Copper River

4

Bodine, Michigan, was the end of the line. It lay near the terminus of thirty miles of poorly maintained county road that ran northwest out of Marquette along the shore of Lake Superior. It was Anatomy of a Murder territory, a place that despite its beauty was probably best filmed in black and white. For decades Bodine had been fighting a slow death.

To the south and west rose the Huron Mountains, thick with timber. Beyond that lay the Copper Country where the red-brown native ore leached out of the Keweenaw Peninsula and spread its veins through much of the western U.P. Stretching north all the way to the horizon was the vast blue of Lake Superior, which became, somewhere far out of sight, part of Canada. On good, clear days, you could see the Keweenaw curling out of the west, protecting Bodine from the worst of the gales that swept across the lake in late fall, storms that had spelled doom for generations of sailors. Looking east from Bodine, you could almost see the spot where the water had swallowed the Edmund Fitzgerald.

On this late Saturday afternoon, Bodine, population 1,207, was quiet as usual. Ren straddled the ATV his father had purchased for the old resort, and Charlie held on tight behind. For nearly a mile, he drove along the drainage ditch at the side of the road. Then he came onto the asphalt, crossed the iron bridge over the Copper River, and entered town. Legally, he couldn’t drive on a roadway, but in Bodine, a place used to ATVs and snowmobiles and anything else that would lure the tourists, no one paid much attention to that detail. He passed the Superior Inn, a lodge and restaurant of lacquered yellow pine logs, and the Supervalu market, where the parking lot was almost empty, and pulled to a stop in front of Kitty’s Cafe. Charlie sprang off the seat with the flourish of a gymnast and bounced to the cafe door.

“Jesus, you’re like a slug or something,” she called to Ren, and disappeared inside.

They sat at the counter and ordered pasties, chocolate shakes, and fries. Pasties were small pies consisting of meat, vegetables, and gravy completely enclosed in a flaky crust. They were a local favorite, an import brought by Cornish immigrants who’d come to that part of Michigan in the late 1800’s to work the copper and iron mines. While they ate, Charlie made fun of the other customers, some of them locals, some tourists come for the fall colors. The customers, for their part, eyed Charlie-her buzzed head, her piercings, her dirty clothing-as if she were an animal who’d wandered out of the woods.

When they finished, Ren pulled out the money he’d taken from his mother’s purse and paid the bill.

Outside, the sun had settled on the tops of the distant Huron Mountains and the air was cooling fast with the approach of evening. Ren knew he should head back to the resort to help his mother with the man in Cabin 3, but he’d already wasted most of the day sitting by the man’s bed, and he wasn’t eager to return.

At that opportune moment Stash appeared.

“Hey,” he called out, and skateboarded across the street toward the cafe. Stash was never without his skateboard. Taller than Charlie and Ren, older by a year, he wore his dark hair long. He was dressed as usual in baggy jeans that rode low on his butt, a black T-shirt a couple of sizes too large, and Doc Martens. A long, thin chain connected to a belt loop hung against his thigh and disappeared into his back pocket where he kept his wallet.

“Dudes, I was looking for you. I’m heading to the river, thinking of smoking a little weed. Want to come?”

“I’m there,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, okay,” Ren agreed. “Hop on,” he said, indicating his ATV. “You can ride behind Charlie.”

Before they could mount up, three teenagers rounded the corner beyond the cafe and made straight for Ren and his friends.

“Circus must be in town,” the boy in the lead said. “Check out the freaks.”

“Ah, shit,” Stash said. “Greenway and his Nazis.”

“Be cool,” Ren said.

Charlie ignored him. “Make like a bee,” she said to Greenway, “and buzz off.”

The big kid smiled. Goose Jablonski and Kenny Merkin smiled, too. They all wore gold and blue Bodine Bobcats letter-man jackets.

“Yeah, and who’s going to make us?” Greenway said.

“Bite me,” Stash said under his breath.

Greenway turned to him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Stash said.

Charlie stepped forward. “He said fuck off.”

“Whoa. The junior dyke’s flexing her muscles. What do you think?” Greenway said, addressing his buddies. “Maybe she really was born with balls.”

“Leave her alone,” Ren said.

“Shut your hole, Pocahontas. You’ll end up with your head split open just like your old man.”

Ren threw himself at Greenway with all the fury his small body contained. The larger boy stumbled back a step, then held his ground. He wrapped Ren in a powerful hug, flung him to the ground, and sat on him. He gave Ren a couple of hard open-handed slaps before Charlie kicked him in the ribs. Greenway toppled over, holding his side. Goose grabbed Charlie and gripped her in a headlock before she could dance away. He squeezed until her face turned red.

“Let her go, shithead.” Ren tried to get up, only to have Merkin pounce and pin him to the ground.

“Help her, Stash,” Ren hollered.

Stash stood frozen.

“Hey, hey, hey, break it up here.” Gary Johnson trotted up, waving his hands. He was an adult and built like a bulldozer. Johnson latched an enormous hand onto Goose’s shoulder. “Let her go, Goose.”

The kid complied, but unhappily.

“Get off him, Kenny,” Johnson said to Merkin.

Merkin lifted himself off Ren.

Johnson stared down at Greenway, who was still on the ground holding his ribs. “I’m more than a little disappointed, Dan. Big guys like you picking on kids, and a girl yet.”

“Bitch kicked me,” Greenway said.

Johnson shoved his ball cap back showing a high forehead. “Big deal. You get kicked all the time on the football field, and by guys with cleats, eh.” He turned to Ren. “That lip’s going to be puffy for a while. Better go on home and put some ice on it.”

“I’m okay.”

Johnson faced the three lettermen. “I’ve a good mind to talk to your fathers.”

“Screw off,” Greenway said.

“Or how about this, Dan? How ‘bout I talk to Coach Soames, tell him what a big man you are, how you and Goose and Kenny here like beating on girls? I could get you yanked from that starting position faster ’n you could say Brett Favre. I’ll do it.”

In addition to being the publisher and editor of the Marquette County Courier, Johnson covered all area high school sports. That carried a lot of weight in Bodine.

Greenway and the others exchanged surly glances but said nothing.

“Now go on.” Johnson gestured down the street. “I’m sure there are cats somewhere need torturing, eh.”

When the boys had gone, Ren said, “Thanks.”

Charlie said, “We were doing fine.”

Johnson laughed. “That’s exactly what Custer said, Charlie.” He turned his attention back to Ren. “Like I said, have your mom look at that lip. How is she, by the way? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Busy,” Ren said. “You know.”

“Sure. Tell her I said hello, eh.”

Ren nodded.

“Charlie, I swear I’m going to see you in the Olympics someday.” Johnson gave her a smile, then strolled away.

“Come on,” Stash said, stowing his skateboard under his arm. “Let’s get high.”