by Nadia Bozak
The trading post was an ancient-looking cabin, foundation sinking into the earth, front steps rotted and worn, rusty nails baring out.
“What a goddamn shit heap,” I said out loud as I climbed the steps. Spat over the rail when I came to the top and then pushed opened the door. Inside the last bit of late afternoon light was falling through a pair of windows thick with dust. Jars of candy, tins of mink oil, boxes of matches, ammunition, cans of Muskol, and also the postmaster himself were there behind the counter. He was flipping through some brittle ledger left over from the century before. So quiet that I heard his wristwatch. Thought for certain it would stink in there, like something rank and rotten, but instead it was just old. Everything was old. Smelled musty, like dead breath. My boots knocked hard against the planked floor and the spurs gave out a lonesome row of jingle-jangles. That postmaster, he did not look up until I stood right there before him.
He had milky eyes, and wore round wire glasses. We exchanged formalities. After a brisk look, he thought he had me summed up and said with a simmering sigh, “Here to trade, is it?”
“No,” I told him. “I have nothing to trade. Today I’ll be buying my supplies.”
He straightened up. “Got cash, do you?”
Nodded that I did. Saw this guy for an asshole, and I could understand how Dave had had trouble with him. Recited my order and the fella bent over to write it out. As he did, I saw the top of his bald head with its pink and freckled scalp, making me think of trout belly.
“And these,” I said. Unscrewed the lid from a jar of caramels and spilled a whole pile of them out on the counter.
The postmaster looked mad at that. So I counted them out, under my breath.
“Seventeen,” I said, and then I took off my shitty mitts and with my scabbed-up fingers started to unwrap them and stuff them into my watery mouth.
The postmaster noted this, laid down his pencil, and disappeared into the storeroom just behind.
The front door creaked open and in came the boy from the shore. The glasses he wore were just like the postmaster’s. Snotty sleeves were rolled up to show his thin wrists, cuffs of his pants were ragged and filthy from dragging around in the mud. Could not be older than twelve, and so sized were the boots he wore. He sniffled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his plaid jacket. Nodded at that boy. Tossed him a caramel. Looked like he needed something like a treat. He missed the throw, picked the candy off the floor, and put it in his pocket.
The postmaster returned from the storeroom with the staples and duct tape and glue, and he started shuffling around behind the counter, measuring out coffee, sugar, and oatmeal, pulling out bottles of booze, cans of tobacco, rolling papers, a jar of jam.
That boy meantime was clumping around behind, sniffling.
Postmaster bent over to pack up the stuff in this topless wooden crate, and his scalp jogged my memory. Asked after rod and tackle. Said to me there were none to be had of either just then, but if I passed back that way in two weeks’ time, he was sure he’d be able to set me up.
“Too bad,” I said.
Paid for the stuff with the money Dave had given me.
“You’re travelling alone?” the postmaster said to me just as I was turning to leave.
Nodded that I was.
“Well, some coming through here say there’s an Indian prowling this territory. A fugitive, maybe crazy. Thought you should know if you didn’t already. Dangerous, they say he is.”
Swallowed hard on my sugary spit. Somewhere in the room, for I had lost track of him, the boy inhaled a wet sniffle.
“He’s alone?”
“No. Some say he’s got a pal. Might even be a girlfriend, a white one, though.”
“Guess I gotta watch out,” I said.
“Don’t mean to scare you, miss, just thought you ought to be aware.”
“Well, I’m obliged to you,” I said, way too polite.
Then I got me out of there. Sat down on the stoop and fished around in the crate for tobacco and papers. Was rolling myself a big fat cigarette and the door creaked open behind me. Rubber boots came clumping down the steps. Lit that smoke, inhaled deeply, then scanned the lakeshore: There in the distance was Dave’s canoe, good old 37, looking ever the rattletrap and the piece of crap. And me, I was too occupied dragging on that delicious cigarette to notice the boy sit down beside me.
