LaRose(81)

Is that your jelly or your daughter’s jelly?

We put it up together, said Emmaline.

How come you ain’t living with your mother? Is it he, Landreaux, against it? How come your mother ain’t living in her own house?

You asked me that a hundred times, said Mrs. Peace, and I told you I like my habits. Like living here, alone except for you and your mean mouth.

Ignatia wheeled in with her tank of oxygen.

God save the queen, said Malvern.

Naanan, said Ignatia, holding up her tiny claw hand for LaRose to pretend to slap.

Ignatia’s face glowed like a young person’s when she decided to smile.

I got a good story for you, she said to LaRose. In the middle of the night I remembered all the pieces. This story came off my own grandmother, too, maybe when I was your age. That long ago. I forgot all about this story until the other night.

Let’s hear you say it then, said Malvern, pouting, jealous.

I can’t, said Ignatia with a proud little wag of her hand.

Why not? Malvern leaned close, eyed her narrowly.

Ignatia drew herself up, tucked her chin to deliver the teaching.

There is no snow on the earth. The legless beings do not yet sleep.

Ooooo, you sound like an old-time Indian, you, said Malvern. Her eyes lighted with malice. Nothing was worse than being called out on sacred tradition by another elder.

You know we do wait until snow’s deep on the ground, said Mrs. Webid.

I do know that, said Malvern, enraged now. It was me who originally remembered that rule and Ignatia who tried to break that rule. The beings who might bring our stories to the lowest levels of the earth, to the underwater lions and the giant snakes and other evil beings, they have to be froze in the ground, sleeping.

There’s one more piece of frybread left, said Emmaline.

Let her have it, the one who tells the stories out of season, said Ignatia, pursing her angry lips at Malvern.

Gawiin memwech, said Malvern. Let’s give it to the one who tried to steal my husbands, all six of them, one right after the other one. She tried to snatch away the fathers of my children by jiggling her stuffs at them! For shame!

They never saw nothing they didn’t want to see. Ignatia gave a choking snarl. You were so mean you scared them limp. They couldn’t take it. They swarmed after me.

Giiwanimo!

Don’t you call me liar. Your pants are smoking!

Emmaline cut the piece of frybread in half and slathered it with butter and jelly. She put a piece in each woman’s hand. The antagonists gnawed off bits, glowering and guttering, and for a moment it looked like they might soften. Then Malvern blurted.

Giiwanimo! Giin! Your underpants are burning! Hot *, you, at this age. For shame!

Ignatia threw her buttered bread at Malvern and it stuck to her breast, right at about her nipple. She looked down and snorted.

Here, let me help you, my darling, said Sam Eagleboy. He lifted the bit of bread off, then spit on his handkerchief and scrubbed slavishly at her bosom. Malvern pretended to bat his hands away.

Sam automatically popped the frybread in his mouth.

Sam ate the whiteman’s food! Mrs. Webid leaned excitedly toward Malvern. He must love you pretty bad, eh?

A man who will do that will do anything, said Ignatia. I should know. Her face screwed into a wink.



NIGHT SHIFT? YES, I believe . . . I am certain. I will be. Quite happy with those hours, said Romeo, nearly dumbstruck with excitement.

Sterling Chance had a round, worn, dignified face. His hands were calm between the stacks of papers on his desk.

You are working out real good here, Romeo. Don’t always get to see that. We don’t just clean and repair stuff, you know, we are kind of the guiding force around here. If we don’t do our job, nobody can do a damn thing to fix people, right?

So far, Romeo had tinkered with and revved up an emergency generator. He had hot-wired the ambulance. He had gently broken into file cabinets and even an office when nurses had forgotten their keys. He had squeezed a breathing pump for a kid with asthma during a blackout. He had figured out stuck windows, coaxed fluorescence out of touchy bulbs, unclogged toilets, and dehairballed showers. All without uttering one single swear word that could be heard outside the sanctum of his head.

You’re polite, said Sterling Chance, with gravity. That also counts.

As Romeo walked out of the maintenance office, his prospects expanded.

Not only would he not be alone, at home, at night, which had gotten tedious, but certainly there would be only sleepy supervision at the hospital. Certainly the rules would relax. During the first week of work, he found that he was right. All around Romeo, over the upside-down hours, there was talk. Gossip ruled the night shift. Not mean gossip, like at the Elders Lodge, just valuable updates. You had to talk to stay awake. And you had to move around to stay awake, too, so Romeo might as well do some work. He continued to normalize servile behavior in order to get close to many conversations—any of them might be useful. He let himself be seen polishing the floor on his hands and knees.

You know, we’ve got a floor-polishing machine, someone said to him.

Thank you, but I have my standards, he replied.

The emergency team had a little picnic table set up outside their garage door. Of course, they had life-and-death matters on their minds, but really, what careless people! Romeo had to pick up the bits of paper they crumpled, the cigarette butts of course, the candy and sandwich wrappers that blew down off their lunch. He did this even after the sun went down, as they sat beneath the floodlights. Then he had to slowly, slowly, dispose of these items. He had to smooth out and stack each piece of trash before he lowered it reverently into the bin. Romeo placed himself near the emergency team, around the emergency room, anywhere he could get near the EMT on duty or the nurses who might have a bit of information to spare, or the doctors. He blended into the hospital furniture with his mineral-colored outfits. He wore a tan turtleneck to hide the blue-black skulls around his throat. His gray stretchy jeans were the color of dirty mop water. Probably, they were women’s jeans. He didn’t care. He didn’t tell his own stories, he just encouraged others. He didn’t make himself obvious in any way. He wore black rubber sneakers he’d found abandoned on the highway. Mornings, on the way home, head brimming, he entered his disability sanctum and emptied his pockets of papers—jottings on Post-it notes, papers drawn from the trash, even copies of a few files left out overnight. He kept his notes in piles. Pocketed another box of colored thumbtacks. Kept on tacking the pertinent scribblings up on the softened drywall of his rotting walls.