by Thomas King
“And this one’s from Uncle Leroy.”
When Louise opened the rattle, she began to blush and stammer.
“And…this one is…from…Uncle…This one’s from Will.”
“Hey,” said Carter Heavyman, as he set his Instamatic, “that looks like one of Granny Oldcrow’s rattles. Real hard to come by, those. Looks just like the one you got for her, Louise.”
Louise looked at me, shook her head, and reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a rattle.
“Bertha took me shopping yesterday. Harlen take you shopping?”
I looked around for Harlen. He was gone.
I stayed until after everyone else had left. I figured someone should apologize. South Wing hadn’t made it through the cake, before Louise had to put her down.
“You want some tea, Will?”
“Sure.”
“Granny talk to you?”
“She did.”
“I suppose they mean well.”
“I’m going to kill Harlen.”
Louise laughed and leaned over the table and kissed me. “That old woman is dangerous,” she said. “You know what she does for a living?” Louise didn’t pull away. She stayed there, leaning on the table, close to me. And she kissed me again. “Why don’t you see if South Wing is okay, first.”
I stood up, and Louise put her arms around me. “You ever have a girlfriend before me?”
“Sure.”
“In Toronto?”
“I guess.”
“What was her name?”
“Susan.”
Louise pressed her fingers against my lips. “Maybe I’ll make us something to eat. You want something to eat?”
South Wing woke up in the middle of the night and started to cry. She was standing in her crib. One of the rattles was on the floor. I picked it up and shook it, and South Wing smiled and reached out. I took her out of her crib. Her diaper was wet, so I changed it. She didn’t make a sound. She lay there playing with the rattle, watching, and it reminded me of the morning she was born. Later, I put her back in the crib, but I stayed in the room until it got light and tried to remember the song.
11
Spring was the worst season in Medicine River. The snow would melt. The days would warm. And just as you started thinking about all the things you could do outside, the wind would arrive. It blew every day. It blew every night.
“Old people used to be happy to see those chinooks, Will,” Harlen liked to tell me. “Boy, here comes that chinook, they’d say. Real happy to see them.”
Every winter, the city threw dirt and gravel on the ice to keep the cars from sliding into one another. When the snows melted in the spring, the wind would blow the finer dirt all the way to Regina, leaving the larger pieces free to be kicked up by the cars and trucks. Glass shops in Medicine River did their best business in the spring.
James’s letter arrived the same day as the wind. “Dear Will,” it said. “Thought I’d write to let you know I’m still alive. Didn’t get to Australia yet. Stopped off here in New Zealand. It’s a real nice country. Hey, it even has Indians, but they call them Maoris down here. I’m taking off for the South Island tomorrow. Going to climb a glacier. How are you doing? Next time, I’ll send some pictures. Say hello to everyone for me. Probably be back in San Francisco in December.”
After Mom died, I didn’t hear from James for a long time. Then I began to get postcards and letters. They were from all over the world: Mexico, South America, Hawaii, France, Japan. Most of them were funny, and he seemed happy enough. The return address always said, “Bentham Reserve,” and each letter was signed, “Your brother, James.”
I was standing by the window of my studio, reading the letter and watching shoppers being blown up and down Second Street, when Floyd called.
“Joe Bigbear’s back in town,” he said.
“Who’s Joe Bigbear?”
“You kidding?”
“No, who’s Joe Bigbear?”
“Harlen’ s brother.”
“Harlen’ s brother?”
“Yeah. You never met him?”
“I didn’t know Harlen had a brother.”
“American Hotel, eight tonight. Joe’s buying.”
The bar in the American is a great dark hole filled with blue smoke and dead people. At least, they should be dead. When you enter the American, the trick is to hold your breath and close your eyes. Harlen, who has the lungs of a whale, can walk into the American, sit down, and talk and laugh for hours without having to surface. Each time I go there, I swear it will be the last.
“You got to meet Joe, Will. He’s a great guy. Nothing like Harlen.”
“Don’t know if I can hold my breath that long, Floyd.”
