by Thomas King
Peterson laid his head back and laughed as if he were trying to bring the walls down. “Didn’t know we had Indian police.”
“We do,” said Amos.
“What do you guys do?”
“We look for stolen trucks.”
Peterson shook his head and opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across to Amos. “Copy of the bill of sale.”
Amos looked at the paper and then looked at Peterson.
“All up front and legal,” said Peterson.
“You talk to Milford when he sold you his truck?”
“Nope. Ricky, my sales manager, bought the truck.”
“Ricky around?”
“Nope. Left about a week ago. Took a job in Florida. You believe that? Florida, for Christ’s sake.”
Amos turned the paper around and slid it across Peterson’s desk. “It’s not Milford’s signature.”
“That’s what he said,” said Peterson. “But there it is. Big as life.”
“Spelled his name wrong.”
“How’s that?”
“Spelled his name wrong. It’s Milford. Not Melfred. Whoever signed this spelled the name wrong.”
Peterson looked at the paper. “Looks like Milford to me.”And he put the paper back in the drawer.
“Somebody stole his truck.”
“Well,” said Peterson, leaning back in his chair, “you know how it is.”
“How is it?” said Amos.
“Well, let’s say that maybe Milford or Melfred comes in here and he needs a little money. And maybe he’s had a little to drink. He sells us the truck, and then, maybe he forgets about it.”
“Milford doesn’t drink.”
“So you say,” said Peterson.
“You can’t sell his truck.”
“So you say.”
Connie and Alberta sat in the patrol car until the windows fogged up and the rain ran to drizzle.
“And those are the high points,” said Alberta.
Connie leaned against the door and ran her hand across the steering wheel.
“I know what it sounds like,” said Alberta. “Two men, a good job, no responsibilities. What have I got to complain about?”
“Oh, hell, honey,” said Connie. “Everybody makes a mess of their lives in their own way. Look at me.”
“You look okay.”
“Sure,” said Connie, sitting up in the seat. “I got married when I’m seventeen, had four kids before I’m twenty-three, divorced at twenty-seven. I spent three years sitting around watching television, and then I became a cop.”
“It must be exciting being an officer.”
“I’m not an officer, honey,” said Connie. “I’m a secretary. Oh, I’ve got the uniform and I’ve got the gun and I can handcuff you and drag you off to jail, but all they let me do is sit behind that desk and take messages. I’ve been a cop for ten years, and the only time I’ve been in a patrol car is driving back and forth to work.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s the shits, all right.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Retire,” said Connie. “Another fifteen years and I can retire. What about you? What are you going to do?”
“What do you want to do?” Amos cradled his coffee and watched Milford’s face.
Bernice brought the coffeepot over and filled Amos’s cup.“You want some more bread?”
“Don’t know,” said Milford. “I didn’t sell my truck to Peterson. I don’t know what the hell happened.”
“Can always get a lawyer, I guess,” said Amos.
“A lawyer? You remember Everett Stacy? He got himself a lawyer when that real estate agent refused to sell him that house in town. Cut and dried, the lawyer said. You remember that?”
“I remember.”
“They’re right behind us, Amos,” said Milford. “Always right behind us.”
“What do you want to do?”
“You can’t stop them.” Milford sipped his coffee. “How many years did they drag out that case? Four or five? Until Everett was broke and had to give it up.”
“So what do you want to do?”
Milford hunkered over his coffee and stared at the table.“Sure as hell don’t want to get a lawyer.”
About a week later, someone set the truck on fire. By the time the Fire Department arrived, Milford’s truck was gone and four other cars had been damaged. The police arrested Milford and held him for three days.
“I didn’t do it,” Milford told Amos. “I wish I had, but I didn’t.”
“Probably vandalism,” said Amos.
“They kept asking me who did it, as if I really knew.” Milford began laughing. “So finally I told them that it was probably Coyote.”
“What’d they say?”
“They got no sense of humor.”
“Too bad about your truck.”
Milford took his cup to the sink and rinsed it. “So what do you figure?”
“About what?”
“How much I owe you for the gas?”
“Had nothing to do with it, Milford.”
“Coyote, right?”
“I guess,” said Amos.
“It won’t stop them, you know,” said Milford.
“I guess,” said Amos.
Alberta and Connie pulled up in front of the Dead Dog Café. The rain was steady now, falling in cadence.
“Never been here. Don’t get to eat out much,” said Connie.
“You want to come in and get some coffee?”
“No. Got to get home. I work a half shift and then I have to come back tonight. Sort of like a waitress.”
“Some other time.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Alberta stood in the parking lot and watched Connie drive off. It was cold out, and Alberta wrapped her coat around herself tightly, hugging herself to keep out the chill. As she stood there, she suddenly felt fragile and very small.
Dr. Hovaugh watched the remains of his eggs sink into the pool of ketchup. It was a pleasant morning and the drive had been surprisingly relaxing. But as he sat in the coffee shop, contemplating another cup of coffee, he found himself missing the hospital and, particularly, the garden. Things in Canada seemed slightly wild, more out of hand, disorderly, even chaotic. There was an openness to the sky and a wideness to the land that made him uncomfortable.
