by Ron Levitsky
Rosen looked back at the window, but the light had been switched off. Hearing a sudden clap of thunder, he scanned the sky but, as the rumble continued, realized it was only Andi’s muffler. A minute later, the noise ended, and the street was once again silent.
He walked under the cold grey streetlights, then turned the corner, where the only illumination was the distant neon glow of the motel sign. In one day he had traveled from Washington to Chicago and now stood in the very center of America. A stranger once again, he felt buried, as if the black sky of night were so much dirt shoveled over him.
Above, a full moon glowed serenely. It looked perfectly clear and round, reminding him of the book Goodnight Moon, which he had read to Sarah as a little girl. Sarah. He took out the key chain she’d given him, which glowed in the darkness like an amulet. Holding it tightly, Rosen smiled as he walked back to the motel, and even though he lay in a strange bed, he fell asleep the minute his head touched the pillow.
Chapter Six – THURSDAY MORNING
Having driven the first fifteen minutes from Deadwood in silence, Grace glanced at Rosen, who stared out the window, occasionally shifting his long legs against the Corolla’s glove compartment. Her father was no better; sitting in the back seat, eyes closed and arms crossed, he might have been asleep. The only sound was the cold air streaming through the vents.
She stifled a yawn. Usually at 11:15 she was sound asleep, not waking up until Stevie came home from school. Would there be time for any sleep today—what with meeting Belle Gates and the others at twelve? Once again she glanced at Rosen. Whoever heard of a laywer who didn’t like to talk?
Clearing her throat, she said. “You were great at the hearing. We really can’t thank you enough. Isn’t that right, Father?”
“I’m innocent. Why should I pay to stay out of jail?”
“It’s a murder charge, and they could have set a high bail. What if it had been $100,000—even more?”
“I’m innocent.”
“But he got you out with no cost, on your . . . your . . .”
“On his own recognizance,” Rosen said.
“It was a miracle, what with the way folks feel about Indians. Not to mention that Albert Gates had plenty of friends, or that Judge Whistler’s married to a member of the town council.”
“That would be Pearl, the one who has the realty office in town.”
“The one who has everything. Have you met her?”
Rosen shook his head. “I’d like to. She and her husband sound like an intriguing couple.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Grace didn’t want to think about Pearl; she was too happy about her father coming home. “Yeah, what you did was a miracle.”
“Not really,” Rosen said. “Your father is an established resident of Bear Coat, he’s considered by many to be a religious leader, and he’s had a clean record for the last three decades.”
“I thought his having spent time in jail for killing John Little Thunder would just about guarantee a high bail or none at all.”
Again Rosen tried stretching his legs. He grunted softly, then said, “It had the opposite effect, because he was later found innocent. An innocent man who spent seven years in prison and didn’t come out embittered, but rather turned to religion.”
“The way you put it all together for the judge. We’re lucky Andi got you.”
“This is only the beginning. I read the police report last night. There’s strong evidence against your father—his argument with Gates, the murder weapon found near him, and the blood on his sleeve.”
“Maybe Father cut himself on something.”
“It’s Gates’s blood type, not your father’s.”
Could her father really have committed the murder? The only other way he could’ve gotten the blood on his sleeve was earlier that same day, when Stevie cut Gates and her father took the knife away. But if she told Rosen, he might think . . . No, she couldn’t.
“Grace?” Rosen was staring at her.
She swallowed hard. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Did you see the object clutched in Gates’s fist?”?
“Uh . . . just for a second, before Tom put it in his pocket. A small piece of metal, I guess. It looked all rusted. Probably something Gates grabbed on the ground while he was dying.”
Rosen said nothing, and his silence made Grace nervous. She said, “Hope Andi didn’t mind you driving back to town with us.”
“No, she had to file her story on the hearing.”
“What do you think of her?”
He tried to stifle a smile. “She’s quite a character.”
“She thinks you’re cute.”
