LaRose(51)

Pepperboy, get over here, said the woman.

The dog stood before them a moment longer. Seeming to find them harmless, he took painful mechanical steps toward his master. The two continued around the yard. They made ten rounds, moving more slowly each time, so that the woman and her dog seemed to the dizzied Landreaux to be capturing the last of the light slanting out of the trees, taking it with them while breasting continuous waves of darkness. At last the night became absolute and the woman and dog were nearly invisible. Each time they passed, the dog stopped to measure the boys, and then caught up with the woman again. On the last round, the boys heard them shuffle near. This time when the dog stopped, the woman’s black silhouette loomed.

You hungry? she asked. I made some dinner.

They didn’t dare answer.

She walked away. After a few moments, the boys rustled out of the grass and followed her to the door. They stood outside as she went through.

Might as well come in, she called, her voice different, unsure, as if she thought perhaps she hadn’t really seen them.

The boys stepped into the kitchen, and stumbled back at the sight of the old woman in the light. She was striking—lanky and overly tall, deeply sun-beaten, her face a folded fan of vertical lines. A thick shock of white hair tipped like a crest over her forehead. The sides of her hair were neatly pinned back and her ears stuck out, drooping pancake ears burnt crisp over a lifetime. She was more than old, she was powerfully old. The milky blue of her eyes faded spookily into the whites, giving her the authority of one risen from the grave. Not only did the woman look so strange, but there was a phone in the kitchen. How long before she called the sheriff? The boys were jittery enough to bolt.

Why, you’re wearing new clothes! the woman suddenly said, and smiled toothily, gently, as if she knew them.

The boys looked down at their dirty old clothes.

She turned away to the open refrigerator, and began removing foil-covered pans and dishes. She handed them back to the boys, who stepped forward.

Stick ’em in the oven, she said.

Landreaux opened the oven of a clean porcelain stove and the boys placed dish after dish inside. The oven was cold. Romeo examined the dials and turned it on. The numbers went up to 500. He chose 425.

There, said the woman, rubbing her hands. Now what else?

She opened a cupboard, took out a box of saltine crackers and a tin of sardines. She put them on the table. There was already a sweating icy pitcher of cold tea.

Get some glasses.

She waved her hand at the dish drainer and sat down. The dog rose from a woven rug in the corner and came to lie at her feet. While the boys gulped the tea, she unstuck the key from the sardine can, shakily inserted it into the slot, and rolled back the top halfway.

Forks? She jerked her head toward the drawers left of the sink. Landreaux brought the forks. Romeo guessed the right cupboard and brought to the table three large yellow plates with full-skirted ladies and top-hatted gentlemen dancing around the edges. The woman forked a piece of sardine from the can, mashed it onto her cracker. She nodded at the boys to do the same. The food stuck in their craws at first, then their hands seemed to grab unwilled, loading cracker after cracker. They stuffed all the sardines down but the last, which they left for the old woman. She had been watching them, smiling, her teeth dim and broken.

Go ahead, I got enough, she said. The boys split the last bit.

Mister’s dead, she told them. It was the heart. Mine is going strong but I don’t care if it does quit. How’s your mom and dad? she asked Landreaux. They dig their cellar?

Landreaux looked at Romeo, raised his eyebrows.

They dug it? said Romeo.

The woman nodded.

Good, that’s how you keep your food for winter. We told ’em. That cold was hard on the Indians. Mister said, they’re dying off. One goes every day. So I’m glad to see you boys, glad you made it over here. Your family is the good kind of Indian. Mister always said when they’re good they’re the best friend you ever had. A bad one will steal you bare and they’re wicked when they’re drunk. You boys have always been good. Good boys.

The phone rang, jolting them all. The woman licked her lips and stood to answer it, a black wall phone, numbers worn on the dial. She held the receiver grimly to her big ear.

Just fine, she said. She was glaring at the box of the phone as if whoever had called was inside of it.

Haven’t eaten it yet, she said, her face uncertain as though it was a trick question. Yes, the stove’s off, she said meekly. I’ll go take it out. Yes, yes. I’m hungry.

A crafty look came over her face and she turned to wink at the boys. Hungrier than I ever been!

Okay, night.

She hung up the phone and said hmmph. The warming smells of all the different foods had filled the kitchen, but she didn’t notice. She sat down at the table again, frowned into space.

Should we take out the food? asked Romeo.

The woman’s mouth worked silently, then she startled.

Take them dishes out, will you, boys? Let’s eat!

Mashed potatoes, gravy, creamed corn, creamed spinach, chicken potpie with peas and carrots, corn relish mistakenly baked to a pretty good taste. A thick pork chop, which the boys divided, corn bread, soft buttered carrots, macaroni with cheese, macaroni with meat, macaroni with tuna. A thick piece of steak meat with mushrooms. More gravy. It all went down. Some of it tasted questionable, but hot and good at the same time. And on the counter underneath a dish towel was an apple pie, plump and oozing thick sweet juice, uncut.