by Breakup(lit)
Cindy with open arms. All of Cindy's three children had adored her, too.
Becky, one of Roger McAniff's victims two years before. Becky, she
remembered now from the conversation at Bobby and Dinah's, who had died
last August following two years spent at API trying to regain her sanity
after the massacre. Thinking it over, Kate realized that Ben's present
toot dated from the end of last year's fishing season, increasing in
idiocy through the fall and reaching its nadir on New Year's Eve, so the
story went, on which memorable night he'd been discovered in
flagrante'delicto with Nadia Kvasnikoff on the sink in the men's room of
Bemie's Roadhouse. Kate, conducting a New Year's Eve celebration of her
own on the homestead, had not been present for the denouement, but had
it on good authority that Bernie had chased the both of them out into
the frozen Arctic night with the baseball bat from behind the bar, and
had only tossed their pants and boots out as an afterthought.
Ben had never been what anyone would call a model husband or father, but
at Becky's death, something had gotten off the chain.
She looked at him. He had his eyes shut tightly; even so, tears seeped
from beneath his lashes.
158 "Cindy," she said, "give me the rifle." She stretched out a hand.
Cindy didn't move, and Kate remembered years before when Ben, fresh out
of the Navy, had brought his new bride home to the Park. Cindy had been
a lovely, slender, fair-haired, young woman, with melting brown eyes and
an open, friendly smile, excited at moving to Alaska, eager to learn
everything she could about Bush life. She was ten years older than Kate.
This afternoon she looked twice that, the light filtering in through the
drapes to darken the pouches beneath her eyes and deepen the lines at
the corners of her mouth. She looked old, and tired, her eyes dulled,
her prettiness faded, her youth gone.
There was no hope left in her, Kate thought, and something twisted in
her gut. "Give me the rifle, Cindy."
Without looking at Kate, Cindy handed over the rifle.
Kate emptied out the magazine and worked the action until the chamber
was empty before standing the gun in a corner. She pocketed the rounds
and said, "Let's turn Ben loose." Her hands went to the wire securing
his left ankle. From the corner of her eye she saw Cindy move as if in
protest. Her hands went on steadily unknotting wire, while she wondered
where the 9mm automatic was. After a moment Cindy began untying Ben's
left wrist.
When he was free Ben ripped the bandanna from his mouth and said in a
husky voice, "Give me my pants." He sounded sober and shaken.
Without a word, Cindy went to the closet and pulled down a pair of
Levi's. He grabbed them without thanks and stepped into them, a stocky
man with a middle-age spread threatening his waistband, dark, straight
hair thinning on top, eyes bloodshot, chin unshaven. Ben was Kate's
second or third cousin, she couldn't remember which, but she remembered
a visit to her grandmother's house as a child, when Ben, home on leave,
had made her an admiral's hat out of newspaper, complete with cockade,
and taught her six-year-old self her first sea chantey, "Rolling Down to
Old Maui." He'd had a fine, deep baritone that rattled
159 the rafters. Back then, there was always singing when Ben was around.
They weren't bad people, either of them, but they were going to wind up
in jail and their kids split between foster homes if something wasn't
done, and done soon. Kate waited until Ben got his zipper up before she
said, "Guys, this can't go on."
They looked at her, faces numb to the point of exhaustion. She spoke
slowly and deliberately, determined to get through to them. "You can do
whatever you want to to each other, but you can't keep doing this to
your kids. You know where they are right now? Annie Mike's. They ran
there when you corralled Ben at gunpoint, Cindy."
Cindy stared at her.
"It's not the first time, either. Pretty soon they're going to decide
they'd rather stay at Annie and Billy's than come home. And Annie and
Billy have plumb run out of kids of their own to fuss over, so their
house is probably feeling a little empty. Deidre's fourteen, Randy's
twelve, what's Tom? Nine? Ten? Three kids, three kids just like yours,
would just about fill up the cracks at the Mikes' house."
"They couldn't do that," Cindy said, her voice raw.
"Cindy," Kate said with as much force as she could muster, "how much
more do you think it'll take to have the state declare you both unfit
parents?"
Ben blinked at her. Cindy paled.