“You know, I want to see him,” said the boy. “Me and my sister go out hunting him.”
Looked over. Face tanned with dirt and lips foaming from the candy rolling around inside his mouth. He sniffled. Pushed the glasses up his nose and looked hard at me.
“What?” I said. “Who do you hunt?”
“That Indian. Me and Shell—she’s my sister—we’re surely dying to ferret him out, and me and Shell’re sure he’ll pass through here. Everyone says so.”
“And what’ll you do if you find him?”
Shrugged his shoulders. “Just fixing to take a look is all. Find him and let him go. I’d never tell anyone, especially Gary. He’s an asshole.”
Dragged deeply on the cigarette. “That’s good of you not to tell stuff to assholes.”
Hoped the boy would leave then, but he stayed where he was, sniffling and cracking the candy between his teeth. Moving his big old boots all over the step.
“What’re the boots on your boat?” he wanted to know. “The ones there, on the bow deck.”
“Mascot,” I said.
“They’re real big,” he said.
“They are, yeah.”
Then he said, “It’s a rod and tackle you’re after.”
“Am.”
“I can fix y’up. Only it’ll cost.”
“What you got?”
“Come and I’ll show you.”
He stumbled down the stoop in his rubbers, then turned into the thinned-out bush. The sun above was slung low in a dissolving sky. Considered that I ought to get back before that sun was gone, but getting a rod would make things better for me and Dave in the long run, make us less desperate.
Followed the boy, struggling beneath the weight of all those provisions. He led me down a path and into a pocket of squat cabins standing in a row. He went in the second to last before Long Haul stopped and the bush took over.
Me, I knew before I went in what the inside would be like: the smell of woodsmoke, coffee, and tobacco, the walls blackened as such. On the potbellied stove in the centre of the main room, some strong meat was cooking. On the floor, mud from boots, bits of leaves and sticks from bringing in firewood. Set my crate on this rough wooden table beneath one of the cabin’s two windows. That boy went away through a doorway hung with a quilt and came back with a heavy-reeled salmon rod. Handed it to me and he sniffled, pushed his spectacles up his nose.
“How much will you take for it?” Asked this as I checked over its components for signs of splinters or breaks.
“Thirty,” the boy said.
“Can’t give you that much,” I said, handing back the rod.
“I’ll throw in some tackle—how’s that?”
“Still can’t give you that much, no matter what you throw in besides.”
“So trade me then,” the boy said.
“No,” I said. “I’ve nothing to trade with you.”
“Make it the boots. The ones for a mascot—those’ll do.”
Shook my head no, not ever.
“Too bad,” said that funny little kid.
Picked up my crate and left. Found the way back to the shore and the canoe. The sun was gone, and the twilight made Long Haul look rougher and more lonely than ever. Loaded up the provisions, but then made no move to launch the boat. Hands on hips, turned back to look at Long Haul, melting away as it was. Then I walked back to the cabin. That boy opened the door when I knocked and didn’t look surprised to see it was me. In the cabin
the stove was going, and whatever meat there was in the pot filled the place with a thick, brown smell. At the table was a girl a little younger than the boy, wearing boy’s pajamas and boys’ lace-up boots. When I went in, she went to the stove, stirring the pot with a long rusty spoon. They looked like a midget husband and wife, the way they were keeping house all alone like that. Like it was with me in Bellyache’s trailer when he’d go away for the season to work up north, leaving me there. Liked it better that way, with him gone.
It had turned full dusk outside, and a single oil lamp standing on the table made light for the entire cabin.
“Where’s your dad?” I asked.
“Out clearing his line.”
“He a trapper?”
The boy nodded.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Few weeks ago,” the sister told me. “Should’ve been back way before now.”
Lit a cigarette. The boy made a gesture, and so the girl passed over her pouch and papers.
“Where’s his line at?”
“He’s got a couple,” the boy said.
He licked shut the paper of his cigarette, lit it, sat there with me smoking.
