Eli stood beside the chief of police, decked out in dress regalia because the chief knew a photo-op when he saw one, and squinted as the camera flashes went off in his face. He wasn’t watching the main event, however—Chief Follingsbee giving Az Thompson the court order from a district judge that officially halted development on the Pike property, pending the removal of Abenaki remains from the site. Instead, Eli scanned the faces of the crowd—people he had known all his life who suddenly looked entirely different.
Winks, for example, had a drinking problem and a wife who’d left him for one of the students she’d taught English to at the high school. But today he was smiling to beat the band, this triumph made sweeter by the fact that he’d had so many runs of hard luck. Old Charlie Rope had come out for this, and had his granddaughter balanced on his shoulders. “You watch,” Eli heard the old man say, bouncing her lightly. “This is something we need to remember.”
Even stoic Az Thompson, the unofficial Abenaki spokesman, seemed moved by the occasion. This was a victory, and there had been few. Every time the Abenaki had mustered the effort to purchase lands, or win fishing rights, they were defeated on the grounds that they had not been federally recognized as a tribe and therefore had no rights to speak of. According to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, to be a tribe an indigenous group needed to show a continuous cultural history for hundreds of years.
For the Abenaki, there was a gaping hole that began in the 1930s.
Eli had always assumed that this was due to the Abenaki’s seeming lack of organization, or drive, or both. But now he wondered if they’d been put in a catch-22 of their own making. As Shelby had said the night before—to keep from being targeted by the eugenicists in the thirties, the Abenaki had intermarried and taken on white names and jobs. They’d moved out of state and blended in with other existing tribes. They’d hid their own traditions behind closed doors, to keep from losing them forever. And now, they were being punished for it.
Eli watched some of the Abenaki drift back to the big drum they’d carried in for the occasion. Their voices, deep and urgent, plaited together in the most unlikely melody. Indian songs did not follow a set course; they were more like rivers, which went where they needed to. Eli could remember summers on the banks of the lake with his mother’s family; how this music would seep through the crack in the tent at nighttime, how it would carry him to sleep.
This song, it was their history. Like the rest of Abenaki memoir, it was oral—written words, like that paper that Az was holding now, meant nothing until they created a legend, told by Charlie Rope’s granddaughter to her own children. Eli wondered how many of these men and women remembered what had happened in Comtosook under the direction of Spencer Pike. The very fact that there had been such a conspicuous silence about it was meaningful—it had not been passed down, for some reason. This story, Eli realized, was all the more important for what had not been said.
“This,” said a voice at his shoulder, “is an outrage.” Rod van Vleet looked ready to spit as he stood on the fringe of the media that was immortalizing this moment. “This is my land, and frankly I don’t care if it’s owned by retarded bald eagles in wheelchairs—I paid for it, fair and square.”
“I’m sure you’ll get your money back,” Eli said, although he wasn’t sure of this at all. “The last thing they’d want to be accused of is being a bunch of Indian givers.”
Van Vleet narrowed his eyes, not at all appreciative of Eli’s joke. He pushed his way through the knot of reporters and took his contract from Spencer Pike out of his pocket. “The hell with you,” he said.
He tore up the paper and tossed the pieces into the air. They fluttered down, light as feathers. When they landed, Eli noticed one small root poking through the dirt. It looked to be a crocus. At some point, apparently, that frozen ground had begun its thaw. Who else knew what lay hidden?
Eli put his hands in his pockets and walked toward the group of Abenaki who were singing. Words rose from his throat, refrains he had forgotten he ever knew. And even people miles away in Swanton and Morrisville, who had been listening to the song of the wind without even realizing it, suddenly stopped mowing their lawns and wiping down their kitchen counters, somehow aware that the melody had changed.
The transformations were gradual, but because they had been expecting them this time, people in Comtosook took notice. When Scotch tape failed to stick, they smiled knowingly. When the melons in the Gas & Grocery grew so ripe that the smell of summer rolled onto the sidewalk like fog, everyone understood. They found four-leaf clovers in their wallets, pressed between the largest bills; they heard bobcats sobbing in the hills; they found their pillows too soft at night—all things that could have been chalked up to any number of causes, but that instead were attributed to their ghost.
