Eagle, Kathleen (3 page)

His
surprise turned to expectancy. Would she say it? From the time he'd introduced
her as "his girl" and she'd teased him about using a schoolboy's
term? She'd used his greenness against him at times, embarrassed him in a
shameless attempt to gain the upper hand in their impetuous courting game.

Unable
to look him in the eye, she sidestepped, withdrawing her hand. "He invited
me to ride his horses anytime, and of course I jumped at the opportunity. We
visited about politics, history, folklore, all kinds of things. He had so much
life in him, so many stories."

"What
brings you back?"

"A
job. The quest for the perfect job."

"And
you came back here to Bad River?" He chuckled, shook his head in
disbelief. He'd always worn his hair long, neatly trimmed, touching his
shoulders in back. "Well, it's good to see you."

"Not
like this, though."

"Why
not? It's good that you came to say good-bye to your friend. You forget to do
that sometimes."

A
stab. So unlike him. She had to remind herself that she really didn't know him
anymore. She had to remind him. "We said good-bye. In the rain that night.
Remember?"

As
soon as it was out, she was sorry she'd said it. She could feel the cold rain
on her face, his wet shirt beneath her hands, his warm, promise-making breath
in her ear. He'd said he figured he had one shot and now was the time to take
it. He would call. He would be back. He would catch up with her.

Cold
rain, she remembered, shivering inside as she noted the cooling in his eyes.
"It was a long time ago," she said quietly.

"I
didn't realize it was meant to be a final good-bye."

"It
wasn't meant to be. As it turns out, it wasn't." She lifted her chin and
offered a tight smile. "Hello again."

"Hello
again." He stepped around her, turning his back to the room, as though he
was putting her in his breast pocket to keep her to himself. She'd always liked
the subtle way he had of positioning himself as her protector. "You never
know, do you?" he said quietly, his gaze drifting to the coffin that stood
several steps away. "Which good-bye will be the last."

"No."
She laid her hand on his dark blue sleeve, and she realized she'd never seen
him in a sport jacket before. She wondered whether he'd bothered to own one
back then. "I guess the gods think they're being charitable, keeping us in
the dark as we go our merry way."

"It's
shadowy," he told her. "It's never completely dark. But if you pay
attention to the shadows, you can get along pretty well." He shifted his
big body again, turning her attention toward a pass-through window and tables
laden with kettles and trays full of food. "Did you get something to
eat?"

"No,
I..." She looked up, all set to excuse herself.
Uncollected. Impolite.
"But
I will."

"Good.
The frybread's great. I haven't had any in a while." He shoved his hands
into the pockets of his slacks and inhaled the aroma of deep-fried yeast bread
as he edged her toward the table. "Ah, the smell of home."

"That
was the first thing I looked for when I came back. I went to a powwow just to
find a piece of..."

With
a subtle chin jerk, he signaled one of the women who was tending the table.
"Gramma, Helen needs some food. Some frybread to start with, right?"

"You
come with me," the old woman said.

He
touched Helen's shoulder, and she turned and found gratitude in his eyes.
"It really is good to see you, Helen."

She
was more interested in helping at the serving table than eating. From that
vantage point she watched the people pay their condolences to Roy Blue Sky's
sons. Roy had been a community leader, and there was a kind of honor due that
was readily understood and easily managed. But Reese was a hometown hero, and
that honor was not as easily managed. Not by Reese. It surprised her to see the
underpinnings of his shyness in gestures she remembered so well. Surprising to
see a man as big as he was, as physically imposing and adroit, fumble over an
old man's handshake when the recollection of a particular play during a
particular game was mentioned.

"No
one could touch you that night," the man said. "You were
unstoppable."

Shoulders
back, head bowed, Reese gave a small nod and muttered an acknowledgment.

"We've
got something we want to talk to you about later," the man said. "Not
now, but pretty soon.
Toksa.
Me and some friends. Friends of your dad's,
relatives, friends of..."

Reese
lifted his chin, questioned with a look.

Somehow
the look connected with Helen, although his eyes did not stray. He knew she was
listening, even as she made a production of scraping the last of the potato
salad from one bowl on top of the fresh mound in a bowl she'd just set out on
the table. She scraped louder, faster, but still she listened. It was part of
her job.

The
man tapped Reese's chest with the back of his hand. "Not now, but before
you head back to the Cities. We have things we want to say."

"Sure.
You know where to find me."

"Out
to your dad's place?"

Reese
nodded, and the man motioned to a small boy who was wearing a T-shirt
emblazoned with the name Minneapolis Mavericks, Reese's former NBA team.
"This is my grandson. He wanted to meet you."

Reese
shook hands with the child, then squatted to the boy's level and gave his full
attention, as though they were the only two people in the room. The child had a
story to tell, his small hands describing shapes and sizes, and Reese was right
there with him for every detail. Helen pictured Sidney standing in the boy's
place, his lanky arms measuring the size of a fish he'd caught or the length of
a pass.

Reese
looked up and caught her smiling. She turned away quickly. She knew what a
silly look she'd permitted to cross her face and what sentimental notions were
bound to follow, and she could allow herself none of that now. Just seeing him,
even after all this time, was risky enough, but seeing how open he was to the
child's interests, how he made the boy's whole face light up...
oh, lord.
She
hadn't intended to see him again, not until Sidney was older. Her son's
grandfather, yes, even his uncle, but his father wasn't part of the plan.

Reese's
warm smile pricked that pouch of guilt she swore her obstetrician had stitched
into her belly during her C-section. He'd probably been a basketball fan. A fan
of the man who stood beside her now because she'd been eavesdropping and he'd
caught her at it.

