by Paul Moomaw
“Maybe he understood that people are people, and that’s all that matters.”
Arceneaux shrugged and said nothing.
“I need you to get past the race thing,” Anne said. “Your father did.”
“I think it was easier for him. He was all Indian, so he knew who he was. I’m not sure I know who I am.”
“All the same, it doesn’t help us any, you know?”
“I’m working on it,” Arceneaux said.
“Good,” Anne said. She stretched back in her seat and sighed.
They reached Painted Rocks Lake and drove to the upper end. Their picnic rock was as large and flat as Arceneaux remembered it. He pulled an old, faded blue cotton blanket from the back seat and spread it on the rock as Anne hauled out the cooler and opened it.
“Used to be some pretty good fishing in this lake,” Arceneaux said, “but not any more. They drew it down about twenty-five years ago. Just about emptied the damn thing so the gentlemen farmers downstream could water their hayfields. The water’s back, but the fish never recovered.”
“It’s still pretty,” Anne said. “A lot prettier than your sandwiches. Did you make these with your feet?” She held out a sandwich to Arceneaux. It was his specialty—pastrami and pepper jack on rye bread, slathered with hot Dijon mustard and the spaces filled in with bean sprouts that stuck out in all directions. The bread, which had gotten squashed in the refrigerator somehow, was bent and wrinkled, with holes torn in it here and there, and the mustard oozed through the holes.
“It’s the taste that matters,” Arceneaux said. He grabbed a bottle of Moose Drool, the signature ale of a local Missoula microbrewery, wrestled his Swiss Army knife out of the pocket of his jeans, and popped the bottle cap. “Take this and stop complaining, white girl.”
They sat side by side, munching on sandwiches and sipping beer. Anne gazed at the water, and at the mountains above the lake; and Arceneaux watched her and felt his heart melt a little as his gaze traced the outlines of her face—the high cheekbones, the strong nose, and the deep eyes under dark, emphatic eyebrows. He realized he could fall in love with her, maybe already was a little. He wished he could be sure it was a good idea.
As if she had read his mind, Anne turned to him and asked, “What does your son think about me?”
“Don’t know,” Arceneaux said. “We haven’t really talked about you. About us.”
Anne turned and stared at him, frowning. The dark blue of her eyes turned wintry. “What’s the big secret?” she asked.
“No secret,” Arceneaux said. “Just haven’t.”
“Why not?”
Arceneaux shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t really talked about you to anybody.”
“Somehow I thought I was a little bigger blip on your screen than that,” Anne said. She finished her sandwich, tossed the wrapper into the cooler, and stood up.
“You’re a hell of a lot more than a blip,” Arceneaux said. “And I don’t know what to do about that. Don’t even know what I want to do. And I don’t like to talk about things that I don’t know what to do about.”
“So you’ll think about it, and decide what to do about me, and then talk about it?”
“I guess.”
“Do I have anything to say about what you decide, or will you just deign to inform me,” Anne spoke the words with a drawn out, exaggerated edge, “once you’ve come to a decision?” She walked to the Subaru, opened the passenger door. “I think I want to go home now,” she said.
Arceneaux rose and tossed the rest of his sandwich into the cooler. He drained the last of the beer, threw the bottle in after the sandwich, and closed the lid, then slammed his hands down onto the red plastic.
“Shit, Anne,” he said. “How am I supposed to talk to you about this? You’re who it is I’m all confused about to begin with.” He picked the cooler up, carried it to the Subaru, and tossed it in and closed the tailgate of the little wagon
“Well listen, Mister Sam hard case clam mouth Arceneaux, I need you to talk to me.” Anne’s voice softened, and she smiled the tiniest bit. “Problem is, I think I’ve already made the mistake of beginning to fall in love with you.”
“And I know how I feel about you. I just don’t know what to do about it, because how I feel scares me.” He hung his head, and felt tears trying to come into his eyes. He forced them down and swallowed. “I guess I’m afraid you’ll decide I was a mistake.”
