LaRose(48)

LaRose. LaRose. LaRose.

Girls behind him murmured, happy. Other children started crying, soft, in low hiccups. A four-year-old softly vomited. Some were staring out the window, mesmerized. Some kids laughed and chatted, expectant. Other children were going numb. Curled underneath the bus seat, Landreaux stared at that name. The letters were drawn in heavy pencil, traced over and over. LaRose. He dozed off and soon he was sleeping heavily on a full stomach. He did not wake when the bus stopped, when all of them got off. He did not wake when they shaved his head for lice and left him in the shower while they found him new clothes without bugs. Not even in bed that night, the next morning either, did he wake. He never woke up. He was still sleeping on that bus.





TAKE IT ALL

1967–1970





Romeo & Landreaux




THE DORMITORY BUILDING was made of tightly mortised red bricks. It was a simple boxy building, the main entrance opening in the center. When Landreaux pushed the dull steel of the main doors, the inside pressure changed and a hoarse vibration of sound escaped. A low sigh, the ghost of Milbert Good Road. The floors were pale linoleum tiles polished to a gloss. In late afternoon, the heatless sun blazed down the central corridor. Little boys were on one side, big boys on the other. There were large divided barrackslike sleeping quarters to either side of the hallway. There were two bunk beds to a room, four boys. The bathrooms and showers were halfway down the hall and the matrons’ glass-fronted offices were set watchfully at either end. Down in the basement there was a laundry room with banks of washers and dryers chugging day and night.

One of the matrons in the little boys’ wing, plump and freckled with blazing thick white hair in a short bowl cut, explained to Landreaux the system of demerits. His name was added to a chart in a bound book, at her office desk. If he didn’t wash or if he wet the bed, if he overslept, if he was noisy after lights-out or backtalked or went out of school boundaries, or most especially, if he ever ran away, demerits would be marked by his name. Mrs. Vrilchyk explained that if he had too many demerits he could lose recess, trips to town. If he ran away it would be much worse, she said. He might not get his privileges back. Landreaux had heard they made boys wear long green shame dresses, shaved their heads, made them scrub the sidewalks. But no, another boy had told him on the bus, they had done this in a different school and now they’d stopped. Mrs. Vrilchyk was still talking. Running away was dangerous. A girl had died two years ago. Mrs. Vrilchyk, whom everyone called Bowl Head, said that the girl was tossed in a ditch. There are bad people out there. So don’t run away, she said. Her voice wasn’t mean, or kind, just neutral. She patted his shoulder and said that she could tell he was a good boy. He wouldn’t run away.

Every time she said the words run away, Landreaux had a feeling about the word: runaway. The word bounced him up inside.

He took the bundle of clothes and bedding. A man matron stood in the bedroom and showed the boys how they were supposed to make their beds. He was an Indian, like an uncle, but with little eyes and a hard, pocked face. The matron stripped the bed he had made and told all of the boys to make their beds that way. He was called from the room. The boys who were to share the room started pawing the sheets and blankets into shape.

Except a pale, hunched boy. He sat on the edge of his bed and said, in a low voice, Go to hell, Pits. He kicked the bedclothes on the floor and stamped his foot on them. So this was Romeo. At four or five years of age he had been found wandering beside the road on the same reservation where Landreaux grew up. Nobody knew exactly who his parents were, but he was clearly an Indian. He was burned, bruised, starved, thought mentally deficient. But once he was sent to boarding school, it turned out he was one of the smartest boys. He snarled to show he was tough, but he was not. He was in love with Mrs. Peace and was working in her class to make her notice him, take him home with her. Adopt him. That was his aim, maybe high but not impossible? After all, he had graduated from the pee boys.

Romeo had stopped pissing in his sleep because he’d stopped drinking water. Just a cup in the morning and a cup at noon. Was he thirsty? Hell, yes. But within a month of enduring this great thirst he was no longer a pee boy and it was worth it. Not a drop passed his lips after noon feed, even if he got too dizzy to run around, even if his mouth turned dry and tasted of rotting mouse. It was very worth it not to piss the bed.

He heard them talking in the other bunks.

Can’t have a top bunk, Romeo. Might drip.

But Landreaux looked at Romeo, gave an open, friendly smile, and said, Nah he looks steady. I’ll sleep under.

Landreaux put his bedding in the bunk below.

Romeo was flooded with a piercing sensation that started as surprise, became pleasure, and then, if he’d known what to call it, joy. No boy had ever stood up for him. No boy had ever grinned at Romeo like he might buddy up with him. He had no brothers, no cousins at school, no connections at home except a dubious foster aunt. This moment with Landreaux was so powerful that its impact lasted days. And it got better. Landreaux never wavered. Because Landreaux called him steady, Romeo became steady. Landreaux was instantly cool with his careless slouch and rangy confidence, and he acted, simply, as though Romeo had always been cool right along with him. Because of Landreaux, Romeo stood straighter, got stronger, ate more, even grew. He began drinking water later in the afternoon. Stayed dry. Landreaux was ace at archery, hit bull’s-eye every time. Romeo could do math in his head. They became known. Other boys admired them. Many times that year, Mrs. Peace took them home with her. She was the mother of a little girl named Emmaline, who seemed to adore them equally. Landreaux ignored Emmaline, but Romeo adored her back. He sat on the floor with her, played blocks, dolls, animals, and read her favorite picture book whenever she pushed it into his hands. Mrs. Peace laughed and thanked him, because, she said, the book was repetitive. Romeo didn’t care. The little girl hung on his every word. As they grew, his love grew also, but she forgot about him.