by Paul Moomaw
That made him think of his mother, and that led to all the troubled feelings he was beginning to have about his relationship with Anne. Maybe the brainwashing at that school had worked in subtle ways, Helen Lousen had said. And maybe, Arceneaux thought, the father had passed the poison down to the son.
“The fathers have eaten of bitter fruit, and the children’s teeth are set on edge,” Arceneaux muttered to the windshield. It was something from the Bible, and he had no idea how he had learned it, or why it had stuck in his head. He shook his head in irritation. This kind of thinking just made his brain hurt, so he shoved it all into a dark room in his mind, shut the door, and concentrated on driving.
Chapter 13
David Crisp’s Taekwondo school occupied the middle third of a dingy, one story building that squatted just off the highway, another piece of the strip mall blight that extended farther every year up the Bitterroot Valley. Tucked between a quick loan firm and a dollar store, the dojo’s one large window was covered with painted dragons and gold, faux-oriental lettering that proclaimed it to be The Iron Fist Martial Arts Academy. Parked in front was a big Ford F-350 diesel pickup, a four-door job in fluorescent yellow sporting vanity tags that said GODOJO. Pulling the front door open triggered a chime that echoed loudly as Arceneaux stepped into the front room of the school. There was a counter at the rear, with no one in attendance, and behind the counter a closed door through which Arceneaux could hear high pitched, rhythmic shouts. A kids’ class, he decided, and propped himself against the counter, examining the trophies that occupied floor-to-ceiling shelves on one wall. Most appeared to come from tournaments in Montana and neighboring states, and all of them looked pretty much the same—black or marble pillars topped by figurines of people kicking. A number of photographs of David Crisp, posing with students, or holding trophies much like the examples in the room, were propped here and there on the shelves. Three of them were bigger than the others and mounted on the wall directly behind the counter. One showed Crisp with a well-known movie actor, and another with a U.S. Senator. The third was a shot of Crisp in uniform, camo fatigues and a beret, with the mean look that Arceneaux had seen in the photos at Crisp’s house. Against the wall opposite the trophies stood a large display case, filled with hand and foot protectors, helmets, and articles of clothing.
The sounds stopped, and after a few moments the door opened. Kids began drifting out. One of them was Bryce, who stared at Arceneaux and then looked quickly away. David Crisp followed them out and shut the door. He wore a white gi over his slender but hard and muscular body, a red belt tied around the waist of the tunic. His dark hair was cropped short, and he had Chuck Norris wannabe stubble on his angular face.
“Now maintain discipline,” he said in a high, soft tenor that nevertheless held an edge. “Keep it quiet if you stay inside to wait for your parents, or go outside and make all the noise you want.” He looked at Arceneaux. “Can I do something for you?” he asked.
Arceneaux introduced himself. “I wanted to talk with you about Samantha,” he said.
Crisp frowned. He pulled the rear door open again and motioned with his head. “Come back in here,” he said. He led the way into the back room, moving with a smooth, controlled stride that said he wanted to look dangerous; and he did, Arceneaux decided, as he followed him through the door.
Crisp closed the door. “Kids can be nosy,” he said. He stood facing Arceneaux, his hands clasped in front of his waist.
“About your daughter,” Arceneaux began.
“There’s nothing to say that I haven’t said already. She’s dead, that big asshole killed her, and nothing will bring her back.”
“There may be some doubt about who killed her,” Arceneaux said.
“From what I’m told, you’re getting paid to have doubts.” Crisp shook his head emphatically. “Nobody else has any.” He lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged against the wall, under a poster that showed the word CAN’T inside a red circle with a diagonal line through it. “Samantha was sweet, but she was gullible. And stubborn. I tried my damnedest to talk her out of marrying into that bunch of religious nuts, but she wouldn’t hear a word.” He paused and sighed. “Until just before she died. She knew she was in trouble. She asked me for help, in fact.”