“That’s only because I’m wearing pants.”
“Andi’s not like that. A girl on her own—it’s hard in a town like Bear Coat. All that big talk’s just her way of acting tough. She wouldn’t give the time of day to most men around here. She really likes you.”
He shook his head.
“Really, she—”
“Let’s talk about this meeting you want me to attend.”
“It’s with the committee in charge of the Tin Town development project. Jack thought it might give you some background on what’s been going on between Father and the town council.”
“This meeting—”
“Stop the car,” her father said.
Grace knew better than to argue, even though there was nothing for miles except mown fields and a few trees. Maybe he had to relieve himself. She parked on the gravel shoulder of the road.
He stepped from the car. “Give me my knife.”
She handed him a large knife in a leather sheath from the glove compartment. He walked deep into the field and, reaching one of the trees, cut at a thick branch until it broke loose, then trimmed it. He returned to the car with the branch.
As Grace drove back onto the highway, her father said to Rosen, “I know the truth doesn’t always matter in a white man’s court. You did a good job.”
Rosen smiled. “I had my briefcase with me.”
“Yes, that makes a difference—you looked like a lawyer. This branch is from a good ash tree. I’m carving you a present that will make you very happy.”
“Thank you. Now, about this meeting?”
Grace said, “It’s to see if Father will let the highway go through our property. If he doesn’t, there’ll be a hearing next week. Jack thinks the town council might want to make some kind of deal.”
“Can something be worked out?”
Grace nodded toward the back seat. “Whatever Father says.”
“What’s your opinion?”
She shrugged. “Mother left the land to him, so it’s his decision.”
“And if she’d willed it to you?”
“She didn’t. She came to believe in the Lakota way—the man makes the decision, and the rest of the family obeys.”
Looking into the fields, Rosen said, “Mr. True Sky, after the meeting I’m going up to your ridge. I’d like you to be there, to tell me whatever you can about Gate’s murder.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’d also like to talk to your grandson, Stevie. He . . .”
“No,” Grace blurted.
“Shouldn’t he be home from school by then?”
“I don’t want you talking to him.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want him bothered—that’s all.”
“But I just—”
“He doesn’t know anything. He was asleep when the murder took place, and I just don’t want him bothered anymore. He’s been through enough trouble in his life for a whole busload of children. I don’t want you bothering him. Understand?”
When he didn’t respond right away, Grace glanced at Rosen, who was staring at her.
“Well?” she demanded.
“I understand.”
No one spoke; her father’s whittling joined the soft hissing of the air vents, as Grace drove the rest of the way into Bear Coat.
She parked a half block from the town hall. Holding the branch in his right hand, her father walked beside the lawyer. Grace followed the customary step behind. The breeze, unusually warm and humid, seemed to lap against them.
Her father said, “I’m not going to this meeting.”
Grace wasn’t surprised; nothing he did surprised her anymore. She asked, “Who’s going to speak for you? Will’s not coming.”
“You do it. It’s your mother’s land. You’re half-white—you can speak to those folks at the meeting.”
She tried keeping the edge from her voice. “I’m surprised you’re letting me talk for you. After all, I’m only a woman.”
“You can tell them no and not be hurt. You’re not going to talk about anything important—only money.” He touched Rosen’s arm with the branch. “I’m a brother to the elk. Me talking to the whites about money is no good. You understand?”
Rosen nodded.
“Long time ago, before the Little Big Horn, the Cheyenne almost wiped out a group of soldiers defending a small island in a river. Twice the Cheyenne charged without their war chief, Roman Nose, because he had eaten bread that had been touched by a metal fork—a white man’s tool. The metal broke his good medicine, which protected him. On the third charge Roman Nose couldn’t hold back, even though it meant he would die. He rode with the other braves and was killed by a bullet. It had to end that way.”
“Yes,” Rosen said. “It was the same with the ancient priests of my people. There were certain objects they weren’t allowed to touch, for fear of contamination.”
