“Could she be keeping something from you?”
“She could be, but I don’t think she is. She’s got a little wild in her, but not
like me. Or at least not like I did at her age. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Especially after today, if there was something I should know, she’d tell me. And she hasn’t.”
Cork finished his bottled water, thinking. “There’s something we’re not considering. I just don’t know what it is.”
“Hungry?” Stella asked suddenly.
He was. He hadn’t eaten in forever, and he was famished. “Yeah, I am.”
“Let me see what I can offer.”
She got up and disappeared into the kitchen. He heard her open the refrigerator, and a couple of moments later, she called, “How about an omelet?”
“Works for me.”
He brought her bottle of spring water, still half full, and his own, empty, to the kitchen.
“Another?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Anything I can do to help?”
“You can chop this up.” She handed him an onion.
They worked together. Stella talked about Marlee, and he talked about Stephen, and it felt oddly comfortable, all this domesticity. They ate at the dinette, then Stella stacked the dishes.
“Be glad to dry while you wash,” Cork offered.
“I’ll tackle them tomorrow,” she said. “I’m bushed.” She leaned back against the counter and eyed him enigmatically. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“You said you weren’t going to leave me here alone. How’re you going to do that?”
“You’re sure Shorty’s not coming?”
“He’d be here by now,” she said. “He had the best of intentions, I’m sure. Uncle Shorty always does. But he probably started in on his Jack Daniel’s a lot earlier than he intended, and he’s lying on his bed, shitfaced.”
“How about I sleep on your couch?”
“All right with me, but what about your girlfriend?”
“It won’t be that kind of sleepover.”
“Try telling that to Rainy when she hears about it.”
“It’ll be fine.”
She shook her head in a way that suggested he was hopelessly naïve and said, “Your funeral.”
He called home, explained, and said he’d be back in the morning. By the time he ended the call, Stella had some folded sheets, an old quilt, and a pillow sitting on the sofa.
“I don’t have a toothbrush to offer,” she said.
“I’ll survive.”
“All right.”
He expected her to leave then, but she didn’t. Instead, she studied him in the lamplight, as if trying to come to some decision. Finally she said, “I almost lost my kids. Down in Minneapolis, before I got sober. But I met some elders in the Little Earth community there, and they hooked me up with good people at the Minnesota Indian Women’s Resource Center. They saved my life. One of the things they all helped me believe was that I could make something of myself. They encouraged me to get my GED, and I did. For the last five years, I’ve been taking classes at Aurora Community College, a few credits at a time. Last summer I graduated. An Associate Arts degree. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“I’ve applied to St. Scholastica down in Duluth, their online program, to go for my bachelor’s degree.” Her eyes became dark and fierce. “Everyone on the rez still thinks of me like they did back when there was nothing to me but wild. Hell, tending bar hasn’t done a lot to change their opinion. But I’m not going to be a bartender for the rest of my life. I don’t want that to be how my kids or anyone else thinks of me. Just a bartender. I want Hector and Marlee to be proud of me.”
“I’d guess they already are.” And then Cork, who had a pretty good idea of the difficulty of the road she’d traveled, said, “I hope you are, too, Stella. I think whatever it is you want to do with your life, you’ll get there.”
“You really think so?”
“I wouldn’t have said if I didn’t believe it.”
She said, quietly, “I want to be a teacher.”
“Of what?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe history. I like the idea of teaching the past so that we have a better chance of not repeating our mistakes. Believe me, mistakes are something I know about.” She offered him a wisp of a smile, then looked down. “I’ve never told anyone all of this. Not even Marlee.” She gave a little laugh, a small sound, mostly air. “That trust thing you talked about? Maybe we’re there.”
“I’d like to think so,” Cork said.
Stella opened her mouth, about to speak again, but seemed to think better of it, gave her head a slight shake as if to clear her mind, and finally turned away. “Well, good night,” she said as she left him.
Cork checked the doors and windows, turned out the kitchen light, and made up the sofa. Before he lay down, he scanned the room, found nothing to his liking, returned to the kitchen, and brought back a heavy rolling pin—terribly cliché, he knew, but that’s all there was—and tucked it in beside him when he lay down. He listened to the sounds of the house, heard Stella in the bathroom, heard her walk to her bedroom, heard the door close, and after that, heard only the sound of the winter wind outside, sliding across the clearing and into the trees.
