Bitterroot Blues

by Paul Moomaw

“You fucking men! You just can’t believe a woman would leave you unless its for another guy.”

  Arceneaux slumped in his chair. He felt stupid to let her see how insecure he was, but he realized that throughout their relationship he had never believed she would stay with him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “That was a cheap shot.”

  Anne busied herself silently with her napkin, mopping up the spilled wine. Arceneaux waited until she was done and then said, “I want to make it work.”

  “So do I, but I don’t think we can.”

  “Why not?” Arceneaux asked, and as soon as the words came out an answer popped into his head. “Is it Josh?”

  Anne nodded. “I’m too white for him,” she said. “Or maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe he won’t accept any competition where you’re concerned.”

  “You just need to give him time.”

  Anne shook her head, quickly and emphatically. “There’s not that much time in the world.” She looked away from Arceneaux. “And I have to think of time. My clock is ticking.” She glanced at him and looked away again. “You know what I mean?”

  Anger pushed at Arceneaux again. “And you don’t want a little Indian growing inside, right?” he snapped. “You told me once you weren’t my mother. You could fucking fool me.” He drank more beer, drained the bourbon, and looked around for the waitress.

  Anne stared at him, her eyes wide and suddenly tearing. “How can you say that, Sam? That’s so shitty. I would love to have your baby. I’ve even dreamed about what that baby would look like. But I can’t fight Josh. It’s impossible enough when it’s just me taking your attention from him. I can’t imagine how he would react if he had to deal with another child, too.” She wiped her eyes with the napkin. “And not just any child. A white woman’s baby.”

  “You’re wrong,” Arceneaux said.

  “No I’m not. You don’t see the way he looks at me. I guess you don’t want to see, and I understand that. But the bottom line is simple. I love you like crazy, but I don’t need you. He loves you even more than I do, and he needs you, too.”

  The waitress came to their table. “Another round?” she said.

  “Just the check,” Anne said.

  “No,” Arceneaux said. “Keep the tab running, and bring me another Powder Hound and bourbon.”

  “You sure you haven’t had enough?” Anne said, as the waitress walked off.

  Arceneaux realized he probably had already had more than enough, and then proved it by saying, “Don’t worry, lady. I can handle it. I’m only half Indian, remember?”

  Anne opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it. She reached under the chair for her purse. “I still ought to pay, at least for the first round. I’m the one who asked you to come, after all.”

  Arceneaux shook his head. Poor little Indian boy doesn’t fucking need the rich lawyer’s charity, he thought, but was still sober enough to keep the thought to himself, and instead said, “I’d rather pay, okay?”

  Anne nodded and stood up.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said.

  “So am I,” Arceneaux said. “I still think we need to give it time.”

  “I wish that could make a difference, but you need to be giving time to your son, not to me.”

  Arceneaux looked up at her, trying to think of something to say to keep her there, but all that would come out was, “We still going to be friends?”

  “I hope so. But right now I need us not to see each other. That would hurt too much.”

  “No shit,” Arceneaux said.

  Anne gazed sadly at him. “I wonder if you understand, really, just how hard this is for me.”

  “Of course not,” Arceneaux said, and grinned with as much malice as he could muster. “I’ve been too wrapped up in myself to feel your pain.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anne said again. She whirled and headed for the door. The waitress arrived with Arceneaux’s drink. He took a big gulp of beer, chased it with a third of the glass of bourbon, and watched Anne moved toward the bar’s exit.

  “Fucking white women,” he muttered. A part of him knew he was fighting with his mother’s ghost, but he let the anger bubble and rise inside, because it was an even better pain killer than the booze. And as for the booze, he could not deny that he had gotten in a little over his head, which in fact spun when he moved it suddenly. Time to stop, he thought. Maybe one more, he argued, and won.

  He caught the waitress’ eye and motioned her over.

