The Night Watchman(82)

She knew whoever was in there wasn’t sleeping. There had been no tracks yesterday. Pokey’s were the only tracks up to the place today. From the way Pokey’s face looked when he returned, she knew that he knew also.

“Let’s go home. And don’t tell Mama.”

“I guess not,” said Pokey. “What you gonna do?”

“I’ll go into town. Get Moses Montrose. Or Uncle Thomas. But don’t tell Mama yet.”

“I won’t. I’m scared who it might be.”

“Me too. Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?”

“It was wrapped in a blanket.”

“I think maybe I’ll get Uncle Thomas,” said Patrice.



The cold squeezed and burned as Thomas, Patrice, and Wood Mountain made their way up to the cabin. Wood Mountain pulled the toboggan that Zhaanat and Patrice used for dragging game over snow and which Pokey used for rushing down hills. Pokey wanted to go, but they made him stay with his mother, who sat absently by the stove, rocking the baby. Zhaanat had now been told what was in the house on the hill. She had lost her balance and fallen back onto the table, as if struck by a great blow.

They kicked away enough snow to open the cabin door, and entered. Patrice knew before Thomas pulled aside the blanket. Even before he briefly uncovered the face, she knew the shoes. Thin shoes with holes showing the pasteboard he wore inside. Her father’s shoes. And the liquor bottles. Empty pints, six or more. His death had probably been painless.

Both men stepped back and put their hands up to the heavy woolen hats with earflaps that tied underneath their chins.

“Don’t worry about your hats,” Patrice said, furious. “Let’s just get him down the hill.”

So the men loaded him up and she walked ahead. The fact that he’d chosen to come back and die in Vera’s house made her so angry that she became overheated as she tramped along. Now Vera’s place was stained by the death in its walls. Patrice’s eyes kept watering. Not tears. She wasn’t crying. It was the cold. And the terror that it might have been Vera. All she could think of when she thought of Paranteau were the times he’d arrived home drunk and dragged all of them into his ugliness. When he’d made Pokey fly into the wall. She knew there were other times, but she could not remember them. Good riddance, she thought. Nobody spoke. They were all on snowshoes and made it down before dark. Pokey came out of the house. His face didn’t change when he found out who it was. He helped put his father in the lean-to. The men stayed outside while Patrice went inside. Her mother looked away when she told her who it was. Patrice knew she didn’t want her daughter to see the relief on her face.



Now Pokey was the one throwing his emotions into wood chopping. Maybe he’d loved his father. Or maybe he thought he should love his father. Before the men left, they hauled a fallen tree out of the woods and sawed it into stove lengths. Pokey and the others would keep a fire going for Paranteau. They couldn’t tell how long ago he had died. But his spirit would still be wandering, said Zhaanat. They needed to send him on the path. She wanted him buried in a cleared spot behind the house. Where I can keep an eye on him, she said. Wood Mountain drew up that same night with a wagonload of wood. He made several fires on the burial ground. They would have to soften up the earth to dig the grave. Wood Mountain brought an ice pick, a shovel, and a big pot of Juggie’s boulette soup, generous balls of meat and soft potatoes and carrots in a peppered broth thickened with flour.



That night, Patrice was awakened by a sound that started low and gathered force until it became a high-pitched shriek. It came from inside the cabin, from where her mother was sleeping. Or was it from behind the wall, where her father lay frozen? Patrice dived blankly into sleep. At one point she realized that Pokey had crawled into her bed and was curled against her back.



It was hard to leave for work the next morning. As she walked out of the house, Patrice glanced into the lean-to. Her father’s corpse was still there, wrapped in a blanket, on the cot where he used to sleep off his binges. Which should make her sad, Patrice thought, but she wasn’t sad. She was just glad he hadn’t come back to life, which did make her sad. How sad it was not to be sad.

When the car pulled up, Patrice saw that Valentine was glowering out the backseat window. She opened the back door.

“Why are you sitting back there?”

“Doris told me to.”

Valentine folded her arms and glared straight ahead.

“Get in the front seat,” said Patrice.

“No,” said Valentine. “I’m just doing what Doris told me to do.”

Doris was pretending that nothing had happened. She wouldn’t speak. Whatever they’d argued about was stupid, thought Patrice, but she remembered the sorrow in Valentine’s eyes as she looked out the front window of the car, and she said, “Please then. Please get in the front seat. Whatever you argued about isn’t worth it. You two are best friends.”

“You are my best friend,” said Valentine, in a voice that was low but still loud enough for Doris to hear.

“Us three are best friends,” said Patrice. “And maybe while we’re at it we should add in Betty. Come on, get in the front seat. We’ll be late.”

“Yes,” said Doris, “we’ll be late. Come on.”