“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want.”
“Figured I’d go for a walk this evening,” I said.
“In this wind?”
Curiosity and the wind are powerful movers, and it was a Thursday night, too. With luck, the American would be empty.
Everyone was there. Floyd caught me at the door.
“Hey, Will. Glad you made it. Hey, everyone’s here. Good party, huh? Here, have a cigar. Joe brought them all the way back from Cuba.” All the boys from the basketball team were in one corner drinking and smoking their cigars. Big John Yellow Rabbit and his wife, Estelle, were at a table with Bertha Morley and Bertha’s boyfriend, whose name I couldn’t remember. Eddie Weaselhead and Crystal and their oldest boy Peter were at another table. Ray and Elwood and Frankie were sitting near the jukebox with three women I had seen at some of our games.
“Where’s Harlen?”
“Harlen’s not here,” Floyd said.
“Is he coming?”
“Don’t know,” said Floyd. “Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”
I followed Floyd through the crowd. We worked our way to a heavyset man in a leather vest.
“Will,” said Floyd, throwing his arm around me, “this is Joe.”
There was no family resemblance that I could see. Joe Bigbear was shorter than Harlen by a head and stouter. He had one of those cigars stuck in the corner of his mouth.
“Good to meet you, Will.” Joe stood, shook the ashes off his vest and stuck out his hand. There are people, whites mostly, who understand handshaking as a blood sport. The trick is to give them the fingers and no more. Joe caught my hand by surprise.
“Damn good to meet you, Will.” And Joe squeezed my hand like he was trying to find all the bones at once. “You know what,” he said, still squeezing my hand and leaning over and whispering in my ear so most of the people at the table could hear. “You shake hands like a damn Indian.” And he roared, and everyone else laughed, too. “Sit down, Will. Heard a lot of good things about you. Sit down.”
Joe pulled out a couple of the cigars from his vest and tossed them into my lap. “Try one of these, Will. Cuban.”
“Don’t smoke,” I said.
“Course you don’t. Neither do I. But there are the exceptions. You ever had a Cuban? You only live once. You got to let go, try everything at least once.” And he turned to the rest of the people at the table. “Am I right?”
“Maybe I’ll try it later.”
“There is no later, Will. Here…” And he leaned across the table and stuck out his lighter. “Just bite off the end there and spit it on the floor. That’s the way the Cubans do it.”
I choked on the first puff and started coughing. Earl Manyfingers and Jerry Fox began whacking me on the back, and Joe boomed, “Man’s dying over here. Better bring us another pitcher.”
The beer helped, and as Joe’s attention slipped away from me, I was able to let the cigar die a well-deserved death in the ashtray.
“So I was in Australia,” said Joe. “And I was riding along the coast with these two Aussies, and it was early morning. Well, all of a sudden, this pig comes trotting across the road and scampering behind her were about eight little piglets.”
“UUUUUUEEEEEEE,” someone shou
ted, “bacon!”
Joe twirled that cigar around in his mouth. “You bet. One of those Aussies says, ‘Boy, I sure would like some fresh pig.’ And I says, ‘Well, stop the car, boys, and I’ll show you how an Indian brings home the bacon.”
Floyd leaned over to me and said, “Pay attention, Will. This is a good story.”
Joe blew a giant smoke ring and watched it for a second, as it rose towards the ceiling.
“So there I was with just my knife, and I began stalking that pig. I wasn’t after the momma. Hell, I’m not that stupid. But I figured that one of them babies would be just right.”
Floyd started laughing and nodding his head up and down. “It gets better,” he whispered.
“There was no wind,” Joe continued, “but every time I got close, that momma pig would snap her head up and look around. She didn’t see me, but she knew there was trouble somewhere. Pretty soon, though, she finds something really tasty at the base of this tree, and she begins to work her snout down under a root, and I see my chance. I stay low, like this….” and Joe got up and crouched down by the table. “Those little pigs don’t see me, and I begin to run. No sound either. Just floated across the ground.
