by Jim Harrison
The third day of keeping away from the world, the snow stopped and the wind eased up which is the pattern of a three-day blow out of the NW. I read in this old-timey bird book stored here along with Zane Grey and Horatio Alger (what a name) exactly how to build a raven feeder so that’s what I did. You build a four-by-four platform about twelve feet up a tree and try to keep it supplied with roadkills. Didn’t have a ladder so I built it in a white pine with good climbing limbs, made a large space, then cut off the limbs on the way down. The question is how am I to pick up roadkills without a vehicle? Now that I’ve calmed down I got the notion this problem will be solved by fate. Meanwhile, I’ll hoof it, maybe get an old sled for roadkills. Not a bad idea.
This is the fourth dawn and I didn’t even have a drink yesterday, an act which was made easier because I didn’t have any booze left. I’d say it’s time to stop the grief about my stone-dead vehicle. Goodbye, old pard. November tenth and it’s already twenty degrees instead of the ten below me and the creatures have been dealing with these past few days. My homesickness for Grand Marais is gone because I’m in the same kind of cabin. Woke up in the middle of the night with this idea I should dig a huge hole and bury the van like a dead friend. Now this morning it is a dumb idea, besides being a lot of unpaid work. Got to get out for groceries as I’m down to the last of my pot of pinto beans. Sad to say I dumped a whole can of chopped jalapeños in them so they’re damn near too hot to eat, also uncomfortable the next day in the outhouse though a handful of snow cools the butt, something they can’t do south of the border. Bet Gretchen wonders what happened to me, also Marcelle though Delmore will tell her I’m out sulking in the woods. She was almost too hot to handle but this morning now that my tears have dried I’m about ready for another run at it. It was the least sleep I can remember. The Bible says a woman’s womb is a horse leech that cries out I want. I’ll buy that fact. In her defense it’s a fact that Travis has been gone two months. The short leg is just like the other one only shorter. She says she was born with it just like I was born not to cooperate with the world. All I can say is my tongue was raw so my morning coffee stung like hell and my pecker was plain out of commission for a few days. Take that, Delmore. I saw you pinch her ass, you cheese-brained old fuck. Just wanted you to know I delivered the goods you can’t anymore. I won’t always be around to cut free wood. I just looked at your 1952 Sears Roebuck catalogue and those girdle ad pictures are looking pretty good though they don’t show the women’s chests and legs.
Doris and Berry showed up at noon with a loaded toboggan. This threw me off when I saw them out the window because they’re a section away, a full mile of woods, not even thinking of the swamp and creek. Then I saw their trail and figured they came down from Delmore’s. Right away Berry shinnied up the tree to my raven feeder and when I came out of the cabin Doris was trying to get her down. I had gave away my pound of popcorn kernels to a flock of yellow pine grosbeaks, so couldn’t make popcorn to my regret. The grosbeaks were making their odd calls in the trees and Berry was talking back at them. Then she jumped off the platform a full twelve feet into a big snowbank, and we ran over sure that she was hurt but she was burrowing around under the snow.
We unloaded the toboggan which was good and bad. Doris had brought along her late husband’s rifle because she wanted me to shoot her a deer. I tried to say the season didn’t open for almost another week and I was a little close to town for violating but she just said again, “Shoot me a deer.” Something smelled good and it turned out to be a small kettle of stew she’d made out of a bear neck someone had given her. She put this on the stove while I looked at the other stuff which turned out to be warm clothes from Delmore which were not exactly modern. I had seen stuff like it in army-navy surplus stores when I was a kid and wanted it then so I wanted it now. There was one of those coverall-type flight suits lined with sheep’s wool, a lined pilot’s cap, and a pair of good boots. Right away I knew you could sleep in a snowbank and stay hot as a sauna rock. I put the suit on and it was a bit short and the boots a little tight but I ran out and burrowed like a vole or gopher with Berry. You could wriggle along the ground blind as a bat, then pop up in a new place.
