Between Earth and Sky(67)
“What’d you say? Nesayegun? I think a fella by that name does some work over there in the agency wood shop.”
“Really? Which direction is the shop?”
“It ain’t steady work, mind you. Fixes things for the agency when they break or fall apart. He mightn’t be there today. And he mightn’t be the Indian you’re looking for. But you can go check. Five buildings down on the right. Between the barracks and barn.”
“Thank you, Mr. Larson. Thank you so much.”
He blushed. “Ain’t nothin’. Just glad to be of help. Good luck to ya.”
Alma hurried down the road in the direction of the shop. Mud splashed and slurped around her boots. Though she had to hold up her skirts an inch or two higher than proper, she slowed only to navigate the largest puddles.
Little differentiated the dilapidated street-side barn from the wood shop. Dry, sun-bleached pine sided both buildings. The stench of dusty fur and manure rose from the barn. The shop smelled like a forest—earthy, with hints of vanilla. Its filmy windows rattled from the roaring machinery within. One of the large double doors lay ajar, exposing a sliver of the dim room within.
Her heart flapped like a moth inside a mason jar. Sixteen years stood between them. Life, with all its meanderings, seemed to shrink the friendship they had once shared. Would he even remember her? Her hand fluttered over her dress, her hair, her hat—smoothing, arranging, adjusting. Flecks of dried mud dotted the hem of her skirt and she suddenly wished she’d taken more care to avoid the puddles.
She knocked, but the sound vanished into the din. After a long inhale, she pried the door open a few more inches and slipped inside.
A light breeze stole in behind her, sending the carpet of sawdust swirling into the air. The burnt smell of tired gears and overworked rubber commingled with the bright scent of wood. Frederick hunched over a ripsaw, feeding a long piece of wood into its spinning teeth. The gust of air ruffled his cropped hair. He blinked through the sudden storm of sawdust, eyes fixed on his work, hands steady. Not until the plank was fully rent did he reach down and switch off the machine.
He straightened and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Dirt and grease stained the rough pads of his fingers. He was just as lanky as she remembered, long cords of muscle roped around a narrow frame. He cocked his head toward the door, his face lined with displeasure. Though the sawdust had long since settled, he blinked again and burrowed his cracked knuckles into his eyes. “Azaadiins, is that you?”
“Frederick!” She swept across the room toward him, raising her arms for an embrace, but stopped short when his eyes flickered toward the open door. He wiped his hand over his leather apron and thrust it with stiff formality between them. Her smile dampened. “It’s good to see you. You look well.”
“So you’re the gichi-mookomaan-ikwe causing troubles at the agency?”
“Word spreads quickly around here.”
He shrugged and grinned. “Agent Taylor knows not the way of soft speaking.”
“I’m here because of Asku.”
Frederick glanced again toward the door. He nodded, but said nothing.
“Do you know what happened? Who really killed Agent Andrews?”
“Askuwheteau asked you to come?”
Alma dropped her gaze to the floor. Darned wool peeked through a hole in Frederick’s worn but polished boots. He’d cuffed his pants to hide a tattered hem. “No, I came of my own accord,” she said at last.
Frederick humphed. “I know nothing of the agent’s murder.”
The want of emotion in his voice made her doubt his words. “What happened to him after Stover? After Brown?”
“That’s his story to tell.”
“Please, Frederick. I’ve heard such awful things. That he’s a lush, a hobo. That he lives alone without family or friend.”
“Sounds apt.”
Alma flinched. She steadied herself against the nearby workbench. Sap oozed beneath her hand, sticking to her glove. “I don’t understand.”
Frederick leaned back against the long ripsaw table and folded his arms across his chest. “I worked as a tradesman in St. Paul for three years after I left Stover.”
“I remember. Father was so proud.”
He huffed and shook his head. “I came home because my grandfather was sick. But I was too late. He died the night before I arrive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“While my grandmother and aunts made the body for burial, many people came offering their favorite tales and memories of my grandfather.” His eyes, previously turned upward as if watching the memory play out in the shadowy rafters, swept downward and met her own. “I couldn’t understand their stories, Azaadiins. I had lost the words, the words of my people. Nookomis, my own grandmother, was a stranger to me.”
“But surely your language came back to you. And think of all the skills you had gained to use here.”
“It did come back. After some while.” He looked down at his hands and pried a splinter from the pad of his thumb. “Have you ever pulled back the husk of a corn and found that the inside is empty, all the kernels have been eaten aways by a worm or field mouse and only the cob is left? You can feel it when you hold it—it’s lighter than the others ears, has trouble holding shape.”
What was Frederick talking about? Corn and field mice? This had nothing to do with Asku or the murder. His eyes kept to the floor. One foot cut circles through the sawdust. Otherwise he was still. She started to speak, to steer him back on topic, but he continued. “That’s what we’re like, those of us returned from Stover or Carlisle or Haskell. Peel back the husk and we’re empty, hollowed out. The Indian in us eaten away.” He shook his head and drew in a long breath. “Some worse than others. When Askuwheteau came back he was nothing but husk.”