Wabanaki Blues

by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

  Mom shakes her head.

  “It’s good to see you, Lila,” says her aunt, “even if you won’t be here for long. I know how you feel about the woods. It’s all right. You’ve done your duty by raising Mona Lisa. Now it’s her turn.”

  I dislike the sound of whatever it is that she’s suggesting. Black Racer Woman hugs us both in her slithery way.

  “The other folks are already inside,” announces Sadie, marching past us to the cabin door. “Let’s get started.”

  I mouth the words “other folks,” and Mom smiles acridly.

  A fusty smell fills the foyer of Sadie’s law office. The temperature is well into the eighties and there’s no air-conditioning or open windows. A fan is running, spreading the fusty smell around. I pinch my nose as I pass a bookcase filled with yellowed law books. On top lies a vase filled with dried faded roses beside a dozen or so familiar-looking carved moose antlers. We pass the bookshelves and cross an ancient shag carpet on which lies a heavy mahogany desk that commands the central room space like a casket. Two people are seated on a brown plaid couch in front of the desk. One of their heads has spiked dark hair and the other is lemon yellow.

  I step rigidly toward them, like I’m walking the plank. Del and Scales stand simultaneously, holding hands. A sweetheart candy hair clip with three conjoined pastel hearts, saying “My Baby,” “Real Love,” and “Be True,” holds back Scales’ bangs. She flashes a gold ring topped with a modest diamond. It appears that Del’s complication is a serious one.

  Del offers his seat to Mom, but she refuses to sit. The baby fat has shed from his face, revealing strong bones, and his hair has been stylishly cut, definitely in New Haven, not Indian Stream. He’s wearing wing tips instead of his usual clodhopper boots. I saw him two weeks ago, and he’s changed so much. His dream smile is gone, and his once-beautiful lichen-green eyes have turned the color of toad skin. I toy with the notion he always had this drab urbane appearance, that I only imagined him to be better looking. He eyes my unevenly chopped bangs as if he’s thinking something equally negative about me.

  Scales presses me with a hug that makes me feel like the tail end of a tube of toothpaste. “Mona, I’m so sorry about your grandfather.” She touches my Bonepile tee shirt reverently. “You are such a musical beast. I can’t believe you played with The Blond Bear this summer and this fall you’re a star. Del says you are dedicated to your music one hundred percent. You deserve your success. Congratulations on making the big-time, baby.”

  “Thanks,” I say weakly. I don’t correct her on the fact that I never actually played with the entire Blond Bear band, only Sponge. I figure she has already bragged about it on Facebook to everyone she knows, so there’s no point.

  “That Beetle dude you sing with is sizzling hot.” She bites her ring.

  I picture her breaking her front tooth.

  Del looks over my shoulder. “Why isn’t your sidekick here?” He eyes my heart locket bitterly.

  “Beetle is suffering vocal problems,” I explain.

  Scales sticks out her lower lip and says, “Aw.”

  A wicked clurichaun smile flutters across Del’s lips.

  Sadie shuffles through the piles of papers on her cluttered desk, seemingly unable to find something. We all sense it may be a while before our meeting here is concluded.

  Mom reaches out to hold Del and Scales’ hands, at a distance. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Elmwood.” Scales lunges in to squeeze-hug Mom. “Bear St. Jean, Senior asked me to send his regards.”

  Mom flushes and gossips with Scales about Bear’s dad. Mom never gossips.

  I’m grateful for this chance to chat with Del. I move in close enough to smell his skin. “Hi, there.”

  He maintains a steel expression. “Did you know that after you rejected me at the Farewell Dance, the police came by and searched our house? They found Dad’s secret painted room for Mom, which prompted him to call you and me names I can’t repeat. That was the week I got engaged. They also found Mom’s yearbook with the picture of Worthless Dill scratched out. Thanks to you, my dad is once again a suspect in my mom’s case.”

  I grab his wrists, selfishly, before he leaves my life forever. “Don’t blame me for your decision to get engaged.”

  Fire ants march up and down my arms. I remember our lips melting together. Why didn’t I tell him that I loved him?

