a mystical hang-glide, crows tumbling on currents of air strong as invisible balance beams. She began to feel more at home outside than inside.

One day she was sitting high in a tree, pulling apart a wood tick. Something large flowed at her, ghost-silent. She flattened against the bark. Hung on. She felt fingers rake her hair lightly and the thing rushed up, soundlessly sucked into the leaves. She didn’t scare easy, but her breath squeezed off. She scrambled halfway down and huddled against the trunk. It was coming at her again, she could feel it. An owl with great golden eyes lighted on the branch before her, clacked its beak, fixed her with supernatural hunger. She looked straight back. At that moment her heart flung wide and she allowed the owl into her body. Then it sprang. She threw her arms up and it left razor cuts on the backs of her wrists. Her screams impressed it, though. It kept a distance while she climbed the rest of the way down. It swooped her once again, raising the hair on her scalp as she barged through the scrub.

She slowed to a walk as she neared the house. When she came out of the woods, she saw that her mother’s car was in the driveway. She went through the house, but there was nobody home. Outside, in the backyard, she saw the dog sitting alertly outside the barn, staring at the door. The dog felt her gaze and turned. It ran to her, whined, then ran back to stare anxiously at the door again.

Maggie didn’t call her mother’s name or make noise—the owl inside her now. On a pathless path leading to a place of peace or
unrest, Maggie went to the barn. Her soundlessness probably saved things. Sensing with bared senses, she pulled open the small side door and stepped inside. There was her mother in a shaft of light. Nola stood on the old green chair with a nylon rope around her neck.

Nola was wearing her purple knit dress with silver clasp belt, maroon pumps, subtly patterned stockings. Nola’s breast was looped with necklaces, her fingers deep in rings, wrists in bracelets. She had worn all of her jewelry so that nobody would ever wear it again. Perhaps Nola had done this periodically for weeks or years. Maybe this time she had stood there all morning, collecting the sickly courage to kick away the chair.

She could still do it. Maggie would not have the strength to hoist her or the quickness to cut the rope. Nola still might do it right in front of her. There would be no point in running forward. Maggie didn’t move, but fury choked her breath.

God, Mom. Her voice came out squeaky, which made her even madder. Are you really gonna use that cheap rope? I mean, that’s the rope we tied around the Christmas tree.

Nola kicked her foot back and the chair joggled.

Stop!

Nola stared down at her daughter from the other side of things.

In Maggie’s eyes, her mother saw the owl’s authority. In Nola’s eyes, her daughter saw the authority of the self and the self alone.

The foot lifted again. Beside Maggie, the dog quivered, at attention.

Okay, said Maggie. Please stop.

Nola hesitated.

I won’t tell, said Maggie.

Nola’s hesitation became a pause.

Mommy. Maggie’s eyes blurred. The word, her voice, shamed her.

If you come down, I’ll never tell.

Nola’s foot came back down and stayed motionless. The air was radiant, hot, stifling like the secret between them. Complicity
made Nola remove the rope, step down. Claustrophobia made Maggie throw up.

She puked for two days, sick every time she saw her mother and entered again the tight metal box of their secret. Nola held the glass bowl, wiped her daughter’s face with a damp white dish towel. Tears overflowed her mother’s eyes as she put the towel and bowl away. Mother, daughter. They fell into each other’s arms like terrified creatures. They clung together like children in the panic cellar.

THE NATIONAL GUARD ARMORY
was old and friendly, but they were building a new facility out of town. The equipment was used and even somewhat shabby, but they were soon to receive a shipment of the latest armaments, high-tech ordnance. The office space was cluttered and the files were bulging, but soon there would be new file cabinets, computers, desks, and copying equipment. Hollis sat at a scratched desk across from Mike, who was treating him like a long lost brother. Mike was square-headed, solid, with sparkly little blue eyes and thin pink lips. His blond hair was short, but not Marine high and tight. Hollis had resigned himself to losing his lanky rebel hair, and going straight to basic training, but Mike told him that there were plenty of options. He laid them out. The National Guard wanted Hollis to secure his education and would work with him at every stage. It felt so adult, so take-charge, to examine these shapes for his future, make decisions, lay out a plan, sign papers, and finally shake hands.

After signing, shaking, and introductions to others in the armory, Hollis was invited to the afternoon’s youth symposium. Mike made him an honorary uncle for his three-year-old son and introduced Jacey, his wife, who looked uncannily like her husband. Everyone split up into their family groups and each group attempted to build a tower out of marshmallows and uncooked spaghetti noodles. It turned out that Hollis was very good at this.
He planned an elaborate base using the noodles and marshmallows like fragile Tinkertoys. While their toddler ate Cheerios and hollered for marshmallows, Mike and Jacey carefully broke the spaghetti into the lengths that Hollis required. He laid five brittle rods together so they could reinforce one another, like a pasta beam. He’d worked at Wink’s Construction that summer tying rebar. Their tower was the tallest of all and it did not even wobble. Sergeant Verge Anderson chose their marshmallow tower as most worthy, and showed it to the other family groups at the end. He pointed out the double construction, the reinforcement, the alignment, the precision. Mike introduced Hollis, gave him the credit, and everyone applauded. Sergeant Anderson said that Hollis had the right stuff to become a combat engineer, if he so chose, or go on to have any sort of career he wanted, and that his country needed him and his presence honored the North Dakota National Guard family—people working together to ensure the safety of their fellow Americans.

Hollis drove back home with a schedule for drills, a schedule for his payments, a schedule for acquiring his uniform and materials for study, a schedule for each step in becoming a member of the National Guard. As he drove, he thought of Landreaux, who had told him that the army was easy to get used to, seemed natural after boarding school. He thought of the times he’d hunted with Landreaux, before the accident, how careful Landreaux had been in teaching him. Landreaux had told him that in basic training his instructor had ordered the western boys to step out, the rural boys from Wyoming, Montana, the Dakotas. He’d set them aside to work with one-on-one, because they’d always be his best shots. Landreaux’s grandfather had taught him to hunt so early in life that it all came back, he said. Landreaux hadn’t shot anyone in Desert Storm—he had worked way back in the support sector, filled out their medical forms and done routine health checks, taken care of superficial wounds, and promoted overall general health. Hollis was pretty sure he’d never have to shoot anyone either. He’d do the opposite. He’d save people.
In a crisis Hollis would know what to do and be the one to depend on. In a vague way, he understood that saving people could be just as dangerous if they ever got into a real situation.

When he stepped into the house he smelled fried rabbit with onions and bacon. He smelled burning sage and saw that Snow and Josette were smudging themselves, for some special mysterious reason. Emmaline put her thin arms around him. Coochy punched him, punched him harder when he didn’t respond. Hollis felt his heart swelling with love so he put a fake choke hold on Coochy. LaRose yelled.

Take it outside! I’m making a hogan.

He was gluing pieces of construction paper into a frame shoe box. He was making a diorama of Native American dwellings for Emmaline’s office.

Josette quit fanning smoke on herself, looked over his shoulder, tipped her head back and forth.

Make sure you put a cactus in there.

No, said Snow. A sheep. And a FEMA trailer.

Plus a volleyball, Josette said. Those Navajo girls are killer.

Dine girls, said Snow. I think they live in super nice new suburb houses, actually. Put in a cul-de-sac and sprinkler system.

Sprinkler system?

Josette looked disturbed.

Nah, you’re right. They wouldn’t waste their water.

Damn straight! Phoenix is stealing their water! I read about it! Put in big pipes sucking away Dine water! LaRose, you can use drinking straws!

LaRose looked up at Hollis and said, Brother, will you get them out of here?