LaRose(20)

THIS DOG REEKS, said Nola.

I’m going to wash him some more, said Peter. He’s kind of got a natural smell.

The dog eyed Nola adoringly, bowed to her twice, then stretched its nose tentatively toward her knee.

Don’t, said Nola to the dog. She glared into its questing eyes, and the dog sat back on its haunches, struck with wonder.

You stink, said Nola again.

The dog pantingly grinned, alive to her every word.

It had wandered outside and fought. Peter had heard other dogs yapping and howling in the woods. Some years in winter the dogs from the reservation formed packs, chased and slow-killed deer. He’d shot them down on his own land. This dog had come back with a nick in its nose, a torn tail, and an injured eye.

That one eye is going to be permanently bloodred, she pointed out.

This dog loves life, he said. I’m going to tie him up, though. Keep him in the yard.

Going to neuter him?

Peter didn’t answer.

He might have eaten a lit firecracker, see? One whole side of his lip is swollen up!

Well, he’s got a story. He’s come from somewhere, said Peter, rubbing the dog all over so it grunted with pleasure. The dog’s eyes shut in bliss; its torn lip showed sharp teeth. Peter laughed. This dog will snarl forever but his eyes are joyous, he said. Even the red one.

We’re not keeping him, Nola said.

We have to, said Peter.

Nola stiffened and left the room. The dog’s eyes followed, weak with loss.

Rolfing the dog’s ears and neck, Peter whispered, Hey, you know something! I know you know something. What you gonna tell me?

As he rubbed the dog, Peter’s thoughts drifted. His mind relaxed, and so he wasn’t upset by the words that formed in the flow of ease.

I saw Dusty that day, said the dog in Peter’s mind. I carry a piece of his soul in me.

Peter put his big windburned forehead on the dog’s forehead.

I’m not crazy, am I?

No, said the dog. These are things a normal man might think.



IN THE MIDDLE of February a south wind blew through and thawed down the snow, warmly rattled the doors and windows. Landreaux was out in his shirtsleeves pumping gas into the Corolla and didn’t notice that Peter was pulled up to Whitey’s store. When Peter came out carrying a couple of dripping cold six-packs—there they were. Landreaux turned away, frowned at the quickly rising numbers on the readout.

I know. Peter was suddenly next to him. It cost me thirty to fill the tank.

The two hadn’t spoken since Landreaux brought his son to the Ravich house. Landreaux nodded and said something neutral.

Nola took the kids to Minot, said Peter. They’re staying over. I’m batching it tonight.

He asked if Landreaux wanted to drop by.

Sure, said Landreaux, not thinking of the beer but then thinking of it as he drove the ten miles to the edge of the reservation and past, to the Ravich house. He still thought of getting drunk every day, but he’d gotten used to the thought and stood outside of it. The tires crackled in the Ravich driveway. Snow thinly frosted the clipped evergreens planted at the foundation of the house. At the sight of the still windows a choking panic grabbed Landreaux, and he almost drove away. But there was Peter in the doorway, gesturing.

Landreaux slowly got out of the car and Peter waved him through the door. The dog that their family had been feeding was standing behind Peter. It recognized Landreaux and turned away after a resonant glance. Even with the dog living there now, the house smelled of nothing. Nola would light a scentless scent-sucking candle if she whiffed an odor. Her house never smelled of people’s habits. It never smelled of stale clothing, old food, or even what she was freshly cooking because she ran a hood fan that sucked the smells right up through the roof. But nothing has a smell too, and Landreaux remembered.

He left his shoes at the door, walked across the carpeted living room, sat with Peter among the polished antiques. The living room was set off from the kitchen by a long island-type counter. Without remembering, or maybe remembering too well, Peter went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He cracked a cold beer. Sitting at the table now, he invited Landreaux to do the same. He did. Landreaux didn’t see himself from the outside the way he normally witnessed his thoughts. Somehow he’d slipped around his thoughts in that moment, and as he sat down he also took a drink. When he did that, his porous brain sponged up the action, and then at a cellular level, the substance.

Thanks, said Peter, looking at the table.

Thanks, said Landreaux, looking at the can.

They allowed a swell of emotion to envelop them. Started talking about things in general, about the people Landreaux worked for and the crisis boarding school where Emmaline was the sort of director who also ended up teaching classes, about the farm and Peter’s jobs selling lumber and at Cenex, extra jobs that Peter had taken to clear up bills, but would probably keep in order to afford to farm. They finished one beer and started on another. Four or five and Landreaux would start to feel the slide; there would be no going back. He tried to sip this one calmly but the non-present presence of his son was balling up inside him, ringing in his head. The first swell of emotion had been an ache of fellow feeling. That was quickly sliding away with the second beer. Landreaux put his broad hand up, touched his cheek. His face was pitted not with old acne scars but from a case of chicken pox that had nearly blinded him as a child. He tried to veer from what was developing between them.