* * *
He woke in the night, woke completely alert, with the jolting knowledge that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t move except to wrap his fingers around the handle of the rolling pin. He lay very still, listening, watching, attempting with all his senses to locate the presence in the room. He was surprised by a fragrance, a wonderful scent that carried within it the suggestion of cinnamon and a flower he knew but couldn’t name. He heard the very soft rustle
of what he thought must be satin, and finally discerned a slender figure standing in the dark a few feet in front of the sofa.
“Cork?”
A whisper, if even that.
He considered the possibility that she might be wanting to tell him she’d heard something and she was afraid. But he knew better. He was tempted—very tempted—to answer. Instead he lay perfectly still, pretending sleep. She stood awhile longer, then turned away, the soft satin rustle retreating, the moment gone. And Cork lay there alone, trying to understand why he felt as lost as that moment.
T
he next day, Cork dropped Stella Daychild off at the hospital with a promise that when Marlee was discharged, he would return and give them a lift back to their place. The sky that morning was a cloudless blue, the sun a blinding yellow blaze, the snow a soft undulation of brilliant white, all of it nailed to the day by a sharp, subzero cold.
When he arrived home, expecting everyone to be dressing for church, he found only Jenny and Waaboo there. The little guy sat in his booster chair at the kitchen table, eating a pancake slathered with blueberry preserves, using his fingers instead of a fork. Jenny was also at the table, reading the Sunday paper, a cup of coffee in her right hand and a wet washcloth near her left.
“Baa-baa’s home,” Waaboo cried when Cork walked in, and he held out two hands, blue and gooey with preserves, toward his grandfather.
Trixie trotted in from the other room, tail wagging eagerly, and jumped up to plant her forepaws against Cork’s lower thigh.
“Hey,” he said, laughing. “Nice to be so welcome.” He hung his coat on the wall peg, went to his grandson, avoided the sticky hands, and planted a kiss on top of Waaboo’s head. “No church?”
“It’s been a crazy morning,” Jenny said.
“I saw that the Bearcat’s gone.” Cork went to the cupboard, got a mug, and poured himself coffee. “Stephen?”
“He took Annie to Meloux’s place.”
“Already?”
“She was anxious to get out there. Whatever it is she’s working through, she wants to do it alone.”
“She hasn’t said anything more to you?”
“Nope.”
“Baa-baa, look!” With his right index finger, Waaboo used some of the preserves from his plate to draw a bit of surrealistic line art on the tabletop. “Trixie,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.
Jenny took the washcloth, as if to wipe away the art, but reconsidered and left it for the moment.
Sunlight shot through the south window, a long yellow blade that cleaved the floor and part of one wall. Cork stared at the edges of the light, wondering what could have caused such guilt in Anne, if guilt it was, or shame if that was the reason. He hurt for her and wanted to help but had no idea how. The best he could do was to stand by and wait and hope. That was often the hardest part of being a father.
“Everything okay at the Daychilds’ last night?” Jenny asked, closing the newspaper and laying it aside.
“Perfectly quiet,” Cork said.
“Because you were there?”
Cork shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve got no idea what’s going on out there.”
“Do you think Stella’s keeping something from you?”
“I don’t get that feeling. If anything, I think it’s Marlee.”
“Waaboo!” Jenny cried, and grabbed the sippy cup full of milk from his wild right hand. “Breakfast’s over, buddy.” She stood up. “Have you eaten, Dad?”
“Toast and coffee at Stella’s. I’m fine. I’m going upstairs to shower.”
“Thinking of catching the late Mass at St. Agnes?”
“No, I’m going back to the hospital to give Stella and Marlee a ride home.”
Jenny used the washcloth to clean Waaboo’s face and hands, then began untying the bib around his neck. “I imagine Stephen would be more than happy to do that.”
“If he’s back in time.”
Cork finished his coffee, rinsed out the mug, and put it in the dishwasher. He left the kitchen and headed for the stairs. He’d just started up when the front doorbell rang. He opened it to find a tall young woman standing on the porch, wearing what was clearly a newly purchased and expensive-looking down-filled parka. The parka hood, which was trimmed with some kind of animal fur, was up to protect her head from the cold. Her face, framed in the oval of the hood’s opening, was deeply tanned. Her eyes were large and dark and rather penetrating. Her smile was tentative but hopeful.
