Revolutions of the Heart (7 page)

He dropped his head a bit, and his glasses slid down. She reached out and pushed them up. He looked at her and smiled. “I’ll take them off when I kiss you good night.”

He did, and they did.

*

Once she had agreed to the change in their friendship, Cory fell hard and fell fast. She looked for Mac in the school hallways even when she knew he should be on the other side of the building, she watched the clock at night until he called, she savored their conversations for hours after they said good night. She was hooked.

“Why does one person ever like another?” She asked her mother as she gave her a shoulder rub. “Mac and I aren’t magazine-pretty people, so it’s not physical.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“So—why?”

“It’s one of the eternal mysteries, Cory. Something just twists around inside, and you feel connected.” She shifted and rolled onto her back. “That’s good enough.”

“More soup? You only had half a bowl.”

“I’m fine. Don’t clean up. Let’s just sit and talk.”

“I’ll get the fire first.” Small flames sputtered in the large fireplace on the wall opposite her mother’s bed. Cory carefully added two more logs and adjusted them with her foot. One log tipped over and rolled onto the hearth, trailing sparks.

“Use the poker and tongs,” her mother snapped. Cory looked at her. “Feeling better tonight, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to have to run out of a burning house.”

Cory replaced the hot log. She picked up her tea mug and sat down next to the bed. They both stared at the renewed fire.

“Tell me about Mac.”

“You’ve met him. He’s been out here now maybe four times.” She frowned. “Were you so groggy you don’t remember?”

“Of course I remember. I just want to hear you describe the boy.”

Cory held the mug up to her face, and the steam moistened her upper lip. She wiped it with her sweater cuff. “He’s tall.”

Her mother laughed. “He certainly is not tall, Cory.

Well, okay—maybe to you and me, but he’s really no taller than five eight. For a man, that’s not tall.”

“Why don’t you describe him, then?”

“I apologize. More, please.”

“His hair is dark and thick and straight. He’s letting it grow. He wears glasses. I think they need to be tightened.”

“I remember the first time you saw him. The powwow.”

Cory nodded. “The dancing orange Zubaz. He’s built really solid, like Mike. You know how you always say Mike could get fat if he ever slowed down? I think Mac is like that. There’s potential for a gut.” She sipped and swallowed. “I don’t think he shaves.”

Her mother laughed. “Enough of the physical. Tell me about
him
.”

Cory cradled her mug. “I’ve told you what I know about his family.”

“About him.”

“He can be funny, especially when he and Tony get going on something. They’ve gotten to be good friends.”

“That’s interesting. Jack Merrill is pretty proud about how much he hates Indians. Oh, the things I have heard that man say!”

“Like what?”

“Nothing that I want to repeat. Most of the time Jack can be so charming—”

“Charming? Tony’s dad?”

“Very. And then an instant later he’ll say the vilest thing.” She sat erect, raised her arms, and cupped her hands in a circle. “I’ve just wanted to wring his neck at times.”

Cory put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Settle down, Mom. Don’t get so upset—”

Margaret patted her daughter’s arm. “It’s okay, dear. The thought of Jack’s bigotry isn’t going to kill me.” She lay down. “I’ve often wondered where such feelings come from.”

“Your murderous ones?”

“No. The bigotry. Where does it come from? Is it possible people are born with hate?”

“Do you want another shoulder rub?”

“I want an answer. Where does hate come from?”

“You’re asking me?”

“I’m just asking. Anyone.”

Pain was evident on her face. Cory didn’t know if it came from the physical or the emotional anguish, from the uncertainty and discomfort of her health or from the perplexity posed by her world. Cory wished, a frequent wish, that she could wipe away all the trouble. Wished she could put her arms around her mother and fix it.

Margaret closed her eyes. “Hate must come from somewhere.”

Cory stroked a few strands of hair off her mother’s forehead. “School lunches.”

Margaret opened her eyes and pushed up on an elbow. “What?”

“School lunches breed hate. What else could it be? Bigotry is everywhere in this country, right? And what’s the common denominator? At one time or another everyone has eaten a school lunch. The big eaters are probably the big haters.”

“Those mashed potatoes.”

“The stuff they call meat.”

Her mother was smiling now, and Cory’s own heart lightened. For a moment, she’d fixed it.

“Jack Merrill must have always gone through the lunch line twice. Does Tony by any chance bring his own?”

Cory grinned. “He does.”

“I’m glad he’s different from his father.”

“He wasn’t always. He’s sort of changed. He had to if he wanted to date Sasha.”

“Good for her.” She rolled onto her side and pulled the bedcover to her chin. “One heart at a time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you tuck in the corner of the blanket? Mike calls it my theory of revolution.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Change a heart, you change the world. But doing it one heart at a time is the best you can hope for. Did you tuck it in?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I’m so cold. Could you get that striped blanket from the chair and spread it? Thanks. Much better. Mac is so polite to me and Mike. Is he nice to you?”

“Very nice. Not by holding doors, or doing that sort of thing. But he pays attention. I know he listens. Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not laughing at you, okay? I’m pleased. Any healthy relationship is just a balancing act, Cory. Makes sense to me that you’d be happy with a quiet guy. A good balance.”

“I didn’t say he was quiet. I said he listens.”

“My mistake. He strikes me as quiet.”

Cory fixed her eyes on the fire. Not quiet, but still. Mac was still. And no matter what was going on with his life, he was a calm center for hers. Cory didn’t want to burden her mother and complain. Didn’t want to tell her how crazy things were, how the illness had blown into her life, picked her up by the heels, and started shaking. She couldn’t tell her that in the middle of it all, Mac was a refuge. Things were still when they were together.