“I heard you were up at Double Pine just before she was killed,” Arceneaux said.
Crisp gave him a wary look, then nodded. “She wanted to talk, wanted advice, and she didn’t want her mom to know anything. So I went up there to see her. I offered to bring her home, but she wanted to give things a little more time. She waited too long.”
Crisp rose to his feet in one smooth motion. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said, staring at Arceneaux as if daring him to argue. “I tried. It’s over, or it will be when they execute that son of a bitch Marks.” He walked to the door and opened it. “Now please leave my family alone. It’s hard enough without you skulking around stirring things up.” He stood back to let Arceneaux pass.
As they re-entered the front room, Arceneaux stopped to look again at the photographs on the wall. “You were in the Army?” he asked.
“Yeah, I spent a few years of my life in Special Operations.”
“That where you learned martial arts?”
Crisp shook his head. “I already had a second degree brown belt in kenpo before I went in. In the military it was more a job of polishing what I already knew, and learning not to be afraid to use it.” He paused and gazed at Arceneaux, a challenge in his eyes that Arceneaux was not sure he understood. “I killed a man once,” he said. “With my bare hands. It took about fifteen seconds.” He stared a challenge at Arceneaux, and Arceneaux stared back, wondering what kind of man would brag about killing. He had done his share of that, in the Gulf War, had blown the head off one Iraqi soldier who could not have been more than a kid. It still gave him bad dreams.
Crisp turned and headed for the front door. “Break time for me,” he said over his shoulder. “I teach Taekwondo here because it’s flashy. The kids especially like that. The truth is, though, it would be useless in a street situation.” He opened the door and held it. “I’ll let you out and lock up.”
In the parking lot, Arcneaux nodded at the big Ford. “Nice truck,” he said. “Business must be good.”
“Pretty damn good,” Crisp said.
“That license plate your own invention?”
“You bet. I’ve had it on every vehicle I’ve owned for years. Good, cheap advertising. You know how it is for a small businessman. Got to save every penny you can. That’s why I bought the truck in Spokane.” He pointed at the decal on the tailgate that said INLAND EMPIRE MOTORS. “Saved money then, too.”
“That must have pissed the local dealers off a little.”
“Screw ’em,” Crisp said. “I try to support the businesses here. After all, I’m one of them. But I also figured out a long time ago that anything I do, I’m going to piss somebody off. And I decided that if I have to choose between pissing people off trying to do what I think they might want, or pissing them off doing what I want, I’m going to do what I want. And I don’t care what you or anybody else thinks about that.” He made a sharp, chopping motion toward the truck. “Take that, for instance. The best deal anybody offered me around here would have cost me almost six thousand more than I wound up paying in Spokane. Plus, being from Montana, I didn’t even have to cough up Washington sales tax. You can’t beat that.”
“I guess not,” Arceneaux said. He walked toward his Subaru, Crisp on his heels.
“That’s your transportation?” Crisp asked. “I guess business isn’t that good for you, huh?”
“Life has its ups and downs,” Arceneaux said.
Crisp laughed, a short, tight bark of a laugh. “I won’t argue with you there,” he said. He laughed again. “I absolutely won’t argue with you there.”
Arceneaux was not sure what the joke was, and did not bother to ask. He slid into the driver’s seat of the Subaru, closed the door a
nd rolled the window down.
“Thanks for your time,” he said. Thanks for nothing was what he thought, as he pulled out of the parking lot. Either Crisp was lying, or Helen Lousen was, and Arceneaux could think of no reason for the housekeeper to make anything up. So what was Crisp actually doing at the Double Pine? He found himself thinking of Corey Wallace. If Crisp was not visiting his daughter at the Double Pine, maybe he was there to see Wallace. Maybe it was not teaching taekwondo that paid for Crisp’s fancy truck. It was a stretch, but worth looking into.
