Boundary waters

46

Shiloh left the canoe drawn up on the shore and walked along a path into tall marsh grass. She crossed wood planking laid over muck. A couple of minutes later, she stepped into a large square of gravel and yellow dirt where several empty vehicles sat parked. The sight of windshields and tires and the familiar glint of sunlight off chrome moved her to tears. Her body, whose strength had not failed her in all the long journey, suddenly felt weak and she sat down, weeping with relief.

She was out.

Redwing blackbirds flitted among the cattails near the parking area. Small white clouds, delicate as angels’ breath, drifted across a pale blue sky. Two days before, she’d been certain she was a dead woman. Now, like Lazarus, she was alive again. From somewhere down the road came the drone of a chainsaw. Shiloh stood up and began walking toward the sound.

After a quarter mile, she came to an old yellow pick up, leprous with rust, that had been parked to the side of the road. From the pines beyond came the song of the chainsaw, the sound rising and falling as the teeth bit through timber. Forty yards into the trees, Shiloh found a short man with a thick gray beard, dressed in biballs and a red flannel shirt, his hands covered with brown leather gloves. He was cutting a small, felled pine into sections. He concentrated on his labor and didn’t see her at first. When he did, he eyed her a while before killing the engine.

“Yah?”

“Could you help me?” she asked.

“Well, young lady, dat all depends. What ya need?” The saw hung heavy in his right hand, and the muscle of his forearm humped along the bone solid as a small rock ridge.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve been lost a while. I need a ride.”

He didn’t answer.

“I can pay,” she offered.

“Pay? If ya got money, then I’m Jiminy Cricket.” He shook his head and ragged teeth smiled through his beard. “Ya look like somethin’ a bear sharpened his claws on. Pay, ya say? I’ll take ya, but I won’t take none of your money. Where ’bouts is it you’re goin’?”

She told him.

He lifted a metal thermos and started toward the road. “You Indian?”

“Part Anishinaabe,” she replied. “The best part.”

“Me, I’m Swedish and Finn. Da worst of ’em both, my wife says. Nils Larson.” He shoved the thermos under his arm, pulled off his glove, and offered his hand.

“How do you do, Nils.”

“Didn’t catch your name dere.”

“Just call me grateful,” she said.

Nils Larson dropped her off at the trailer of Wendell Two Knives. True to his word, he refused to consider payment. She’d told him nothing of her ordeal. She was safe now. Soon enough, she would have to deal with Wendell’s murder and the murder of Libbie Dobson, offer the police the information the man called Charon had given her, provide a description, do all she could to see that the murderer was caught. But for now, for just a little while, she wanted to think of nothing.

In Shiloh’s heart, Wendell’s place was heaven’s doorstep. She walked down the dirt drive. The birches along the way had been thick with summer green when she’d last seen them, and the air had smelled of honeysuckle. Now, all the limbs were bare and what Shiloh breathed was the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves. But everything was heaven to her still. She went to the shed and tried the door. It opened easily. Wendell had told her he didn’t believe in locks. On the rez, nobody did. The red Mercedes was there, fine dust powdered evenly over the finish. Around it hung the tools of Wendell’s craft-handsaws, planes, mallets, wood chisels, and buckets-all of it steeped in the scent of evergreen pitch. She crossed to a shelf along the wall, reached into a tin can spattered with dried paint, and pulled out the keys to the car.

She crossed the yard. The grass was still a deep green. Down a gentle slope on her left, cornflower blue behind a line of cedars, lay another lake, the one called Iron. She mounted the two steps to the door of the white trailer home. Out of habit born of a lifetime of cultural hammering, she knocked politely. Did she expect Wendell to answer? Something in her resisted still the idea he was gone forever, and she waited, as if a few breaths of time would make a difference. But nothing would, not for Wendell, not ever. Finally, she stepped in.

The trailer had a large main room separated from the kitchen by a counter. A bathroom and bedroom were down a short hallway. The place was clean, well kept, the furniture simple. A soft brown sofa, a green easy chair, a television, a table with a couple of chairs where Wendell ate. White curtains, glowing with sunshine, hung in the windows. A compact metal fireplace with a glass door stood in one corner. It was what Wendell used for heat when his propane burner was on the blink. Next to it sat a wood rack that held a few logs and kindling.

She hadn’t grieved for Wendell. There’d been no time. At the moment, she didn’t feel sadness. In fact, what suffused all her being was a profound sense of relief and a deep gratitude at still being alive. In this place that reflected Wendell’s spirit so evidently-right down to the birch-bark lampshade and the smell of sawed wood that had come to be like perfume to her-she still felt wonderfully safe. Grieving would come, she knew, in its own time. Right now, she was too damn tired.

The trailer was chilly, holding in the cold of the last few days. Wendell, even when it was warm, laid a fire in the fireplace most evenings. He’d told her that he’d spent so much time around a campfire, the smell of wood smoke was almost as essential to him as the air itself. Shiloh put kindling and wood in the fireplace and lit a fire. Now the place seemed well and truly full of Wendell.

She checked the refrigerator, took out bologna and bread, and wolfed a dry sandwich washed down with a Coke. She caught sight of herself in a small mirror that hung on the wall and she nearly leaped back in horror. Her hair jutted out in short, ragged splashes. Her face was smeared with mud and charcoal. She looked down at her hands. Grime had worked under the fingernails, giving her five black crescent moons on each hand. A grout of dirt filled the creases at her knuckles. The lines of her palms were black as poisoned veins.

She went to the bathroom, the first indoor plumbing she’d seen in weeks. She ran water in the sink until it was hot, then took the soap from the small green dish and began to scrub. The hot water felt wonderful. It ran down her cheeks, long hot fingers stroking her neck. She glanced at the tub only a few feet away. A hot shower called to her like a lover. She hesitated. Ten minutes, she thought, no more. What difference could this small indulgence make? She quickly stripped off her clothes and dropped them where she stood. Reaching into the glass shower stall, she turned the water on and adjusted the knobs until hot vapors filled the air. The water startled her when she stepped in, the heat nearly unbearable. But she quickly settled into the liquid luxury she’d forgone so long, let the water run hot over every part of her, lifted her breasts to the stream, opened her mouth and took it in, joyously filling her senses.

So enraptured was she that there was no way she could have heard the front door opening.