  “I didn’t intentionally tell the police about your dad’s secret room,” I explain. “I accidentally mentioned it to Beetle. He told his dad. After he saw us together at the dance, he must have gone to the police about the yearbook. I’m sorry. Worthy probably did it to break us up and protect his son’s relationship with me. I guess it worked.” Jealousy surges through me as I catch sight of Scales’ glittering ring hand. “He might not have bothered, had he known you were planning to get engaged.”

  He squeezes my arms. “Don’t you dare turn this around. I opened my heart to you the minute we met. I introduced you to my friends. We made music together. I showed you Dad’s secret room of flowers because I wished I’d made it for you. I told you that I loved you. You tried everything you could to shut me out. You rejected me.”

  “So you asked Scales to marry you to spite me?” My hands vibrate. We’re still holding one another.

  He yanks me closer, and the room shrinks around us. The dilapidated plaid couch, the casket-style desk, the shelves topped with dead animals, wilted flowers, and castaway antlers all converge, driving us closer together on the musty shag carpet, pushing us nose to nose, wedging us into a tight space smaller than the janitor’s closet. He touches my lips lightly with a finger and we jolt from a small electrical shock.

  Scales and Mom don’t seem to notice. They’re effusing over how much they both love cities. I wonder if Black Racer Woman has cast a spell on them. She is spinning around on a swivel chair in the corner of the room, humming a strange tune and tapping her grimy moccasined feet.

  “You should never have told me that you loved me if you planned to marry someone else,” I say to Del.

  “You shouldn’t have told me you were unavailable, if you didn’t mean it.”

  “All I said was, I have to put my music first.”

  “Fine. But you didn’t say you loved me, either.”

  “There’s no sense in me trying to remedy that now, with you rushing into marriage, like we’re living in the twentieth century. My mom rushed into marriage with my dad, and look where it got her—miserable.”

  “Well, my dad would have given anything to marry my mom when they were young, and he never got the chance. Look where that decision got him. There is no right and wrong answer to this. There is no correct life plan. You should try going with your heart, Mona Lisa.”

  I squeeze my heart locket. It feels icy. “Then why didn’t you go with your heart, Del Pyne?” I raise my voice, “Why didn’t you?”

  That last sentence was too loud. Everyone turns our way.

  Mom slaps Del on the back and sticks a tongue in her cheek, “Del, your dad tells me you can take Mona in a guitar duel.”

  “Dad is exaggerating. I still suck at guitar almost as bad as Mona’s friend, Beetle boy. Of course, he does have a decent set of pipes.” He wraps his arm around Scales’ waist. “Almost as good as Scales’.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.

  Scales slaps her fiancé’s arm. “Stop it, Delsy. That’s rude.” She pulls him closer. “Anyway, I know this is an awful time to ask but we have an important request. We want you both to come to our wedding on Halloween.”

  “Congrats,” I sputter, wondering what it is with Halloween and me. I try not to think too hard about why Scales might be choosing to get married so young and so soon. I can’t help but picture a newborn baby girl with lichen-green eyes and spiked blond hair, singing shrill soprano notes while pla
ying the ukulele. “How’s the rest of the Blond Bear gang? All happily married as well?” I ask.

  Del’s nostrils flare.

  “Mona, you are too funny,” Scales hiccup-laughs. “Bear may be the next to go. He took off for Arizona with some fancy dancer after the Winnipesaukee Powwow. She transferred to U of Maine. He already calls her ‘the Missus.’ His dad is encouraging them to get married soon because he insists true love doesn’t come along every day.”

  Mom reacts to this by flopping onto the couch, glassy-eyed. She’s gone on one of her mental retreats.

  “Good for Bear,” I say to close out that topic.

  Scales whispers, “Did you hear Sponge is in prison for trying to sell drugs to kids at Little League practice?”

  I clap my hands. “I couldn’t be happier to see him gone.”

  Del’s leg buckles, and he groans.

  “You okay, Delsy?” asks Scales. She turns to me, confidentially. “His leg hurts him terribly sometimes. But I tell him he should feel blessed. I mean, who else takes a bullet meant for a bear, and survives?” She turns to Black Racer Woman and gasps, “Oops. I’m sorry. I forgot you were the one who shot him. I’m sure it was an accident.”