“I get maybe thirty feet from the little pigs, when old momma jerks around and spots me. Damn…she’s off like a shot. And all those little piggies go squealing after her. Should have heard them. Squeal…squeal…squeal.
“You see those movies about lions and cheetahs. You guys get those movies up here, don’t you? Well, those cats can only run so far, maybe a couple hundred yards. But boy, for that hundred yards, they can fly. So that’s what I figure. Those pigs can outrun me, but maybe I can catch one before they got going.
“So off we went. Momma pig leading the way, the eight little piggies trying to keep up, old Joe Bigbear beginning to close the gap, and those two Aussies standing on the roof of their car so they can see, yelling and waving their arms.”
Floyd stuck an elbow in my ribs. “Here comes the part I like.”
“Well, I got to admit, I was beginning to tire. But right then, one of the little piggies gets itself tangled up in a bush. Tried to run through it and got hung up. It was trying to free its back legs, when I slid in for the tackle.”
“Uuuueee, uuuueeee, uuuueee.” Floyd sat in his chair, tears running down his face. “Uuuueee, uuueee, uuuueeeee.”
“That’s right, Floyd,” said Joe. “That little pig begins to squeal, loud enough to break your ear drums, but I had him. Joe Bigbear, Indian hunter. I held that piggy up and sort of waved him at the Aussies, who were waving their hands and shouting.
“Well, the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, and when I look up from the dirt, momma pig is just making her turn and is coming back to have at me again. I don’t know where in the hell the little piggy went, and right then, I don’t care.
“Australia’s sort of like around here, you know. They don’t have much in the way of trees. Just a whole bunch of skinny things that you could almost pick your teeth with. Well, the only thing between me and momma pig was this sorry-ass excuse for a tree, but I wasn’t particularly picky and up I go. The thing only stood ten feet off the ground and had a trunk no bigger around than Floyd’s pecker.
“So there I was, about four feet off the ground in this skinny damn tree, thanking Napi that pigs can’t climb, when this pig starts chewing at the trunk. You believe it! She starts chewing on the trunk! I’d have been pig food, if those two Aussies hadn’t stopped laughing and chased her off.”
Floyd roared and fell out of his chair. Beer and cigars went flying, and everyone started laughing, even Joe, who ordered another round.
“But that’s old stuff. I just tell that story because Floyd there likes it.” Joe rolled his cigar in his mouth and pulled at his moustache. “You boys want to guess where I’ve been for the last nine months?”
“Most likely in jail,” said a voice, and there was Harlen, standing beside me, smiling.
“Harlen, hey, you made it,” and Joe jumped up and moved his chair to one side. “Come on, sit down, grab that chair there.”
Even through the smoke and noise, I could hear the snap in Harlen’s voice. He sat down stiffly and waved off a large Cuban that appeared from Joe’s vest.
“You got here just in time, Harlen,” Joe said, lighting his own cigar, which had gone out during the saga of the wild pig. “Now, where do you suppose I’ve been for the last nine months?”
“Hey, don’t be too fast with the story, Joe,” said Floyd, standing up. “I got to see a man about a horse, you know. Be right back.”
Floyd got up and headed for the bathroom.
“Me, too,” I said, and followed Floyd.
When I got to the bathroom, Floyd was at one of the urinals trying to find his zipper.
“Hey, Will, what’d I tell you? Great guy, Joe. Been everywhere. Done everything.”
“What’s with him and Harlen?”
“Oh, nothing. They just don’t get along very well, I guess. You know, brothers.”
“Harlen doesn’t seem too happy to see him.”
Floyd finally found his zipper and got it down. “Hell, Will. You know Harlen. Pretty straight. Joe’s done it all. He’s famous. You know, he got one of his jokes published in Reader’s Digest. I guess it’s hard to have a famous brother. Harlen always gets like that when Joe comes to town.”
Floyd chewed on his cigar and chuckled to himself and sort of swayed back and forth at the urinal, as though there were a song playing in his head.
I was at the sink washing up, when I heard him shout.
