Neither Wolf nor Dog (40 page)

Dan cupped his hand over his eyes and squinted off into the distance. “Looks like a buffalo up there,” he said.

Grover bent over the wheel and stared hard into the sun. “Sure as hell does,” he seconded.

I tried to look where they were staring. The sun burst in rainbow haloes through the windshield as I tried to focus on a black spot moving across the ridge.

“Moves too fast for a buffalo,” Dan observed.

My eyes adjusted slowly and the ridgetop came into view.

“That's my truck!” I shouted.

Far up on the rise my black Nissan pounded across the prairie. A plume of dust rose behind it like a cloud.

“By God, you're right,” Dan said. “Thought for sure it was a buffalo.”

“Looks like Jumbo got it running,” Grover added.

The truck bounced and bucked over the ridgetop and disappeared.

“Want some lunch?” Dan asked, turning to face me. I was still staring at the dissipating dust cloud.

“What's my truck doing up there?” I said.

“Looked like it was running pretty good,” Grover said.

“Yeah, Jumbo can fix stuff,” Dan added.

I was caught between elation and outrage. I had figured my truck would never run again, and now it not only was running, but someone else was driving it. “I didn't tell anyone else to drive it,” I said.

“Someone else might be driving your wife, too, Nerburn,” Grover cracked. “You don't seem too worried about that.”

“Let's get some lunch,” Dan said. “A man's got to eat.”

“How about getting the truck first?” I argued. “Jumbo or whoever that is could be on his way to Seattle, for all we know.”

“Yep. Could be,” Dan said.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I pleaded.

“An old man needs his food, Nerburn.”

I didn't have any choice. I could be angry at them, but they would just laugh. I could beg, but they would just do what they wanted, anyway. The cloud of dust had settled. The ridgetop was clear. The truck was gone.

“Need some soup,” Dan said.

“It's Saturday. Must be poodle noodle,” Grover observed. They both laughed heartily; it was an old joke.

Grover took a left turn and headed down a side road. Before long we came to a low building with a tarpaper roof and a collection of cow skulls hanging from the entryway. A red-and-white sign in the window said “Closed.” But there were cars and trucks outside.

We pulled up next to an old Volare with no hubcaps and a broken grill. The rear window on the passenger side had been smashed out and replaced with a piece of cardboard that was held in place by duct tape. The muffler was held on by a bungee
cord that was hooked into the tailpipe on one end and the trunk lip on the other.

I glanced over into the back seat. A filthy air filter canister and a pair of jumper cables lay on top of a little girl's pink sweater amid a pile of tinfoil fast-food wrappers.

“Must be one Jumbo fixed,” Grover observed.

“There's got to be a special place in hell for people like you,” I said.

“No Indians there,” Grover answered. “Too full of white people.”

We walked into the darkened cafe. On the far side a vast mass hulked on one of the stools.

“Jumbo!” I blurted, almost ecstatic.

Jumbo nodded. I looked out the window behind him. My truck was parked out back behind the building.

Jumbo was working over a platter of fried chicken. A pile of bones sat in a napkin near the side of the plate. He held a cigarette in one hand and a drumstick in the other.

“Truck's fixed,” he said, as if he had been sitting there waiting for me. “Runs good.” He was in a talkative mood.

I wanted to ask him why he was driving it, but I knew better.

“What was wrong?” I asked instead. “I'm eating,” Jumbo replied, leaving no doubt that there were more serious issues on his mind.

“Come on, Nerburn, sit down,” Dan said. “Worry about your truck later.”

I followed them hesitantly to a table. My truck gleamed outside in the afternoon sun.

Jumbo swiveled on his stool and rose up. He gripped the oval platter of chicken parts in his right hand and tottered toward us. A cigarette ash dropped onto the plate and disappeared among the wings and thighs. He lumbered to our table and lowered himself into a vacant chair.

“Twenty bucks,” he said.

I thought he was telling us the cost of his chicken platter.

“Twenty bucks,” he repeated. He was looking straight at me.

“For the truck?” I asked, suddenly realizing what he was saying.

He nodded.

“For a head gasket?” I said.

“Wasn't a head gasket.” He glanced at Dan. “Blew a hose. Had it fixed before supper.” He measured his time by the space between meals.

“I wonder why a hose went?” I said. I had just had the hoses changed in the spring.

“Aw, don't worry about it, Nerburn,” Grover said. “It's done.”

Something in his tone caught my attention. Instead of jabbing at me for my concern, he was trying to move me away from the subject. “Do you know something I don't know?” I asked.

“I know a lot of things you don't know,” Grover said.

“I mean, about my truck, about why it broke.”

“Don't know nothing about that,” he answered tersely. He stared intently at the cup of coffee the waitress had just placed in front of him. Dan was intricately involved in tearing open a small cracker package with his stiff, arthritic hands.

“Dan?” I said. “Do you know anything about what happened to my truck?”

“Goddamn!” he said. “An old man can't even eat in peace anymore.”

I glanced from Dan to Grover to Jumbo. None of them would look at me.

“You sons of bitches,” I said. “You did it. You set me up.”

Dan freed his crackers from their cellophane wrapper and they tumbled onto the table. Grover stirred his coffee. Jumbo
was parsing his plate of chicken parts with his index finger, trying to isolate the cigarette ashes.

“You never learn, Nerburn,” Dan said.

“What?”

“You always blame the Indians.”

“Blame the Indians! Who the hell should I blame? You guys look like Indians to me.”

“Wasn't us,” Dan said.

“Nope,” said Grover.

“Then who was it?” I said.

Jumbo ripped a piece of chicken flesh off a leg bone. “Great Spirit,” he answered. Dan nodded. So did Grover. They sat quietly for a moment, then all burst into laughter.

