Grumps’ cabin appears cold and unresponsive, like a stillborn child. All that’s left of the fall maple leaves painted on his door is a peeling crimson smear. Only an artist of Bilki’s caliber could repaint that.
A scruffy crow hops around on the mismatched blue hood of my truck. I’m grateful to see a moving creature even if it doesn’t bother to caw. A bald eagle breaks the eerie silence with a screech as it lands on my cabin roof, preferring it to the needle-less pines. Bilki speaks inside my head, “Eagles stand for high ideals.” I examine the eagle charm on my bracelet, its silver eyes stern and unwavering.
I wonder: Does this eagle screech serve as a blessing to reward me for putting Mia’s killer behind bars? Or, is it scolding me because her son is getting married in two weeks, and I appear to be stalking him?”
The predator’s wide wings expand and break the dead air with a thwomp, pushing hard toward the sun, till it fades into October’s bright blue sky, its high ideals vanished.
I find the cabin shockingly sunlit inside. I realize it’s because all the window-covering vines lay in sickly heaps on the ground. Sunlight streams onto the Skittles-colored glassware on the kitchen shelves, creating a welcome rainbow in the midst of this cursed and colorless land. I can’t believe how clean the place is. Someone has dusted and mopped the floor. A loaf of whole grain bread, a bunch of ripe bananas, a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a plastic bottle of local honey, shaped like a bear, sit on the countertop. A perfect pile of chopped hardwood rests beside the stove. These logs weren’t here when I left the place and neither was the food. The woods may be uninviting but the inside of this cabin feels homey, a little too homey.
A thud out back draws my attention to the kitchen window. I peer out, presuming it’s Del, the person I know is responsible for maintaining and stocking everything. But through the window, I see it’s Marilynn makng the noise by knocking her backside against a dead and hollow tree. She’s trying to bash a beehive off a low limb. There’s another larger bear, behind her, with gray flabby haunches, a cracked bulbous nose, rows of loose, sloppy flesh that droop beneath his eyes and yellowed claws. This is the same bear I saw at Del’s house the day of his band practice, the same bear from the mural in my room. I guess I didn’t imagine The Great Bear, after all. But I blink, and he’s gone. Did I really see him, this time, either?
A spiky-haired head pops up from behind Marilynn. It’s Del! He must have been leaning down, probably smashing bananas, feeding the bears. I scan the nearby trees and spot a Harley sticking out from behind a weary maple. It has green flames on it. Finally I get to see the famous vehicle from Cricket’s story! This is more than a bike. Its story has been told so many times it’s become a Pegasus or Thunderbird to me, a magical beast that could soar from the earth to the stars above.
“Welcome home, Mona Lisa,” Del says.
Marilynn’s copper penny eyes flash. She bares her teeth at me, before disappearing into the sparsely clothed trees.
I lean out the window. “Del, I can’t believe you cleaned and stocked my cabin. How did you know I’d be coming here today?”
He leans on my windowsill. “Aunt Celine texted me that you were on your way.”
“She is a psychic, after all.” I quip, before reminding myself not to flirt with a guy who is about to be married. “You didn’t have to do all this work on the cabin.”
“I wanted to do it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you.”
There’s no good response to this—unless I want to set myself up for heartbreak. But I won’t push him away again, like I did the night of the Farewell Dance, and after we forced a confession out of Cricket.
I realize it’s early October and ask, “Why aren’t you at school?”
“I’m still doing an Independent Study on the woods.”
I would like the sound of this if I didn’t think he’d planned it so he could be up here for his wedding. I feel my thoughts slipping downhill.
Bilki whispers, “Good deeds merit thanks.”
Hearing her voice lifts my spirits, and I heed her words. “How about a cup of coffee? It’s the least I can do to thank you for all the work you’ve done.”
Del follows me inside. I brew fresh coffee grounds in Grumps’ old kettle, while he puts another log in the woodstove. Smoking wood and smoky coffee create a blissful smell I’d almost forgotten. Grumps knew how to make coffee and damn it if mine doesn’t smell as good. Still, I stiffly await Del’s reaction to my first-ever homemade pot of coffee.
He sips and grins. “Delicious. This tastes exactly like the stuff your grandfather used to make.”
