Iron Lake

25

IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE ANISHINAABE, December was called Manidoo-Gizisoons. The month of small spirits.

It was late afternoon by the time he entered the limits of Aurora. December 20. One day away from the shortest, darkest day of the year. The forecast was for continued snow, heavier during the evening, additional accumulations of up to three inches by morning.

Cork wished there were a forecast for his spirit. He felt the dark and the cold penetrating deep in him. He wondered when there would be warmth again, when there would be light. He also wondered if his ribs would ever stop hurting.

He parked in front of Sam’s Place and stood a moment looking through falling snow at the geese who were bound to their small world of open water. In a strange way, he figured he knew what that was like. To have the world close down around you. He took his keys and moved to the door. It was already unlocked. He was careful not to look at the windows and wondered if even now he was being watched. He turned away casually, as if he’d changed his mind naturally, and he walked to the side of the Quonset hut; then he edged to the kitchen window that was covered with cardboard. He listened for a minute. Inside, just a couple of feet from his head, a cupboard door squeaked.

They’d looked for something after the judge was killed. Now Lytton was dead. Were they looking this time for something Lytton had? He tried to think of some plan, some way of trapping them. Then he heard glass shatter inside.

The sound of the breaking broke something in Cork. It was like the ripping of a membrane, a thin sheathing that had contained his outrage and his anger. His whole body drew taut and a bitter taste flooded his mouth. His home was being violated again. His whole life was being violated. He headed to the Bronco, took out the tire iron, and stepped to the front door. He took a deep, painful breath, clenched his teeth, kicked open the door, and rushed them.

Jenny crouched in the kitchen near the sink, picking up pieces of a broken glass. She cried out when Cork came at her, and she fell back, holding her arms up to protect herself. Cork stood over her with the tire iron raised.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hoarse with the rage that still ran in his blood and with the pain that knifed at him from his ribs.

“I . . . I . . .” she stammered. Her eyes were full of terror. “I just wanted to help clean up.”

Cork lowered the iron and held his side.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry I scared you. You had me scared, too.”

He glanced around. The place had been picked up. Everything was in order. Dishes sat dripping in the rack by the sink. White suds clung to Jenny’s hands.

“Are you all right, Dad?” she asked, seeing how he held himself.

“Fine. Here, let me help you.” He knelt carefully and picked up the last pieces of the broken water glass and dropped them into the garbage can under the sink. “The place looks great. You’ve been here awhile.”

She dried her hands on a dish towel. “I heard about the man who was killed last night. I’m scared for you, Dad.”

“There’s no reason to be, Jenny.”

She stared at him. She had her mother’s blue eyes and, normally, her mother’s calm, self-assuredness reflected in them. But her eyes were afraid now.

“Somebody killed him,” she pointed out. “And shot at you.”

That was a point Cork couldn’t argue. Still, he smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure I’m safe.”

Jenny leaned against the counter, still watching him with her frightened blue eyes. “What’s a Windigo?”

“Where’d you hear about that?”

“Around. What is it?”

“A story. That’s all it is. Just a story.”

Jenny finally looked down, studying her hands that were raw and red from the hot dishwater. “I want to stay here with you.”

“Here?” He reached out and held her. “I’m flattered, honey, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I’m not the cook your aunt Rose is. I’m used to eating my own bad cooking, but I wouldn’t take the chance of poisoning you.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay. Let’s sit down.” He nodded toward the two chairs at the small kitchen table. He saw that Jenny had made a fruit bowl as a centerpiece. Cork had always kept the salt and pepper shakers there. He liked the colorful touch of the fruit. “I’ll level with you,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I’m concerned about Stevie and Anne. Things are rough enough for them with me gone. They look to you for a lot.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know they’re not your responsibility. But I need your help, Jenny. I need you to stay with your mom, to work to keep things together as much as you can. It’s probably not a fair thing to ask, but I’m asking.”

Her eyes were no longer afraid, but they seemed full of hurt. And their hurt pained him deeply.

“Things won’t ever be like they used to, will they?” Jenny searched his face for the truth.

“No.” He looked at his hands. Big hands. How useless a man’s hands were, he thought, when it came to fixing the important things.

“ ‘Things fall apart,’ ” she said in a small voice. “ ‘The center will not hold.’ ”

He gave her a questioning look.

“Yeats,” she explained. “W.B.”

“ ‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men,’ ” he replied. “Dumpty, H.”

Although a tear crawled down one cheek like a small snail, she smiled. “By the way,” she said, taking care of the tear with a swipe of her finger, “there’s a message on your answering machine.”