And so it was that when Ross came outside onto Shelby’s porch and saw what he did, he thought twice. It could have been squirrels; it could have been a neighbor kid’s prank. Or it could have been something else entirely that had meticulously arranged seventeen tiny stones in the shape of a heart.
This was not his mother. Ethan watched the imposter getting ready for her date from his nest on the bed, humming as she snapped on her holiday earrings, using that goop girls wiped on their eyelashes if they were in the habit of wearing makeup, putting perfume on in places that made no sense—the backs of her knees, the pucker of her belly button.
“Are you two going to hook up?” Ethan asked.
“Hook up?”
“Yeah, you know. Do it.”
His mother, in the process of slipping into a high-heeled shoe, stumbled. “What kind of a question is that?”
He thought for a minute. “A smart one.”
“Well,” she said. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Ethan began to pick at the knotting on the quilt. “If I were you, I’d do it. But only if he lets you shoot off his gun once or twice.”
His mother got that look, the one where she did a really bad job of trying not to smile. “I’ll tell him you suggested that.”
Ethan considered what he knew of making out—it seemed to him about as gross as some girl spitting into a glass, and then giving it to him to drink. “Then again, it might not be worth it.”
She tugged at his cap, so that it twisted around backward. “Get back to me on that when you’re older.”
“I’m never going to kiss any girls.” Ethan watched her stand up, check herself out in the mirror. He had to admit, she looked . . . pretty. And something about that made him feel like the room was spinning.
“Trust me . . . it’s irrefragable. One day you’re going to want to do that more than anything else in the world.”
“And who,” Ethan said, “is going to want to do that with
me
?”
His mother paused, then came to sit beside him on the bed. She touched his face as if it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, instead of the chalk-white mask of a monster. “Many, many smart women,” she answered, looking into his eyes. “We may have to beat them off with a stick.”
“As if,” Ethan answered, ducking away, when what he really meant was:
I hope I’m here to see it.
She hugged him, and for some reason, he let her, although he’d given up that kind of lovey-dovey stuff a year ago. Her eyes were bright with a world that did not include Ethan. And because it was going to be that way sooner or later, he found the strength to let her go.
In the dark of his room at Shelby’s, Ross was kissed awake. He felt the soft pressure of a mouth against his, the sigh that breathed into his own lungs, and he raised his arms from the cocoon of covers to pull this moment tight against him before it could bleed into the next. He reached out, and found himself grabbing at nothing.
He knocked over the alarm clock and flicked on the lamp, suddenly alert. Sitting up, he confirmed what he already knew: he was alone in his bedroom, the door locked just the way he’d left it the night before. And his bed was now spotted with hundreds of rose petals.
“Where
are
you?” He jumped to his feet in only his boxers, yanking the covers off with one good tug. He lifted the mattress and threw it onto the floor. He shoved at the footboard, sliding the bed away from the wall. Frustrated and breathing hard, he sank to the carpet and buried his face in his hands.
Just once
, Ross thought,
I would like to be the kind of
guy who gets lucky. Just once I’d like someone to live for.
The knocking on the door grew louder. “Ross? You in there? I thought I heard something fall down.”
He dragged himself to his feet and unlocked the door, opened it just a crack. In the hall his sister stood dressed to the nines, trying to see over his shoulder. “I tripped,” he lied.
“Oh. You’re okay?”
“Great. Fantastic.” Ross nodded at her dress. “You look nice.”
She blushed. “Thanks. The date. You said you’d watch Ethan.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Ross said, although he hadn’t. “Give me a minute.”
He closed the door and reached for the jeans that he’d left on the floor before going to sleep. How could he not have fallen for Lia, a woman who—like Ross himself—would have given anything to change the circumstances of her existence . . . but could not figure out how?
He could still taste her.
He was about to leave when he turned back, walked to the puddle of linens on the floor, and shook them out onto the bed again. The sheets floated down, still fragrant with the scent of roses. But the petals themselves had vanished, disappearing without a visible trace.
Sometimes, being a public servant paid off. Such as tonight, when Eli had wanted to do something special for Shelby— like providing her with a memorable date at approximately two in the morning, when most restaurants were closed. He unlocked the door to the Italian bistro and held it open so that she could step inside. She sniffed at the traces of oregano and garlic wafting from the kitchen. “You moonlight as a chef?”
