Today, the sound of the cheap moccasins on the cracked linoleum floor was like sandpaper as Mama moved back and forth, washing the dishes, drying them, putting them on the open shelves in the kitchen of the small and silent house. She used her foot to move aside the washtub that would catch the drip that would come through the ceiling when the heavy snow came and melted and came again. Three steps across the kitchen, she opened the back door and walked down the old wooden steps, holding onto the handrail that wobbled when she leaned too hard upon it. The wind blew as she stepped onto the hard packed ground that had a goodly amount of snow. Mama Cecilia didn't pull her sweater closer because it would not warm her quickly enough to bother. She was only taking the clothes off the line that was strung between an old metal pole and an even older wooden one. On that line, her son's underwear and jeans danced in the wind like clothes on stiff-legged ghosts. She unhooked the wooden pins and put them in the bucket near the post. Carrying the near frozen clothes, she retraced her steps, and held a little tighter to the rickety handrail as she went back up the stairs and into the house.
She folded the jeans over her arm and even folded the underwear in half as she went through the small living room, past her own bedroom, and to the door of her son's room. There was no knob to turn or lock to lock. There was only a hole where the knob and the lock had once been so the door opened soundlessly. Inside, a little bit of light bled through the high window, but it was like the light in the eyes of a dying man, flat and faded and difficult to see through. The curtains she had made for her son when he was a child still hung there. The cowboys and the horses they rode upon had faded so that the horses looked like stumps and the cowboys like mushrooms.
"Go away."
Her son always knew when she was there. He always ordered her away. He moved as if he was agitated. Even though his legs were short, they were too long for the narrow bed. His shirt crept up his back and she saw his smooth skin. The black hair on his head was bent in many directions. She could not see his face, but she didn't have to in order to see his anger. His anger was dull and black like coal inside the belly of a cast iron stove.
Mama Cecilia was not startled when he spoke to her nor was she hurt by his admonition. Her son was always awake enough to know when someone living was close, and he was sure to send the living person away before he caught their condition. Most people were afraid of his gruffness, and the smell of his breath, and his wild hair, and his red eyes, but she was not.
"You should get up. I have food."
Mama Cecilia laid his clean, cold clothes on the wooden chair. She wanted to sit beside the metal bed, smooth his hair, and lay her hands upon him, and share her good spirits.
"Leave me alone."
He muttered and swatted at an imaginary mother because Mama Cecilia had not sat beside the bed. She stood there, her squat body unmoving, her chubby hands by her side. She said, "I am going for a while. I am going to the lodge about Susan, your daughter."
He made noises, not words, and that was disrespectful. She wanted to call sharply to him but she had no real name to call him that felt right on her tongue. Calling sharply without a name would not be the same. He liked to be called Cole like his white father who had left them, but she could not say that name. He would not answer to his native name, so she shuffled away without calling sharply or saying a name.
She closed the door, went to her own room, and sat on the bed that was neatly made up. She did not turn on the light because she found the gathering grey comforting. It did not hide her from the world the way her son's dark room hid him, it embraced her gently so that she could become one with the changing season.
Mama sat with her back erect and folded her hands in her lap. She saw that her lap was large and wondered when she had grown so wide. There were times that she still believed herself slim and quick and beautiful. Mama Cecilia loved when those moments came, but then they were gone. She was herself, an old woman with long grey hair to braid and small dark eyes that no longer saw much even of her own village. Her high full cheeks were soft, but they were wasted. There was no one to kiss them, no husband or grandchildren or even a dog to love her enough. The wrinkles around her eyes were deep and furrowed more from closely held sorrow than shared joy. She was sad to be old, but to be old was no excuse for sitting down and weeping.
Finally, Mama Cecilia leaned over. Her stomach folded, pushing the breath out of her as she removed the cheap moccasins. She picked up the ones she had made from the hide of a caribou with the fur turned inside. Plain as they were, these moccasins were her treasure. She had stitched them together with a length of hide that she had tanned herself when she was a young bride. The shoes were softer than the day she had first worn them. Her sharp and practical brain had not changed with the passing of the years and neither had her feet. They were still small although everything in between her head and her feet had gotten bigger and softer. Her heart was the biggest and softest of all. If it had not been, she would not be putting on her good moccasins and going to the lodge.
When she was done, Mama Cecilia stood up and her long skirt fell to her toes. No one would know that she wore proper moccasins, but she would know. She took off her house sweater and her apron and hung them on a hook next to her good sweater. The good sweater she took down, put on, and buttoned up to her chin. When that was done she went to her small closet and took out her parka, her amaut, made of seal and fox and wolf. It was too early in the season for this coat, but it was good to wear it to the lodge.
In the hall, Mama Cecilia cast a look at her son's room. She heard nothing, not even snoring. She went back through the small house and took the paper from the table by the door. This she put in her pocket, and then she opened the door and stepped outside. Mama Cecilia did not bother to lock the door behind her. There was nothing to steal inside her house. If someone were so desperate that they must steal nothing then she would not begrudge them.