“You listened?”

She gave him an innocent little shrug.

“What did it say?”

“You can have your gun back.”

He dropped Jenny off at home, then stopped by the sheriff’s office to retrieve his revolver. While he was there, he used the pay phone to call the casino.

“I’d like to speak with Russell Blackwater, please. Tell him it’s Corcoran O’Connor.” He waited a full minute before Blackwater came on the line.

“What do you want, O’Connor?” Blackwater’s tone wasn’t civil at all.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Something of concern to us both.”

“And what’s that?”

“The Windigo,” Cork said.

Russell Blackwater’s office was decorated with Native American art. On the walls were hung a series of idealized paintings by William Westsky, a Shinnob out of Canada, showing pristine forests and lakes with the faint faces of The People woven into the clouds, watching the land below like good overseers. On Blackwater’s desk stood a dark wood sculpture depicting a member of the Grand Medicine Society lifting the pipe in the Pipe Dance of Peace. The desk was big, dark red wood. The surface wore a lustrous shine and the Midewiwin was reflected perfectly below himself, as if offering the pipe to the underworld. Running the length of the back wall of the office was a tinted window overlooking the gambling floor. Blackwater was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the action. He wore an expensive gray suit, white shirt, blue tie.

“Busy night,” Cork observed.

“A good night,” Blackwater said.

“For those who win.”

“The People win,” Blackwater said, turning fully to Cork. “What do you want, O’Connor?”

Cork sat down in a big, brown leather chair. He settled back and crossed his legs. “Harlan Lytton was killed last night.”

“I know. Can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Did you also know that Henry Meloux heard the Windigo call Lytton’s name?”

Blackwater shrugged as if it made no difference one way or the other. “Meloux’s an old man. The things old men hear and see can’t always be trusted.”

“Henry was here the night the judge was killed.”

“So?”

“He came to warn you. He heard the Windigo call your name, too.”

Blackwater looked unconcerned. “I’m a modern Shinnob. Tell me the legislature is monkeying with the gambling laws and I’ll be nervous. But I’m not afraid of an old myth.”

Cork stared pointedly at Blackwater, then shook his head in a disappointed way. “I never thought I’d see you looking so much like a businessman, Russell. I remember you wearing deerskin during the Trail of Tears march on Washington.”

“I’m still marching,” Blackwater insisted. “The clothes don’t make any difference.”

“I was at Sandy Parrant’s house the other day. After the judge’s memorial service. Didn’t see you there.”

“What are you getting at?”

“But I understand Sandy Parrant was at the funeral of your father. What do you make of that? You work with these people. You’re making these people rich. You show them respect, but do they reciprocate? As I understand it, Sandy Parrant went out of his way to make sure a lot of people would feel comfortable being at his father’s memorial service. But he didn’t extend the courtesy to you, did he?”

“Like an invitation?” Blackwater said with sarcasm.

“Whatever.”

“What makes you think I’d want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Cork said. He fingered the sculpture of the Midewiwin on Blackwater’s desk, ran his hand casually down the sleek, polished wood. “An invitation at least would be nice. The white man and the red man in enterprise together. You know, hunting the new buffalo like brothers.”

Although Russell Blackwater held very still, Cork saw the tendons in his neck go taut. His eyes changed, too, in the way they regarded Cork, watching him closely. His voice was hard, the words tense and spoken carefully.

“Before this casino was built, unemployment on the reservation was seventy percent. Nearly a quarter of our families were below poverty level. Two years ago one Anishinaabe student graduated from Aurora High School. Ten others dropped out. This year four will graduate and no one’s dropped out. We have a free health clinic on the drawing board that will be staffed by The People. We’ll have a real school soon. We’ve started looking at a drug-and-alcohol rehabilitation program to be run by us, not by the Public Health Service.” He sat up rigidly with his fingers digging into the padded arms of his chair. “That’s what I wanted from this enterprise, not an invitation to white men’s homes.”

Cork nodded and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay by me. Just making a comment. By the way, why don’t you unbutton your coat? Looks a little uncomfortable to me.”

“My coat’s fine.”

“You always carry a piece these days?”

Blackwater tugged at his suit coat, straightening the way it fell over his chest and the shoulder holster he was wearing. “When I’m working. It’s licensed.”

“Not thinking of shooting an old myth, are you?” Cork got up and headed for the door. “By the way, the sheriff’s probably going to want to know where you were when Lytton was shot.”

“Why?”

“Because I intend to tell him to ask. ’Night, Russell.”