Not that he always got into their rooms. Not everyone let him in their door. Some people were suspicious of him at the Elders Lodge, like Mrs. Peace. She’d even had a chain put on her door because he’d once foolishly insisted on entry when she wasn’t in favor of it. Romeo drove up to the lodge. As he walked into the main hallway, he saw Mrs. Peace. As soon as she saw him, she slippered along in her quick and mouselike way, large eyes peeping at him as she made a swift turn into her apartment and clicked the door emphatically shut.
And she used to be my favorite teacher, thought Romeo, sad. She was everybody’s favorite teacher. She took me home. She fed me from her table.
No longer. And she rarely accepted his gifts. But there was always his aunt, or mother, or foster mother, Star. He was bringing Star the prize—the purple fleece throw that said Sobriety Powwow 1999 in one corner. Nice throws had been left over at the giveaway because of relapse behavior. Romeo knocked on Star’s door, remembering the prescriptions she had for severe arthritis. She opened the door, her little smile glinting.
It’s peckerhead! she yelled to her other visitors.
Oh, him, said Malvern Sangrait to Mrs. Webid. Let’s have a look at him. Skinny, but you never know.
For me? Star took the purple fleece. Very cozy.
The women sat at the kitchen table, looking avidly at Romeo. Their eyes were bright and roved over him, but stopped so pointedly that he glanced down, a reflex. Sure enough.
Twenty cows got out the barn door, Mrs. Webid shrieked.
Romeo tugged. His zipper stuck.
The old ladies began to count out loud. They reached thirty before he managed to violently wrest it all the way shut. Watch out! Weweni! Be careful!
Way-weeny, cackled Malvern.
Be careful so its head don’t get stuck! Ow! It’s trying to peek at us!
The women pretended to shield their eyes.
There was a little tap and his schoolteacher entered. Mrs. Peace’s feet slapped gently to another chair and she joined the three other women and Romeo at the table. Her coffee cup was still sitting where she’d left it.
Aren’t you asking Romeo to sit himself down?
Sit down, sit down!
Why do you look confused?
His brains are down there, in his ass. Maybe he doesn’t want to crush his thoughts.
Star poured a cup of coffee out for him and pushed a Ball jar full of sugar his way.
There he goes. He’s going to sit. He had to tie his pecker in a knot first, said Mrs. Webid. His thing was trying to get out.
Oh my, gasped Mrs. Peace. She didn’t join in their lewd talk, but her eyes pooled with delight. The ladies stared harder now at Romeo.
He was a puny boy, said Star, he’s just got a little pinkie-doodle in his pants. It was something else he had in his pocket this time.
Perhaps some other little “gift” he scrounged up, said Malvern. Maybe one of his free Maglites—with the dead batteries.
Dead batteries! Mrs. Webid’s face crinkled up. Her cheeks puffed mightily, but she couldn’t contain herself and started to wheeze with happiness.
Have you charged up your batteries lately?
Juiced ’em up?
Mrs. Peace suddenly broke into a startling musical chortle, and Romeo excused himself.
Take your time, take your time, Malvern said. Give those batteries a good hard crank!
Ah, they screamed with merriment.
Romeo closed the door and locked it, turned on the water, pissed, and flushed. In the noisy rush from the faucet he eased open the medicine cabinet. Disappointing. He took one bottle even though the label said, Insert into rectum. There was another painkilling item that did not break down when crushed, but could only be swallowed. It was full, though, and there was a duplicate bottle. Hardly be missed. He combed his watery hands through his hair, retied his skinny ponytail, made sure his zipper was shut, and came out.
It was so nice to see you, my boy, Star said immediately. Nice you visit your old auntie. Please close my door carefully on your way out, eh?
He did shut the door as he quickly left, which caused a burst of hilarity. It should have roused his suspicions, maybe, but they were always like that.