  “One last round and the check,” he said. He drained the beer he had and finished off the liquor as he watched her walk away. She was cute. Strawberry blonde hair and freckles. Had a nice ass, too. He entertained a brief fantasy of what she would be like in bed, then shook his head quickly, which was a mistake because it spun even faster this time.

  “Last thing I need right now is another woman,” he said to his glass.

  When the waitress brought the tab he managed to find his wallet after a couple of tries, and fished out a credit card. She took it and returned almost right away with the card statement. He looked at it without really seeing the numbers, added a ten-dollar tip, and managed a reasonable facsimile of his signature. The waitress picked it up and offered him a big smile when she saw the amount of the tip.

  “Have a great night,” she said, and sauntered off. She still had a nice ass, he thought. He looked at the drinks, and decided he should take his time with them, but the bourbon seemed to have a mind of its own, and was inside him in three fast swallows. He managed to drink the beer a little more slowly, then sat back and looked around. The bar was mostly empty. It would fill up again later, but right now was the dinner hour, and there were only a few people there, all probably waiting for a table in the dining room.

  He managed to rise to his feet after only two attempts, and began walking with the exaggerated care of someone thoroughly drunk. He was halfway toward the exit when a female voice called, “Excuse me, Sir.” He turned around slowly and saw the waitress coming toward him with his parka in her arms.

  “You’re probably going to want this,” she said, and held it out to him.

  “You bet,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” she said, and turned back to the other customers.

  Arceneaux made his way to the exit and stepped outside. The wind had stopped, but it was bitter cold. He realized he should go home right away, but he knew that if he did that, he would wind up sitting alone, staring at the wall, and wondering if Anne was telling the truth about there not being another man.

  “Fuck that,” he said, and marched off down the sidewalk. He got to Higgins and turned south toward the river. The streets were still fairly full of traffic, but the sidewalks were practically empty. He was just as glad. He could tell he was not walking all that well, and the part of him that gave a damn about appearances did not want to run into anybody he knew.

  He crossed the bridge over the Clark Fork, then stood briefly, gazing down at the river. A broad flight of steps led down to the river bank and the Kim Williams Trail.

  “Little walk will sober me up,” he said, and headed down the stairs. When he got to the trail he headed east, where the trail led past part of the University of Montana campus and then into Hellgate Canyon. He saw no one else on the trail for the first twenty minutes or so. Then a woman with a large black dog on a leash approached from the other direction. As they drew near each other he bowed clumsily and said, “Good evening.” His only reply was a frightened look from the woman and a low growl from the dog. He stopped and watched them pass.

  “Fuck you, too,” he said to the retreating pair, and then headed east again.

  Jacobs Island is a small spit of land frequented mainly by hoboes, bums and the homeless, who create makeshift campsites and build small fires they can huddle close to and stay half warm. There is almost no trouble or violence, and the police leave the place pretty much alone. As Arceneaux passed the island, which connects to the
bank via a small coffer dam, he saw two or three fires flickering in the trees and shrubs.

  What the hell, he thought, and started down the bank toward the dam. Just above the concrete his feet went out from under him and he started tumbling head first. He was pretty sure he yelled, and then everything went black.

  When he eyes were open again he was lying on his back, his body halfway off the small concrete dam and one foot in the water, and someone was standing over him.

  “Hey Sam,” the someone said. “What the fuck you doing down here?”

  Arceneaux blinked again and stared at the face above him. It was Clarence Tessah.

  “You okay?” Clarence said.

  “I’m fine,” Arceneaux replied. He tried to pull himself up and get to his feet, but slipped on the icy concrete and went down again. Tessah bent down, grabbed him under the armpits, and tugged him up. It was an awkward effort, and they both almost went into the river; but Arceneaux finally got his balance and came erect, and then they both stood there briefly, arms wrapped around each other.

  “Thanks for the lift,” Arceneaux said, and giggled.

  “You’re drunker than shit, Sam,” Tessah said.

  “I had one or two.”

  “One or two my ass,” Tessah said. He stepped back and grinned broadly. “You may be a big deal lawyer, but you sure can get drunk like one of us Indian bums.”

