LaRose(64)

It is only me. He whispered to the noises and their nature changed. They became a whispery chorus, willing to accept him. He fell asleep, at last. He slept so fervently that he couldn’t remember dreaming when the loud birds woke him in the morning. Now he was thirstier, and hungry, but also deliciously weak. He didn’t want to move at all. His body needed food; it was stretching out. Everybody said he was getting his growth. It would be so easy to show up early at Nola’s and say that he’d been dropped off. He’d done what he needed to do—that one night. But he decided to stay because he was strangely comfortable. His throat was so dry and scratchy that it hurt to swallow, but he didn’t care. The heat of the day clenched down, pressed through him.

After a while LaRose heard, or felt, someone approach, but he was held too fast in the hot lethargy to move. He did not feel afraid. Most likely, it was his father. Landreaux liked to range around the woods too. But it wasn’t—in fact it wasn’t one person at all. It was a group of people. Half were Indians and half were maybe Indians, some so pale he could see light shining through them. They came and made themselves comfortable, sitting around him—people of all ages. At least twenty of them. None of them acknowledged or even looked at him, and when they started speaking he knew that they were unaware of him. He knew because they talked about him the way parents do when they don’t know you can hear. He knew right off it was him they were talking of because someone said, The one they took for Dusty, and another asked, Is he still playing with Seker and the other Actions?, which of course he was, but which he tried to hide. All of a sudden one pointed.

He’s right there!

They glanced at him and acted like relatives who suddenly notice you.

Oh my, he’s big now.

The woman who said this was wearing a tight brown jacket, a billowy skirt, and a hat cocked to one side decorated with the wing of a bird. There was another woman with her, holding her hand, who looked very much like her. She pointed out LaRose and they spoke together. The older woman spoke Ojibwe. There was approval in her voice, but something about her was also quick, formidable, and wild. She bent close, looked at him very keenly, examined him up and down.

You’ll fly like me, she said.

There were a few Indians who looked like from history, wearing the old kind of simple clothing. They spoke Ojibwe, which LaRose recognized but could not understand very well. They seemed to be discussing something about him because they nodded their heads at or glanced at him in speaking. They agreed on something and the woman who knew English spoke to him. She spoke kindly, and her eyes rested on him in a loving way. As he looked into her fine, bold features, he recognized his mother. Intense comfort poured into LaRose.

We’ll teach you when the time comes, she said.

In one of the presences he could see traces of the four-year-old picture he had seen sometimes in Nola’s hand. It was Dusty, his age now.

Are you okay? LaRose asked the boy.

Dusty shrugged. Nah, he said. Not really.

Can you come back? Remember we used to play?

Dusty nodded.

I brought some heroes and stuff.

Yeah?

LaRose opened his pack. He took out the action figures and Dusty examined them. They began to play, quietly because adults were right there.

If you come back, you can be Seker.

Dusty’s face brightened and he ducked his head.

A short time later, everybody got up and left. Just walked off in all directions, murmuring, laughing. LaRose sat up and looked after the woman in the hat. He folded his blanket in half, then rolled it up again. He swung the backpack on, put the roll under his arm, and began walking. He felt fine. He took the trail to Maggie’s house and got in through the back door before Nola even knew he was home. Went into the bathroom and put his mouth under the tap. Just let the astounding water pour in.

LaRose?

I came in through the back, he called down.

I didn’t hear anybody drive up.

They dropped me off at the road.

He lay down in bed. The sudden comfort made him pass immediately into a hard, dreamless sleep.



AFTER HIS FAVORITE childhood teacher and the other ladies had committed sabotage, Romeo could never again get wasted with the same conviction. Their betrayal skewed him. The fluid arrangements he had made all of his life, the scams and petty thefts, did not come naturally. To make things worse, or better, he was not sure, he got the job he’d applied for. The real, true job. He was chosen for this job over others. At first, surprise made him industrious. Then he got interested in the stories that took place all around him. He worked extra hours because it was like existing in a living TV drama. To get into the different wards, and find new information, he did more than lean on his push broom. He emptied trash incessantly, especially during staff meetings. He polished floors with a big electric floor polisher because people liked the floor polished. They trusted him more after he polished. He swept, wiped, cleaned up puke and blood with proper protocol. He began to like following rules! He loved wearing rubber gloves! People began to think he had sobered up, and he let them think that. He went more regularly to the AA meeting on the hill, with Father Travis. Everybody was a washout there. Now he was one of the success stories.

Then one day somebody said there would be drug testing at work. Even for sanitation engineers. Someday, not now. But it was coming. Romeo snarled, threw down his broom, and walked all the way into town. The job was also bearable because he was fortified. And yet, it had been a long time since his old injuries had been officially treated. Maybe he could work the system and get newer, stronger, legit prescriptions. His mood improved. His steps directed him to the Dead Custer, though even with his job he didn’t like to spend his money on bar drinks. Maybe there would be somebody he knew there, with cash, maybe on a bender and anxious for a drinking buddy.