“Don’t know where they are exactly on account of he likes to go out there alone and I stay back to look after Shell.”
The boy sniffled and wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve.
“I’ve got something to trade with you for the rod,” I said.
The boy dragged on the smoke and waited for me to say what it was.
“You give me that there fishing rod, which isn’t worth thirty with or without tackle, and I’ll show you that crazy Indian.”
Those part-time orphans, they looked over at each other.
“You the pal? The girl?”
Closed my eyes and nodded that I was.
Silence. Swallows.
“But our dad’ll come back wondering where the rod’s gone with nothing to account for a trade.”
“I can’t help you there,” I said to them.
“Is he really a psycho like Gary says?” the boy asked me.
“Fucking right,” I said. “And he’s a Satanist. You ever hear of heavy metal music?”
The kids nodded to say they had.
“Well, he’s one of those Satan-worshipping, heavy metal motherfuckers who, like, carves pentagrams and words to Slayer songs into his own flesh. Worse is—guess what?”
The kids looked blank.
“He’s a pyromaniac. Means he hears voices calling to him in his head telling him to set shit on fire, so he goes and does it. He burns down churches, starts forest fires. He really is worth a look.”
“Bloody hell,” the boy said.
“But if you tell anyone what you know, I swear he’ll bash your heads in with a rock,” I said in a whisper. “Worse, he’ll come burn down Long Haul.”
Leaned back then. Dragged from the smoke. There was a silence, but just a minute’s worth.
Then the boy’s sister said, “OK, we’ll trade.”
* * *
Down on the shore those kids were real reluctant to get in the canoe.
“Let’s go,” I said after I’d packed up rod and lures and the crate of provisions.
“In that thing?” said the girl. “It looks all broken.”
Said to her, “It’s not broken, just beat up.” And then when I told them it belonged to the Heavy Metal Indian, they looked at each other and climbed in.
The boy took the bow, up by Pickles’s dirty boots. Me, I was in the stern. At her brother’s feet, holding onto the bow boots, knelt Shell. She had a flashlight to guide us. It flickered, though, having low batteries. Paddled on into the path of its weak light. Used the soundless Indian stroke so no one would hear us go.
“It’s about a kilometre down,” I told them. “Keep to the eastern shore, and look out first for a flashlight and then for a pair of rocks stacked closed to the water’s edge.”
Moonlight shimmered yellow over the water. Nothing out there but silence, the call of waterbirds. A north breeze. Now and again we saw the lights of a cabin glimmering along the shore. Then saw the flash of Dave’s light, and we pulled toward it until the kid sister said she saw the markers.
Shell stepped out first and held the bowline while her brother and me climbed to shore and lifted the canoe onto land. She passed me the flashlight and I shone it in their faces, reminding them about the Long Haul fire and the heads smashed in if they told anyone what they saw.
“It’s OK,” Shell said. “We only have our dad to tell and we never tell him anything.”
Left it at that.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Turned then and flashed the light across the black bushes.
Kids followed close behind me, breathing hard.
Started calling out Dave’s name, stopped in the part of the bush where I thought I’d left him. Turned all around me and flashed the light, but didn’t see him.
“For Christ’s sake, where is he?” the boy hissed. He sounded scared and pissed off. Shell had a tight hold on my elbow. Told them that they were either really brave or plain stupid.
“Take us back,” Shell whispered, still gripping tight. “We changed our mind.”
Then from behind came a rustling. All of us spun around, flashlight scouring the ground, trying to find that sound. Then the flashlight caught sight of Dave’s boots, laid out stiff, toes up. Dave was there, hidden in the thick of low-growing branches. Kicked at his boot, and then Dave sat up into the hazy yellow of that flashlight. He was blinded, mad, scared shitless besides. He tore the earphones from his head and hissed out for me to turn off the light.
At my elbows I felt those kids tense up and then step backwards.
“Is it heavy metal he’s listening to?” the boy asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s Slayer or some shit. Nothing to be that scared of, though.”
