She kept her hand on his arm, frail gesture. Hardly the way a woman treats her husband when she’s become aware that it might be her cousin Zack who comes to the door. Hardly. Something, though. The hand on his arm hardly represented what had been their passionate marriage, their once-upon-a-reservation storybook time. She just held his arm. He leaned over her, his elbows on the back of the chair. Leaning wasn’t much, when compared to how they used to push a chair under the doorknob in a cheap motel where the lock was broken. They used to think they were something special. Lucky. They used to say they were sure nobody else had ever been this happy, ever been this much in love. They used to say, We will get old together. Will you still love me when I’m shriveled up? I will love you even better. You’ll be sweeter. Like a raisin. Or a prune. We’ll be eating prunes together. That’s the way they used to talk. But now they were tasting the goddamn green plums, weren’t they. Bitter. What about me? Will you love me? I don’t know, it depends on where you shrivel up. That’s the way they used to talk.
Landreaux straightened up and got two glasses of water. He sat down in another chair. Emmaline felt a surge of fear that suddenly contained what might be, could be, identified as possibility. She took a drink of water and closed her eyes. She saw a slough thick with reeds, muck bottom, tangled, both deep and shallow. She saw the ducks batter their way across and up. She saw herself, Landreaux beside her. She saw them both wade in together.
WHEN FATHER TRAVIS returned to the church grounds, having spoken to Peter Ravich, having made Peter read the coroner’s report, the new priest was there. He was wearing an elaborate medieval priest outfit with chain for a belt and shoes that looked like carpet slippers. He was from a newly formed order. He was young, with a creamy complexion, apple-blossom cheeks, bright cornflower eyes, and corn-silk hair cropped to the skull. His voice was startling, high-pitched, but commanding of attention all the same.
I suppose you’re Father Travis, said the new priest. A frowning flush mottled his cheeks.
I suppose I am, said Father Travis.
I am Father Dick Bohner.
Oh no, thought Father Travis.
I am your replacement, said Father Bohner.
You should go by Richard here, said Father Travis.
Dick is my name, said the new priest fiercely.
Of course it is, said Father Travis.
Things will be changing around here, said Father Bohner, flushing still more violently. Saturday mass should have started ten minutes ago.
You’re late then, said Father Travis.
Father Travis walked away to pack his suitcases. He had come with two hard-sided Samsonite cases. Somehow, in the packing, he found that he had downsized. He had only enough to fill one suitcase. His cash, what there was of it, was in a bag behind a loose ceiling tile. He called Randall Lafournais, who drove down to Fargo every week, and arranged a ride with him. Father Travis decided to get off in one of the train stop towns, buy a ticket on the Empire Builder to Fargo, Minneapolis, Chicago, and then continue on east by train and south by bus to Jacksonville, North Carolina, and Camp Lejeune. He would walk down the boulevard among the memorial trees. He would visit the broken wall and touch the names engraved there.
As he was folding clothes, he realized that after all he had very little money. The phone rang. He let it ring and then pounced suddenly, brimming over, laughing.
Shit-broke soldier of God here! What can I do for you?
The person on the other end of the line was an Indian who laughed with him and hung up.
You love a woman you can never have, he thought, dropping the phone. Suck it up and deal. But his blood expanded and his heart seemed ready to explode. He sat on the bed, put his head in his hands. He thought again about the money. After a while he got up, stood heavily over his last few belongings laid out on the bed. He picked up the slippery blouse he’d asked Emmaline to give him, put it to his face, then added it to the suitcase. He snapped the suitcase shut. It was a heavy, dull red thing.
THE GATHERING
You Go
JOSETTE AND SNOW wanted to give Hollis a big three-cake graduation party. For that, they decided that they needed a yard and a flower garden. Josette’s English teacher said that she could have the classroom geraniums. Carmine geraniums. Today, Josette transplanted the classroom flowers and scattered the seeds of the marigolds, which Hollis had plucked last fall and saved for her. She also threw grass seed onto the pounded-dirt volleyball court. Snow had bought a hose for the outdoor spigot and she tried to water, but the seeds just swirled around in clumps.
I think you have to open up the dirt, said Coochy, looking at the whole thing critically.
We’re hunter-gatherers by nature, said Josette. Farming’s not our tradition.
Wrong, said Snow. Historically, we grew potatoes, beans, pumpkins. We had our own seeds and stuff. Invented corn.
We called it maize, said Josette, significantly. She paused. So we lost our traditions, then.
Just our family did, said Coochy. Lots of Indians have gardens. Grandma even had a garden. It was over there.
A verdant patch of weeds blew in the wind. Maybe there were flowers, but the girls didn’t know what leaves to look for. They eyed the bare dirt mournfully.
Maybe we can bring out rugs.
No, said Josette. I want a lawn. God damn it. I’m going over and talk to Maggie. Her mom’s got lawn magic. The least we could get is a lawn, right?
Dad and Mom know how to make a lawn, said Coochy.
They don’t have time. Or the inclination, said Josette, a little pompously. She was always like that with Coochy, showing off her words, her understanding. He was her little brother, so she went on lecturing him.
It just isn’t a priority for them. However, if we’re giving an out-and-out celebratory barbecue for Hollis, we can’t be mingling on a bare dirt volleyball court.