“You explain it to that other lawyer, the one my daughter likes so much.”
“Jack will understand,” Grace said. “Hasn’t he stood with us right from the start?”
Her father shook his head. “It’s bad enough I have one lawyer. Now there’s two. I feel like a rabbit walking down the road between two coyotes.”
They had reached the town hall. Grace watched the American flag’s shadow flutter like a wounded bird on the hot concrete. It was nearly twelve, time for the meeting.
Her father said, “Ike got out of jail this morning. I’m meeting him at Chris Chasing Horse’s body shop. Later, he’ll drive me home. I’ll see you up on the ridge, where White Bear lies.”
Grace said, “Be careful going to Chris’s. Stay away from Tom Cross Dog. He’s not gonna be happy seeing you out of jail.”
She watched her father cross the street and disappear around the corner. He moved with the slow, sure step of an old tomcat who knew his neighborhood.
“He’ll be all right,” she half-whispered. Still, she wished he were up on his ridge, talking to his starlings and dug-up skeleton. Crazy but safe. “You have to understand the kind of man he is—what the old ways mean to him.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Rosen said. “He reminds me of someone I know.”
“He’s a little strange, but . . .”
“Be grateful at least you’re a family.”
Grace tried to smile. Resisting the impulse to let him go first, she led Rosen into the town hall. They walked up a narrow wooden staircase to the town council’s meeting room, directly across from the mayor’s office.
The door opened into the center of the room, where a long conference table stretched in either direction. A map of “Historic Bear Coat” covered most of the wall near the doorway. Along the opposite wall hung the portraits of every town mayor since 1920. All were male, except the last one, who stared into the room with such determination that, in comparison, the others seemed like a kindergarten class called before the principal.
At that moment, the real face was far different from its portrait. Mayor Belle Gates leaned against a corner window, the bright sunlight deepening the shadows under her eyes. She wore a long black dress with a round collar and big buttons—probably something she’d found in the back of her closet. She’d had her hair done; in the air-conditioned room her auburn curls, streaked with gray, remained tight around her head.
Chick Cantrell, the engineer the town had hired to lay out the road and help with Tin Town’s renovations, stood beside her. A fireplug of a man, he was stroking his thick salt-and-pepper beard. Grace had never seen him in a suit before. He usually wore an old flannel shirt, torn pants, and heavy boots. He stood very close to Belle, his big hand resting on her shoulder.
Belle limped over to Grace and hugged her. “Good to see you, honey.”
“I’m so sorry about Mr. Gates. I would’ve come to the funeral yesterday, except . . . well, it just didn’t seem right. You know, my father . . .” She looked away.
Belle reached up and brought Grace’s face back. “I don’t know if Saul did it. If he did, the law will punish him. But that’s got nothing to do with you. You know how I got this limp.”
Grace nodded. Thirty years before, Belle’s horse had fallen on top of her. She would’ve died, except Grace’s mother had kept the horse from moving, lifting its body just enough so Belle could breathe. Her mother had kept the horse up for almost an hour, until help came.
“Your mother saved my life. You never forget something like that.” Belle looked at Rosen. “This must be that Eastern lawyer Andi Wojecki called in. This is Chick Cantrell, our project engineer.”
The two men shook hands. “Well, let’s get on with it.”
Grace and Rosen sat down, while Belle walked around the table. Cantrell moved to the far corner, directly below Belle’s portrait. Just then the door opened. Pearl Whistler and Roy Huggins joined the mayor, sitting on either side of her. Grace introduced Rosen to them.
Huggins nodded curtly. “I’m a member of the town council, as well as its attorney.”
Interlacing his fingers, he hunkered over the table. It was always easier for Grace to imagine Huggins’s large frame in a football jersey than in a steel-gray suit. He had been handsome once, but that was before the long nights of gambling and drinking had softened his features and blurred his eyes red. Even though it was only noon, from across the table she smelled the whiskey on his breath.