She did not pause between the closing of the door and beginning her journey. She looked neither left nor right. Soon she had walked down to the road that was not paved, her arms at her sides, her chubby fingers hanging loose, and her narrow dark eyes on the straight path. The breeze could not find even a single strand of her hair to toy with so tight was her braid. Her cheeks did not flush with cold because they were the color of polished mahogany and a blush could not shine through.
Mama Cecilia walked one mile and some feet and then she was at the lodge. She opened the door and ducked her head to enter. Inside, Mama Cecilia straightened, standing only a little taller than she was wide. She breathed in through her short, flat nose and her old eyes looked slowly around the big room. The benches lining the walls were empty, but then she saw that someone was at the far end of the long hall sitting at the table where the chief usually sat and spoke about important things. But he was not sitting there often since he, too, had moved to the city.
"Mama Cecilia."
"Hello, Priscilla Wolf Skin." Mama greeted the woman who was very much younger than she, which didn't mean she was young at all. Priscilla Wolf Skin did not greet her back in the old way because she was very excited about things that seemed big to her but which were not.
"I'm putting the report in order. The chief is coming in a few weeks, and we need to have an accounting of us all. There are so few of us, but it is still a chore that must be done correctly," the young woman chirped.
Mama nodded and kept her eyes on Priscilla who had not asked her or her son to make an accounting of themselves. It seemed to Mama Cecilia that she should make an accounting before Priscilla could make one to the chief. But Mama did not speak. She just looked at Priscilla who was forty years plus five. She was old enough to know that the chiefs did not care about the people here but Mama Cecilia didn't want to make Priscilla feel sad, so she didn't point out that the chiefs had been making promises for all the eighty years Mama Cecilia had been alive. Nothing got better; everything got worse.
"Are you alright?" Priscilla asked.
"Are you alone?" Mama asked.
"Yes."
Mama nodded. Without a telephone to call to the village she had to take her chances. Now that it was only Priscilla Wolf Skin, Mama Cecilia assumed her spirits meant for her to find this woman.
When she decided this, she put her hand in her pocket and withdrew the paper she had so carefully read over the last few days. She unfolded it and put it on the table in front of Priscilla.
"I have this letter from my granddaughter."
Priscilla rested her eyes on Mama Cecilia for only a flicker before she took the paper, opened it, and read it. Then she read it again. Mama Cecilia waited, knowing everything came in its own time including what Priscilla Wolf Skin would have to say. While she waited, Mama looked with her eyes here and there but did not turn with her body. She saw the dust motes clinging to the weak light coming through the glass in the lodge windows. That glass was melting from the top down because that was what happened to ancient glass. She saw the wooden floor and felt her feet upon it. It felt good to stand on something older than her feet.
"Your granddaughter is in Eagle, Mama. That is so far away."
"Not too far," Mama answered with some authority even though her chubby hands were still by her side, her voice flat and practical, and she made no motion to indicate she had any authority. "She doesn't give me a phone number or an address, but she says to send money to that place. I would like to go find her and bring her back to help her father. I would like to find out if the people at that place know how I can find her."
"I think that would be hard without a phone number or address. I think this is just an office to wire money."
"She won't be far away if this is where I send money," Mama assured her. "But I cannot go alone. Will you come with me, Priscilla Wolf Skin?"
"Mama Cecilia," Priscilla lamented, as her brow knotted. "I have my children. My husband hasn't worked in so long. I couldn't get the money. And look, it says your Susan wants money. I don't think you have enough to send her some and to pay for a trip to Eagle, do you?"
Mama Cecilia took the letter back, folded it, and remained silent. Priscilla's concern deepened because it seemed clear now that no matter what she said, Mama Cecilia was determined to do this thing. Priscilla wanted to tell the old woman that her son was not worth saving, but that would not be kind. So she said:
"Does your Cole know? He should know. He should be the one to go find her, Mama. Or, at the very least, he should go with you if you are determined."
Mama Cecilia nodded. All that Priscilla Wolf Skin said was true. Her son should go, but he would not even if Mama begged him. She could die, and he might not notice. That's how sure she was that Cole would not go to Eagle. But if she could bring her granddaughter back to this village, Cole might see her and want to be a good man for her. When Mama died, she would have someone to mourn her. Mama was almost certain that she was not enough to inspire her son to be a good man so she would put another person in his way. That person would be Susan.
"Do you want me to talk to Cole?"
Priscilla Wolf Skin was calling after the old woman who was now leaving. She did not answer Priscilla who, Mama knew, thought she was helping just by asking the question. She was not. That Mama Cecilia left dissatisfied was not a bad thing. It only meant that the way to where she needed to go would not be straight.
The old woman walked out of the lodge and then the mile and some feet back to her house. When she had put away her amaut and good moccasins, hung up her good sweater and put on her apron, Mama Cecilia sat on her bed with the letter in her lap. She closed her eyes and considered that the girl might be no better than her father because she asked only for money and not after Mama Cecilia. Then she thought that perhaps Priscilla Wolf Skin might be wiser than Mama gave her credit for. Perhaps a journey together would be good for her son. They would know one another again. If he was walking with her then he could not drink.