Back in the cabin I was in for a surprise. I was eating the bear neck stew (with onions and rutabaga) and Doris hands me this letter from Delmore and then three other letters to me that he already opened. I sat there trying to think of when I got some mail. There was one letter from Shelley the year before, then once a year from the state of Michigan with my license plate sticker. I fill out the top form. That’s it. And this mail comes to the Dunes Saloon. So if you only get the one piece of mail a year and you know what it is, it’s hard to handle the four pieces. So I didn’t. I put them aside.
Just before dark I shot Doris a little spikehorn buck, gutting it and saving heart and liver. I shot it on her side of the creek so I wouldn’t have to drag it through the water. Delmore, you’re a sure-thing old asshole but I can’t tell you how toasty that outfit is. I put a rope around the spikehorn’s neck and got it through the snows to Doris’s which was a bit hard as the snow was melting during the day, then a crust froze as the sun was going down. I can’t tell you how thrilled Doris was. She fried up the heart and liver pronto, also a pan of potatoes and onions. Rose sat there like a dog turd on the couch with nary a word of apology for my van. She was watching TV as usual so Doris brought her a plate of food. Red and Berry ate so fast I could tell they didn’t have meat for a while. When I got ready to go Doris told me to make sure I took some meat and I said no, I’m going back to work tomorrow. During a commercial then Rose told me Fred would likely kill me when he came back from Flint. I said, “Sounds fair to me,” showing no fear. Then she said that the crippled waitress stopped by. She had already been to Delmore’s looking for me. I left feeling good about being in demand. First a deer for Doris and her family and now Marcelle for whatever. Sad to say I could not track Marcelle down on foot so I headed home.
Flushed a group of roosting wild turkeys on the way home in the dark which scared the living shit out of me. These birds weren’t here when I was young but the state game folks brought them back. I’m going to eat one to get even for my fright which was closer to home than the idea of big Fred trying to kill me, not to speak of Travis in a far-off land who will have the same idea no doubt. It was a fine walk making my way back by the moon and stars if you don’t count the turkeys.
Back at the cabin I stoked the fire and laid out the letters in a row, saying eenie-meenie-miney-mo to choose the first one, which came to Delmore’s, so I changed the rules and went from left to right. The first one was from this reporter from the Marquette Mining Journal who needed to talk to me about the violation of the burial ground, and whether me and “my people” intended to use force to defend it. Yes and no, I thought, getting into the mood. The next one came from another reporter. This one for the Detroit News, the other Detroit newspaper you didn’t see so much in the U.P. This asshole was on the muscle a bit, suggesting that during all the years he had covered Native politics in Michigan he had not been aware of me as a spokesman, and on viewing the TV tape he had wondered if I might represent a group “advocating a more radical approach.” The reporter added that none of the local Anishinabe leaders seemed aware that I was politically active or had any idea if I was Native or not since I wasn’t on the tribal rolls, though Tom Deerleg Koonz said that my uncle Delmore Short Bear was on the rolls.
“These fucks got everything wrong!” I yelled out to the cabin’s silence. Koonz had hit me over the head with a two-by-four in the seventh grade when there had been the promise of a fair fight, a battle over the honor of Rose because Koonz had been spreading it around the school that he had screwed Rose. Rose was an early starter in the fucking sweepstakes. Koonz is an asshole spreading confusion. I might look him up with my own two-by-four.
The third letter pulled at my heartstrings. It was from Marten Smith who was really Lone Marten (named after a real tough weasel), David Fo
ur Feet and Rose’s little brother. Doris told me he was out in California and that’s where the letter came from, in a place called Westwood. Had a nice ring to it. Marten thanked me for standing up for the People, and a Red Brother had sent him the TV tape. Help was on the way. I wasn’t sure what help he was talking about. Then he said he was coming home before spring and had an investor for a business that would help the cause. I’m confused but it would be good to see Marten who was always a crazy bastard. He stole a little sailboat from the marina once and got way out in Lake Michigan but couldn’t get back because he didn’t know how to turn it around. Some commercial fisherman from Naubinway picked him up way down by Hog Island.
