A Northern Light(60)

I live in the North Woods, I said silently. The Adirondacks was a name the travel brochures used to lure summer people. It was pretty and clever, like the tricked-out fishing flies Charlie Eckler sold to the tourists. The ones no guide would be caught dead using.

"So, tell me," the woman said, "where can I find some Indians?"

I cleared my throat nervously. I didn't want to say something else stupid and have them laugh at me again. "Well, ma'am, there's the Traversys. And the Dennises. They're Abenakis, I'm told. They weave sweet-grass baskets and sell them in Eagle Bay. At the railroad station..."

The woman wrinkled her nose. "Those are faux Indians. I want the real thing. The noble savage in the wilderness. Primitive man in all his glory."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know...," I started to say, miserably awkward.

Weaver was suddenly at the table refilling the water glasses. I had no idea how he got there, and I wished he hadn't. He had that look in his eyes. The one I knew too well.

"You want to see Mose LaVoie, ma'am," he said. "He's a full-blooded Saint Regis. Lives up past Big Moose Station. In a tepee in the woods."

My mouth dropped open.

"There you go, Maudsy!" the gentleman said.

"How exciting!" the woman said. "How will we know him?"

"He's hard to miss, ma'am. He wears buckskins. Though that's only when it's cold. This time of year, he just wears a loincloth. And a bear-claw necklace. And fearhers in his hair. Just go up to the Summit Hotel and ask for Injun Mose."

I nearly choked. Mose LaVoie was an Indian, but he certainly did not live in a tepee. He lived in a log house and he wore a shirt, trousers, and suspenders like every other man. He was nice enough if he knew you, but he had a temper and it came out when he drank. He'd take a swing at a locomotive if he thought it was looking at him the wrong way. He'd put out the windows in the Summit on more than one occasion, and he was certain to knock the head off any fool tourist who called him Injun Mose instead of Mr. LaVoie.

"A genuine redskin! Imagine that! He'll be the perfect guide to the real Ho De Ron Dah!"

Weaver grinned from ear to ear. "Yes, ma'am, he sure will," he said.

I caught up with him at the coffee station. "You're going to have four murders on your conscience, Weaver Smith. I hope you're all right with that."

"They shouldn't laugh at you," he said. "And they shouldn't call me colored."

"Oh, Weaver, they didn't." He hates being called that word, colored. He says he is a person, not an Easter egg.

"They did. Last night when they arrived and again at breakfast. Ever seen Mose LaVoie when he's mad?"

"Only from a distance."

"Me, too. And I reckon this ought to make us just about even."

Table seven was bad, but table six was the worst of all. The very worst. It was a single man. A Mr. Maxwell. He was small and slight. Balding. And sweating, too, even though it wasn't terribly warm. One must always steer clear of men who sweat when it isn't warm. He held the menu on the table and bent his head toward it, squinting and mopping his brow with his handkerchief as he studied it.

"I'm afraid I've left my glasses in my room," he finally said. "Would you mind reading the entrees for me?" I thought his eyes must be very bad indeed, because he looked at my bosom as he spoke, not my face.

"I'd be happy to," I said, just as green as a frog. I leaned over him and started reciting. "Baked ham, broiled spring chicken, boiled tongue..."

Just as I got to the veal in aspic, he pulled his napkin off his lap. Under it was something that looked rather like a frankfurter. Only no frankfurter I'd ever seen stood at attention.

"I'll have the veal in aspic," he said, covering himself again.

My face was flaming as I went back into the kitchen. It was so red that Cook noticed it immediately. "What have you done?" she barked. "Did you drop something?"

"No ma'am, I ... I just stumbled, that's all," I lied. I couldn't bear to say what really happened. Not to anyone.

Fran, picking up an order, heard us. She came up to me. "Table six?" she whispered.

I nodded, looking at the floor.

"The dirty dog! He did it to me yesterday. You should drop something, all right. A jug of ice water. Right in his lap! Don't go back there, Matt. I'll get Weaver to take the table."

"Fran! Where are you?" Cook bellowed. "Pick up, pick—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence, because just then, the kitchen fell under attack.

There was an explosion. Louder than the Old Forge town cannon on the Fourth of July. Worse than anything I'd ever heard. Ada screamed. I did, too. "Oh, mein Gott!" Henry yelled. Shrapnel went whizzing through the air and hit one of the gas lamps. Glass came raining down. Ada and I ducked behind the cold station, clutching each other. There was another explosion, and another. There was more screaming and more glass. I chanced a look up; the ceiling was dented in half a dozen places. More lamps had been smashed. A window was broken.

I felt a wetness on my face. It was hot. "Ada!" I said frantically. "Ada, I think I'm bleeding." Ada raised her head and looked at me. She touched my cheek. I looked at her fingers, expecting to see crimson, but instead I saw white. Ada sniffed it. "Smells like milk," she said. We stood up cautiously, still holding on to each other.