Jimmy Bluefeather: A Novel

by Heacox, Kim

  “Tommy and Pete were here?”

  Kevin nodded, yes.

  “They started this fire?”

  Another nod.

  “This is arson,” Kid Hugh said.

  Keb wondered: Where’s Steve? He’d been barking up a storm twenty minutes ago.

  Kevin showed Keb a burlap bag filled with carving tools. He’d managed to get into the shed and save all of Keb’s best tools, but burned both hands and his leg.

  Little Mac knelt at his side and began attending to him.

  “I’ve got a first aid kit in my truck,” Mitch said. He went to get it.

  “Those tools belong to you now,” Keb told Kevin.

  Gracie was still distraught, staring at the burning shed, breathing funny.

  Two fire trucks arrived, and three pumper trucks kept the hoses going. So many lights, sirens, and engines, men shouting and running around in red helmets and yellow coats, others tugging on turgid hoses that shot fountains onto Keb’s shed, what was left of it, and Ruby’s house, where embers landed on the metal roof. “We’ll save what we can,” Big Terry McNamee told Old Keb.

  They saved Ruby’s house, and tended to Kevin’s burns.

  Keb sat on the ground and watched numbly as the fire died and all light seemed to empty into the dawn. A light rain began to fall. Steve walked into the clearing badly winded, as if he’d run twenty miles. If only he could talk. Had he seen Tommy and Pete? Chased them away? Followed them as far as possible? Why would Tommy and Pete do this? Get the right man drunk and he’ll do the wrong thing.

  Kid Hugh wrapped his arms around Steve and got him a pan of water. Keb rubbed the dog’s head and neck and ears. Steve accepted the affection with a modest wag of his stubby tail.

  Keb worried about Gracie. She was already in poor condition. Now this. Stuart Ewing asked Mitch to drive her back to his house and maybe have Irene knock her out with a sedative.

  “Sorry, Keb,” Big Terry said. “We all feel really bad about this. Can I get you anything? Food, water?”

  “Water.”

  Terry yelled, “Somebody get Keb water.”

  Ten firemen came running with bottles and canteens.

  STUART EWING GOT off his little phone and said, “The state troopers are headed out in a chopper. They’ll be here in an hour. Once the fire cools, we’ll need to tape off the area as a crime scene.” He knelt down. “Keb, the firemen secured your propane tank. We need to know if there are any explosives in your place.”

  “What?”

  “Explosives. Are there any explosives or loaded firearms in your place?”

  “A shotgun and a hunting rifle, a Remington .270 that Uncle Austin gave me a long time ago.”

  “What about ammunition?”

  “Not much.”

  “Could you draw me a map of the shed and show me where, exactly, the guns and ammunition are?”

  Keb nodded.

  A crowd had gathered, extra hands wanting to pitch in. Keb heard somebody say, “Give him some time, Stuart. He just lost his home.”

  Keb was petting Steve under his chin, the way he liked it. “If only you could talk,” Keb said to him.

  As the morning brightened it revealed the faces of many of Keb’s friends, distraught to see his shed in smoldering ruins. It was the biggest fire since the Fire of ’62, when so many baskets and blankets were lost. Keb remembered how that fire made Uncle Austin cry. Now other people were teary-eyed: Carmen and Daisy, Galley Sally and Myrtle, and of course Gracie, back with Irene in her house, drugged and falling asleep, Keb hoped. More people arrived, a steady stream of cars, trucks, and ATVs.

  Squeezing her way through the crowd was Tanya What’s-Her-Toes from Channel Four. Speaking of toes, the first thing she saw when she got to Keb was his bare feet. It set her back to see this old man, white-haired in the rain, his one weathered hand petting a dog, the other holding a feather. Nothing on his feet. “Keb Wisting,” she said, “this was your home that just burned to the ground. Is there anything you’d like to say?”

  Keb watched Big Terry pull her away and walk her and her cameraman back to their rented van, or maybe to the nearest cliff. James, Kid Hugh, and Little Mac were busy talking with Stuart. About what Keb could only imagine.

  “We need to find Tommy and Pete,” Dag said.