“I’m not your mother, Sam.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it says. I didn’t abandon you. That’s not me.”
“I know,” Arceneaux said. “But I guess what she did has stayed with me more than I want to believe.”
“Then get over it. Like I said, I have no intention of running out on you; but you could wind up driving me away.” She ran her fingers through her hair and stared hard at him. “Let me in, Sam,” she said. “Where Josh is concerned, too. I’ve been pretty transparent. With you, with friends. No secrets. I need you to be that way with me.”
Arceneaux sighed and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said.
Anne brightened. “So I get to meet your boy?”
“You bet.”
“When?”
“Some day. Give me a little time, Anne.”
She grabbed his nose between thumb and forefinger and tweaked it lightly, then kissed him. “Okay, bub,” she said. “But only a little.”
They climbed into the Subaru and headed down. As they passed Piquette Creek Road, Arceneaux promised himself that he would go up there soon and see what attraction it held for David Crisp..
At the bottom of the West Fork Road, Arceneaux took the cutoff to the Hanon Memorial fishing access, where the West Fork flowed into the main stem of the Bitterroot.
“We still have some daylight,” he said. “Want to see if they’re biting?”
“You try, I’ll watch,” Suzanne said. She got out and sauntered down to the river bank, found a snag and sat. Arceneaux unlimbered his rod and walked to the water’s edge. He scanned the river and was pretty sure he saw a rise form about half way across, in the seam behind a large boulder. He stripped line and made a roll cast toward the rock, then did a couple of more roll casts, stripping and shooting line as he did. He looked over his shoulder, and decided the cottonwoods that lined the bank were far enough back to allow him room for a good back cast. He let the line float downstream, hauled it off the water, made one false cast downstream again, then bent his back cast around so that he could aim for the rock. As he started his forward cast, he realized he had been wrong about the trees. The fly was trapped by branches about thirty feet above ground.
“Damn,” he said.
Anne rose and sauntered over to him. She patted him lightly on the rear and kissed his cheek.
“Gee,” she said. “You cast just like a man.”
Chapter 19
Arceneaux stood with Josh in his back yard, and wondered what to do until noon, when Anne had said she could be finished with her backed up paperwork. He had told her two days before that his son was going to visit him.
“When?” she had asked, and when he said Saturday, had immediately called in his promise to introduce them.
Arceneaux had resisted briefly, but he had given his word, and had no space to retreat. Now he faced the day with sharply mixed feelings. There was relief that he would not have to deal with Josh by himself; but there was also a good dose of trepidation. When he had told Josh that a friend would be spending time with them, his son had stared hard at him and asked, “A girl?” and had scowled and said nothing else when Arceneaux replied yes, a girl.
“Does that bird live inside the house?” Josh asked suddenly. He pointed to a square, louvered vent just under the eaves. A starling perched there, and then ducked between the louvers and disappeared. “That’s the second one,” Josh said.
“There’s supposed to be a screen behind that vent,” Arceneaux said. “I’ve been meaning to f
ix it since last year.”
“I’ll help you,” Josh said. Arceneaux looked down at him, started to say no, and then realized fate was offering him a way to keep them both occupied until Anne arrived.
“You got a deal,” he said. He went to the garage and tossed things around until he found a roll of old metal screening and some shears. Then he went back into the yard and eyeballed the vent. It looked to be about twelve inches by eighteen. He cut a piece of screen that was closer to fourteen by twenty. Then he returned to the garage and found his old, wooden ladder. He propped it against the wall next to the vent. Then he motioned Josh toward the back door.
“Come on in the house,” he said. “I’ll show you what you can do.” He led the way into the bathroom and pointed to the ceiling. “See that trap door?” Josh nodded. Arceneaux picked him up and hoisted him onto the counter. “Can you reach?”