Then I said for Dave to come out to the shore.
Turned away then and the kids followed me out of the bush.
Down by the water Dave froze when I switched on the flashlight and shone it on that pair of kids. He leaned back and shoved his hands into his pants pockets.
“What’s going on?” he asked, nodding at the boy and his sister.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just making a fair trade: a look at you in exchange for a fishing rod.”
“Blowing my low profile’s worth a goddamn fishing rod. Is that it?”
“Look, they won’t tell anyone,” I said. “Else you’ll smash their heads in with a rock. Right, kids?”
“And set fire to Long Haul,” said the boy.
“After all, you are a pyromaniac and a Satan-worshipping, heavy-metal motherfucking Indian. Just the sight of you is scaring the shit out of them. . . . Hey, show them your T-shirt, Dave.”
“Fuck you,” said Dave.
“Dave, really . . . they want to see it.”
Dave sighed. He stared at me through the dark. Then he spat and undid his jacket and showed off his Misfits T-shirt in the glare of the flashlight I held.
Those kids stared at the shirt, never having seen anything like it before, that big old grinning Misfits skull. The boy asked me if I was a Satanist too. Me, I said no, but the boy asked how come my jacket said The Goddamns on the back. He said that sounded more satanic than Misfits. Didn’t know how to answer, but the girl was talking then, asking Dave if he really carved words into his arms.
Dave looked at me and said, “Well, actually she’s the one that’s into carving herself all up. Maybe she’ll show you her scabby fingernails. She’s pretty goddamned herself, just like the jacket says.”
“You’re an asshole, Dave,” I said. “As usual.”
“Just give me a cigarette,” Dave said.
Shell stepped out from behind me,
took a rolled smoke from behind her ear, and thrust it into Dave’s hand. Her brother came up with matches, struck one and held it out for Dave to use. Trained the light on him, and we all watched him smoking in the night. He asked for a bottle. In the canoe, I found one of whisky and passed it over. Dave cracked the cap and took in a thick swallow.
“What’s in there?” the boy asked. He nodded toward the tape case that Dave had with him, standing upright at his knee.
“Nothing. Luggage.”
“No, it’s tapes. It’s tapes, kids, heavy metal music. Dave, show them.”
Those kids watched as Dave held the smoke between his lips and opened the case, exposing rows of cassette tapes. Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, Ride the Lightning, Reign in Blood, Children of the Blade.
They asked him then if he really burned stuff down, and Dave said he did. He replaced the cap on the bottle and threw the end of his cigarette into the darkness. Then he did something I really did not expect. Dave took Sabbath’s Volume IV from the carrier and he asked the kids if they had a tape deck at home. They said no, but at the school there was one their teacher let them use.
Dave said, “OK, but don’t say where you got this from. These guys were from a hopeless shithole just like we are, all four of us here. Then they changed everything.”
Then Dave handed the boy the tape. The boy took it, all pale with fear and wonder. He showed it to his sister.
“Now we take these kids home and get the fuck out of here,” Dave said to me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
No town is too small.
Malice, Ohio.
ARE YOU STILL THERE? TRYING TO HURRY. HAVE TO STAY IN MOTELS NOW. THE MONEY GOES FASTER THAN WE DO AND SO the stranger pays in cash, flashes the borrowed driver’s licence when the clerk asks to see it, answers yes when asked if the kid’s a brother. Brother, because the stranger maybe looks too young to have a son. The kid squirms against the tight leather embrace, convincing both of them it is still alive. Signs the register. The clerk hesitates, but then calls out “Mr. Brock,” which gets no answer at first.
“Your key. Room 106. Just past the pool.”
This is new: TV and clean sheets and new soap in the scrubbed shower stall. Props the baby up among the pillows on the double bed, then the TV goes on. The stranger thinks its sound will comfort the baby, that its leaking energy will revive it, salvage what tired bits of life its got left. Leaves the baby and the TV alone, locks the door, heads for the convenience store located on the other side of a now dead road.