  That got everybody talking. Old Keb sat there petting Steve, listening.

  “Let’s hunt ’em down.”

  No, Keb thought.

  “They burned down Keb’s shed.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “C’mon—”

  “And what do we do when we find them?”

  “We arrest them. Citizens arrest.”

  No . . .

  “We can’t just stand here.”

  “We’re doing that now.”

  “That’s what I mean. Let’s do something.”

  No . . .

  “Shoot ’em with burning arrows.”

  “Not funny.”

  “They might be up on Pepper Mountain. We could track them up there.”

  “Not in this rain.”

  “We need a good tracker, like the guy who chased Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid over bare rock.”

  “That was in the desert. This is a rain forest.”

  “We’ll need lots of coffee.”

  “And pizza from Shelikof’s.”

  “No anchovies.”

  “We should look for Charlie, too.”

  No . . .

  “He went deer hunting up Port Thomas.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And no veggies on the pizza. Just sausage and pepperoni.”

  “And olives.”

  “I’ll bet they’re at a secret hideaway, an old cabin somewhere filled with Snickers bars and Doritos and beer.”

  “Or a tent camp deep in the woods, surrounded by trip wires.”

  “With M-16s on tripods, like in Rambo.”

  “Don’t get green olives, Gene. Get the little black ones.”

  “And mushrooms.”

  “And whole wheat crust.”

  “C’mon, guys. We need to track these guys down, arrest them, and bring them in.”

  “No,” Keb said forcefully.

  Everybody fell silent.

  “No posse,” Keb said.

  “But your shed, Keb. Your home. It’s lost.”

  Keb got to his feet and faced them. “It’s not lost.” He brought his hand to his chest, palm flat against his beating heart. “It’s here.”

  They stared.

  Dag was near tears. “But Keb, your shed—where are you going to live?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “Back.”

  “Back? Back to where?”

  “Just back.”

  AN HOUR BEFORE midnight, Keb found time alone with James. “I need you to listen. There will be no revenge. You’re not going after Tommy and Pete. That’s Stuart’s job.”

  “Jesus, Gramps, they burned down your shed, your home. They ruined my basketball career. What are we supposed to do?”

  What are we supposed to do?

  Father Mikal used to say that the hardest thing when you’re digging yourself into a hole is to stop digging. It’s one thing to be bold, another to be wise. One thing to be resolute, another to be judicious. Who could James and his friends trust? Who could they model themselves after? The elder who sees blue where they see black? Why is it so easy to disregard the old man? When Keb was young, a man lived alone on the edge of town, past a crude sign that said “NO TRESPASSING.” Keb could still see the lines around his eyes, the sad mouth and slumped shoulders. Live in a small town and you learn the simple act of dropping by, and discover there’s an art to it, that it’s made to look casual while in fact it’s deliberate; it involves great caring and compassion. So it was odd to have a guy who wanted none of it. Nobody dropping by. Nobody in his world but himself. Yes, people in Jinkaat watched each other. Th
ey watched out for each other. But not this guy. He lived out the road and came into town once a month for groceries and nothing more. Spoke hardly a word. His name was Mercer, first initial T. Nobody knew his first name, the one his parents gave him. He never did take that “NO TRESPASSING” sign down. He even fixed it up, painted it. When he died, he died alone; dragged himself out onto the front porch, sat in a rocking chair, and gave up. Simple as that. He died after he took his last breath and said nothing about it. Abigail Tyler, out picking blueberries, came by and saw him covered in crows. No family claimed him or his things. A dozen townspeople cleaned out his house. In a drawer they found stacks of unsent letters written to a woman who probably never knew he loved her, and never loved him back. Somebody said those letters were the most tender and lyrical they’d ever read. After that, the kids called him Mercy. Tender Mercy. Ironic, to name a man after the very thing he needed most but never received. Uncle Austin used to say that ravens build their nests out of twigs, grasses, deer hair, even their own breast feathers. Are we any different? We make our homes from parts of ourselves—the laughter of our kids, the friends who drop by. They become our finest decorations, our best memories, the things no fire can burn.

  Keb gripped James hard by the arm and said, “Look at me.”