Josh stretched out, but fell short. Arceneaux pulled a small foot stool from under the sink, and placed it on the counter. “Stand on that,” he said. “I’ll hold you.”
Josh stepped up onto the stool, and reached up. This time his hands touched the ceiling.
“Now, undo that latch,” Arceneaux said. Josh slipped the latch and the trap door swung down, throwing dust everywhere.
“What you need to do now,” Arceneaux said, “is climb up in there and crawl over to the vent. It’s only about five feet away.”
Josh looked at the opening doubtfully. “Are there spiders in there?”
“You afraid of spiders?”
The boy cast his eyes downward. “No,” he said, then, “Maybe a little.”
“No spiders,” Arceneaux said. “I guarantee you.” He held onto Josh’s legs as the boy reached up, grabbed the edge of the opening, and pulled himself into the crawl space.
“Do you see the vent?” Arceneaux asked.
“Yeah, but it’s really dark up here.”
“You scared?”
“Kind of.”
“Wait a minute,” Arceneaux said. He pulled open a drawer under the counter and pulled out an old flashlight. He wasn’t sure how long it had been there, or how old the batteries might be, but when he pushed the switch, it worked. He stretched up and held the flashlight aloft. “Take this,” he said.
Josh grabbed the light and shined it toward the vent.
“There should be four metal latches around the edges of the vent,” Arceneaux said.
“I see them.”
“Okay. What you do is crawl over there and unsnap the latches. Then you can just push the whole thing out and it will fall outside.”
“You sure there aren’t any spiders?” Josh asked.
“No spiders. At least not the kind that bite.”
“They all bite,” Josh said, but he crawled toward the vent.
“Do you see the latches?” Arceneaux asked.
“Yeah.” There were a series of faint snaps. “Now I just push?”
“Right.”
“There it goes,” Josh called out, and in a moment his head appeared at the opening. “Did I do good?”
“You did great.” Arceneaux held out his hands and grabbed Josh as the boy lowered himself from the ceiling.
“I was scared, but I did it anyway,” Josh said, as they went outside to find the vent. “Are you proud of me?”
“You bet,” Arceneaux said. He picked up the vent and stapled the new screening over the louvers. “Now I’ll climb the ladder and push the vent back into the hole, and then you can go back up from the inside and close the latches.”
By the time the second phase of the operation was complete, Anne was pulling up in front of the house.
Josh watched through the window as the car door opened.
“Is that you friend?” he asked.
“That’s her.”
“Does she have to come in?”
“You’ll like her, Josh.”
His son’s only response was to turn and march toward the rear of the house. Arceneaux watched him go, then opened the front door to Anne. He gave her a perfunctory hug and kiss, and then said, “This may be a little complicated.”
“How come?”
He nodded toward the hallway where Josh had disappeared. “I think I should have given my boy a little more warning,” he said.
“Want to cancel?”
Arceneaux shook his head. “He’s got to get used to the idea sooner or later. It might as well be sooner. Go sit,” he said, and headed for the hallway. He could see that the door to the spare room was shut. He had told Josh that it would be his room, although at the present there was nothing in it but a beat up rocking chair and an air mattress.
And Josh, he supposed. He stepped to the door and turned the knob. The door was locked. He knocked softly. “Josh?” he said. There was no response. He knocked louder. “Hey, Josh.”
“What?”
“Come out and meet Anne.”
“Don’t want to.”
“It won’t kill you.”
“Don’t care.”
Arceneaux sighed loudly. “Then let me in, at least, so we can talk.”
After a long silence, Josh opened the door and looked up at Arceneaux.
“Okay,” he said, and retreated to the air mattress. Arceneaux sat down on it next to him.
“We’ll get you a real bed pretty quick,” he said.
“I need a dresser, too.”
“You bet,” Arceneaux said.
“And she doesn’t get to come in here.”
“Fair enough. It’s your turf. But you need to go out and meet her.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You have to. You have to be polite, because you’re an Arceneaux.”