  Black Racer Woman stares down Scales. “Your fiancé should not have tried to protect that bear. That creature needed to die to save these woods.”

  I recall my great aunt’s argument with Grumps at the powwow. “Auntie, you know my grandfather didn’t agree with your ideas about bear sacrifice. We should drop that subject, out of respect for him. We are here for the reading of his will.”

  “Agreed, Mona Lisa, I apologize,” says Black Racer Woman.

  Sadie harrumphs, “I should think so!” She gathers four mangled file folders that have obviously been reused numerous times and swipes her nose with a tissue. “Now let’s skip the legal blah, blah, blah, and get down to brass tacks.” She shakes Mom’s limp shoulder. “Lila dear, we will begin with you. Your father has left you four hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Spend it wisely, but be sure to spend it.” Sadie eyes the carved antlers on top of her bookcase, despondently. “I wish he had.” She hands Mom a check that falls in her lap.

  Sadie addresses Del, next. “Upon your graduation from forestry school, you are to receive nine hundred acres of woodlands, in trust, along with an annual stipend of seventy-five thousand dollars for your labor and a separate stipend for property maintenance. Should you accept this gift, you are also accepting a lifetime responsibility. These woods can never be sold. They must remain under your care. This is quite a sacrifice you will be making.”

  Now I know what Del and Grumps were discussing on that stormy August day when I left Indian Stream: it was Grumps’ will. He must have known that he didn’t have much time left. It hurts me to think the only ones he told about his final wishes were Del and Sadie.

  “I told Mr. Elmwood I wouldn’t accept his terms without family approval.” He turns to Mom and me, only looking her in the eye. “Is this acceptable to you, Dr. Elmwood? Mona Lisa?”

  Mom hugs him limply. “You love these woods like my mother did. Who better to protect them?”

  I haul up the sides of my mouth, as best I can. I wouldn’t call my expression a smile.

  Sadie’s voice turns raw. “As for you, Mona Lisa LaPierre, your grandfather has left you his cabin, his truck and three hundred acres. If you wish to sell it, he stipulates Del Pyne must be given the right of first refusal.”

  “If you don’t want the cabin, we are interested in buying it,” Scales injects.

  “We’ll see,” I say, recalling her recent endorsement of city life.

  Black Racer Woman clucks her tongue. “Excuse me, Sadie. My sister had 1,500 acres of woodlands. Del received nine hundred acres and Mona received three. Who got the rest?”

  “Reggie sold that land. I realize you would have preferred that your brother-in-law left it to you. But this is all he designated as your bequest.” Sadie passes Black Racer Woman a thin file folder.

  Black Racer Woman examines the file’s contents with disdain. “This is only a copy! I suppose he still has the real thing locked up like Fort Knox.” She turns to me. “Your grandpa Reggie thought that locking things up could stop the natural course of events. When you discover what he’s hidden for you, you won’t be very happy with him.”

  My great aunt exits and nobody says good-bye. I wonder about this mystery stash of his that she’s warned me about.

  “That’s it, folks,” concludes Sadie. “I’ll help you iron out your details independently.”

  The realization of the finality of Grumps’ death and Del’s marriage makes me babble. “Now that Grumps’ mystical woods and magical bears are safe once again, thanks to Del, we can all go home.” I salute everyone stiffly.

  Scales whispers something to Del that clearly agitates him, then turns back to Mom and me. “Mona, Dr. Elmwood, we want you to come to our engagement party on Sunday. I know you both have busy careers and that this has been an awful week, but we would be honored if you’d come. Vegetarian chili for all!”

  I turn to Del with raised eyebrows. “You really want me to come to your party?”

  “I would like both you and your mother to attend.” His words are clipped. We lock eyes for an instant too long and the fire ants start marching. I try to think of Beetle, my pretty baby with the sweet soulful voice that makes women swoon and wonder why there has never been a single burning fire ant between us.

  Mom comes back to life. “I would love to attend your engagement party. You know how fond I am of you and your father. But I have to head back home tomorrow for my volunteer service at the Hartford Animal Shelter. They’re terribly short-staffed.” She elbows me hard enough to leave a bruise. “But surely Mona can stay. She has her own truck now.”

