LaRose(58)

The warmth revived in LaRose the golden time before her mother was destroyed. She looked critically at Wolfred. He seemed to have become an Indian, true. The teachers would have cut his hair off and relieved him of all he wore—a shirt of flowered red calico, fringed buckskin pants, a broad-brimmed hat, moccasins beaded with flowers and finished off with colored threads. Wolfred’s skin was tanned to a deep nutshell color and he’d lighted a pipe. The smoke was fragrant, the tobacco mixed with sage and red willow bark. He winked when he felt her sidelong gaze. She tried to laugh but her stays were too tight. Why not laugh? She reached beneath her shirtwaist and loosened her corset, right there. She kicked her shoes off, plucked the pins from her hair. The corset and shoes had been the worst—never to take a deep breath, and each step a stabbing pain. Who was looking? Who to care now if she wore moccasins, burned her corset, gambled with the fifty buttons that closed the back of her dress? She would eat fresh meat and no more turnips. Wolfred’s teeth flashed. How long he’d waited—in a manner of speaking. Anyway, he hadn’t married any of those women. Was he now too rough for her? Excited, he wondered. He slowed the ox. He stopped the cart. The wind boomed yet there was silence on the earth.

Wolfred turned to her, held her face gently.

Giimiikawaadiz, he said.

Suddenly, clearly, she saw them naked on a river rock in sunshine, eating berries until the juice stained their tongues, their lips, until it ran down her chin and pooled along her collarbone. She saw their life. She saw it happen. She yanked Wolfred close. He carried her through tall grass and they lay down where it hid their nakedness. They rolled in berries, smashing them like blood, like childbirth. Everything would happen to them. They’d be one. They’d be everyone.

I want a wedding dress like this, she said to Wolfred, and showed him a picture that was used to raise money for the school. Her friend was in it. All the clothes were borrowed, but her hair was real. LaRose had combed her friend’s hair out and arranged it to cascade down her shoulders. Later, she had pulled it up into a bridal knot.

I think she died of tuberculosis, she said. Like everybody else I knew. I never heard from her after she went back home.

A cough boiled up in her own chest, but she breathed calmly and tapped her sternum until the tightness released. She was getting well. She could feel her strength casting the weakness out.

Wolfred built the cabin that would eventually be boarded into the center of the house containing the lives of his descendants. The cabin was made of hewn oak, mudded between with tan clay. There was a woodstove, a cast-iron skillet, oiled paper windows, and a good plank floor. Wolfred made a rope bed and LaRose stuffed a mattress with oak leaves and pillows with cattail down. The stove in winter glowed red-hot. They made love beneath a buffalo robe.

After, LaRose washed in icy water by the light of the moon. She stretched out her arms in the silver light. Her body was ready to absorb wanton, ripe, ever avid life. She crept back into bed. As she drowsed in the pleasant heat of Wolfred’s body, she felt herself lifting away. When she opened her eyes to look down, she’d already drifted up through the roof. She fanned herself through the air, checking the area all around their little cabin for spirit lights. Far away, the stars hissed. One dropped a speck of fire. It wavered, wobbled, then shot straight into LaRose. She bobbed back down and lay next to Wolfred.

And so they brought a being into the world.

She cut up her fancy clothes for baby quilts. She took apart her corset and examined the strange, flexible bones. Wolfred fashioned them into head guards for the cradleboard. The shoes were bartered to a settler’s wife for seed. The stockings and hat were given to a medicine man who dreamed the child a name.

The next three children arrived during thunderstorms. LaRose howled when the thunder cracked. Energy boiled up in her and the births were easier. Each child was born strong and exceptionally well-formed. They were named Patrice, Cuthbert, Cleophile, and LaRose. It was clear they would all possess the energy and sleek purpose of their mother, the steady capability and curiosity of their father, variations of the two combined.

She scoured the floorboards of her house, sewed muslin curtains. Her children learned how to read and write in English and spoke English and Ojibwe. She corrected their grammar in both languages. In English there was a word for every object. In Ojibwe there was a word for every action. English had more shades of personal emotion, but Ojibwe had more shades of family relationships. She made a map of the world on a whitewashed board, from memory. Everybody factored, copying their father’s numbers. They all sewed and beaded, especially once the snow came down and isolated them. The children chopped wood and kept the stove stoked. Wolfred taught them the mystery of dough making, the wonder of capturing invisible wild yeasts to raise the bread, the pleasant joy of baking loaves in wood ash and over fire. The oiled paper windows were replaced by glass. The land would become reservation land, but Wolfred had homesteaded it and the agents and priest left them alone.

When her youngest child was a year old, LaRose’s urgent cough exploded past her strength and pain shot through her bones. Wolfred made her drink the butter off the top of the milk. He made her rest. He wrapped her up carefully and set hot stones in the bed. She improved and grew strong. She was herself for years. Then one spring day she collapsed again, spilling a bucket of cold water, and lay wet in the cold grass, wracked, furious, foaming bright arterial blood. Yet again, though, she recovered, grew strong. She fooled the ancient being and wrested from it ten more years.