When he got back to his office, a message was waiting, from someone named Anna Mae Preston, with a Hamilton telephone number. He dialed and the phone picked up on the first ring. A woman with a soft, deep voice answered. Arceneaux identified himself and asked for Anna Mae Preston.
“That’s me,” she said. “Thank you so much for getting back to me. I am . . .” she paused, “I used to be, a good friend of Elizabeth Crisp. I live right next door. In fact I was maid of honor at her wedding.” She paused again. “Her first wedding, to Samantha’s father.”
“You’re not friends any more?” Arceneaux said.
“I think we would be, except her husband, her new husband that is, doesn’t encourage her to have friends.”
Arceneaux wondered at the undercurrents that would have this neighbor calling David Crisp a new husband after more than twenty years of marriage. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.
“I think it would be useful for us to talk,” she said. “There are probably a lot of things you don’t know about that family. I wonder if you would mind coming to my house?”
“When would be a good time?”
“Any time,” she said. “I’m almost always home. It’s the blue house next to Elizabeth’s on the north.”
Chapter 14
As Arceneaux walked toward the front door of the house that had once belonged to him and Teresa the yells and laughs of young boys became more audible. There would be nine, Arceneaux knew–Josh and eight others–celebrating Josh’s ninth birthday. It was one of Teresa’s quirks. There had been one child, a cousin, at Josh’s second birthday, and one added each year. Arceneaux had asked her, once, what she intended to do when Josh hit his teens. She had only shrugged.
The door flew open and Josh raced out, then stopped half way, standing and watching his father approach. His hair, which had always been long in the Indian way, was now cropped close to his head. It threw Arceneaux off. Teresa had not mentioned the haircut, and he wondered what it was about. His ex had never made a secret of liking Josh in long hair, which she put into a braid sometimes, and other times let hang free.
Josh looked at the small, wrapped package in his father’s hand.
“Is that for me?” he asked.
“Sure is.”
“It’s kind of little.”
“I think you’ll like it okay,” Arceneaux said. The package contained a Swiss army knife, one with all the bells and whistles. Arceneaux had asked his ex for ideas about a gift, but it had been one of their tense days, and she had told him to figure it out for himself. He had settled on the Swiss army knife because all boys like knives.
Arceneaux spread his arms and Josh, as if he had been waiting for permission, sprang forward into his father’s arms. Arceneaux picked him up and hugged him, then set him carefully down again.
“You got a haircut,” he said.
“Yeah,” Josh said. “Does it look okay?”
“It looks fine,” Arceneaux said.
Josh nodded solemnly. “Good,” he said, and led the way into the house.
Teresa was in the kitchen fussing over a birthday cake. She turned as Arceneaux entered. Arceneaux stood awkwardly, not sure what to say. He felt a small pang, remembering how, once upon a time, they had been able to talk easily, about anything. That comfort had been there from the beginning, but now it was gone.
“Nice looking cake,” he finally managed to say.
“Albertson’s best.”
More silence, and then Arceneaux said, “You cut Josh’s hair.”
“I took him to a barber. No way I could stand to cut it myself.”
“Was it his idea, or yours?”
“You know it wouldn’t be mine.” She looked at Arceneaux with a wry smile. “I guess you finally won.”
Arceneaux shook his head. “Nothing to do with me anymore. He’s your kid.” As soon as he said the words, he knew he should not have. He could feel the anger as Teresa stiffened.
“Some people might figure he’s your son, too,” she said. She did not look at him.
“You know what I mean,” Arceneaux said. “You’re the one deals with him every day. I’ve got no business butting in, telling him how to wear his hair.”
“He might like it if you would butt in a little more often. I’m surprised he knew who you were.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Teresa whirled to face him. Her eyes glittered, and her mouth and jaw were set hard.
“It is that bad, Sam,” she said. “Josh needs time with you. How long has it been, three months? Four?”
“Less than that.”
“Not enough less. Why can’t you put a little effort into seeing him?”
“He doesn’t complain.”