“Thanks,” I say, wondering if Scales brews decent coffee. I glance out the window and recoil at the sight of so many beige leaves. “What’s up with the foliage, Del?”
“I don’t know. The forestry school has been inundated with people demanding answers. Up here things are usually past full color by now. This leaf problem is the only thing anybody at the general store is talking about.”
It occurs to me that he is incorrect, that a good portion of this dinky town is probably talking about his upcoming wedding on Halloween. But I force myself to stay on target. “Did Grumps ever tell you any old Indian stories about why the autumn leaves change color?”
“There was one about a hunter and a bear. But I’m fuzzy on the details.” Del heaves a sigh before continuing, like he hates to say what he’s about to. “Your great aunt definitely knows it. You could ask her.”
“Black Racer Woman?” I croak. “I have no idea where she lives or how to get in touch with her. I’m not even sure I want to, after what she did to your leg. Besides, we’re not exactly close. The fact is, I never even knew I had a great aunt until the Winnipesaukee Powwow.”
He spills coffee on the floor. “Ha! I remember that powwow. I wanted to stick around to talk to you, privately, to straighten things out between us, but Scales needed a ride back to school and you were busy yapping with Captain America.”
Captain America. So that’s how he sees Beetle. I want to say that, at least, Captain America is a good guy while Scales is a sour cheating lemon who visited Black Racer Woman’s booth to purchase a love charm to lure him away from me. But I don’t say that because the jealousy raging through me is the same dark emotion that was responsible for ending his mother’s life.
I allow myself one probing question. “Del, why did Scales need to rush off on the day of the powwow?”
He counts on his fingers, as though he is trying to remember the details of that day. His face falls flat. “Mona Lisa, I honestly don’t remember why she was in such a hurry.”
I know what happened: he was hexed. I’ve seen enough weirdness in the world to know that a thing like this can really happen. But there’s no point in telling him that.
“Too bad you didn’t stick around. You missed the verbal fireworks between Grumps and my great aunt. He called her a wicked witch.”
He shrugs. “That is how she’s generally perceived. Your grandfather had argued with her since forever. I don’t know the particulars, other than they heavily disagree on some tribal obligation related to bears.” He makes that furry teepee shape with his eyebrows; only he does it more fiercely than I’ve seen before. “Take it from me: obligation is a bitch. I can’t believe I’m supposed to get married in a few weeks.” He eyes me greedily, as if I’m a fading Polaroid picture that’s about to vanish.
I try a straight question. “Where is your bride?”
His eyes fall on my lips in an expression that could be interpreted as regret. “She’s performing in a musical on Cape Cod.”
“Seriously? We both know the Cape shuts down after Labor Day. They must have finished their run weeks ago. Where is she, right now?”
“Shopping for wedding stuff in Boston, I guess. I haven’t heard from her much. I’m afraid she knows how I feel about you.”
My he
art flutters at his words. “It’s ridiculous for Scales to be jealous of me. You and I were only working together to clear your father’s name.”
“Really? Is that all we were doing?” Del picks up Rosalita and plays the chorus to our song, “Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you lie…” His eyes glue shut. I know he is remembering our amazing kiss. If he won’t speak plainly, I will.
“Damn it Del. You’re getting married. You don’t talk to your bride, and you told me you loved me.”
Those words quaver but I’m proud of myself for getting them out. His eyes turn woodsy green, as though he wants to fade into the forest with the bears. “The trouble is, I hate broken promises, Mona Lisa. I made a promise to Scales, like my dad promised my mom he’d pick her up on the last day of school.” His words crack. “Dad failed Mom. He didn’t trust her and he believed a lie. She died because of it. If he’d looked for her and kept his promise, she’d still be alive. So I’m going to keep my promise. Everybody has a code they live by. Mine is keeping promises.”
I finally understand his perspective. To him, a broken promise can kill. I think of how betrayed Will felt when he heard Mia had chosen Worthy over him. But if he’d searched for her to confront her and kept his promise to pick her up, she’d still be alive. Del is right about that. Still, his reasoning is flawed. I’m about to remind Del that Cricket Dill was more to blame for his parents’ mishap than any broken promises, when a high-pitched voice tinkles through the air like shattered crystal.
