Revolutions of the Heart (12 page)

Cory watched him set down some bills. “Thirty bucks? Are you sure you’re going for only one night?”

“Cory, I’m not leaving you. I’m just getting out while the town goes mad.” He pressed his hand against the table and tapped his index finger several times. “On my first date with your mother, we went to a party at the Schneemans’. I was pretty pleased that Margaret had gone with me because no one had gotten her to go out since your dad died. I was the first, and I wanted to impress her. There was a big crowd there, and I started telling stories and jokes. And I told a couple of drunk Indian jokes. You know the kind. I remember that people were laughing so hard, drinks got spilled and Amy Schneeman sent us outside. When I took your mother home I asked her out again. I was certain no woman in the world would refuse me. She said, ‘I can handle your cigarettes, but I don’t like your jokes.’ It took another three months and some promises before she agreed to go out again. I remember…” He sank silently into the unfinished sentence.

“Remember what?”

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “She had this thing, this idea that if you could change someone’s heart—”

“You could change the world.”

“You heard it too? Your mother’s very own theory of revolution. She changed mine. I just wish she’d had more time to work on Robbie’s. She would hate all this. And now that I’ve slammed the door on her son, she’d probably hate me, too.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why don’t you come with me tonight?”

“I want to be around. Mac and I have plans.” She picked up the bills and waved them. “Is this enough to bail Robbie out if he gets in trouble?”

“Not after you and Mac get pizza and a movie. Which is what I hope you have planned for tonight.” He rose and folded his arms and looked down at her. “I don’t feel good about going, Cory. I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“Hey, old man, it’s fine. May I use the car?”

“It’s yours. Just stay away from Dawn’s store.” After he left, Cory fixed a small lunch and ate only a little of it. She cleaned her room, debated about doing the laundry, and instead took a bath. She soaked for a luxurious half hour in the steamy tub, replenishing the hot water every five minutes. When she at last forced herself to get out, she was soft, wrinkled, and sleepy. And it was only four
P.M.

The silence in the house was absolute. No ticking clock, no blaring radio, no distant and faint mother’s laugh from another room. Cory sat on the sofa and hugged a pillow. Looking out the window through the bare branches of the birches and maples, she could see down to the small lake at the edge of the property. The ice was already gone and the water sparkled diamonds on blue steel. It offered what Cory knew was only an illusory beauty, a false temptation to dive in; it was still dangerously frigid.

Her eyes tired from the sun’s glare and she turned her attention to the quiet room. She picked up the family photo displayed on the table next to the sofa. It had been taken on Rob’s wedding day. The four of them were overdressed and smiling. Cory grimaced and avoided looking at herself in the picture; she’d hated the lilac bridesmaid’s dress with its frills and ruffles. She traced an X over her mother’s face. Gone. An X over Rob. Gone. She breathed in the stillness of the house and traced an X over Mike. Gone. Maybe just for now, but if he was so quick to run off this time, so quick to throw out Rob, it might not be long before he found a reason to slam the door on her, too.

“Not much of a family anymore,” she whispered. “Damn you, Rob. It’s your fault. She’s dead, and now you’re killing the rest of us.”

She had to stop him. She checked her watch. The protest wouldn’t start for an hour, but she suspected that Rob, anxious and angry, was already at the landing. If she could make him leave, things might be patched up. They might yet have a family.

11

Summer Lake was a popular destination for tourists and sportsmen because of its combination of sandy beaches and picturesque rocky shoreline, its clean water, and its bait-biting fish. The town of Summer was on the western shore of the nearly round lake. The public-access landing, where cabin owners and day visitors put in their boats, was on the northern shore. Most of the land surrounding the lake was in a state forest and undeveloped. A county road circled the lake, veering in and away from the water as high ground or swampy backwaters dictated. The nearest Indian reservation was twenty miles north.

Cory signaled to turn from the highway onto the gravel access road. A sheriff’s deputy waved her over. She rolled down her window as he approached.

“You won’t get much closer, young lady. Park where you can and be prepared to walk.”

