The Night Watchman(70)
“He was outta line. Think I’ll smash him for that.”
“With your broken hand? That hand you’re using right now to unscrew the wood oil?”
“Ow.”
“You’re faking!”
“You won’t tell! Not one single soul. I am trying to fake out Joe Wobble.”
Grace started laughing so hard she had to sit down.
“C’mon.”
“Don’t you know?” she finally said. “He’s trying to fake you out too. Walking around all crooked. Sometimes he forgets which side he’s crooked on. All the girls know.”
Wood Mountain gaped. “How’d you? What?”
“I thought you knew it. Everybody knows it.”
“Does he know I’m faking?”
“Not that I know of. You’re pretty good. Even I believed it up until I saw you working on the wood.”
“I’m making a cradle board.”
Grace stepped back, frowning.
“Something your mom should know about?”
“No, not that. It’s for Vera’s baby.”
“Well, you should be careful. People are saying things.”
“Like what?”
“Like that baby isn’t from the Cities. Like that baby belongs to you and Pixie. Like you’re trying to hide it from the priest.”
“What would I care? No, this baby’s Vera’s.”
“Why you out there all the time then?”
“Can’t a man like a baby?”
“Sure. But usually it’s his own baby.”
“I never see Pixie. Almost never,” said Wood Mountain.
“Oh, sure,” said Grace.
“She don’t care for me.”
“And your hand’s really broken. Men are so dumb.”
She walked off, swinging her hair, slapping at the cribs. She stopped to scratch Teacher’s Pet.
“Now don’t you tell!” he called.
“About your hand or about Pixie Paranteau?”
“Quit that,” said Wood Mountain.
He threw down the cloth he was using to wipe oil into the wood. He began planing the cedar board again, too hard, scraping off the oiled surface in curled strips. Grace looked back and was about to start laughing again. But something about his violent concentration and the way he blinked his eyes and squinted down at the board made her feel sorry for him. Then even sorrier for herself. She leaned close to Teacher’s Pet and rubbed her horse’s soft ears, gazed into her black liquid eye, whispered, “He’s got it bad but he don’t know it.”
Pixie will split his hide, thought Grace as she walked across the yard. She pictured Gringo’s belly, his pinkish skin laid open, garish before her father stitched him shut. They knew it was Teacher’s Pet because there was a strip of Gringo’s hide stuck on her hoof. But who cared. Let Wood Mountain find out how it felt. The air was hard and cold. She smelled snow and looked up. The moon was lopsided, like Joe Wobble. There was no wind on the ground but over west she saw clouds tossing up, erasing stars, coming on like sixty. She thought of going back to tell Wood Mountain about the storm. No, let the horses tell him. Let him sleep in the barn. She’d always known he was too old for her. She was done with him. He could go straight to Pixie.
Battle Royale
What was it to be? A Battle Royale, a Friday Night Fracas, a Slugfest Saturday? Thomas mulled the problem over as he prepared the boxing card for the printer. Excitement Galore. Did that sound ridiculous? He and Barnes had matched up the oldest boys in the area boxing clubs, plus of course Wood Mountain vs. Joe Wobleszynski, the main attraction. Thomas was putting his own money toward some flyers that could be tacked up everywhere—the tiny bush stores, the schools, the off-reservation bars, the cafes and gas stations. At the bottom, he’d set the cover charge at “suggested 2 dollars” but knew they’d take whatever the crowd—he hoped for a crowd—could give. He finally decided on Battle Royale Benefit. At the bottom, he wrote, “Come one come all. Enjoy a fun night. Excitement Galore! Do your best to bring your representatives to Washington.” Sharlo had drawn a puffy pair of boxing gloves in front of an American flag. He’d had her draw them over again to look more menacing. He pasted everything together at his desk, finished around 3 a.m., and dropped the flyer off after work the next morning.
After another meeting with Moses Montrose, he went straight home and staggered into the sleeping room, took off his shoes, and as usual put his creased pants and carefully folded shirt on the small bed beside theirs. He slipped beneath the covers in his undershirt and boxer shorts, draped another undershirt over his eyes, and began taking deep slow breaths. But his heartbeat filled his ears. His thoughts jaggedly sped the moment he rested his head on the old flattened pillow he jealously guarded for himself. Pictures as clear as though they’d happened yesterday flashed on. The look of Roderick when he was brought up the stairs, blinking, terrified, shaking, coughing, haunted. Half dead already. A few weeks later, he’d come to wake Roderick in the dormitory. His friend was still and his skin gray; he was barely breathing in the bloody sheets. Oh, Roderick. Would these electric shocks of memory ever quit? Worst, he remembered teasing Roderick, daring him, even getting him in trouble, and LaBatte pointing his finger.