Delmore’s letter was short and not too sweet:
Maybe by now you have learned not to loan your vehicle. There’s an old Studebaker pickup in the barn. If you can start it, you can borrow it. Meanwhile, I am not your enemy. I’ll be needing some wood in a few days and I need you to take down a maple that is endangering my aerials. I opened your mail by mistake so went ahead and read it. See what trouble your big mouth is getting you into? I hope so. The media is a cruel mistress. Be here by seven AM if you want a ride to town. Doris called to say you got her a deer. I could have used a piece if you had thought of your benefactor. To show you I am not a bad old guy, go to the southwest corner of the cabin. The last board is loose. There is a bottle of whiskey. You can have two short drinks. There is also a shotgun and shells. I would like some grouse to eat. Marcelle showed up looking for you. She ran around naked in my living room. Ha ha.
Yours, Delmore
The whiskey and the promise of the Studebaker made up for something. I had my two drinks then went to sleep. Woke up in the middle of the night with a boner thinking about Marcelle which got lost in a whirl feeling I was getting in over my head what with Marten and the reporters. I tried to think of the advice the frozen chief in the ice truck gave me but what I could remember is about reading a book about nature. I lit the oil lamp and chose between Riders of the Purple Sage and one by Ernest T. Seton called Two Little Savages about two little white kids trying to be old-timey Indians. It was real interesting but put me to sleep. Here’s my clear thought for cabin rent, Delmore, you driving limp-dicked old nut case. You never regret the ones you do, you always regret the ones you don’t. I got that from a nature book.
My strength is about gone after a day of ups and downs. It seems I am unfit for the life of the city, however small. First of all Delmore gives me a ride to town and some more free advice so I turn up the radio. Things are not going well overseas. Then we have breakfast and Marcelle is all over me like a decal. She whispers you can’t get a woman way up there in the air and drop her. I said that somehow I’d take care of the problem that day, and I was back in the woods in mourning for my vehicle.
“You chose that old piece of shit over me,”she said real loud. I couldn’t help but remember after our night of love she wasn’t too impressed with the van. Still, it was like someone making fun of a recently dead friend so I walked out of the diner without finishing the last few bites.
Gretchen was glad to see me at the employment office. She and her roommate decided they wanted their bedroom and living room painted. She asked if I could paint and I said yes because I’ve painted a lot of cabins though nothing on the inside. She took me over to her house which wasn’t much on the outside but real nice indoors. She showed me where she had got started but was too busy to finish. Afterward I remembered that she said something about her roommate Karen being upstairs doing painting but artist-type painting and we wouldn’t disturb each other.
But I got carried away and forgot this little item. What happened was that Gretchen left and I did some looking around which was natural. It is important to know where you are at any given moment. Since I was to start in the living room I looked in the kitchen first, seeing that there were a lot more cookbooks than most people have regular books. I noticed a half-full bottle of jug wine and took a sip, then a couple of gulps what with not having a drink in four days, almost breaking the record from when I had Asian flu twenty years ago. I didn’t open the refrigerator because I just ate breakfast an hour ago.
The real problem started when I went into the bedroom which I shouldn’t have done because the door was closed, though not locked. The room for sure was dolled up like a love nest with art-type posters of naked women hugging each other so my red head started thumping a bit. I was about to leave when I began to wonder what kind of undies Gretchen wore. I guessed probably plain white cotton ones but when I opened a dresser drawer they were pretty fancy. I couldn’t help but take a few sniffs and there was the telltale smell of lilac that sets me off. Also under the undies there was a Polaroid photo of Gretchen and another girl buck naked on a tropical beach. I couldn’t help but wonder who the lucky guy was who took the picture. By now I was breathing pretty hard and had to wedge my pecker under my belt. I called information then got Marcelle at the diner and asked if she could take a fifteen-minute break and get on over here. She could, and she was at the door in a few minutes. It was like setting off five sticks of dynamite under a stump. We just exploded, doing it like dogs with her waitress skirt up to her waist and her breasts hanging out. We made about three revolutions of the living room floor just getting traction with Marcelle real noisy, yodeling and yelling.