"How
was the frybread? As good as you remembered?"

"Almost."

"For
me, too. Almost. They say you can't go home again." He took a piece of
frybread from the blue roaster pan on the table, tore it into two pieces, and
offered her half. "Do you think that's true?"

"Not
always. I think it depends on how long you've been gone and where you've
been."
Whether you had the good sense to insist on a female
obstetrician.
"And maybe on what you're looking for."

"Just
a little taste of home." He ripped off a big bite of the chewy bread. She
nibbled at the piece he'd given her. He swallowed and smiled. "Can't get
it anywhere else. Why did that amuse you before—me and that kid?"

"Just
the way he was so starstruck."

"That
is funny, isn't it? I was probably all done by the time he could even say the
word 'basketball.' His grandfather and the ol' man used to hang out
together."

"They
were on the council together, weren't they?"

"Before
that." He waved frybread at their history. "They go way back."

"Do
you..." She was about to play her hand unwisely, and she knew it, and she
couldn't stop herself. "... have children?"

He
shook his head. "Haven't had time for any of that. No wife. No kids.
You?"

"I
do have a son, yes. But his father and I are no longer together." It
sounded so funny and formal, the way it came out. Cover-up came with the
territory she'd ventured into as a casino investigator, and she'd gotten pretty
good at it, but this was rough. Reese was looking at her with too much
interest, and her stomach was getting itself in a twist. "And he's not
with me. My... my son isn't."

"That
must be hard."

"I
miss him." He was looking at her with some new feeling. Sympathy? Oh,
Lord, not that. She found a sunny smile and pasted it up front. "He's in
camp this summer. He loves it. He loves..."
If you're smart, you'll say
anything but...
"Sports."

"How
old?"

"Ten."
She'd said the number too quickly, and it reverberated, mocking her. This was
more than custodial cover-up now. She was back to telling those
"necessary" lies. "Almost eleven." He'd turned twelve.

"What
sports does he like?"

"Everything.
You name it. Swimming, hockey, baseball, anything involving..." Games,
games. Oh, God, the man was tall. Looking right down into her devious brain.
"Horses. He loves to ride."

"Like
his mom, huh? How about basketball?"

"Any
kind of ball. He loves..." Part of her didn't like the way this
conversation was going, while another part of her was dying to go there with
this man, to tell him, show him, and let him share in her parental pride. It
was past time to get a grip, to clamp down on that foolish second part.
"Well, he's an active boy."

"That's
good."

She
nodded, the words
Yes, you'd get along fine
burning in her brain.

"You
have to share him with his father?" When she didn't look up at him, didn't
answer, he quietly apologized. "None of my business."

"That's
not it. I just... it's complicated."

"Seems
like it always—"

"Hey,
Blue!"

They'd
both been so absorbed that the interruption startled them. It was a tribal
police officer, stopping to help himself to half a bologna sandwich on his way
over.

Reese
scanned the room, looking for help. "I don't know where my brother is. I
gotta talk to this guy, but..." He touched Helen's arm. "I want you
to meet my sister. She's around here somewhere. Don't go away."

She
didn't. She still had a job to do. In fact, she used his request as an excuse
to stay within earshot of another of his conversations. She didn't catch all of
it, but she gathered that the driver who had killed his father had still not
been found and that the police had plenty of questions but no answers.

They
were questions she'd already been asked. She had left Roy's place at about ten
the night he died. She was the last person known to have seen him alive. She
had already recounted much of the discussion they'd had, explaining to the
police that she and Roy had become friends, that she enjoyed his sense of humor
and the stories he told her. She sensed some skepticism on the investigator's
part. Why would a young white woman be paying a social call on an old Indian
man alone at ten o'clock at night? He was telling her stories? Strange he
should turn up dead.

But
then, Bad River was a strange place. An unusual place where the people were
living in the detached backwater of the mainstream and where they had gotten by
on so little for so long. Policy after policy, one government program after
another, had failed to do much except compound the problems that isolation,
lack of resources, and a history of injustice had caused.

Then,
suddenly, the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act arose in the East like the promise
of a new day. Here was new possibility for new enterprise, although, according
to Roy Blue Sky, gambling was not a new enterprise for his people. But the form
it was taking now was new. In the form of casino gaming, the pastime had taken
on some new wrinkles, and Roy was suspicious of wrinkles. "Trouble can
hide in the folds," he'd said once. She'd waited for him to elaborate, but
he had given her a fable instead. Finding trouble was her job. He must have
known, she thought as she gazed down at the inanimate mask that had once been
his warm face.

Coyote
loves to gamble. They say he lost his whole tribe one time to the Knife River
People. So he turned himself into a really good-looking man, and he talked Gray
Badger out of three of his daughters. Then he took those daughters back to the
Knife River village, and he said he wanted to play a dice game. And he said he
would bet his fine new brides, who could breed some muscle into those
bandy-legged Knife Rivers. Got them all snorty, talking like that. But all the
while, Coyote had this little bird hidden in his thick hair, right behind his
ear, and when they got to playing—

"They
did a good job, didn't they?"

Helen
looked up as Carter Marshall joined her at his dead father's side. Carter
favored his father more than Reese did. Carter and Roy were closer to the same
height, same build, and she now saw they had exactly the same ears, turned out
like half-open doors. It seemed ironic that Roy had given this likeness of himself
away when Carter was a baby, given him up for adoption and later taken him
back. She knew little about either deed except that a change in the law had
permitted the latter. The Indian Child Protection Act had returned Carter to
his father's house when he was a teenager. She knew all about that law. She had
a copy of it tucked away at home.