"How much Cindy?" Kate repeated. "One more time getting caught out on a
sandbar in the middle of the river with your jeans down around your
ankles in the company of a man not your husband? Ben? How much more?
Another score in the Roadhouse John? Another Association dividend spent
on booze instead of food or clothes?"
Ben flushed. Cindy said, weakly, "The state couldn't do that. These are
tribal lands."
"We don't have sovereignty yet," Kate said, "and DFYS doesn't take
kindly to neglect. You patch things up between the
160 two of you. I don't care how you do it, I don't care if you stay
together or you split up, but you patch things up enough to provide some
kind of stable home life for those kids, or, I guarantee you, they will
find one for themselves."
She reached for the rifle. At the door, she turned to deliver a parting
shot. "And I will help them."
She was almost to the front door when Cindy's voice stopped her. Kate
turned to see her coming down the hall cradling a sliming knife, a
filleting knife, a skinning knife and a well-worn Buck pocketknife.
"Here," she said, thrusting them at Kate. "If you're taking the rifle,
you might as well take these, too." She went into the kitchen and came
out with a butcher knife and three mismatched steak knives. "These, too.
Oh, and there's this."
She went to the coat hanger and fished around in the pockets of the worn
pink plush jacket Kate had seen her in the day before, producing a Swiss
Army Explorer knife flaking dried mud, complete with flat head and
Phillips screwdrivers, saw, magnifying glass, scissors and, if they were
lucky, maybe even a functional blade. "I tripped over this at the mine
yesterday."
Kate accepted the hardware. "You chased Ben all the way up to the mine?"
Cindy nodded.
"I would like to have seen that," Kate admitted. "Where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"The nine-millimeter. The pistol you had yesterday."
"Oh," Cindy said. "Right. I forgot."
Kate saw the blank expression on her face and believed her. "Where is
it?" she said, more gently this time.
"I tossed it."
Kate looked at her.
A bleak smile reached Cindy's eyes. "Really. I threw it in the Kanuyaq
on the way back down from the mine. What do we need a nine-millimeter
for? You can't bring down a moose with one unless he lets you walk right
up to him and stic
k it up his left nostril." The smile faded. "It was
just another one of Billy's toys."
161 The exhausted defeat in her voice pierced Kate to the heart.
Juggling rifle and knives, she struggled to open the door and get out of
that place of hopelessness and despair.
"Oh, here, let me," Cindy said, ever the polite hostess, and reached
around Kate.
Kate paused on the doorstep. "Cindy-"
The bleak smile came back. "Don't worry, Kate. I'm all over my mad."
"Yeah." Kate wasn't convinced. "Next time, throw him out before you get
mad enough to go for a weapon."
Cindy gestured. "Have to now. You've got them all."
162
The crowd parted before her like the Red Sea.
"What happened?"
"Yeah, Kate, what happened?"
"Did she shoot him?"
"Is he dead?"
"Of course he's not dead, you idiot, we didn't hear a shot."
"Maybe she knifed him."
"Kate, come on, talk to us!"
"Oh the hell with it, it's almost time for Alaska Weather on the TV.
Let's go home."
"I hear it's blowing up a storm in the Gulf."
"No lie? Might mean some decent beachcombing for a change."
163 "Yeah, remember last breakup? Wish we could expect a Sea- land
freighter to run aground every year. That was the best canned ham I've
ever had."
The crowd had thinned, probably soon after Kate's arrival, since it
signaled an end to the fun. Auntie Vi was among the missing, as were
Dandy Mike and Karen Kompkoff and Old Sam. Billy Mike was still there, a
very exasperated Mutt standing next to him. "Okay," Kate told her, and
Mutt sprang forward as if shot from a bow, almost knocking her over.
"Okay, Mutt," Kate said, juggling hardware, "I'm all right. I said
okay!" Mutt retired with a wounded look, and Kate dumped rifle and
knives into Billy's hands.
"What the hell-"
"Cindy thinks it's best she not have anything in the house with
targeting capabilities or sharp edges. I agree."
Billy accepted knives and rifle awkwardly.
She had her hand on the door of the truck when the second voice said,
"Kate."
She swore to herself, counted to ten and turned. "Jim."