The waitress came over and dropped a white greasy bag on the table in front of Jumbo.

“What's that?” Grover said. “You just ate half the chickens on the rez.”

“Got to gain some weight,” Jumbo answered, corkscrewing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Had to go on a diet. Ain't a lot of room in them Nissans.” Then, rising, he added, “Got to get back to work.”

I was not about to let my truck out of my sight again. I left Dan and Grover to their poodle noodle soup and told them I would meet them back at the garage.

Jumbo led me through the back door of the restaurant to the parking area. My truck gleamed like a black diamond in the sun. Jumbo threw the keys across the roof of the cab and dropped himself into the passenger seat. The truck creaked and settled. I brushed a few pieces of pie crust off the seat and slid behind the wheel.

The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the cab stunk of grease and body odor. But the truck ran like new. The idle was smoother and it seemed to have more power.

“Did a few other things, too,” Jumbo said proudly. “Timing was off. Bad plug wire.”

“You really did work on it, then,” I said.

Jumbo nodded. “Pain in the ass, too. Pretty good tape deck, though.”

Three young boys on dirt bikes rode out of their driveway and started hollering, “
Wasichu
truck!
Wasichu
truck! Give us another ride!” Jumbo waved from the passenger window and the boys did skid stops in the dirt alongside us.

“Ain't mine no more,” Jumbo shouted. He tossed a chicken bone off into the brush on the side of the road.

I smiled and shifted up into third gear. The truck pulled out with ease and galloped across the gravel.

“You did a good job,” I said.

Jumbo gave a toothless jack-o-lantern grin. “I can fix stuff,” he answered.

I let him out in front of his building. I tried to give him some extra money for his work, but he refused. “Twenty's good,” was all he said, and stuffed the bill into the front pocket of his bib overalls. The idea of a receipt or a guarantee was unthinkable.

Another gaggle of young boys had gathered alongside the truck and were climbing in and out of the pickup box as if it were a jungle gym. I tried to get them to stay out by claiming I was leaving soon, but they paid no mind. By now this truck was as much theirs as mine.

Jumbo had already turned his back to me and was working on the sprocket of a bicycle that was balanced upside down on its seat and handlebars in the dusty shadows in front of his shop.

“Thanks again, Jumbo,” I said. His head nodded once or twice in acknowledgment, but that was all. He was on to other tasks.

Soon the young boys drifted over to the bicycle that was undergoing surgery. They stood like interns around Jumbo, offering advice and falling silent as he pointed out the intricacies of chain tension and bearing lubrication.

I was left alone in the noonday sun. The heat was relentless. I could not even lean against the truck without getting burned. Far down the street some trees twitched listlessly in the stagnant breeze. A skeletal dog moved slowly across the road and dug into a hollow of shade near a culvert. The only sound was the clicking of Jumbo's ratchet and the distant empty thunk of some machine that rose and fell indifferent to the burning heat.

Before long I heard the crunch of tires. Grover's green Buick came crawling around the corner like a great, lazy reptile. It pulled up beside me and Dan climbed out.

“Truck okay?” he said.

“Works great.”

“Jumbo can fix stuff.”

“He sure can.”

We stood silent, measuring the space between us. I expected him to invite me out to the house, but no invitation was forthcoming.

“Well,” I said finally, “I might as well get started. It's a long drive.”

“Hot, too,” Dan added. Then, “Got something for you.” He reached through the window of Grover's car and into the animal-skin bag he had carried up the hill with him that night at Wounded Knee. He dug around a bit and pulled out a flat piece of red stone carved into the stylized shape of an eagle. It was strung on a cord for hanging around the neck.

He pushed it casually toward me; there was no ceremony in the giving. I took the carving from his chestnut hand. He held onto it for an instant before letting go, then it was mine.

He did not withdraw his hand immediately. It hung out there like a tree root, exposed, unearthed, revealed. He was thinking.

Finally, he shook his head. The thought, like a storm cloud, had passed. He opened his hand and held it forward. This was good-bye.

I took his hand in mine. The whiteness of my grip against his mahogany gnarls and knuckles made me seem effete and unformed. He squeezed hard. A promise was being passed.

I looked at him. He was looking away. The meaning was in the hand, not in the eyes.

“I'll do a good job,” I said.

He nodded.

“I'll send you drafts,” I continued.

He nodded again.

I wanted to talk, to pour things out, to hug him, to thank him, to do something. He dropped his hand and turned away. I started to talk again. He raised his hand up level with his shoulder and waved it slightly: “You have said enough,” it said. “Be quiet.”

I stood in the baking heat, watching him fumble with the gleaming chrome door handle on Grover's car. Fatback was panting and drooling in the back seat. She was home again, and excited. Grover bent down a little in the seat so he could see me where I stood. He touched his hand once to the brim of his hat — a tiny salute — before Dan opened the door and slid in beside him.

The car clunked into gear and rolled down the street with a low rumble. I could see the backs of two men's heads as they drove away. Only Fatback had turned to watch me. Her eyes drooped and her head rested on the back window ledge.

I lifted my hand and waved at her, half pretending, and half believing, that she could understand. She raised her ears and
gave me a baleful look. The car rumbled forward over the rise and was gone.

The trees had fallen completely still in the midday calm. Slowly I reached up and dropped the necklace over my head. The stone eagle was cool; it lay heavy against my chest. I stood in the dust in the empty street, listening to the deep throat of Grover's Buick grow dim in the distance. The old dog down by the culvert got up and circled three times, then settled back into the dirt. I remained there, motionless, listening, until long after there was anything left to hear.