“No . . . I just know the right people.” He led Shelby to the table he’d set up earlier this evening. A bottle of red wine sat beside a single candle. A rose was draped over her plate.
Eddie Montero had come to Eli a month ago, asking for his help in nailing an employee who was stealing from the cash register. A few surveillance cameras had done the trick— although Eli imagined that Eddie hadn’t had the heart to reprimand his mother, a part-time substitute waitress who also had kleptomaniac tendencies. Still, he’d been happy enough to loan Eli his establishment off-hours, and even went so far as to prepare a meal that was waiting in the warming oven for them. A heart-healthy meal, unfortunately, without any goddamned red meat.
“You know,” Shelby said, as he pulled out her chair, “I could have come out at a normal hour.”
“But then I wouldn’t have been the only guy staring at you.” In heels and a tight black dress, Shelby Wakeman looked nothing like the brown mouse she pretended to be at the library, or the harried mother she actually was. She’d tumbled her hair into a knot at the top of her head, which only made her eyes more luminous and her mouth seem softer. If Eli had felt some primal pull between them before, he was absolutely captivated by her now.
He served the salad and antipasto, and poured the wine. “Eddie picked the vintage,” Eli admitted. “I can’t tell a Riesling from a Riunite.”
“I’m pretty sure the Riunite is the one with the twist-off cap.”
“Ah, right. I knew there was a clue.” Eli tipped his glass against Shelby’s, listening to the crystal sing. “To first dates,” he toasted.
Shelby shook her head and put down her glass. “I can’t drink to that.”
A sinking feeling started in Eli’s stomach. “You can’t?”
“No. I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t really want to have a first date. By definition, they’re awful, aren’t they?”
It took Eli a few moments to find an appropriate response. “What do you think we ought to do, then?”
Shelby smiled. “I want to have a second date.”
“By definition,” he repeated, “doesn’t that imply that we’ve had a first one?”
“Well, it certainly suggests that we know all the bare facts about each other already.”
“Which we don’t . . .”
“We know enough to have gotten us here.”
A smile stretched across Eli’s face as understanding dawned. “What did he do . . . throw up in your lap? Talk about how your eyes reminded him of his ex?”
“Who?”
“Whoever it was that ruined first dates for you.”
Shelby pleated her napkin. “Actually, this
is
my first date. I’m going strictly on hearsay.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, I could tell you stories that would—”
“No,” Eli interrupted. “I mean, I find it hard to believe that this is your first date.”
“Well, I meant since having Ethan.”
Eli feigned nonchalance. “What happened to Ethan’s dad?”
“Last I heard, he was living in Seattle. We don’t really connect much.” Shelby moved her food around her plate. “He divorced me after Ethan was born. He couldn’t handle having a kid with XP.”
“XP,” he repeated.
“That’s the condition Ethan’s got—the one that means he can’t be out in the sunlight. It’s a genetic abnormality—and very rare.”
Eli had talked with Ethan about it . . . but briefly. The only thing he remembered the kid saying was that he wasn’t going to live long. “Is he . . . is he going to be okay?”
“No,” Shelby said softly. “He’s not.”
Her chin came up, but she did not say anything else. Eli set down his fork. “There’s nothing doctors can do?”
“The only thing they can do is tell you ahead of time. So you know what to expect, although I don’t think you’re ever ready for something like this. But most genetic counselors don’t even think to look for XP. I wouldn’t have even gone to one, if Thomas hadn’t had cystic fibrosis in his family.”
“Didn’t the doctor flag it?”
“She. And no, she didn’t. It turned out that my appointment was canceled. When I got down there, I was pretty annoyed, like most of the other patients who had been left high and dry. One of them had heard the receptionist talking on the phone—apparently the reason for the snafu was that the doctor had taken the day off to get an abortion herself.” Shelby’s hand crept to her abdomen unconsciously. “I thought about that, a lot. It was certainly her choice to do what she needed to do, and I have no idea what her reasons were. But I also realized that I wouldn’t give up on that baby inside me—not even if it had cystic fibrosis, or XP, or anything else. Nothing that geneticist was going to tell me would change my mind . . . so it didn’t make any sense to reschedule my appointment.”