Even the eggs weren’t done quite right, the ketchup the wrong brand, the potatoes shredded for hash browns with the skins still on.
And the Indians.
Dr. Hovaugh opened the book and checked his notes. It was all there. No arguing with the circumstances and the patterns, with the regularities that marked their comings and goings.
“Why’d you bring me along on the trip?” Babo tore open a packet of sugar.
“What?”
“This trip. Why’d you bring me along?”
Dr. Hovaugh squeezed his tie and pursed his lips. “Well,” he began, “it’s fairly simple. When patients such as the Indians escape from a hospital such as ours, it is always advisable to have someone who knows them close at hand.”
“Like me,” said Babo.
“That’s right,” said Dr. Hovaugh.
“Because they’ll listen to me.”
“No,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “Because they know you. I want them to listen to me.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“What do you mean?”
“When we find them. What are you going to tell them?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”
“They like it there at the hospital, you know,” said Babo.
Dr. Hovaugh looked at the book again, to make sure he was in the right place at the right time. Blossom, Alberta. Yellowstone, Mount Saint Helens, Wall Street . . . Krakatau? Yes, it was indisputable. Everything fit. Everything made
sense.
“They like it there a lot,” said Babo.
“What?”
“The Indians,” said Babo. “They really like the hospital.”
“Our hospital?”
“They said they like helping out. Fixing things.”
“Indeed.”
“Like the world. You know.”
Babo leaned back. It had been a long drive, and the bed in the Lodge was hard. She had stayed up and watched a Western on television, and now she was tired. Maybe she would just stay at the Lodge and float in the pool and let Dr. Hovaugh drive around the countryside looking for the Indians. She could have told Dr. Hovaugh to just stay at the hospital, that sooner or later the Indians would show up, but the idea of a trip to Canada had been inviting. Now it was becoming tiring, and Dr. Hovaugh was becoming boring.
“Your ancestors were slaves, were they not?” said Dr. Hovaugh. “Nope,” said Babo. “But some of my folks were enslaved.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Hovaugh.
“There’s a difference,” said Babo. “Of course,” said Dr. Hovaugh.
“All sorts of slaves in the world,” said Babo.
“Of course,” said Dr. Hovaugh.
“Drugs, television, junk food, religion, cars, sex, power, cigarettes, money—”
“Yes,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “I see what you mean.”
“ . . . fashion, jobs, designer kitchens, politics—”
“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “How’s your breakfast?”
“Did you know that my great-great-grandfather was a barber?”
“A barber?”
“Cut hair. Shaved faces with the best of them. He worked on ships.”
“Cruise ships?”
“Something like that,” said Babo.
“That must have been exciting.”
“I have his razor. His name was Babo, too. All firstborn in my family are named Babo. Did I tell you that?”
Dr. Hovaugh motioned for the server to bring the bill. He had lost track of what Babo was saying. Something about barbers. Something about ships.
“You should let me give you a real shave with a real razor.”
“That’s very kind.”
“There’s nothing like it. If I were a man, it’s the only way I’d shave.”
Dr. Hovaugh put a twenty-dollar bill under his glass. It was raining outside and it looked as though it was going to be gloomy for a while. And disorganized.
“We should drive around and see the sights,” said Babo, looking at the guide she had gotten at the front desk. “Grand Baleen Dam is out to the west. So is Parliament Lake. We could stop at a real Indian reservation. There’s a whole bunch of other interesting places, too. Maybe we’ll find the Indians along the way.”
“Perhaps,” said Dr. Hovaugh, going over the notes in the book one last time.
As Dr. Hovaugh stood, he remembered the car. “Did we put the top up?”
“Top?”
“The car. The convertible top.”
Babo brushed off her dress. “I don’t remember, but a little water won’t hurt it.”
“It’s a classic,” said Dr. Hovaugh, and he was out and into the lobby before Babo had finished straightening herself.
Babo wandered into the lobby and stood by the large picture windows that emptied into the parking lot. She could see Dr. Hovaugh in the lot, standing in the rain, still as a statue. At first, she thought he was just enjoying the storm, but as the rain quickened, Dr. Hovaugh turned and shouted something to her that she could not hear through the glass. Then he waved his arms around, agitated, upset.
He was soaking wet now, standing between two cars, up to his ankles in water. As Babo watched, she suddenly realized that Dr. Hovaugh was standing in the spot where the car had been parked.
But the car was no longer there. There was nothing there except Dr. Hovaugh and a puddle.
Babo cocked her head to one side and smiled. “Now isn’t that the trick,” she said to no one in particular.
Lionel was looking older, Charlie decided, forty-six, forty-eight, at least. And he looked silly as hell in that jacket. The old Indians must have gotten it at an antique store. Or a flea market. Eli was looking good, and Bill hadn’t changed at all.
“Good to see you, Charlie,” said Lionel.
“Thought I’d look at a new stereo system.”
“They must have stores in Edmonton.”