Unlike Huggins, Pearl looked better every year. Her red hair curled softly at her shoulders, just as it had when she and Grace were in high school. When Pearl had gotten all the boys, worn the best clothes, and ridden the best horses. She’d kept her cheerleader’s body as well as her smile, which she worked on Rosen like oil on a rusty hinge.
Grace said, “You met her husband, Judge Whistler, at the hearing.” Grace and Rosen exchanged glances. Yes, her eyes told his, that old man is Pearl’s husband.
Huggins tapped his hands impatiently on the table. “I’ve got another meeting at two. We know your father’s out of jail for the time being. Where the hell is he?”
“He’s not coming. He wants me to speak for him.”
“Jesus. All right, let’s get started.”
“Where’s Jack?”
Belle said, “He called to say he’ll be a few minutes late. He’s at the newspaper office, making sure the story on your father’s bail hearing is typeset properly.”
“I don’t want to start without Jack.”
Huggins shook his head. “How many lawyers do you want?”
“I just don’t feel right . . .”
Belle held up her hand. “Why don’t we start? We’ll do the talking. You don’t have to say anything until Jack gets here. All right?”
Grace looked at Rosen. When he nodded, she said, “All right.”
“Good. You know how much I don’t want to go to court, but this is scheduled for Judge O’Hara next Monday, if we can’t reach an understanding. We want to do whatever’s possible to make your father happy, but we’ve got to have right of way. Without a new road going from the interstate through Tin Town and on into Bear Coat, there’s no project. And, Grace, that pretty much means there’s no Bear Coat.”
“This town’s been here a long time. Whether or not gambling comes to Tin Town, Bear Coat’ll still go on.”
“Will it? Tell me, what do folks do with a horse that
breaks its leg?”
She hesitated, then said, “Shoot it.”
“Bear Coat’s broke all four of its legs. Only but a few ranchers can still make a decent living. Tourism’s drying up with most people going to Deadwood for gambling or south to Mount Rushmore. Timber company’s cutting back—you know about last month’s layoffs. Now the federal government’s taking out its nuclear missiles from their underground silos. The government helped pay for keeping up the roads and generating electricity to the ranches way out in the sticks. How’re those people gonna be able to afford power now?”
Pearl said, “You can imagine what all this has done to property values. Every year a family’s home is worth less. What businesses will want to locate here?” She turned to Rosen and smiled coyly. “I’m sure you must understand our concern.”
Rosen asked, “Who’s getting the gambling licenses?”
Pearl’s smile melted away like morning dew, while Huggins grumbled something under his breath.
Belle said, “Nobody’s out to make a killing. When Grace’s grandfather went broke and couldn’t pay his taxes, Bear Coat took over Tin Town. He only kept the land from the ridge down to where his house and barn are. Because Tin Town’s on the National Register of Historic Places, Bear Coat held on to it, hoping one day it might be restored and bring in tourism. Now, with it being able to have gambling—well, we figured to develop it for the benefit of the entire town. Grace, wouldn’t your father sympathize with something like that?”
Before she could answer, the door closed behind her.
“Let’s all get out our violins and tissues, shall we?”
Jack sat beside her and squeezed her hand under the table. He was dressed casually, with an emerald-green polo shirt and brown slacks. The shirt looked good against his tan skin and brought out his green eyes. He brushed back his thick blond hair, slightly gray at the temples, and smiled. Grace smiled too.
Belle said, “We were just discussing why this development is so desperately needed. No one’s out to make a killing. The whole point is to bring back Bear Coat. I don’t want to be mayor of another ghost town.” Her gaze drifted up to the map behind Grace. “My grandfather fought Indians, drought, and blizzards to keep his ranch going. He even outfoxed my husband’s grandfather—salted a stream with gold nuggets and sold him the claim. How Albert and I laughed over that. Our roots go deep. We just don’t want this town to blow away like so much dust.”