That night, at home, he decided to sell the rectals in a different bottle, but took a triple dose of the pills that didn’t crush. He took them with a full glass of water, as recommended, and waited. Nothing happened so he took one more. Perhaps half an hour passed. He looked at the date on the bottle, then peered closer and held the bottle in the light of the cockeyed lamp. One label had been carefully pasted over another label. He couldn’t scratch the second label off though he tried with his longest fingernail, tried with a razor blade, and then realized with a twisting rush of his guts that the contents of the bottle were effective in the place the old ladies said his brains were located.
God! The pain was sickening. He loped, slung over his stomach, to the door of the disability bathroom. Crashed through. The toilet still had a decent flush and that night he gave it hard use. The cramps were nails driven deep into his lower abdomen. Those ladies must have rocks in their bowels, he thought. How could they stand it? Even a fraction of a dose would have done the trick. He didn’t sleep. Dawn found him raving, exhausted, dehydrated, famished, gutted, unable to go to work. But no, it wasn’t over. Other feelings surfaced. His skin began to prickle and burn. His nose grew giant and his feet seemed far away. There was an abnormally disgusting taste in his mouth, then his penis turned rock hard and would not go down even if he thought of frog-shaped zipper pulls.
All day, blankets nailed over windows, Romeo lay in his pile of sleeping bags experiencing bouts of sickness, disorientation, and sexual excitement simultaneous with explosive gas. CNN wavered and sparked. Ann Kellan, one of his favorite reporters, was doing a comforting story about the language of elephants. When you hear these calls, you know there’s going to be a mating event, said Ann. Male bull elephants trumpeted. The competition was on. Trunks blared. Romeo’s penis throbbed. He flicked off the volume. He lay still underneath his sleeping bag. He didn’t dare move for fear of disrupting the weak equilibrium he’d gained below the waist.
Maybe the old ladies were right—his brains were in his ass and now it was cleared out—for he found himself thinking with uncommon clarity. Thinking with strange focus. Considering where he’d sell and how much he’d reap for the pills he’d stashed, even counting it all up in his head and deciding what he would do with the money. He thought of his aunt, who’d raised him at the edge of her household, Aunt Star. In spite of her evil trick, he would buy groceries for her. Clean her place up so it didn’t stink. He thought of ordinary and extraordinary things. Should he live this way? He asked himself that. Should he be subject to the cruel pecking of the buzzards at the Elders Lodge? How could he rise? How could he gain respect? Should he run for office? Which office? If he was on the tribal council he would immediately declare it against tribal law to store psychotropic laxative erection pills in a painkilling drug container. He spent the most time, though, reviewing bits, sorting words, scanning possibilities. Information. What certain knowledge might get him. He considered all aspects of what gossip gave him what sorts of power. He made up his mind to go deeper, investigate, maybe put up a bulletin board of clues like his Law & Order hero, Lennie Briscoe. He’d put everything together.
WOLFRED SORTED THROUGH the options: they could run away, but Mackinnon would not only pursue but pay Mashkiig to get them first. They could stick together at all times so Wolfred could watch over her, but that would make it obvious that Wolfred knew and they would lose the element of surprise. Xenophon had lain awake in the night, asking himself this question: What age am I waiting for to come to myself? This age, Wolfred thought. Because they had to kill Mackinnon of course. Really, it was the first thing Wolfred thought of doing, and the only way. To feel better about it, however, he had examined the options.
How to do it?
Shooting him was out. There migh
t be justice. Killing him by ax, hatchet, knife, or rock, or tying him up and stuffing him under the ice, was also risky that way. As he lay in the faltering dark imagining each scenario, Wolfred remembered how he’d walked the woods with her. She knew everything there was to eat in the woods. She probably knew everything there was not to eat as well. She probably knew poisons.
Alone with her the next day, he saw she’d managed to sew her dress together with a length of sinew. He pointed to the dress, pointed in the general direction of Mackinnon, then proceeded to mime out picking something, cooking it, Mackinnon eating it, holding his belly and pitching over dead. It made her laugh behind her hand. He convinced her that it was not a joke and she began to wash her hands in the air, biting her lip, darting glances all around, as though even the needles on the pines knew what they were planning. Then she signaled him to follow.