“You don’t have to break your promise to me, Delsy. I’ll do it for you.”
It’s Scales. She’s standing in my doorway, wearing a pink and green flannel shirt and carrying a stylish shopping bag from someplace far, far away from Indian Stream.
“As of this moment, we are officially unengaged,” she says, throwing the shopping bag at me. “As for you Mona Lisa LaPierre, I came here to bring you a thank you gift for helping Will —you know, the guy who is supposed to become my father-in-law. But please, keep the shirt.” She kicks the bag my way. “The color suits you perfectly. It’s yellow.”
I recall I was wearing a yellow George Harrison “Here Comes the Sun” shirt when Scales and I first met. She may think it’s my favorite color. Only, I doubt that’s what she means by her remark.
Her eyes flare at Del. “Speaking of colors, for these last few months I’ve tried to tell myself I liked to wear white. But just so you know, I hate white. Thanks to what I just overheard, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Our wedding is off. I’m breaking your promise for you, and I’m leaving this dump of a hick town for good.”
Del starts to speak and then snaps his jaw shut, like a bear with a mouthful of mashed bananas that he doesn’t want to lose.
Scales holds out her hand like a traffic cop. “Please refrain from jumping for joy, Delaney Pyne. In the interest of full disclosure I want you to know I met a Native American musician of my own. He’s a Mashpee Wampanoag jazz singer from the Cape named Cliff. I planned on telling him today that it was over because I was getting married. But you have offered me and Cliff a second chance.” She turns to me. “Who knows, Mona. Maybe Cliff and I will start a duo. It seems anybody can do that successfully nowadays.”
I step between the would-be bride and groom. “Scales, I want you to know I didn’t come here to stalk your fiancé. I came here because the fall leaves look so bad.”
Her skin flares the fuchsia color of Celine’s hibiscus dress. “Mona, do you hear yourself?” She mimics me in a whiny voice, tossing her lemony head from side to side, “‘I came here to help the leaves.’ What kind of Native American Earth Mother bullshit is that? You’re a phony, just like your great aunt! Her love potions are fake. I know that for a fact. I also know she is insane, the way she cackles like a fairy tale villain. Ha! Ha! Ha! You two are both psychotic. I mean, you never crack a smile. I must be a total loser to have admired you.” She raises a finger as if to correct herself. “Although, I must admit you do not suck as a musician.”
She slaps the air. “Good luck, you two. Have fun protecting your stupid trees and your stupid bears. I am relieved to know I will not be stuck here for the rest of my life, living with a bear magnet. They’re always prowling around you, Del, and I don’t understand why that doesn’t bother you. They’re dangerous as hell, regardless of what Mona’s Looney Tunes grandfather told you. Good-bye, Del Pyne.” She stretches her arms as if liberated, “And good-bye, Indian Stream!”
Twenty-one
Finding Indian Stream
Early October nights in northern New Hampshire bring the kind of cool that normally prompts New England leaves to blush scarlet, or shine like golden flint corn, or erupt into fiery squash blossoms. But those colors are only memories. Autumn in New England appears to have vanished.
The Yale Forestry School sent Del and other students on a road trip to research the leaf problem. I‘m happy for the space. I’ve got to figure out where my musical career is going. Del also needs to think about where he is going, after his big breakup with Scales.
Bilki would appreciate his work with the trees. I think of how much she loved to paint vibrant foliage, how much she loved color, period. She used to sign her holiday cards with the phrase, “May the colors of your world be many.”
I ask her, “Bilki, what can be done to bring color to these leaves?”
She replies, “Not every door is locked.”
I cringe, but only briefly. I’m learning to process her cryptic remarks as helpful advice, rather than perturbing provocation. Maybe there are some unlocked doors built into the floors or walls or cabin furniture that she wants me to uncover. I start with my room, knocking my knuckles on the blue leaf floor mural, then the dresser painted with azure cornflowers, and then the bedposts covered with teal ivy. I hit the headboard, which is bolted to the wall, and voilà! I hear a hollow clunk on the left side. I hit it harder with my palm and a door pops open. Inside, I discover a long narrow wooden compartment, containing a handmade map that looks like something from a Disney pirate movie. It shows a “Snapping Turtle Rock” linked with a dotted line to a stream marked “Yellow Clay,” on to a “Tipping Rock,” and beyond in the direction of a rising sun, to a place called “White Woods,” which is marked with a skull and crossbones over the initials “BRW.”