She would go tell him. She would smile and help put things in a case for him. She would do everything that needed to be done, and all he would need to do would be to put his feet on the ground and hold her hand.
Mama got off the bed. She went down the short hall to tell her son of these plans, but even before she went into the room Mama Cecilia saw that things were different. The door to her son's room was open wide. Mama looked in and saw that the clothes that had been there were gone.
She made no exclamation of surprise. Instead, she went to look in the wallet that she kept beside her bed in the drawer. Her money was gone. Her son was gone. Mama sat on the bed again because the weight of her heavy heart was too much and she could not remain upright.
After a minute, Mama Cecilia raised her legs and lay down on her neatly made bed. She stared up at the ceiling, crossed her hands over her chest and clasped the letter from her granddaughter beneath them. She listened in case her son should come back and have a cheap present bought with her own money instead of running away to nowhere.
The door did not open.
He did not bring her a present.
He was gone.
Mama Cecilia closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. Soon it looked as if she were dead. But she was only waiting for her good spirits to guide her. When they did her good moccasins would take her where she needed to go.
CHAPTER 9
Andre Guillard sat up in bed, the sheets and blankets falling away to reveal his wondrously naked body. Nell's house was chilly, but for a man used to sleeping out in the open it felt downright toasty. The fire in the potbellied stove in the corner of the room was still burning and Nell was giving off a goodly amount of body heat herself.
She rolled over, opened her eyes, and pushed herself up. She wore a t-shirt, more out of habit than necessity she told Andre the first time she suggested that they indulge in a little 'chatting' when he was in the neighborhood. Andre thought colleagues-with-benefits was not a bad idea; benefits with Nell were special, indeed. Of all the women he had ever met, it was Nell he admired most. She was older than he but that was part of her charm. She was funny, not frivolous; she was thoughtful never overbearing; she could fix a plane or please a man; she knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it. He would trust her with his back out in the wild, and he treasured her affection within these walls.
The only annoyance between them was the way they looked. Nell was far too aware of her age and far too clueless about her true beauty. He had never really seen what all the fuss was about. His face and his body were what they were. It wasn't like he'd done anything to earn them so he couldn't take credit. For her part, Nell just wanted to make sure he had an out – which he never seemed to want. She loved Andre Guillard because he was simply Andre, and she assumed he must love her a little just because she was plain old Nell.
"Morning." Nell touched him lightly, somewhere between his last rib and his hip. He put his hand on her head and mused her hair.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said.
"What time are you taking off?"
"An hour. Maybe two."
"I'll get you some breakfast." Nell pushed off her side of the sheets, swinging around to kiss him and then back the other way so she could get out of bed. She said: "You are welcome."
Andre laughed as she took her robe and left the room. He showered but his mind was still unsettled. He had been restless in the night, and he still was when he sat down to bacon, eggs, and toast.
"You shouldn't have used 'em up on me, Nell," Andre said even though the scrambled eggs were just what he needed.
"Next time you're out bring me some or you'll be on the powdered stuff."
"I'm not picky," Andre answered.
"I could take that the wrong way, my friend," Nell said.
"Don't." He closed his eyes as the first forkful went into his mouth and gave her a 'yum'. She laugh
ed, which pleased Andre to no end.
"By the way, thanks for the nuts. I found them after you left. Didn't save you even one." She got up and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, leaned her hip on the counter, and looked out the window. "It's a good thing I got you out when I did. It's going to be brutal in a while. I can't remember the last time we had weather like this so early."
"HazMat won't be able to get that stuff any time soon, then." Andre glanced toward the window.
"No one else will be able to either, so at least you don't have to worry about it." Nell turned away and mumbled into her coffee. "I'm going to be grounded all week. If you don't get your rear in gear, you're going to be stuck here with me."
"There are worse places to be snowed in." Andre picked up his plate and put it in the sink. He filled his cup. "Unfortunately, my team could get me home no matter what, much as I wouldn't mind telling the boss I was stuck."
"You're a sweet talker, Andre. You should think about writing poetry," she chuckled.
Andre set his cup aside, took her around the waist and pulled her close. Nell held her cup high, and he flashed her a bright white smile.
"Roses are red, violets are blue, if I'm stuck in the snow, it better be with you."
Andre nuzzled her neck and Nell's throaty laugh dissolved into giggles as his beard tickled her skin. For a guy who didn't care much for people, he sure had a way with them. She threw her arm around his neck, pulled back, and grinned.
"It's a good thing we've got you tucked away out here. Unleashing your charm on the rest of the world would cause riots."
Andre let her go, took his coffee, and sat down at the table again. "I'd be in the loony bin if I still lived out there."
"Are you all packed up?"
"Yep."
They made lazy conversation before it petered out completely. The small talk never lasted more than a few minutes so Andre's silence was nothing new to Nell, but this time his quiet was telling.
Dark Witness Page 8