Margaret sat back on her pile of pillows. She breathed deeply several times, then closed her eyes. “Your first boyfriend.”

“The first. Who was yours?”

“John Hanover. Lord, he was sweet.”

“What happened?”

“Your father happened. He was sweeter. And he had a car.”

Mike’s voice charged through the back door seconds ahead of Mike. They turned to look as he walked toward them through the kitchen. Mac followed.

“Look who I found,” Mike said. “Give me your coat, Mac, and go on in.”

Mac pulled a small package out of his coat pocket before handing it over to Mike. “I got here fifteen minutes ago. I’ve been helping Mike put away the snowmobile.”

“Only used the darn thing twice all winter,” shouted Mike from the back entry where he’d gone to hang the wraps. He returned. “Might sell it next fall. Unless you’d miss it, Margaret.”

“Not for a moment.”

Mike rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “I need to warm up with some pie. Is there any left?”

“You’ve been outside twenty minutes, Mike,” said Cory. “How could we eat a pie in twenty minutes?” Margaret motioned Mac to sit down. “He made this heart-healthy pie today but couldn’t decide if he wanted apple or cherry, so he put a crust down the middle and made half and half.”

“The cherry looks better,” said Mike. “Want some?” Mac accepted, the other two declined.

“Good,” said Mike as he walked toward the kitchen. “Mac and I will eat it all.”

Mac handed the package he had brought to Margaret. “Barb has finally got her business going. I thought you might like one of the first pieces.”

The delight and surprise Cory read in her mother’s face mirrored her own. She couldn’t imagine what nerve it must take for a boy to bring a gift to his girlfriend’s mother.

Margaret untaped the package and smoothed back the tissue. A golden circle the size of a man’s palm lay on the paper. Inside the circle, lines of gold crisscrossed in a webbed pattern similar to the earrings Cory had admired at the powwow. At the very center was an opening the size of a dime.

“An Ojibwa dream catcher,” said Mac.

“Barb made this?”

He nodded. “She draws the pattern, then makes a stencil and uses that to cut it out of pressed metal.”

“It looks like gold,” said Cory.

“It is. Not exactly traditional material, but it sells better to the gift shops.”

Margaret held it up by a short string laced through a small loop. The dream catcher spun around.

Mike returned with the pie. “Trying self-hypnosis?”

“He calls it a dream catcher. Explain that, Mac.” He took a plate from Mike and set it on his knee. “The tradition says if you hang it over your bed it will keep away the bad dreams and spirits. The bad ones are rough and get caught in the web, but the smooth, good ones slip through the little hole in the middle.” As she watched her mother trace the golden web with her finger, Cory suddenly felt like crying. Instead, she reached for Mike’s pie plate. “Changed my mind,” she said.

“Roxanne once told me,” Margaret said to Mac, “that you’re Cree.”

“My father’s people are, and most of my mother’s. Some Ojibwa. My father is Metis Cree, technically. That’s what the Canadians call mixed bloods. His grandfather was white.”

“Canadian?” asked Cory.

“My parents were both born in Manitoba.”

“She also said the Ojibwa and Cree were related,” Margaret said. “Do the Cree have dream catchers?”

Mac finished his pie before answering. The others waited. “I don’t know. I wasn’t raised with the traditions. I have no idea.”

“Let’s try it out,” said Mike. He rose and removed a picture from the wall by the head of the bed. Margaret handed him the dream catcher and he slipped the string over the nail. It twisted slightly, changing colors as it captured and reflected the light from the fire.

“Tomorrow I’ll screw in a plant hook,” said Mike. “Then it can spin freely.”

“Thank you, Mac,” said Margaret. “I just love it.”

“And it’s time to let it work,” said Mike. “You two kids can go talk in the basement, but it’s lights-out for the patient.”

“I have a physics test tomorrow,” said Mac, “and I need to study more. I wanted to come out tonight because I’m going to Milwaukee after school to visit my brother.”

Cory walked him to the back door where she retrieved his coat from the closet. “It’s the middle of the week. Why go see him now?”

“He’s checking out of the treatment center and wanted me along when he moves into the halfway house.”

“Just a visit, right?”

He smiled. “I’m coming back.”

“Thanks for her present. It was the sweetest thing,” she whispered.

“Sweet?”

“Yes, sweet. Was it your idea or Barb’s?”

He looked offended. “Totally mine. Although,” he said as he snapped up his coat, “Barb told me I could have it for less than cost.”

Cory laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. She did like saying good night to someone. Mom’s absolutely wrong, she thought as he kissed the top of her head. Five eight
is
tall.

7

As Cory walked down the hallway with Mac and Tony, she looked ahead and saw a white triangle of paper sticking out of her locker. While the boys debated the merits of a movie they had rented the previous weekend, she pulled the paper out and unfolded it. The words slashed:

Only whores do it with injuns.

She swore softly, slapped her locker, and crumpled the paper.

“What’s that?” asked Mac.

“A piece of junk.” She dropped it in her bag and opened her locker. Mac fished in her bag and pulled out the paper. “Don’t read it, Mac.”

Tony looked over his shoulder. “Jerk,” Tony finally muttered. Mac smiled.

“How can you laugh?” Cory demanded.

“I’m not laughing. It’s just so…so wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yeah. ‘Only whores do it with injuns.’ Well, you’re not, you don’t, and ‘injuns’ is pathetic name-calling. This guy should have asked me what word to use. I’ve heard some good ones.”

“I don’t like being called a whore.”

“When I find the guy I’ll beat him up.”