Josh stared at his toes for a long time. “I have a TV in my room at home,” he finally said. “Can I have one here?”
Little blackmailer, Arceneaux thought, but shrugged and said, “Sure.”
“Okay,” Josh said. “I guess I’ll go meet her then.” He stood up and walked to the door, then stopped and waited for his father to get to his feet.
Anne had settled herself at a chair in the dining room. She rose and waited as Josh and Arceneaux approached.
“Sorry for the delay,” Arceneaux said. “This is my son Josh. He was busy hustling me for a television set.”
Anne stepped toward Josh and extended a hand. “I’m Anne,” she said.
Josh pressed himself against Arceneaux’s hip and stared at her until she let the hand drop.
“Are you going to stay very long?” he asked.
“How long should I stay?” Anne said.
“Not real long.”
Arceneaux squeezed the back of his son’s neck softly.
“Anne helped carve one of the horses at the carousel,” he said. “It’s called Midnight Rose. We thought you might like to go see it.”
“That’s for babies,” Josh said. “I only ride real horses.”
Anne looked at Arceneaux, then at Josh, and then at Arceneaux again.
“What I think,” she said, “is that you guys need some time alone with each other.” She glanced back at Josh. “This is your first time here at your dad’s isn’t it.”
Josh nodded without looking at her.
“So no wonder you don’t want me butting in. Maybe another time, okay?”
“Maybe,” Josh said.
Anne caught Arceneaux’s eyes again, and made a small face. “Be in touch,” she said, and headed for the door.
Arceneaux watched her go, then turned to his son. Now what? He thought. He was angry at Josh, and trying not to let it show. He wondered suddenly how often his own father had needed to hide anger when the son was being a jerk. But I wasn’t rebellious like Josh, he thought, and the anger got tangled up with a touch of pride that Josh had the courage to stand up to him. Pride, and maybe a little bit of envy.
“I hope you’ll give Anne a chance,” he said. “She’s actually a lot of fun.”
“She’s white,” Josh said.
�
��So was your grandmother.”
“Yeah,” Josh said. “Mom told me all about her.”
Arceneaux shook his head, surprised that someone so young could muster so much contempt in his voice.
“What did she tell you?” he asked.
“How she ran off and left you and my granddad by yourselves.”
Arceneaux felt his anger rising again, and this time felt no need to stifle it, because now he could be angry at his ex-wife for not keeping her mouth shut. He allowed himself a few moments to indulge the feeling, then pushed it away.
“It’s more complicated than that,” he said. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it some day.”
Josh shrugged. Then he looked up at Arceneaux with somber eyes.
“Mom says you’re trying to be a white man,” he said.
Arceneaux opened his mouth, then shut it again. His immediate impulse was to tell his son that Teresa was full of shit; but he knew he might be half lying.
“I’m just trying to be myself,” he finally said. “That’s hard enough.” Especially when you don’t know what the fuck that means to begin with, he thought.
Chapter 20
Larry French stepped to the small refrigerator in the corner of his office, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of Bayern Amber. He opened them both with the bottle opener that shared space with a nondescript assortment of pens and pencils in an oversized mug on his desk, and handed one to Arceneaux.
“Quittin’ time,” he said. He settled heavily into his chair and shook his head in disgust. “Wish to hell it could be quitting time where Arden Marks is concerned. We had a decent plea bargain worked out. Sure as hell the best Arden could hope for. Manslaughter, a fifteen-year sentence, four of that suspended, and the time he already spent in jail counts against the prison time. And the son of a bitch turned it down.” He shook his head again. “Worse. He let me make the deal, let me take it to the judge, and then stood there, looked him right in the face, and said accepting it would be a sin in the eyes of God.” French sighed. “Funny kind of God, is all I can say.” He looked across the desk at Arceneaux. “The man is probably going to hang if someone doesn’t get his attention.”