  James gave him an earnest look.

  Keb handed him the feather. “You have to see blue where there’s black.”

  “I know, Gramps, but—”

  “Go pack for an open boat journey. Tell nobody. Bring good foul weather gear and camping gear, some halibut hooks, salmon lures, baitfish and line, two knives, a sharpening stone, a berry basket, matches, dry kindling, and your deer rifle. Invite Little Mac and Kid Hugh.”

  James’s eyes brightened. “The canoe? We’re leaving in the canoe?”

  “Be at Portage Cove tomorrow night at eight, high tide.”

  “What about Steve? Can we bring Steve?”

  Keb grinned. He got invited before you did.

  you only have to master yourself

  WARREN HAD SAID the canoe would be ready, and it was, thanks to Mitch and Vic, who hauled it down to Portage Cove on the flatbed. And to Albert at his carpentry shop, and Oddmund and Dag, who applied every shipwright skill they learned as youngsters in Norway: the bow and stern pieces affixed, plugs set, false bottom and cubby fo’c’sle laid in, foredeck canvassed, small main mast and mizzenmast bolted in tight. “We put a kroner under each mast,” Dag said, “for luck, you know.” A coin, like a penny. Nordic shipwrights had been setting them under masts since the Viking days.

  A red cedar dugout canoe should not be retrofitted and put to sea so soon after the steaming, Keb knew. It normally needed weeks to cure. But these were not normal times. Warren had no objections. He said this was Keb’s canoe, not his.

  Both sides of Old Keb’s soul told him everything had been in preparation for this journey, this moment. It was James’s life to live, Keb’s death to die. The rainy mist had become a misty rain, counting time. Irene brought Keb three good blankets and a pillow.

  “I put Gracie on the plane to Juneau,” she told him, “to go see a doctor. You shouldn’t be going off in this canoe when she’s feeling so poorly. You know that?” Yes, Keb knew that. He knew that Irene guilt-tripped everybody. She sent Mitch on so many guilt trips that Truman said he qualified for frequent flyer miles. “You know I’m right,” Irene said. Irene was always right. Live in Jinkaat long enough and you’d know it too, or pretend to, or pay the price if the pretense wasn’t perfect. Irene went around town with curlers in her hair telling everybody how to raise their kids and grow their gardens. Dag said she got those curlers too hot one day and fried her brains, several times. Refried brains.

  Galley Sally handed Keb a box and said, “It’s mostly fish and vegetables cooked in lemon, and peanut butter cookies. Some sweets and morsels for the dog, too.”

  “The dog?” Irene said to Keb. “You’re taking the dog?”

  Steve wagged his chewed-off tail.

  The box had a strange fruity smell, as if Sally had squeezed in a kiwi instead of a lemon. Keb thanked her and handed it to Oddmund, who put it in the canoe.

  For months Keb had imagined this as a covert launching. He and James pushing away while the town slept; paddling into storms and autumn’s darker nights, all the way to Crystal Bay and another blue that’s true, a glacier blue. Paddling through time and into another place, another existence: the rib of the raven, the wrist of the whale, the defiance of the kingfisher, the patience of the heron. These past few years, when facing what he’d become, the husk of the man he used to be, Keb had wished he were dead without having to die. It frightened him, though he couldn’t say it.

  Death is not so bad as dying, Dot had told him in her last shallow breath; if only death came first. But right now, this very minute, Keb was more alive than he’d been in a long time. He felt defiant—was that it? Yes, defiant. And stunned too, that such defiance could still arise in him.

  Twenty people stood on shore, and every minute more arrived. People on the edge of the moment, moving with the rain, helping to load the canoe, proof that no secrets survive in a small town. No sign of Stuart or the troopers or James or Kid Hugh. What about Little Mac? Would she make it?

  It was dark, a little past high tide. Late August. Time to go.

