The Night Watchman(109)

“Gee, I’ll miss LaBatte coming around with his dire predictions.”

“Don’t worry,” said Louis, “you’ll see him around, and he’ll always have a dire prediction for you.”

“I miss my little owl,” said Thomas. “The one I had as a pet. He nested in the barn bones of the roof.”

Louis glanced sharply over at him.

“The barn poles,” said Thomas. For a while he was silent. “Rafters,” he said in a low voice.





The Bear Skull in the Tree Was Painted Red and Faced East




Wood Mountain walked past the bear skull and knew it was Zhaanat’s way of saying thank you. Patrice wasn’t home yet, and he wanted to visit Archille. As he neared the house, he heard them crying inside, or was it laughing, or was it both? He called out and then entered. Vera and Zhaanat were watching Archille stand, fall, pull himself up, sway, and balance for a moment again on the bearskin rug. Every time he tried to take a step, he plopped down and a laugh gurgled out. When he saw Wood Mountain, he threw out his arms and gave a baby roar of love. Vera, blurred and muted, stared at Wood Mountain when she saw the baby’s reaction.

“Archille,” said Wood Mountain, scooping him up, eyes only for him. “Archille, my boy.”

Zhaanat said to Vera, “See, what I told you.”

Vera got up and put water on the stove to boil.

“His name is Thomas,” she said in Wood Mountain’s direction.

Wood Mountain did not acknowledge her, kept playing his little games with the baby. Vera brought tea over to Wood Mountain and scooped up the baby to play with her on the bed in the corner. The baby fought his way past her arms to try to get back to Wood Mountain. As the baby barreled across the rug, Vera’s mouth twitched. The baby’s intense determination was comical, but it was not that simple.

“I told you,” said Zhaanat again.

“I see now,” said Vera. “He loves the man more than he loves me.”

“Or me,” said Zhaanat. She didn’t mind.

“It will change,” said Wood Mountain, holding him. “Pretty soon he won’t remember you were gone at all.”

In his heart, he did not believe what he was saying.

He brought out a piece of bacon for Archille to exercise his first teeth on. The baby gnawed the fat with the relish of a wolf pup. Again, Vera laughed. It was not a normal laugh. There was a sob in the laugh, and it trailed into a dark rasp. Wood Mountain looked over at her and noticed that a newly whitening scar divided one eyebrow. Another ran across her chin. Her hair was chopped short, like a woman in fresh mourning. Her fingers had trembled when she handed him the cup. When he accepted the cup, he felt a spark of lightning. In spite of this damage, he found her compelling. They used to say “those Paranteau beauties,” meaning Vera and Pixie.

“You named him Thomas, for your uncle,” he said.

She nodded and warmed her palms at the stove.

“You named him Archille, for your father,” she answered after a while.



Wood Mountain came to visit day after day. Once Patrice returned and went back to her job, he usually came during the times she was at work. Each time he visited, he noticed something about Vera. One earlobe was ragged, as though it had been bitten. One finger was crooked, as though it had been broken. One eye sometimes looked sideways, as though it had been knocked that way. One tooth was missing, but you couldn’t see it unless she laughed with her whole body. And she did laugh. That finally happened. The same tooth was missing from Wood Mountain’s jaw. All of the places that she was hurt, he was also hurt. As the days passed her features healed and she went outside more and more, tramped along the traplines, gathered reeds for mats, made baskets to sell like her mother did, sewed small garments for Thomas Archille. Or was it the other way around? Sometimes even Vera called him Archille now.



Patrice came home one day, saw them together, and recognized it. She saw Wood Mountain bend over her sister, who was holding Archille. The baby sneezed and they marveled together. It was just a sneeze. She couldn’t understand it, but as they doted over Archille together, her sensations of confusion and desire and possible love sank away. Her feelings became muddy and heavy. At last, she didn’t recognize the feelings at all. One day she happened to come home while Wood Mountain was leaving the house. He came down the road just as Doris was dropping her off. He didn’t have a horse so he was always walking now. He stopped when he saw her coming toward him.

“Patrice,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I gotta talk to you.”

“I know all about it,” she said.

He lifted his gaze to hers and she did not look away.

“I’m in love with both of you.” He tried that out.

“No you’re not,” she said. But she wasn’t angry. Or if she was, it was just an instinct that she had no time for. The feelings were like icy muck. She had to drop them.

“You don’t sound mad.” He was relieved. He rubbed his eyebrow. “I just don’t want you to think . . .”

“It was good,” she said. “It was good out there.” She pursed her lips and glanced toward the tangle of trees where they had made love. An arrow thin as a reed shot through her. “But when I was walking back to the house it didn’t seem right.”