  Arceneaux started to turn away, and immediately fell again. Tessah lifted him up.

  “You can’t stay here,” he said. “And I don’t think you should be going off on your own.” He turned and shouted toward one of the small campfires. “I’m gonna get my friend home. Save me some of that wine.” He turned back to Arceneaux, rotated him carefully toward the bank, and started walking him off the bridge.

  “Where we going, Sam?” he said. “Home?”

  Arceneaux shook his head. “Don’t want to go home.” Drunk or sober, he still did not want to be sitting alone.

  “Where to, then?” Tessah asked.

  Arceneaux stood, swaying slightly, as he considered his options.

  “Tina’s,” he finally said, and nodded gravely. “She’s always glad to see me, and she has good elk sausage.”

  “Where’s she live?” Tessah said.

  Arceneaux stared at him in disbelief. How could anybody not know where Tina lived? Then he shrugged.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  Chapter 40

  Arceneaux did not know where he was, and was not sure he wanted to know. He thought about opening his eyes to see if the red glow was just the blood in his eyelids or something more sinister, but they seemed to be glued shut. He could tell his body was stretched out on something soft, and that he was covered by what his fingers told him was a blanket, but even that much motion told him he wanted to lie still. He hurt all over. His head ached, especially in one spot behind his ears. His joints hurt, and even his skin burned.

  “Got the damn flu,” he muttered, and was pleased to find that at least his mouth moved without pain, although the lips felt stiff and crackly.

  “Bottle flu is more like it.” The voice belonged to Tina, and was very close to his ears. He flinched slightly and then relaxed as a warm, moist cloth moved across his face and rubbed gently at his eyelids, allowing him to open his eyes cautiously. Tina hovered over him.

  “Clarence helped me haul you onto my bed,” she said. “I made do on an old air mattress I had handy.”

  Arceneaux raised his head slightly, then winced and lowered it cautiously. He had a vague memory of Clarence guiding him along a sidewalk, and not much else.

  “I guess I owe you one,” he said.

  “Mostly you owe Clarence. He ran into a cop about a block before he got here. He had to talk like crazy to keep both of you out of jail.”

  “Well, both of you then.”

  Tina stood up and looked down at Arceneaux. “I’ll collect my share of the debt one of these days,” she said. “Whenever you hang out your lawyer sign again, keep me in mind. I used to be a paralegal, and I wouldn’t mind working again. You want coffee?”

  “I think so,” Arceneaux said. “And maybe some aspirin, if you have it.”

  “Got better than that,” Tina said. She vanished from Arceneaux’s vision, and he heard the sound of foil tearing and water running. She returned with a glass that fizzed at him. “Alka Seltzer,” she said, and handed it to him.

  Arceneaux managed to raise up on one elbow and stay there as he emptied the glass, then handed it back to Tina and lowered himself to the bed again.

  “How much did you drink last night?” Tina said.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “When did you start?”

  Arceneaux shook his head warily. Nothing up there hurt. He supposed it was mostly a placebo thing, but the Alka Seltzer seemed to have kicked in already. He gazed at the wall and nodded slowly as the night’s memories began to trickle into his mind.

  “Pretty early,” he said. “I had a hell of a day. First I seem to have managed to get Arden Marks off the hook. Then I broke up with my girlfriend.” He paused. “No, she broke up with me. I guess I couldn’t decide whether to celebrate about Arden or drown my sorrows over Anne, so I did both.”

  Tina took the empty glass to the kitchen and returned with a mug of steaming coffee. She handed the mug to Arceneaux, who held it between his hands for a while, enjoying the heat, then took a sip and swallowed. He held the mug out to Tina.

  “Could I have some sugar in that?” he said.

  “You really are a pain, aren’t you,” Tina said. “No wonder your girlfriend broke up with you.” She stopped and looked at him, and must have seen the pain in his face. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s okay,” Arceneaux said. It wasn’t, not really, but he figured he was in no position to be critical; and he had a chronic history of foot in mouth disease himself.