She searched the woods until she found scraggly stalks that drooped with black shriveled berries. She put a bit of cloth on her hand, picked the berries, and tied them in the cloth. Then she searched out a stand of oaks, again covered her hand, and plunged it into the snow near a cracked-off stump rotted down to almost nothing. Eventually, from beneath the snow, she pulled out some dark-gray strands that might once have been mushrooms.
That night Wolfred used the breast meat of six partridges, the tenders of three rabbits, a shriveled potato, and the girl’s offering to make a highly salted and strongly flavored stew. He unplugged a keg of high wine, and made sure Mackinnon drained it well down before he ate. The stew did not seem to affect him. They all went to their corners, and Mackinnon kept on drinking the way he usually did until the fire burned out.
In the middle of the night, his thrashing, grunting, and squeals of pain woke them. Wolfred lighted a lantern. Mackinnon’s entire head had turned purple and swollen to a grotesque size. His eyes had vanished in the bloated flesh. His tongue, a mottled fish, bulged from what must have been his mouth. He seemed to be trying to throw himself out of his body. He cast himself violently at the log walls, into the fireplace, upon the mounds of furs and blankets, rattling guns off their wooden hooks. Ammunition, ribbons, and hawks’ bells rained off their shelves. His belly popped from his vest, round and hard as a boulder. His hands and feet filled like bladders. Wolfred had never witnessed anything remotely as terrifying, but had the presence of mind not to club Mackinnon or in any way molest his monstrous presence. As for the girl, she seemed pleased at his condition, though she did not smile.
Trying to disregard the chaotic death occurring to his left, now to his right, now underfoot, Wolfred prepared to leave. He grabbed snowshoes and two packs, moving clumsily. In the packs he put his books, two fire steels, ammunition, bannock he had made in advance. He doubled up two blankets, another to cut for leggings, and outfitted himself and the girl with four knives apiece. He took two guns, wadding, and a large flask of gunpowder. He took salt, tobacco, Mackinnon’s precious coffee, and dried meat. He did not take overmuch coin, though he knew which hollowed log hid the trader’s tiny stash, a gold watch, and a wedding ring, which Mackinnon rarely wore.
Mackinnon’s puffed mitts of hands fretted at his clothing and the threads burst. As Wolfred and the girl slipped out, they could hear him fighting the poison, his breath coming in sonorous gasps. He could barely draw air past his swelled tongue into his gigantic purpled head. Yet he managed to call feebly out to them.
My children! Why are you leaving me?
From the other side of the door they could hear his legs drumming on the packed earth floor. They could hear his fat paws wildly pattering for water on the empty wooden bucket.
Almond Joy
SEPTEMBER AGAIN. OVER the course of the day it became oppressively hot. Not a leaf stirred. It was the first day of school and by the time the class let out, Maggie and LaRose were drooping. When they got on the bus, trees started whipping around. Hot grit flew through the air. By the time they jumped off at their stop, big fat drops were smacking down. Nola and the dog met them with a flimsy red umbrella that nearly flew out of her fist. They struggled inside and just as they shut the door lightning pulsed around the edges of the yard and half a second later there were slams of thunder.
Inside, before the dog could shake himself, Nola rubbed him hard with an old towel she kept by the door. The dog trembled with excitement, but was unafraid. He fixed Nola with a calculating gaze, then jumped onto the couch, trying his luck. She had taught him the rules for everything—no begging, no jumping on people, no chewing anything but chew toys, no shitting in the yard, only at the edge of the yard, no puking or drooling in the house, if he could help it. She even taught him not to eat until she said eat. The only thing she was inconsistent about was the couch. Sometimes she ordered him off, sometimes she allowed him on. Sometimes she even let him get close to her. He had to read her mood to find out if he would be allowed onto the hallowed green poly-filled pillows. Now the signs were good. He curled silently between Nola and Maggie, and allowed his weight incrementally to sink against them. Gradually, his brows unknit. Moving by centimeters, he managed to rest his head near Nola’s thigh.