“It’s Cory Knutson, Mr. Hartsoe.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’ve seen so many faces in such a short time that I guess I’ve quit looking.”

“Have you seen Rob?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there. I came on duty an hour ago when the sheriff called in all deputies. Five are working the crowd down at the landing.”

Another car pulled in behind Cory’s and was waved down. Cory backed up and around the car and took the nearest parking spot. As she inched into the opening she heard the branches and leaves of ditch shrubs scrape against the car doors.

Jogging a quarter mile was no challenge and she covered the distance quickly. She stopped just before the road veered right for a hairpin turn around a towering pine. Signs of a crowd were everywhere: gum wrappers and cigarette butts littered the ground, and hundreds of footprints obliterated the customary tire and animal tracks on the road.

People beyond the bend were shouting. The words were indecipherable to Cory, but the tone and tenor were clear. It was a taunting chant, broken occasionally by a rogue burst of invective and obscenity. Cory walked hesitantly forward.

The size of the crowd took her breath away. Three hundred, four hundred, too many to count accurately. A deputy motioned her to get in place behind a long cordon. Cory shook her head, stepped back, and leaned against a tree.

A mob pushed against the cordon, a sea of individual faces blurred into a single angry mob. And all of its noise and energy was directed at a much smaller group standing nearer the water. Those people, mostly Native Americans, but with several white companions, were formed loosely in a horseshoe that opened onto the waterfront. In the center four men sat around a drum. They lifted their sticks to begin a song and with the first beat were immediately answered by the protesters with the high-pitched, repetitive rasping of snare drums.

Cory heard several voices urging her to take a place behind the rope. She shook her head as she scanned the crowd for Rob. She saw Tony’s dad lean over the rope and shout. His neck tensed into thick cords and his eyes bulged. She saw Sue Wilkins, her third-grade teacher; Pete Mickelson, the school librarian; Ben Robinson, Joshua Lane, Leslie Furman, Betsy Kelly, Thelma Ray. She could almost make a list of everyone she’d ever met in her life. Mike was right: the very people who had unhesitatingly helped when their family was in trouble were now snarling and yapping like fevered dogs.

“Cory!” Sasha’s shout reached her through the noise. Cory saw her friend down by the water, arms waving above her head. Boos and curses followed Cory as she walked from the crowd to the smaller group. She recognized only a few people here and nodded to them. She knew Peter Rosebear and Roxanne’s husband and a few of the others. The rest were strangers. The drumming ceased and the conversation swelled.

Sasha hugged her. “I just knew you would come. Let me introduce you to the other witnesses. That’s what they call us, witnesses.”

Dim-witness, Cory wanted to respond. She was, she realized, angry at everyone. But she didn’t want it to show. Not here. “I was taught,” she said with false cheer, “that too much noise scares away fish. Why are they even going to bother going out in the boat?”

Peter overheard her. “Noise scares fish, but not fishermen. I’m glad to see you, Cory. Too bad Mike didn’t want to join us.”

I’m not joining you, she almost said. “I just came to find my brother.”

Peter laughed. “You won’t find him here.” His arm swept toward the mob. “That’s the place. Good luck.” Cory hooked her arm through Sasha’s and whispered. “Has Mac been here?”

“Come and gone already. He said you two were meeting at the cafe at seven. I couldn’t believe it—going on an ordinary date when he could be here. What a cop-out. I’m really disappointed in him. I can understand you not getting involved, but he should care.” The anger in the air was virulent and infectious. An airborne disease. Cory pulled her arm loose with a jerk. “That’s racist, Sasha Hunter,” she snapped. “Just because he’s Indian you think he has to be here? And what right do you have to be disappointed?”

She left without giving Sasha a chance to answer. Cory walked across the wide sandy landing and was accosted by a deputy.

“Get behind the rope, girl, or I’ll haul you out of here.”

“I’ll haul myself out of here,” she said, still angry at everyone.