I don’t know how I forgot that Gretchen’s roommate was upstairs doing her art, but after about ten minutes—you lose track of time—Gretchen came running up the steps and in the door without knocking. Of course it was her house but we didn’t get any warning. We were just finishing and Marcelle didn’t notice anything like she was unconscious and Gretchen started screaming, “How dare you! How dare you how dare you you pig you pig I’m calling the police!” The roommate Karen was looking in from the kitchen and also was yelling and screaming. Marcelle was up and out of there in a split second leaving me to face the music. Once again I made the old trousers-around-the-ankle mistake. When will I learn, I thought, falling the first time I tried to get up. I covered my face in shame, also because I didn’t want to look Gretchen in the eyes. It stayed quiet though I could hear her breathing. “I guess I was lonely,” I said, and that set her off again. “Get out of here before I call the police,” she said. “You’re fired and don’t come to the office again.” I walked to the door trying to think of something right on the money to say. “I don’t think love is against the law,” I said.
My heart was heavy as I began the long walk back to Delmore’s. It lightened up a bit when I noticed the wind had clocked around to the southeast and the snow was slushy, also I stopped into a bar setting a limit of two shooters with beer chasers because it wasn’t noon yet. I can’t say I was proud of myself but I sure as hell didn’t shoot the President. Sure I made a mistake, but a mistake is not exactly a crime.
So I hoofed it back to Delmore’s and the sun was out and glistening off the snow. When I got there a tow truck was just leaving and the old Studebaker pickup was out of the barn and running. There was another car behind Delmore’s and a big man in a sport coat. Delmore was giving the man a drink out of his flask so I knew he could not be from the IRS. His name was Mr. Beaver or something like that, and he was from the Detroit News.
Delmore took me to the side. “This guy is fine but don’t get sucked in by the media,” he said with a chicken cackle.
“As I said on the phone, the tribal leaders up here, including those in Sault Ste. Marie, seem to know who you are but don’t know what organization you represent, if any.” Mr. Beaver eyed me like that State Police detective but I wore my poker face.
“Our operation is top secret,” I said, thinking there could be a group so secret that no one even knew if they belonged to it.
“Can you give me any indication what you intend to do come spring about the anthropological site?”
“Just write down that it’s a lot more likely to be hot lead than bows and arrows. I’m sorry but I can’t say any more. The brotherhood might
kill me.”
“Can you clarify ‘brotherhood’ for me?”
“Nope.” I made a sign like my throat was being cut and then went over and took a good look at the Studebaker. The side windows were broke out but the windshield was fine except for a crust of swallow and pigeon shit from sitting in the barn for forty years. It was real thick on the roof and frozen hard. I had the clear choice of hammer and chisel or letting Mother Nature clean it off with wind and rain. I got in and took her for a spin, waving goodbye at Delmore and the reporter.
Shot two grouse out of a tree for Delmore. There were four but I left two for seed. If you start at the bottom you can get them all. I’m only a fair wing shot which is the better way to hunt but it was almost dark and I had to work in a hurry. Delmore invited me to dinner and I must say the old coot knows his business at the stove. He boiled diced-up salt pork to get some of the salt out because he’s got blood pressure, then he browned up onions and carrots, browned the grouse I plucked, then put it all in the Dutch oven for forty-five minutes. All the stuff on the bottom ensures a good gravy, and the short cooking time keeps the bird juicy. He fried pieces of cornmeal mush and served the birds on top. He poured some red wine which, like Gretchen’s, wasn’t sweet enough to have much punch. Once me and David Four Feet stole a case of Mogen David from behind the supermarket when the workers took a coffee break from unloading a semi. We got about three bottles apiece down our gullets that day before it backed up on us. Since that day so long ago I haven’t been partial to red wine though I will drink it if there’s nothing else at hand.
I told Delmore the terrible story of Gretchen catching me with Marcelle and the geezer laughed so hard he slid off the couch. I said it probably was funny if you weren’t there and maybe it would be funny later on but I lost my job. He said I got a forty or two you can cut the pulp off. I said what makes you think I can cut pulp and he named three outfits I worked out of in Munising, Newberry, and Grand Marais. I said will wonders never cease, you’re a fucking spy on top of a slave driver. He said I just kept track of you, we’re second cousins but I knew he was lying there because Grandpa never said Delmore was his cousin, an old-time friend. I said if you’re Grandpa’s cousin then tell me about my mom and dad I didn’t get to know. He looked at me a full minute and took me off to see his radio room.