Rain surged down in sheets and waves, pounding on the roof like people trying to get in. This scared Maggie but not LaRose. His father had put an eagle feather up in the lodge for him and talked to the Animikiig; he had explained to the thunder beings where LaRose lived so that they wouldn’t shoot lightning and hit him or anyone else in that house.
Nothing’s gonna happen, LaRose said to Maggie. He put his hand on her cheek. Maggie stopped jittering when LaRose touched her cheek. LaRose knew she loved when he was fearless. It was a burden for her always to be the fearless one. Because of what Maggie had said about his father killing Dusty, he didn’t tell her why they were safe.
Maggie clung to him while Nola made their sandwiches and poured their milk. LaRose watched the rain ripple back and forth.
Let’s eat back here, Nola said, nodding at the couch.
The dog raised his head at the proximity of food to cloth but tried to conceal his shock.
They sat with their food and looked out the window from against an inner wall. Sometimes the house vibrated with sound. Maggie quailed deeper into the cushions and pressed against the dog. When LaRose looked up at Nola, she made a funny face, a confusing face, a face LaRose hadn’t seen before. Nola’s eyes went shiny as she looked back at the streaming glass doors. She seemed mesmerized by the branches violently whipping. The face she’d made at him had been a smile.
At school, in LaRose’s combined K–1 class, there was a bigger, older first grader named Dougie Veddar. He throttled kids and gave them what he called the Dutch Rub—grinding his knuckles into their skulls. Twisting their ears. He turned his attention to hating LaRose. Tripped him, pushed him, called him Rosy Red Ass.
Can I borrow your pencil? Dougie asked LaRose during class. When LaRose gave him the pencil, Dougie snapped off the end and handed it back. LaRose sharpened the pencil.
Can I borrow your pencil? Dougie asked when LaRose sat down.
No, said LaRose.
Dougie made a sad face and raised his hand.
Mrs. Heaper, Mrs. Heaper! LaRose won’t let me borrow his pencil!
You have your own pencil, Douglas, said Mrs. Heaper.
Dougie grabbed LaRose’s sharpened pencil when Mrs. Heaper wasn’t looking, and drove it into LaRose’s arm so hard the tip broke off under the skin. Dougie laughed and said he’d given LaRose a shot. That night, LaRose showed his shoulder to Maggie, the pencil tip driven deep.
Her face swelled up. Her lips tightened. Her golden eyes went black.
When she was six years old, her teachers started calling Maggie “a piece of work.” But after her brother died, her work came together. She revved up the other kids by picking friends, rejecting those who displeased her, pitting them against each other for her favor. Although she didn’t exactly talk back to the teachers, there was sarcasm in the elaborate politeness she showed.
Yes, Miss Be
hring, she would say, and in a whisper only the other children heard, Yes, Miss Boring.
She rolled her eyes, made spasmodic faces, behind her teachers’ backs. They never caught her when she periodically dropped a BB from her jeans pocket and it rolled around and around on the unlevel floor. It made a high, thin, zinging sound that kept everyone in suspense. She kept it up, flicking a BB out every few days until Miss Behring searched everyone’s pockets. Maggie’s were empty like the others. She told nobody what she’d done so that nobody could rat her out. She was a disciplined piece of work.
Maggie had a list.
Dougie Veddar was now on it.
Recess came. He ran thumpingly around thinking he was safe, with his blond crew cut and rabbity teeth. Maggie was friends with an older girl, Sareah, who was fast and tough. The two girls closed casually in on Dougie and herded him away from the other boys.
Wanna share?
Maggie waved a candy bar from her lunch. He came around the playground tree. Sareah stepped behind him and pinned back his arms. Maggie had worn her hard-soled shoes for this. She reared back and kicked him between the legs. Then as he doubled over she stuffed back his shriek with the candy bar.
Don’t touch my brother, she said in that scary-nice way she had, her eyes turning gold with satisfaction. Please?
Sareah dropped Dougie and they ambled off, talking. I mean, what’s he gonna do? Go whine? Two girls dropped me. Kicked my nuts off. He’s gonna lay there, maybe puke. I dunno. They puke in movies when you kick their nuts off. Let’s go see if there’s chocolate milk left.