Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (35 page)

He saw the outline in the dark. A click or so back from
the gravel road, snow drifted in deep piles at the base, further
rounding the silhouette softened by time and wind. A frozen
tear fell down from the Morning Star, plunged into the snow,
blending with the rest of the grinding whiteness, but Boon
didn't notice. Fine as sand, snow sifted into his runners as
he walked up where the old path ran beneath it. There was
still wood in the woodpile, but Boon ignored it, hopped up
on the porch, turned the knob, and worked the door, stuck
in its frame, until he could just squeeze in. His eyes adjusted
as he made out the old chair, still there, with the blue, tatted
quilt, purple yarn dotting it like stars, holding the whole thing
together. He pulled the gun from the small of his back. Boon
walked over, gently lifting it, folding down the edge, letting it
fall around his shoulders, sinking at last into the chair, laying
the gun in his lap.

Going home was the last thing he wanted to do.

He'd started smoking that shit while he was still with Regina. As much as Boon tried not to cry, a tear ran down his cheek
as he lay curled in the quilt in the empty house. Regina had
loved him so much, more than any other woman ever had,
but there was something in him, some huge empty wound
that made him fuck up everything he touched. He'd done all
right for a while, holding down a construction job out on the
rez, living with Regina at her mom's in Laverne. Regina had
been so proud of him. Boon felt a sharp pain in his chest,
worse than the one far below it. His head was light. He could
barely keep his eyes open now. How could he have fucked up
so much? Regina had been everything he had ever needed
or wanted. She was beautiful, and despite how much he had
screwed up as a kid, she loved him anyway, loved him with
her whole heart. He remembered her long dark hair, how it
swayed down and brushed her breasts when they made love,
how she looked at him. That's what killed him the most, when
she stared at him with that total adoration, him knowing he
didn't deserve it.

When Grandpa died, Boon had been fifteen, and he'd just
lost it, running the roads, drinking, smoking weed. He and his
friends started busting in joints, jacking folks, doing whatever
they had to do to get money to get fucked up. But Regina
loved him anyway, thought he deserved a second chance in
life. Boon was crying harder now, the pain in his chest getting worse and worse. From the waist down, he was already
numb. Damn, I should have never left that girl. He wondered
now if she would still take him in-a crazy thought, but he
wondered anyway. Would she still love him now, even after
he'd done this? Boon's lip quivered. The chinook was howling away outside, eating away the snow, singing through the
boards of the old house. Boon shifted in the chair, the wet,
sticky quilt clinging to his groin and leg as he moved. The blood was starting to freeze. Even if Regina loved him after all
this time, she wouldn't after she heard the news, he thought.
That was the worst part of all.

He ended up homeless with that other one in Saskatchewan because of the crack, because of the meth. Jennifer had
been a common whore, not even attractive, but she was good
at being on the streets, and she could get some shit from truckers when all else had failed the two of them-shoplifting and
pawning crap, stealing from old ladies, whatever. He hadn't
even enjoyed sex with her-all he could think about when
he was with her was Regina, and there was no way Jennifer
compared to her. Stupid lot lizard, he thought, scurrying from
truck to truck giving blowjobs for meth.

If only he'd never left Regina, chasing that glass pipe. It
had all started when he was working construction up in Edmonton one winter, building a Mormon church, making pretty
good money. At first, Regina had been so proud when he came
home for the weekends; even her mother was proud of him.
But then that whore Jennifer had taken a room down from
his and Trevor's in the motel their boss had put them up in.
She'd been in the bar one night when he was drunk, hitting
on him pretty hard. But even drunk, he knew she was a whore
and an ugly one at that. At twenty-one, she'd looked forty,
easy. He must have left the door cracked when he stumbled
back to his room that night, though. In his inebriated slumber,
he thought he was dreaming of Regina when Jennifer went
down on him. When he awoke, exploding in her mouth, it
was too late. He knew Regina would hate him for cheating
on her, even if he never meant to do it. He hated himself
enough, that was for sure. It wasn't long before he was picking fights with Regina on the phone, avoiding coming home,
trying to make her hate him. Anything was better than admit ting to her what he'd done, drinking again behind her back
when he'd cleaned himself up for so long. Soon, he was out
of a job, living in Jennifer's room, hitting that pipe with her,
walking Edmonton's cold streets while she was screwing her
tricks. When the dealer two doors over from her got busted,
he hitched with her back to Saskatchewan, the name of the
city they landed in only reminding him more of his pain.

Over the years, he hated her more and more, hated her
for making him lose Regina, hated her for making him lose
himself, hated her for the whore and the thief she was, hated
her even for being ugly, the one thing she couldn't help, the
one thing that had made him feel sorry for her at first. He
thought about his old friend Nolan Little Bear. Nolan had
tried to save him when he started smoking that crap on the
job site up in Edmonton. He wondered if Nolan would come
to his funeral now. Nolan was like that, always a good friend
no matter what. Boon remembered Jennifer's body lying in
the snow. Maybe not, he thought. Maybe not after this.

The gunshot wound had almost stopped bleeding now.
The whore had won in the end, Boon thought. That's what
she'd always wanted-to win. That's what she had told him
years ago, in that Edmonton bar, playing poker. "I'll win," she
leered, holding her cards where everyone could see them. "I'll
win." But after he'd done what he did, after his hatred toward
her had finally blown up, after they'd come back here, back to
his home, where all he could think of was Regina and the loss,
he knew it was the only noble thing to do, shooting himself,
blasting away the cause of all of his agony. He wasn't a man
anymore anyway, not really, and he didn't deserve to die as
one.

Boon pulled the quilt closer, thought of his grandma, his
mom, of Regina, of all the women he loved who loved him, of Grandpa. He pulled the quilt closer, and he floated high into
the dark blue sky, reaching for those stars that had eluded
him, knowing his real home was up there with them.

MISTINA BATES is a transplanted Texan and freelance writer
living outside New York City. She is the great-great-granddaughter of a full-blooded member of the Cherokee Nation
who served as a Texas Ranger.

JEAN RAE BAXTER'S award-winning short stories have appeared in various anthologies and literary journals. Her debut
collection of stories,A Twist ofMalice, was published in 2005,
and her young adult historical novel, The Way Lies North, was
published in 2007. In 2008, Seraphim Editions released her
literary murder mystery, Looking for Cardenio. Her ancestry is
German, French, English, and Pottawatami.

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LAWRENCE BLOCK has won most of the major mystery
awards, and has been called the quintessential New York writer,
although he insists the city's far too big to have a quintessential writer. His series characters-Matthew Scudder, Bernie
Rhodenbatt, Evan Tanner, Chip Harrison, and Keller-all live
in Manhattan; like their creator, they wouldn't really be happy
anywhere else.

JOSEPH BRUCHAC, an author of Abenaki, Slovak, and English descent,has edited a number of highly praised anthologies of
poetry and fiction. His poems, articles, and stories have appeared
in over 500 publications, and his honors include the Cherokee
Nation Prose Award, a Rockefeller Humanities Fellowship,
and a National Endowment for the Arts Writing Fellowship
for Poetry. In 1999, he received the Lifetime Achievement
Award from the Native Writers Circle of the Americas.