The Only Good Indians(9)

Pecking order’s pecking order, though, and Lewis, even though this is his fifth year slinging mail, is still the new guy. Being last, though, that means that when Shaney comes running out the side door, Lewis’s bitch seat is what she jumps onto, barely making it.

Her hands fall perfect to his hips, her front to his back, and very much right there.

“Hello?” he says, throttled down and wobbling.

“I want to see too,” she says, shaking her head and loosening her hair.

Yeah, this is exactly what Peta needs to clock pulling into the driveway.

Still, Lewis grabs the next gear, falls in line, having to goose it to stay with.

Why they’re all going to his place is because Harley, at nearly ten years old, has taken to jumping the six-foot fence like a young dog, a fact Eldon says he’ll only believe when he sees it. So, he’s going to see it. They all are, including, now, Shaney.

Third in line is Silas, on his rattletrap scrambler that’s not good past fifty, but gets kind of fun at seventy-five, if near-death experiences are your thing. Eldon, snapping at Jerry’s heels, is on his slammed bobber, which he can only swing because he lives close to the post office, can walk in if the weather’s bad, so doesn’t need to keep and insure a truck or a car. Of the four of them he’s the only one not married, too, which frees up some funds, for sure. Jerry tells him to just wait, though, it’ll happen—“They’ll drop sooner or later,” haw haw haw. At fifty-three, Jerry’s the oldest of them, and comes complete with the silver handlebar stache, freckled-bald head, ratty ponytail, and icy blue eyes.

Silas is pretty much mute, and might even have some Indian in him somewhere, Lewis thinks. Not enough to have been Chief before Lewis earned that title, but … maybe as much Indian blood as Elvis had, however much that is? Like, enough to fill up a pair of blue suede shoes? Eldon claims to be Greek and Italian both, which is maybe a joke Lewis doesn’t quite get. Jerry doesn’t claim to be anything other than in constant need of another beer.

It’s good to have found them, after losing Gabe and Cass and Ricky.

Well, after having left them.

No headlines about this. It’s just the same old news as ever.

The five o’clock traffic they slip past on River all cranes a bit to keep Shaney in view ten or twenty feet longer. Meaning her button-up flannel’s probably untucked and flapping, threatening to come off altogether.

Great.

Wonderful.

Lewis shouldn’t have said anything about Harley, he knows. It would be better just to be headed home alone, to maybe sink a few free throws in the driveway before Peta’s back. But—Harley, right? He’s not just not-young, he’s actually pretty damn old for a dog his size, has been hit twice on the road, one of those by a dump truck, and he’s been shot once, in the hip. And that’s just what Lewis knows about. There’ve been snakebites and porcupines and kids with pellet guns and all the usual dog fighting that any dog’s going to get up to.

No way should Harley be able to clear that fence. No way should he even have a reason to try. Still, four times now Lewis has found him out in the road, and Peta’s found him twice.

He must be jumping, maybe scrabbling a bit to get all the way over.

And Lewis should have kept it to himself.

Except?

Thinking and thinking about the young elk who couldn’t have been on his living room floor, Harley barking it up outside, Lewis had finally made what felt like a connection between the two. Could Harley have been barking at her, at the elk? Can he see her without a spinning fan? Has she been there all along, these past ten years?

Worse, if Harley can sense her, then is that what’s been driving him over the fence? Maybe it’s not about getting to all the dogs in heat out there or whatever. Maybe it’s about getting away from the house.

Never mind that the lease is for twelve months and they lose the deposit if they pack up, disappear.

“Hold on,” Lewis says back to Shaney, and rolls the throttle back to shoot across the river, go weightless a bit over the train tracks on the other side, avoid the way they always rattle his teeth not once but twice—one for each rail.

Shaney does a whoop from the thrill of it and Lewis gears down for the slow turn onto 6th, gets all the way into fourth for the straight shot down American Ave, taking the lead because none of these jokers have been to his new place. Three fast turns later, maybe taking them a bit fast like to test Shaney, it’s his driveway.

“This is it,” Lewis says into the sudden silence of no panheads, no V-twins.

Jerry and Eldon and Lewis all cock their bikes over, but Lewis waits for Shaney.

“Oh yeah,” she says, placing her hands on his back and pushing off the seat all at once, a dismount Lewis is glad he won’t have cycling through his head for the rest of the week.

“So where’s this great flying dog already?” Jerry croaks.

“Close to your bedtime, Granddad?” Eldon says, just out of arm’s reach but going boxer-light on his feet anyway.

Silas grins up at the front of the house, settles on a high window, Lewis thinks. He studies it, too. It’s just his and Peta’s bedroom window, no curtains yet.

“Well, mailboy?” Jerry says again.

It’s what he calls everybody, Lewis is pretty sure. Probably because names have started slipping out of his head.