  Keb fidgeted. He heard once that death is like the sun. You can’t look straight into it. Die at night then. Close your eyes. Live half your life making stories and the other half telling them. Be grateful. People used to die of toothaches. Wolves still do, but you never hear them complain. Where was Nathan Red Otter? The canoe needed his Haida blessing. Keb was uncertain how it would behave at sea without a proper blessing. He felt his stomach turn, more from excitement than fear. Where was Father Mikal? The second oldest man in town, Keb’s friend for fifty years. Father Mikal was almost dead, like Keb, and often bedridden with a million things wrong. He refused to go to Seattle, knowing as Keb did, that if you’re sick and go down there to get well, you don’t get well. You get sicker and never come home. You die among strangers, and once you die you’re dead and have nothing to say about it. Death is the general condition. Life is the exception: a beautiful, love-filled exception. Keb hoped Father Mikal was okay. He hoped the old priest would forgive him for leaving like this, without a final good-bye. As a boy, Father Mikal had known Uncle Austin and hunted with him. That meant a lot to Keb. Father Mikal was a good cribbage and poker player, too, a man of mischief and deep conviction and long robes with hearts and jacks up his sleeves, who once said God must have had a sense of humor to create us.

  Keb heard ATVs cutting the night. He saw a motorcycle out in front, going like hell, headlights bouncing along the beachfront road as the machines hit potholes but refused to slow down. The motorcycle roared up first. No mistaking the rider. Kid Hugh climbed off and came loping over. No Lakers jersey or old tennis shoes this time. He wore an oil-stained rain slicker, XtraTuf Neoprene boots, and a duct-taped sou’wester. Over one shoulder he carried a small duffel, over the other, a rifle in a soft case.

  James followed on an ATV with Little Mac on the back. She was dressed like Kid Hugh, except for a black beret aslant on her head, and her XtraTufs rolled down to her ankles. They pulled a small cart loaded with half a dozen plastic totes, each filled with clothing, food, and other supplies. They dismounted and got to work hauling. Others helped, and formed a line from the ATV to the canoe. Little Mac hugged Keb hard. For all the chatter of a minute before, the beach was silent. No wind. No waves lapping on shore. Nobody said a word. No voices carried across still water from the boat harbor half a mile away. No geese called out their southbound journey. No loons or ravens or gulls. No soft breathing of porpoises or seals. Only the rain. The strumming, thrumming rain. The canoe sat abeam a floating dock that nobody used anymore. It floated true, near as Keb could tell, and was nicely trimmed out with strong thwarts and ample freeboard. James and Kid Hugh packed it well, watching the trim as they did. With
out a word, Little Mac grabbed her pack and guitar and a blanket from Irene and walked down the dock, climbed into the canoe, and positioned her things near the fo’c’sle.

  Stuart Ewing drove up in his Jeep.

  Keb looked at him, the rain running off the rim of his hat.

  “I’m not going to ask you not to do this, Keb,” Stuart said.

  “Good.”

  “It’s your life.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know there’s a small craft advisory for Icy Strait?”

  “Yes.”

  Stuart walked onto the dock, past James and Kid Hugh. He shone a small light down the length of the canoe, knelt beside it, ran his hand along the gunwale. “She looks good, Keb.” Everybody watched. Nobody spoke. Little Mac was at the far end; Keb noticed that Stuart avoided shining the light directly on her. He could hear Oddmund and Dag whispering behind him, and many others. Stuart stood and asked Kid Hugh, “Are you the registered owner of that rifle?”

  “Yes?”

  “What about you, James?”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m supposed to pass along a message from Ruby.”

  “Oh?”

  “She told me she’s left several messages for you.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “She asked me to stop you from going out in this canoe, in worsening weather. She’ll be in Juneau tomorrow morning and plans to fly out here first thing. She said she wants to talk to you about your future.”

  “Let him go,” Oddmund said from the crowd.

  “You can’t stop him,” Dag added. “He’s done nothing wrong. You have no authority in this.”

  James said to Stuart, “This is my future.”

  Stuart nodded, “I know that.”

  “But my aunt doesn’t.”

  Stuart shrugged. “She gave me her cell number to make sure you have it.” He extended his hand, holding a little piece of paper.

  Keb noticed James’s posture, the way he stood, not favoring his bad leg like before.

  Stuart’s hand remained extended.

  “I know her number,” James said softly, his voice deeper than before.

  “The tide’s turning,” Oddmund said.