Winter Loon(25)

“Bull Hightower got struck by lightning,” I said. “We had to take him to the hospital.”

“The Indian? Aren’t there two of them?” she asked.

I didn’t know what she even meant by that. “Yeah, Kathryn, he’s Indian, and yes, I work with two Indians, him and Lester, and yes, only one of them was hit by lightning.”

“You don’t have to be snotty about it,” she said. “I was just asking.”

“Well, anyway, he’s going to be okay. He was bringing in some heifers and one next to him was killed.”

Kathryn tented her hands over her mouth and nose, breathing deep and dramatic. “Oh, that poor cow! Mr. Fullerton must have been so upset.”

“No, well, I think he was more worried about Bull. Glad he was safe and all,” I said, put off she might start comparing the value of an Indian against the value of a cow.

“Well, yeah, I mean. Of course.” All concern fell off her and she perked right up. “So, you wanna go do something?”

“It’s been a long day and I’m beat. Rain check, okay?”

A storm of emotions passed over her face. “Suit yourself.”



BY THE TIME RUBY GOT home, she’d already heard about the lightning strike, knew it was “some Indian” who got hit. She took off her work shoes at the door. “You near it at all?” she asked. “Feel the charge?”

“No, I was in the barn. I heard it crack, though. Felt like a giant hammer came down.”

She dropped the mail on the table and plunked down in a chair to look through it. My grandparents had kept the same post office box since they’d moved to Loma. Ruby had the only key. She didn’t like the way the postman came right up to the door of a person’s house, “like a Peeping Tom,” she said. “Bad enough they can look through the mail. Don’t need them looking through the window, too.”

I watched for an odd size as she fanned out the envelopes, hoping my father had sent a card for my birthday. “Anything for me?” It was there, that hopefulness in my voice. I wished I hadn’t said anything, hadn’t called attention to myself in that way. If they were going to forget my birthday, I’d rather they did it outright and not have to backpedal and try to make something out of nothing.

She gave me a curious look, like it was strange that I should ask such a thing, strange that I would think anyone at all would have anything to send to me. But if there was even an inkling that this was anything other than an ordinary day, she didn’t let on. She stacked the mail back up and slid it to me. “See for yourself,” she said.

Bills. Overdue notices. Flyers. There was nothing for me. Could endless daylight in Alaska make one day blend into the next until a person could be blinded in some way, completely lose track of time, lose track of what was important?

The storm had cooled the air some and Gip stayed home that night. I spent my birthday in the living room watching the television with my grandparents, fans rattling in the windows, moths thick around the streetlights, thoughts of a mysterious girl pushing out the fact that I still had not heard one word from my father.





CHAPTER 9

THAT FALL AFTER my mother collected me from the carnival, my father didn’t return as planned. I could feel her waiting for him to show up, to call. She started leaving notes on the table when we went out, explaining where we were—grocery store, gas station, bowling alley. When we came back to darkness, to emptiness, she’d crumple the note with both hands. Certain tire sounds on the road and she’d pick her head up, turn to the front door. I’d watch for the knob to turn, let myself imagine throwing myself at him or holding back to make him feel bad. When whatever teasing sound it was passed, we’d go back to what we were doing. We’d learned not to look at each other because hope is fertile and multiplies into disappointment.

Then he was back.

“Son of a bitch,” my mother said. His duffel bag was by the door. The note was still on the table, but scrawled beneath my mother’s printing was my father’s. Home. Where are you? Went down to the Signal.

I picked up Elizabeth and hoisted her to my shoulder so I could breathe my relief into her fur.

My mother slapped the note with her palm. She put her hands on her hips.

“Put those groceries away,” she said to me.

I set Elizabeth down again so I could grab the bags we’d left by the door.

“No,” she snapped. “To hell with him. Let’s put them back in the car.”

“Why?”

“Let’s see how he likes it.” She unzipped his duffel bag and dumped the contents on the floor. From a squat, she rifled through what she found there, sniffing shirts, turning out pockets.

“Thinks he can just waltz back in here and have us waiting for him, he’s got another think coming.”

“But we were waiting for him.”

She kicked his things out of the way, tangling a grease-stained shirt around her ankle. She unwound it and threw it with the rest. “Wes,” she said. “You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.”

She went into the bedroom and switched on a light. I could hear drawers being opened and shut, the sliding closet door chugging against the loose rail, my mother mumbling and cursing to herself. She dropped the full duffel next to the door and stomped into the dark kitchen. Elizabeth was rubbing up against my legs, begging for the food. We’d been waiting on a paycheck to shop and Elizabeth seemed as eager as I was for something fresh. “Move, cat,” I said, nudging her away with my foot. She padded into the pile of clothes on the floor, working a spot with her paws. The smell of him mingled with the lingering floral of rose beads, and I wanted to do what the cat was doing and bury my face in his man smell—sweat salt and chew, hangover on flannel, the fust of unwashed hair.