The Night Watchman(16)

“Hi, Archie. Supper’s ready,” she said.

A month later they were living together. They never married. Juggie was too independent and wanted things her way. When the coughing started, Juggie brought Archie to San Haven, north of Dunseith, where he died within the year. It was still common, then, to die of tuberculosis. Lots of children at Fort Totten had been sent to the children’s sanatorium at Sac and Fox.

Roderick.

Thomas had friends on the other side. More and more friends. Too many. Sometimes he talked to them. Archille. Talked to them. Why shouldn’t he? It helped to think they had moved to another country. That they lived on the far side of a river you could only cross once. In the dark night, in the dashboard light, he spoke to Archille, but only in his thoughts.

“Your namesake’s got a job.”

“Howah, brother.”

“And you’d be proud of your own son. He never stops punching.”

“Of course not. As the great-grandson of—”

“That talk about killing Custer always got you in trouble.”

“True. How’s Juggie?”

“Still cooking pies for the chimookomaanag. This Barnes, a teacher, brings your son his dinner every night.”

“He always could eat.”

“So could you.”

Thomas stopped. The unlikeness of Archille at the end, wasted and beyond wanting. In the white bed. In the dry hills.

“I’m fighting something out of Washington,” he said. “I don’t know what, Archie. But it’s bad.”





Valentine’s Days




“You have three days total,” said Mr. Vold. He tapped his feet together underneath the desk. His shoes made an insectlike rasp. Betty Pye had started calling him Grasshopper. The nickname fit him distractingly well. Patrice watched his square mouth and jaw move like a grasshopper’s mandibles. He shifted papers, his long fingers grasping and plucking. His breath swam across the desk, strong and swampy, like he’d been eating wet hay. He pushed a sheet of paper toward Patrice. She picked up the paper and read it. She would have to work six months to accumulate three more sick leave days.

“It’s about my sister,” she said, “sir.”

Patrice explained the situation with Vera as best she could. She was the only person in her family who could possibly travel to Minneapolis. She showed her boss the letter from Betty Pye’s cousin. He pored over it, reading it several times, and Patrice understood that by pretending to read the letter many times he was sorting out the possibilities.

“Okay, Miss Paranteau,” he said finally, putting down the letter, “this situation you couldn’t call illness. I could give you a leave of absence, without any pay, see, no guarantee that you would keep your job if you had to stay on, say, over the allotted time.”

“How much time would that be?”

“One week is the most time allowed.”

“May I think about it overnight?”

“Go right ahead,” said Mr. Vold. “By all means go right ahead.”

He seemed excited at the false generosity of his phrase and kept chewing on the words even after they were uttered.



For the rest of the morning, Patrice worked silently, trying to decide whether she should risk her job. At lunch break she took out her battered syrup pail and removed a boiled potato, a chunk of bannock, and a small handful of raisins. Sometimes people traded their government commodities for Zhaanat’s baskets. Raisins were prized. She ate them slowly, for dessert, letting each one soften and melt against the back of her teeth.

“Raisins!”

Patrice handed her friend the bucket and Valentine scooped the remaining raisins greedily into her mouth. She glanced at Patrice and caught sight of her dismay before Patrice could hide it.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“But you’re upset.”

“Over Vera. I’m scared to take a leave because if it’s complicated, and I have to stay longer, then I lose my job. I just have three days.”

“Of what?”

“Three days of sick time.”

“Huh?”

“Three days of sick time.”

“Sick time?”

“With half pay.”

“Oh. I didn’t even know we had that.”

Their break was over. Patrice drank the stale coffee at the bottom of her cup. The boiled potato anchored her and she went at her work with the sudden focus that had become habit. She lowered the wand to spread a drop of cement. Her hand was steady.

Later, on the way to the car, Valentine said, “You can have my days.”

“What do you mean?”

“My sick days. Mr. Vold told me that I could give my days to you. Under the circumstances.”

Patrice was so ablaze with relief that she reached her arms out, embraced Valentine, and then stepped back.

“I’m so thankful. What a surprise.”

“I know,” said Valentine. “I’m all contradictions.”

For Valentine to name this quality about herself startled the two of them to silence.

“Contradictions!”

“Is that some kind of a game?” said Doris, stepping up behind them.