“Always pays to give relatives the business.”
“Quiet,” said Bursum. “The good part is coming up.”
The movie was familiar. Charlie was sure he had seen it before. The old Indians stood transfixed in front of The Map, watching every movement on the screens.
“Boy,” said the Lone Ranger, “look at those colors.”
“Yes,” said Hawkeye. “Black and white are my favorites.”
“They could have made this movie in color,” Bursum explained. “But the director wanted the brooding effect that you get with grainy black and white.”
“And the horses,” said Ishmael. “Those are wonderful horses.”
“Look,” said Robinson Crusoe. “Is that the president?”
“No,” said the Lone Ranger. “That guy’s too tall.”
“Are there any Coyotes in this picture?” says Coyote.
“I don’t think so,” said the Lone Ranger. “But we should keep looking, just to be safe.”
“The next scene,” said Bursum, “used over six hundred extras, Indians and whites. And five cameras. The director spent almost a month on this one scene before he felt it was right.”
“He didn’t get it right the first time,” said the Lone Ranger.
“But we fixed it for him,” said Hawkeye.
Charlie’s mind was not on the movie or on Lionel or Eli or the old Indians. Alberta. He would have expected her to show up at the store before this. Maybe she got halfway to Blossom, realized she had made a mistake, and had turned around and gone back to Calgary. What a bizarre joke it would be if she had been trying to call him the whole time he was running around Blossom trying to find her.
“Too bad Alberta’s not here,” Charlie whispered to Lionel.“She likes these kinds of movies.”
“She does?”
“Hey, if she was here, we could all go out to dinner.”
“Well, actually, she and I are going out to dinner tonight,” said Lionel, trying to follow the action on The Map.
“Well, then you’re all set,” said Charlie, and he sat down on the edge of a stack of stereo boxes. “Say, isn’t that John Wayne?”
“The Duke,” said Bursum.
“He was a funny guy,” said the Lone Ranger.
“We told him that shooting Indians wasn’t too good for his image,” said Ishmael.
“He didn’t listen,” said Hawkeye.
“And look what happened,” said Robinson Crusoe.
“You mean . . . he died?” said Lionel.
“No, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger. “He didn’t get to be president.”
“I don’t shoot Indians,” says Coyote. “I would make a wonderful president.”
“Here we go,” said Bursum. “Here we go.”
As Bursum and Lionel and Eli and Charlie and the old Indians and Coyote watched, John Wayne and Richard Widmark and a few dozen soldiers dashed across a river.
“We’re trapped, men,” Wayne shouted. “Get behind those logs.”
“Come on,” yelled Widmark. “If you want to keep your hair.”
Wayne and Widmark and all of the soldiers ran around, jumping behind logs, digging holes in the sand, hiding behind boulders.
“Don’t shoot,” shouted Wayne, “until they get to the middle of the river.” And he took off his leather jacket and hung it on a branch.
How Bursum loved his Westerns, Lionel thought. Everyone was the same as the others. Predictable. Cowboys looked like cowboys. Indians looked like Indians. The chief in this
one was a tall man on a black horse. He was naked to the waist. His long black hair was hanging loose and tied around his head with a leather band. It was his eyes that got you and that great nose.
Lionel didn’t have a great nose like that and he had always thought he looked more like John Wayne.
“Surrender, white men,” shouted the chief across the river.
“Nuts to you,” John Wayne shouted back.
“That’s the same thing he says in that war movie he made,” whispered Bursum. “It’s a great line.”
As the camera pulled in tight to the chief, Charlie stood up and took a step forward.
It was his father.
It was the same movie he had seen last night on television. The same stupid wig. The same stupid headband. The same stupid nose.
“Then die,” shouted Portland, and he wheeled his horse around in the shallows, throwing flashing sprays of water in glistening circles.
“Damn it, Dad,” said Charlie under his breath.
“Is that Portland?” said Eli.
“Who else,” said Charlie.
“He’s looking pretty good,” said Eli.
“Is that your father?” said Lionel.
“So what?” said Charlie. He jammed his hands into his pockets and watched the screens.
Portland raced his horse up and down the river, taunting John Wayne and Richard Widmark and the rest of the soldiers. The Indians gathered on the banks of the river, waiting.
Portland brought his horse to a stop at the river’s edge and looked across at the soldiers. “Who rides with me?” he shouted, and raised his lance in the air. And with one voice, on all the speakers on all the televisions on The Map, the Indians shook their lances and their rifles and their bows and yelled until Bursum had to turn the volume down a bit.
“Really gets you all excited,” said the Lone Ranger.
“You bet,” said Hawkeye.
“Almost as much fun as being there,” said Ishmael.
“Nothing like the good old days,” said Robinson Crusoe.
“Attack!” shouts Coyote.
“Not so loud,” said the Lone Ranger. “You’re going to scare these young boys.”
“Get ready,” said Bursum. “Here it comes.”
Portland spun his horse around again, and then, with a yell, he started across the river. And the rest of the Indians followed.
“Here they come, men,” shouted John Wayne. “Make every shot count.”