How to explain that shot? He’d wish himself out of existence to take it or not take it over again. But the harder, the best, the only thing to do was to stay alive. Stay with the consequences, with his family. Take on the shame although its rank weight smothered him.
Sometimes he was afraid he’d crack and say suddenly that he’d been drinking that day, even though that was wrong. It was maybe worse. He’d not been thinking. He hadn’t waited, or maybe he’d been waiting so long for the buck that the actual moment seemed an afterthought. But it was a moment of stupidity, really, wasn’t it? Still, to Landreaux his crucial lack of attention at that moment was as bad as being drunk. Not a soul understood it was as bad, except Dusty. He knew, of course, or his spirit knew. He had told Landreaux in a dream.
Afterward, Zack Peace had given Landreaux that Breathalyzer test. He’d done it, routinely, after Landreaux had been taken in. Zack had glanced at the readout, then turned and looked steadily at Landreaux. People always suspected those who worked with terminal patients of taking their drugs. But he had been clean for weeks. Clean. He’d sworn off that anodyne. The number was normal, but there was something about Landreaux, his reactions, alternating between raving fits and calm, his burp of laughter, once. Maybe high? But there was no sign of substance on him. And anyway, Zack knew that in the aftermath of an event like this, nothing seemed normal. Everyone was whacked-out on horror and adrenaline. He had looked up to Landreaux from childhood and he was Emmaline’s favorite cousin. Zack included the negative test in his report, which would help exonerate Landreaux. Yet, he was troubled. They hadn’t spoken of it since. They hadn’t spoken at all.
Today, on this day, Landreaux had to tell someone the truth. His head was ringing. He was sick of hiding it. In the past year he’d realized that there wasn’t a right person. There were, of course, two people who were safe to tell, who could share the weight. Yet he did not want to lose Father Travis’s respect. He didn’t want to see Emmaline’s face after he released those words. So that left nobody. Zack, who knew, wouldn’t speak to him. He had to tell, and that is when LaRose came into the room.
Daddy. LaRose sat down on the bed. Get up!
I’m sick today.
LaRose felt Landreaux’s forehead, just like a grown-up, and made his father smile.
Little doctor, do I have a fever?
You need a sweat lodge, said LaRose, because he wanted to make all of the preparations.
Okay, said Landreaux, let’s do it. We’ll have a sweat lodge, just us two. You can skip a day of kindergarten, I guess, for a sweat lodge. Yeah?
Sure I can.
But first I gotta tell you something.
LaRose waited.
This is a secret, a big secret. We have to swear it is our secret, okay?
LaRose grew very serious. They shook hands four times.
Okay, I’m trusting you.
LaRose opened his eyes wide at his father and did not blink.
I wasn’t, ah, right in my head the day I killed Dusty. I didn’t mean to, but I don’t know, maybe my aim was off. The point is, I was clumsy that day.
LaRose frowned and his father’s heart stabbed.
Did you see Dusty there? LaRose asked. Did you see the dog?
What dog? said Landreaux.
Dusty fell from a tree branch, said LaRose. I saw the place. One night in my dream I saw the whole thing. Dusty followed the dog into the woods. The dog saw you. Ask the dog.
Landreaux’s brain began to hurt.
You always had a good aim before. My other Dad said so.
Peter.
Yeah. He said you would have hit the buck.
That’s true, said Landreaux. The buck is still there. I’ve seen it roaming in the woods.
Dusty told me you shot him on accident, said LaRose.
Landreaux opened his arms to his son, and LaRose crept close to lie against his chest. They breathed together. LaRose loosened, took a big sigh, fell asleep, but Landreaux stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. The sky fell, as it did each moment. Shame covered him. He saw that he was supposed to share LaRose all along because the boy was too good for a no-good like him. LaRose, again. LaRose had saved him before. On the day the bus left for boarding school, he had been only a few years older than his son was now. It seemed impossible that his parents had let him go. They didn’t tell him, but they were on their way to live, and die, in Minneapolis.