The trooper was standing in front of the postmaster's truck. He must
have landed the helicopter at the village strip and borrowed the truck
from Bonnie Jeppsen to make the trip up to the mine. The mine was so
overgrown there weren't a lot of landing sites for a chopper, even for a
pilot with Jim's skill.
Mark Stewart was sitting in the truck's passenger seat. The windshield
was too dirty to see his expression.
Mutt, who all too often demonstrated no sense in men, gave a welcoming
yip and swarmed all over the trooper. "Hey, girl," he said, white teeth
flashing, long fingers finding exactly the right spot between her ears
and scratching hard. Mutt's legs nearly gave out under the ecstasy. Over
her head Jim said, "Got a call there was a problem at the Bingleys.
Thought I'd better check it out, since I was in the neighborhood. Want
to fill me in?"
Billy Mike shifted his portable armory and cleared his throat.
164 The Swiss Army knife slipped from his grasp and fell with a splat
into a puddle of melting snow.
Kate stooped to pick it up. "Ben's been on what amounts to a seven-month
drunk. Cindy took exception."
"What with?"
"Yesterday it was a nine-millimeter automatic. Today it was a
thirty-thirty." She jerked her chin at the rifle slipping from Billy's
arms. "I, ah, I straightened things out. For now."
She paused, aware without looking at him of the unspoken plea in Billy's
eyes. It wasn't as hard as she'd thought it would be to get the words
out. "Jim, as a favor? Leave it alone."
"Is there abuse of wife or children?"
"No." Kate's voice was certain. "No spousal or child abuse." Yet, she
thought. Where there was substance abuse of any kind, spousal and child
abuse were never very far behind.
"Are the children at risk?"
Kate thought of Cindy crouched down in her marital bedroom, clutching
the rifle, and of the three children running to Annie Mike for help.
Yes. But if she said so, Jim would call in the Division of Family and
Youth Services and the children would be placed in a foster home,
probably in Anchorage or Fairbanks, probably not together. Would that be
any better for the kids than what they had now? At least here they had
Annie and Billy Mike, and the rest of the village.
And Kate herself.
She looked down at the knife she held in her hands, wet from its fall.
Idly she began folding out all the implements, drying them carefully,
one at a time.
"Kate?"
She looked up to meet Jim's steady gaze, and saw that it was her call.
The trooper would be guided by her, would leave the children with their
parents if she said so. She didn't want the responsibility, but it
didn't look as if she had a choice. As if she'd ever had a choice. The
words came out involuntarily, distant, as if formed
165 by someone else and then placed in her mouth. "I don't think so,"
she said. "No," she added, more strongly.
It was the first time in her life Kate Shugak had sided for the tribe
and against the law she had admired, respected, studied and sworn to
uphold. To serve and to protect. She fought a sense of disorientation
that threatened to overwhelm her, a dizziness that included a distinct
impression of her grandmother's presence, transitory but strong.
She shook it off, almost angrily, and looked up to find Jim regarding
her with an impassive expression. He held her eyes for another moment,
before nodding once, very crisp, a conspicuous transfer of authority.
"All right. If there's a problem-"
"I know, it'll be all my fault," Kate muttered. She closed the knife and
pocketed it.
"Don't put words in my mouth," he said, mildly enough. "I was going to
say, if there's a problem bad enough to remove the children from the
home, call me and I'll see what I can do to get them placed somewhere
without taking them out of the Park."
She felt heat rising up into her face. "Sorry, Jim." He nodded. It took
an effort, but she got the words out. "Jim?"
"What?"
"Thanks."
The shark's grin was back. "Don't choke on the word, Shugak."
"Up yours, Chopin." The insult, freely given and as blithely accepted,
restored the relatively noiseless tenor of their way and Kate's sense of
equilibrium. Over Jim's shoulder she spotted Harvey Meganack, the
ruby-eyed ram's heads on his gold nugget watchband flashing in the
setting sun.
What the hell, if she had the Alaska State Troopers on the run she had
to be on a roll. "Harvey! Hold up there, I need to talk to you!"
Harvey had started backing up as soon as he registered in her direct
line of sight, but she was too quick for him. He halted, trying not to
look like the stag at bay and not succeeding very well. "What?" he muttered.
166 "Nice to see you, too," she said blandl
y, and he flushed. She let