I flip it over and it says:
Dear Lila,
Here’s a map, so you can always find me.
Your loving aunt,
BRW
Black Racer Woman. I don’t think of her as anyone’s loving aunt. But Del said she knew a story about autumn leaves, so I need to visit her right now, loving or not.
I head out for the first landmark on the map. It’s the “Snapping Turtle Rock” I saw on the first day I arrived in Indian Stream. With all the woodland greenery oddly withered, I follow a clear dirt path to the stream marked “Yellow Clay.” It runs across ten different logging trails rutted with tire treads from heavy machinery. This must be the real Indian Stream. I can imagine the beautiful golden clay pottery it once produced.
A tipping rock looms ahead. I’ve seen similar rocks in Mohegan territory—a large boulder balanced on a smaller one that can be jiggled to make a thunderous sound. This boulder is twice as big as the ones in Connecticut. In a rare cultural communique, my mother once told me that old-time Indians used these tipping rocks to send messages over long distances. I wonder if Black Racer Woman shared any messages by rocking this giant boulder, and with whom.
Over the next rise, I spot what appears to be an autumn blizzard. I move closer and realize it’s a white birch forest, with feathery strips of snowy bark peeling off the tree trunks like ancient pages, hinting at some long-forgotten story. I step into these white woods and discover a faint trail of smoke. I follow it to an old-time birch bark wigwam that reminds me a little of my toy wigwam, back home. Mom always insisted wigwams were passé, that eastern Indians today all
live in regular apartments, mobile homes, or modern houses. Now, I know of at least one exception.
Black Racer Woman emerges from the bark house wrapped in a musty moth-eaten wool blanket. She smells of rotting woods, much like The Great Bear.
“Welcome, Great Niece! I see you found the map.” She extends her arms invitingly. “You are just in time for lunch. Come inside and get warm.” She pulls back a stiff mildewed deerskin door flap at the entrance of her white birch bark home and points to a cot made from crossed sticks, lashed together with twine and covered with a bearskin. “Please, have a seat here with your guitar.”
I eye the formless, eyeless, lifeless bear draped across the cot and say, “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” She stirs a steaming black kettle of some orange mixture over a crackling fire. A sweet earthy smell wafts my way, not like any stew I know of, more like an intoxicating mix of stars and autumn dreams.
The shelves inside her wigwam are made of split logs, separated by bricks, lined with Mason jars filled with stewed tomatoes, pickled squash, dried wolf beans, and ground flint corn. A battered fishing pole, a well-polished hunting rifle, a pistol, and plenty of ammo boxes lean against the wall. On the floor lay various wooden utensils—bowls, spoons, and dippers, all carved with woodland Indian trails and floral designs.
Black Racer Woman scoops some of her kettle concoction into a maple bowl and hands me a wooden spoon. I’m starving and about to chomp down a heaping spoonful of what appears to be orange pineo mushroom stew but could just as easily be made from deadly orange jack o’ lantern mushrooms. I think of how Bear, Grumps, and Bilki distrust my great aunt and how easy it would be for her to poison this food. I need to figure out if she is trustworthy before I can accept her hospitality.
I put the spoon down. “People say you caused the accident in which Mom hit a bear because of some crazy old Indian myth.”
“Nothing of the sort. The day of her accident was chaotic. Will was on a bender. He needed someone to babysit Del, but your grandparents were sick with the flu. He asked your mom to do it because he knew she was up here visiting me. She’d come for the same reason you’re here, right now; she wanted to find out why the fall leaves weren’t changing their usual colors. When I told her it was because we needed a bear sacrifice, she got upset. She drove to Will’s in such a hurry she didn’t watch where she was going and crashed into that poor old bear. Her truck was a mess but her face looked worse. You’re lucky to be alive because she was newly pregnant with you when it happened.”
Wabanaki Blues Page 25