  Tina returned with the coffee and sat in a wooden dresser chair across the small bedroom from him. “You want to talk about it?” she said.

  “Which?”

  “Either one. Both. Bragging and whining can both be good for the soul.”

  Arceneaux’s first impulse was to decline Tina’s offer of an audience. Bragging and whining had both been off limits when he was growing up. His father had never done either one. For Arceneaux, that was the way a man should be. He realized, though, that a part of him needed badly to talk, about Anne, although that was mostly still a confused mess, and about Arden. That had been one of the hardest things about the night before. He had really wanted to brag to Anne and bask in her admiration. Instead she had kicked him in the nuts. Or maybe he had kicked himself in the nuts. He sat up, swung himself over the side of the bed, and then sat for a moment, staring at his feet. They were bare.

  “Who took my shoes and socks off?” he asked.

  “Clarence. He did pretty much all the work of getting you out of things and into the bed. All I did was cover you up.”

  “Son of a bitch. He really had my back,” Arceneaux said. Not for the first time, either, a voice in his head added. He smiled and looked at Tina. “We were in the Gulf War together,” he said. “We looked out for each other then. I guess some things don’t change.” He got up and started walking stiffly toward the living room. “Where should I start? The good news or the bad?”

  “Whatever you want,” Tina said as she followed him out of the bedroom. “I love a good story.”

  Arceneaux settled into a chair at the table by the window overlooking the railroad yard. Tina took his mug. “More coffee?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  She filled the mug and handed to Arceneaux, then sat down across the table from him.

  “They’re going to have to let Arden go,” he said. “That’s the good stuff.”

  “Don’t stop there,” Tina said. “Tell me all about it.”

  Arceneaux paused, not sure where to begin. A lot had happened since the last time he had talk
ed to Tina. He took a deep breath and started with Laura Hooters, his interview and the attack, and her death. Suddenly he had to stop talking and wipe tears away. The intensity of his feelings about that night surprised him.

  “I still feel like it was my fault she got killed,” he said.

  Tina shook her head. “You were doing you job. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

  “Yes I could have,” Arceneaux said. “That fucker Crisp drove right past us. He saw me walking with her, and I saw the look on his face. I should have protected her.”

  “Don’t be so arrogant, Superman,” Tina said, irritation in her voice. Arceneaux stared at her, surprised.

  “Arrogant?” he said.

  “You men are all alike. Think you can control everything.” She shook her head. “Shit happens, Sam.”

  Arceneaux grinned in spite of himself.

  “At least you only said, ‘You men,’ he said. Last night with Anne it was ‘You fucking men,’ when she didn’t like my attitude.” He sat back. “I guess you’re right, but I still feel awful sad about it.”

  “Of course you do, but sad isn’t guilty. Anyway, tell me the rest.”

  Arceneaux continued the story, about the truck, and Crisp’s arrest and admission that he had killed Laura Hooters.”

  “And Samantha?” Tina said.

  Arceneaux shook his head, then sat quietly to let the suspense build. Suddenly he was able to be wrapped up in the tale, and this was the good part, the Joker in the pack.

  “Elbert Marks killed Samantha,” he said, and could not avoid a tickle of smugness as Tina’s eyes widened. He told her about Crisp’s accusation. “I remember you told me Elbert used to give you the creeps,” he said. “I guess you had him pegged.”

  Tina clapped her hands together. “You did good, Sam,” she said. “I hope they paid you plenty for that job.

  “I still have trouble getting used to the idea,” Arceneaux said. “I guess I really wanted it to be Crisp.”

  “Just so it wasn’t Arden, right?”

  “I still don’t see the motive, though,” Arceneaux said. “Arden at least was an angry husband, and Crisp had his nasty past with Samantha to hide.” A train was rumbling past, and he stopped for a moment and watched it go by. “Hell of a life she had, and she was pregnant again when she died.”