“Jesus!” Floyd was wearing a pair of white pants, and there was a long telltale wet spot that ran from mid-thigh to past his knee. He looked over at me with that cigar. “Jeez, Will. God! Look at this.” I must have been smiling, because Floyd got all serious. “Hey, Will…you won’t say anything…you know…to the rest of the guys. They won’t notice anything, if you don’t let on.”
The smoke and noise were making me mean. “Okay, Floyd,” I said. “So what’s the problem with Harlen and Joe?”
Floyd smiled again, almost laughed, and waved the cigar around in a circle. “Like I said, Will, brothers. You know.”
Harlen Bigbear was one of the most charitable people I had ever known. No matter who it was, Harlen would always go looking for the good in a person. And even if he couldn’t find it, he assumed that it was there, buried somewhere. If anyone knew why Harlen was sitting across the table from his brother, stiff and tense, it was Floyd.
“I hear little kids stop doing that when they’re about two.”
“Come on, Will. Shit, you wouldn’t do that?” Floyd’s vanity was legend. He loved good clothes, and whenever he came into town from the reserve for a big night, he’d wash his car out there first, and then he’d stop off at Elwood’s house on the north side of town and wash it again.
“Sure I would, Floyd.”
“Honest, Will,” said Floyd, his arms extended, the dead cigar hanging in his mouth. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Tell me anyway.”
When we got back to the table, Joe had already started the story. I ran interference for Floyd. I walked in front, and Floyd kept as close to me as good manners would allow. Moving through the bar like that, back to our chairs, we must have looked like Siamese twins.
“…so there we were, ten gorgeous women just waiting for us down by the stream. And there we were up on the bridge trying to explain to these French soldiers with machine-guns just what we were doing there….Hey, you guys almost missed the best part. What’d you do, get married in there?”
“Floyd proposed,” I said. “But I said no.”
Joe went on with the story about Tahiti and then told one about being in New Orleans during Mardi Gras and another about the time he worked on a fishing trawler off the coast of South America. Harlen sat there through all of Joe’s stories looking at the floor or staring at the Molson sign on the wall above Joe’s head. Every so oft
en, he’d sigh and turn to look at me and then turn back to the floor or the wall.
“…but you know, the time I almost bought it was on the Navajo reservation. I met this fellow, Mike Begay, in a bar in Gallup and…”
I leaned over to Harlen. “Never knew you had a brother.”
Harlen nodded yes and went back to staring at the floor.
“Seems like a nice guy.”
“Hey, Harlen,” said Joe, “you remember that time when we were kids and we went down to the old bridge. They tore that bridge down, boys, before most of you were born. That thing must have been fifty feet in the air, all wood. They got that new metal one now. Well, old Harlen says, ‘Let’s climb that sucker. We can jump from the top.’ Hell, I didn’t want to go, but I was older, and you know how that is.
“So up we went. The first part was easy. You could just walk along the planks, but once we got out over the river and I looked up, I was scared. Old Harlen, he wanted to go up to the top, but I chickened out. The water was only about twenty feet below us, and I figured it was better to jump from where I was than to slip on one of those planks near the top. So I jumped. Christ, that water felt like concrete. I must have gone all the way to the bottom, because I was spitting water when I finally came up for air.
“The worst part was that the river was still pretty high, like now, and the current was fast, and it started taking me down river. Well, you know, I looked up, and there was Harlen leaning out, holding on with one hand, just like a damn monkey, waving me goodbye.
“It took me maybe three miles before I could get to shore and, boy, was I cold and tired. Took me another three hours to catch a ride home.
“When I got home, there was Harlen sitting on the couch, reading a book. I’m standing there, my clothes are still wet, and he looks up like nothing ever happened and says, ‘You enjoy your swim?’ Ha! You believe that? Just as calm as you can be. ‘You enjoy your swim?’”
Everyone laughed, and even Harlen laughed a little.
About two, Joe began to run out of gas. He’d had more than enough to drink, and he looked tired. Most of the people had left. Joe closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.
“Should probably take him home,” I said.