“Not to you.” She sagged slightly, spread her palms. “Not even to me any more. He’s given up hoping it will matter. But he misses you. The other night, I checked in on him before I went to bed. He was asleep, and he had his arms wrapped around that old leather cowboy hat of yours, the one you gave him last year.” Teresa’s face softened. “He’d be so happy if you’d just let him stay with you now and then. A weekend a month wouldn’t kill you.”
“There’s nothing for him to do at my place.”
“Then think of things for him to do, goddamit.” Teresa’s voice rose. “You want to know the real reason he got that haircut? He thought maybe then you would love him. He thinks you don’t want him at your place, around your white friends, because he looks too Indian.”
The words ripped into Arceneaux’s heart. He stood there silently, shaking his head back and forth. He wanted to say that was bullshit, but as she had always been able to do, Teresa had salted her words with a touch of truth, no matter how unfairly. They had fought over Josh’s hair on more than one occasion, even after the divorce, and it had been Arceneaux who had favored shorter hair because he thought it would allow Josh to fit more easily into a school system where most of the kids, and all of the teachers, were white.
The pain had to show, and Teresa’s look softened. She took a tentative step toward Arceneaux.
“Josh would stand on his head and love it, Sam, as long as you were doing it together,” she said.
“Don’t know how to stand on my head,” Arceneaux said, and knew he had put his foot in his mouth again. Teresa twisted away from him and focused her attention on the cake.
“Sorry,” Arceneaux said. Teresa ignored him.
“Look,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll try to find a time to have him.”
Teresa turned to face him again. “When?”
“I don’t know. Soon.” It was still too easy to look at his former wife. She was a beautiful woman, always had been, with her Salish mother’s soft, dark eyes, her Crow father’s high forehead and long, straight nose, and the curly hair that was the legacy of some long dead French trapper. He felt a glimmer of desire, brushed it away. The marriage was gone. He had ended it himself, and there was no bringing it back to life. Even so, his hand moved unbidden and took one of hers.
“I’ll try to do better,” he said, and released the hand.
Teresa caressed the hand he had held with her other hand.
“Promise?” she asked.
“Promise.” Arceneaux rose and went out of the kitchen and living room were all the boys were clustered.
“How about a little football?” he said. With yells of approval, the boys headed toward the front door, except for Josh.
“
Where’s my ball, Mom?” he asked.
“I’ll dig it out,” Teresa said. “You go on with the others.”
Josh nodded and moved toward the door. As he passed, Arceneaux stepped to his side and put an arm around his shoulders. Josh grabbed his father’s waist tightly with one arm, and they walked outside together.
As Arceneaux got into his car after the party, he found himself gazing up at the razor-sharp peaks of the Mission Mountains, and thinking about his father. He felt a heaviness of spirit that he had not experienced for a long time. He told himself it was just from talking with Helen Lousen, but the feeling grew, and gradually evolved into a decision. He glanced at his watch. There should be at least three more hours of daylight. He started the engine and drove back to Missoula and his house, where he rooted around and found his old sleeping bag. He should take his tent, too, he thought, but he had no idea where or when he had last seen it, so he settled for a nylon tarp that he found in the closet, and then managed to locate a day pack. It had a hole in it from some ancient encounter with a hungry rodent, but it would hold the basics. Then he got into his car and drove north again. He stopped in Arlee to pick up bottled water and cheese. Then he followed the highway through Ravalli, and over the hill to St. Ignatius and beyond to the road that turned off to McDonald Lake. There was a small parking area at the tip of the lake. He pulled up there, stuffed the tarp, water and food into the day pack, and then realized he had no straps to attach the sleeping bag. He scratched his head briefly over that, then unbuckled his belt, pulled it off, and used it to attach the bag. It was a sloppy job, and the sleeping bag knocked against the backs of his thighs when he slipped the day pack on, but it was not much of a hike to the top of the lake, where he planned to spend the night.