The Night Watchman(53)

“Hello, niiji,” said Thomas.

Paranteau was staring ahead, fixing his squint at the end of the street as if taking aim before starting to move. He did not register Thomas’s presence, but gathered himself and suddenly surged forward in an awkward gallop. He made it to an iron lamppost and held on to it like a man in a tornado. Thomas followed. Edged around Paranteau’s rickety frame. He stood in front of Paranteau and gripped his shoulder. What a sight. Paranteau’s hair was matted to his skull. His lip rolled out, thick as a wet cigar, and his mouth sagged. His wet red eyes bugged, all misery.

“Friend, cousin, it’s me. Thomas.”

Paranteau began to rock like a horse preparing to haul a too heavy load. His feet tried to abandon the lamppost but his hands would not unclench.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Yes,” said Thomas. “You’re blasted. We’ll take you home.”

“No no no. Not yet.”

Thomas tried to pry Paranteau’s fingers off the lamppost. They wouldn’t budge. Paranteau began to fiercely pant and blow. He strained. His eyes bulged with such desperation that Thomas had to look away. Paranteau could not unlock his fingers. It seemed they were welded to the metal post.

“Oh my niiji,” Paranteau wailed. “See how she loves me! My honey! She don’t let me go!”

He began laughing in hoots and croaks.

“Oh my! Oh my! She got me, cousin!”

“You can get away,” said Thomas. “Just take a deep breath now, let yourself relax, and she’ll release you.”

“Ah, yes,” said Paranteau.

After a moment, Thomas realized that a stream of piss had emerged below Paranteau’s left pants cuff. The stream trickled to the gutter and Paranteau began to weep.

“I was first on the team. Got the high score. Nobody outgunned me, cousin. Couldn’t touch me once I made my break. And three pointers. In the clutch? I was your man. And jump? They called me Pogo. Remember?”

“Yes.”

The basketball team had gone to state that year. Class B. And they had nearly made it to finals.

“You made the last shot. Almost took that game,” Thomas said.

“That’s right. Oh my cousin, I am sick now. I am dying off, me. End of trail.”

Thomas worked away at Paranteau’s fingers again, but it was useless. And they were hot, like all the life force in Paranteau was concentrating in his hands, burning with a contrary will. Finally, Thomas managed to pry up one pinkie. As if he’d raised a magic lever, all the fingers flew off at once and Paranteau sprang away. Leaping the way he used to. Pogo Paranteau. And then his legs gathered under him. He floated up like a buck deer and he was gone down the street, coat flying, tossed fiercely along by suffering.

Let him go, Thomas thought, walking back. Paranteau returning home would have been hell on the rest of the family. Better to let him skid out in Fargo and hope he survived.





X = ?




Barnes felt his fists blur with deadly speed! He was striking so fast that a breeze snapped his hair back and only his molten blue eyes, fixed on the speed bag, maintained an iron steadiness. He saw himself as from above. Then on a movie screen. Then through the wrong end of a telescope. How should he treat this betrayal? This flouting of trust? He’d found out from Pokey that Wood Mountain had helped Patrice bring the baby back to the reservation on the train and thence to their very home. To their yard. If it could be called a yard. The surrounding half-cleared woods.

He paused, sweat stinging his eyes, then punched again.

After all the time that Barnes had sacrificed to Wood Mountain! After all the training secrets that Barnes had lavished on Wood Mountain. After the rides and pickups, the loan of shirts, of robe, of equipment, and the bestowal of his coach’s pride and hope! After all of that, not counting the many meals ferried from Juggie or bought at Henry’s or that damn fateful breakfast with Wood Mountain at the Powers Hotel in Fargo, how had he the gall? And what should Barnes do when the horny boy dog showed up to train with his bighearted chumpish haystack of a coach?

“Oh, say there.”

Barnes stood back and glowered at the quivering bag.

“Hello, coach! Hey, you’re fast!”

Barnes turned. His hands itched. There wasn’t any need at all to wonder what he’d do because he simply said, “Hear you took yourself down to the Cities to step in on Pixie Paranteau.”

“She wants to be called Patrice.”

Rage boiled up.

“Oh, oh does she?”

“Yes. But put your dukes down. She don’t have no time for me, neither.”

Barnes gave Wood Mountain the eye.

“Not like I made a move on her. I just, dunno. Just got the idea she could be getting in trouble. And I know how they pick up girls in the Cities because my half sister is mixed up with that bunch.”

“What bunch?”

“Cal Strosky and them.”

“What do they do?”

Wood Mountain looked at his feet.

“It’s only because my sister had told me a few things that I went after her.”

“Was Pixie in trouble?”

“She got herself out. She was dressed up like an ox.”

“A what?”

“Nothing. She was looking for her sister but got the baby anyway, came home. I just rode along. It wasn’t that important of an experience. But I just wanted to let you know I got the feeling that even if I did, which I don’t, she wouldn’t have any interest.”