The deputy didn’t like her voice. He tapped his club on her shoulder. “We don’t want trouble tonight, and trouble sometimes begins with the mouth. Now get behind that rope.” He walked away and left Cory standing alone in the neutral ground.

She saw Rob. He was with a man she didn’t recognize, and their heads were bowed together. She doubted that they were praying. Cory ducked under the rope and edged through. Several hands patted her back in welcome. She shrugged them off when she could, but there were too many people in too small a space. She had never felt shorter.

She reached Rob and punched his arm. He looked at her but didn’t speak. He was trying to understand why she was there.

“They’re putting the boat in the water!” That cry was a signal for the mob to increase the volume of its chanting. The snare drum resumed its mocking rat-a-tat-tat.

Rob continued staring at Cory. She was again struck by the resemblance to their mother and was compelled to touch him. As she laid her hand on his cheek, she was bumped from behind. Her hand slipped, and two fingers jabbed his eye. He pressed his fist against the eye socket and doubled over.

“Geez, Cory, why did you do that?”

“It was an accident, Robbie.” They were shouting, the only way to be heard. She started laughing, but a few tears rolled down. Laughing or crying, it didn’t make much difference when nothing was making sense. “Robbie, leave with me. Everything’s so screwed up, but if Mike knows you left it might end up okay.”

He straightened and looked at her. One eye was red, watery, and twitching. “I can’t believe you came to tell me that. I can’t believe we’re talking about this here.”

“Maybe it was a dumb idea. But I thought I could make you care enough. About the family, Rob.”

“Cory,” he screamed. “This is a protest, not family counseling!” He lowered his face to hers. “And I was the one who was kicked out. What the hell does our stepfather care about the family? Tell me that.”

She was bumped again and their heads crashed. Cory swore and Rob laughed. “Sis, this isn’t the place. But why don’t you stay?”

“It makes me sick.”

“You and my wife.” He rejoined the noisemaking. He raised his arms to punch fists into the air, and his jacket pulled up. Cory saw a handgun tucked into his belt.

She pounded on his arm. “You idiot, you have a gun! She reached for it and he grabbed her arm.

“Don’t be stupid, Cory. It just has blanks. A noise-maker, that’s all.”

She pulled her arm loose and left him.

The crowd noises followed her back to the highway. The shouts, the snare drum, the imagined pistol shots reverberated even after she was sitting in the car. She pushed a tape into the player and let it roar at full volume. While she laid her head back against the car seat and caught her breath, tears laid stinging tracks down her cheeks.

*

Seestadt’s Cafe boasted the best malts anywhere, and usually on Saturday night quite a few were being sold. Cory often met Mac there in order to avoid the certain teasing and relentless questioning she’d face at Barb’s house from the three girls.

Otto Seestadt was alone and counting bills at the register when Cory walked in. He lifted a hand to caution her not to speak until he was finished. She took a counter seat, swiveled slightly, and waited.

“You’re early,” he said as he wrapped a rubber band around a thin stack of bills. “Mac said seven.”

“When was he here?”

“He left ten minutes ago. He said to tell you he’d meet you at the park. He had a bit of trouble when he was here, and I don’t think he wanted to hang around and wait for more.”

“Trouble?”

“Some dirt brains were hassling him.” Otto rested his hairy arms on the counter and hunched over them. “It’s not a good night to be an Indian in Summer. I threw the jerks out. Told them their party was at the landing. Then Mac left, too. Do you want a coffee or a cocoa? It’s on the house, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart, twice already. Cory wondered if she looked especially young tonight. “No thanks. But we might be back for some supper. I could use a licorice malt.”

Otto shook his head. “You’ll have to settle for pizza from Jasper’s place. Now that I’ve relayed the message to you, I’m closing up and going home. I can’t explain it, Cory, but I don’t like what I feel in the air.”

Cory felt no warmth when she stepped outside. Early April nights were like that—a twelve-hour return to winter after a day’s teasing spring weather. She didn’t doubt that by morning a veneer of ice would cover the smaller lakes. But Otto was right: tonight there was a stranger, deeper chill.