  I’d love to,” I burst out, surprising myself with my affirmative answer. “I can take a few days off to let Beetle’s voice heal. Orpheus has already cancelled our Manchester concert. He only booked it so Grumps could attend.”

  Scales screeches in her shrill soprano voice. “Of course you can come. You’re a rock star and rock stars can do whatever they want!” She hiccup-giggles uncontrollably. Del squeezes her arm to make her stop.

  “Thanks, Scales. I appreciate that. But I play blues, not rock, and even the best blues singers wind up somewhere south of stardom. In fact, I think your term ‘blues star’ is an oxymoron.” I take a seat on the plaid couch.

  She whispers in Del’s ear, asking him if I just called her a moron. I wish I could laugh, but I’m picturing Del and me at the Farewell Dance, enjoying those unforgettable moments. The only moron here is me.

  Seventeen

  Young and Stupid

  The Pyne house reeks of wedding cake. Four tasting samplers cut in matchbook-sized pieces lay on a white tablecloth covered in pale pink tissue-paper rose petals. An artfully painted sign invites guests to vote on their favorite cake for the big event. There’s a Blond Bear cake with lemon frosting and a chili chocolate center, an Indian Stream cake topped with a blue Skittles stream with a gooey maple fudge frosting, a Winter Woods cake made from white fondant covered with gummy pine trees, and a Mad Guitar cake with red licorice strings, black licorice tuners, a peanut butter pick guard and a banana pudding center. I’m sure I’d pick that one if I could choke down a bite of anything. But I’ve lost my appetite because Scales is pressing herself so tightly against Del that it looks like she is frosting him.

  Will Pyne stumbles by wearing his usual whiskey cologne. I hoped he’d be rotting in jail, thanks to the police finding that yearbook in his secret room. I head in the opposite direction, pushing my way through a crowd of weather-burned faces topped with baseball caps advertising lumber companies, real maple syrup, and organic microbrews. I have a hard time getting past Scales’ Boston Conservatory friends, crowded by the bathroom. I hate to admit it but Will’s out-of-town
artist buddies are the most interesting people in the crowd, with their silk-screened scarves and rainbow dreadlocks that remind me of Celine. I reach the kitchen and search the corkboard for Mia’s photo but find it gone.

  I lift my head skyward, seeking guidance from Bilki and find the ceiling covered with cupcake-pink balloons. They make me wonder if Del and Scales are expecting a baby girl. The center of the room features a life-sized cardboard stand-up of the happy couple, surrounded by a cupcake-pink cloud. I feel melancholy as I recall wearing my cupcake-pink Dead Kittens tee shirt on my last day of high school. Getting in trouble over that cupcake-pink shirt is what led me here, to Indian Stream, in the first place. Now it appears that cupcake-pink will usher me out of here—for good.

  My eyes follow the sound of Bear’s booming voice. A western Indian girl wearing turquoise bling and a red leather skirt accompanies him. Her crow-colored hair swooshes back and forth, like freshly trimmed leather fringe. I figure she knows how to bead her own regalia and make the world’s best frybread. She is probably working on a cure for cancer in her spare time. I turn away, but it’s too late.

  Miss Arizona points at my face and shouts, “Mona from Bonepile! Axe woman extraordinaire! I love your band! I have a ticket for your upcoming concert in Boston. Don’t you dare cancel that one.”

  “I’ll see you there, in two weeks.

  Bear throws a tree trunk-sized arm around my head. “Hey, Tribal Sista. I’m coming too.”

  I want to tell him how close I came to actually being his sister but now is not the time.

  “This is Nomi,” he says introducing his companion. “She’s a musician.” Bear nudges me. “She’s also pre-med.”

  Naturally.

  Before I can reply, she says, “I wouldn’t be at college if I had your chops, Mona.” She strums an air guitar. “Seriously, your fingers are amazing. I’m Guitar Hero garbage compared to you.”

  Her worn fingertips tell me that’s bunk. I may have exaggerated her beadwork and frybread-making skills, but I’m willing to bet this woman can play a mean guitar. And look at her! This may be East-West Injun envy on my part, but if I were Orpheus, I’d hire Nomi to perform all my songs and lock me up in the janitor’s closet.