“Good morning,” Cork said to her.
“Hello. I’m looking for Anne O’Connor.”
“She’s not here at the moment. I’m her father. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I . . . uh . . . hmmm.” The young woman had clearly expected Anne to be there and was just as clearly at a loss about what to do now that she wasn’t.
“Why don’t you come in out of that cold?” Cork said and stood aside to let her pass.
In the living room, she swept the parka hood back off her head. Cork saw that her hair was sun-bleached.
“Can I take your coat?” he offered.
She unzipped and removed it. Without the down-filled bulk, she became lanky in addition to tall. Her face was lean and pleasant. She reminded Cork of photographs he’d seen of Amelia Earhart, who in those photos, seemed to him someone you’d be pleased to know.
“Most of Annie’s friends here, I know,” Cork said, as he hung the parka on the newel post of the stairs. “But you I don’t recognize.”
“I’m Skye Edwards,” she said and studied his face, as if to see whether the name meant anything to him. It didn’t.
“I’m Cork.” He shook her hand. Her grip was strong but restrained.
At that moment, Jenny and Waaboo came from the kitchen. Skye smiled broadly at the sight of the toddler and said, “
Boozhoo, anish na,
Waaboo,” offering the little guy an Ojibwe greeting which meant “Hello, how are you?”
Around family, Waaboo was an exuberant handful, but around strangers his usual response was to hold himself back with a reasonable degree of wariness. When Skye spoke to him, however, he considered her only a moment before smiling broadly and lurching toward her as if he’d known her all his brief life. She bent as he came and swept him up in her arms.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said.
“You speak Ojibwemowin?” Cork asked.
“Only what little Annie’s taught me.”
Jenny stood watching, puzzled. “I’m Jenny O’Connor.”
“Hi. Skye Edwards.” She freed a hand to reach out and shake Jenny’s. “I came looking for your sister.”
“She’s not here.”
“Cork told me. Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”
Waaboo had his hands in Skye’s hair, and Cork was glad that Jenny had cleaned the blueberry preserves from his little fingers.
Jenny glanced at her father, and it was Cork who replied, “We don’t exactly know. She’s staying at a place called Crow Point. Was she expecting you?”
“No.” Waaboo had begun to squirm, and she put him down. He spotted Trixie exiting through the kitchen doorway and went in pursuit. “She didn’t know I was coming,” Skye went on. “I didn’t really know myself until last night.” She seemed to consider her next words carefully, then said, “The truth is I came to bring her back home.”
* * *
Cork made a new pot of coffee, and they sat at the dining room table. Jenny had made a big soft landing area with pillows and cushions, and Waaboo occupied himself happily by climbing onto the sofa and throwing himself there.
“You’re part of the order?” Cork asked.
“No,” Skye said. “I’m a teacher. Kids with learning disabilities. Annie and I met playing softball. We hit it off right away. She had her calling, I had mine. A mutual admiration.”
“So the sisters didn’t send you?” Jenny said.
Skye shook her head. “My idea to come. We all knew she was going home for Christmas, but she took off way early, without saying anything to anybody, her friends or the sisters. We’ve tried calling her cell phone, but she won’t answer. We’ve been worried sick. So I thought I’d come out, make sure she was here, and see if she’d talk to me in person.”
Cork thought it was an extremely caring thing to do, suspiciously caring, in fact, not to mention expensive. A flight during the Christmas season, a ticket bought on the spur of the moment.
Jenny whistled. “An expansive display of friendship. You could have just called us.”
“I know. But I thought it was important to talk to her face-to-face. And as for the cost, well, the truth is I’m pretty well off. My father is Colton Edwards.”
She said the name as if she expected them to recognize it. Cork didn’t. But Jenny said, “The Silicon Valley Colton Edwards? The Xtel Processor Colton Edwards?”
“Yeah. We call him Chip. Drives him crazy.” She hadn’t drunk much of her coffee, only enough to be polite. She swirled it in her mug and asked, “Do you think I could go out to this Crow Point and see her?”