Pushing his meal away, the lumberjack withdrew a small piece of paper and pencil from his coat pocket and wrote:
I can’t shake your memory,
I’m sorry for the kiss.
But if I didn’t try, I mighta cried,
And my life would be amiss.
I hate to see you go, Gloria
There’s more I should’ve done.
But if you must fly, I’ll say goodbye,
Regretting nothing we begun.
Guffawing at his attempt at romance, Dex scratched out both verses, feeling he should try for something less corny.
Suddenly a transistor radio from a neighboring tent broadcasted a news bulletin:
From the world desk in New York . . .
The connection was lost.
13.4 The Westcreek Café
11:10 p.m.
Inside the café was standing room only.
In a space designed for fifty people, sixty-five men stuffed the business and pushed their way toward a small oak bar near the northern wall. Chairs and tables had long since been brushed aside or smashed, and like waves breaking on the shores of Lake Superior, the flow of bodies pushed forward, backward, forward again, and sometimes violently backward, depending on the temperament of those in front. The café was noisy, smoky, and stuffy from body heat, and Gloria had to deal with it all.
Behind the bar she struggled to keep up with drink orders. She was filling in as a bartender. The only two in town had already left for places south, and since Mayor Pike was adamant about throwing a grand going-away party, she felt obligated to meet or exceed his expectations, pulling double duty as both barmaid and waitress. Luckily, few patrons were interested in food; most just booze. Gloria scurried from one end of the bar to the other, serving up warm bottles of Grain Belt, shots of Smirnoff vodka, and cups of “Westcreek Swill,” a clear moonshine distilled not far from the valley. Her blonde hair seemed flat and greasy, her eyes something a raccoon would be ashamed of, and her voice hoarse the more she shouted over the loud general chatter. But Gloria didn’t always have to fill orders. Sometimes hands would reach over the counter and help themselves, retrieving any kind of liquor lying in nearby broken coolers.
Inside the café, revelry was high; tipping, however, minimal.
Mayor Pike leaned comfortably against one end of the bar, watching the crowd with delight. He breathed deeply, as if trying to intoxicate himself with the celebratory air. Sipping cognac from a dainty glass, he paid the most attention to close friends and associates, many sitting or standing just a few feet away. First, he raised his drink in salute and nodded his head to Edgar Johannson, owner of the General Store. He was positioned at the far end of the bar. Reflecting on their relationship, Pike appreciated Edgar. In exchange for tax breaks and building restrictions for competing businesses, the mayor received discounted or free merchandise. Stroking his long white beard, Edgar returned Pike’s show of respect.
A few bar stools over, the mayor eyed Tommy Riggs and Beckett. The two were playing a drinking game. Attempting to bounce a warped penny into a shot glass, they forced each other with each success to slam cans of Grain Belt. Hoots and hollers from the gallery egged on the two, and on the floor, crushed aluminum crowded their muddy boots. Pike observed the game with the admiration of a permissive father. He raised his glass again in salute.
But not every nonverbal interaction would be pleasant.
In the middle of the café, Blaine Erickson stood alone. As if in a bubble, as if unaware or uncaring of the others around him, he stared blankly at Pike. Blaine had stood in this posture for some time, and when he and the mayor locked eyes, it was like the bubble burst. Nodding his large, muscular head in thanks, a slight smile leaking out, Bull’s son raised a mug of frothing beer into the air, almost touching the wooden-slat ceiling.
But Pike didn’t reciprocate. He didn’t want to salute. Blaine reminded him of his gun accidentally going off in the forest, killing a man. Pike lowered his cognac, his shoulders slumped, his happy face gone, and his chest tingling with anxiety. He suddenly wanted to leave his own party. He sought out the back exit; it was blocked by spent cases of beer. He glanced at the front entrance; more men wanted to enter the café than leave, those coming in usually stiff-armed by patrons already present. Pike felt trapped. And then a mental diversion presented itself.
Paul Porter, the skinny version of Winston Churchill, nudged him.
“What do you think of this design?” he asked, shoving a frayed bar napkin with crude pencil marks in front of Pike’s eyes. “I think it’s the best yet.”
Alfred Wright, scratching his scraggly black beard, leaned over Paul’s shoulder in excited anticipation.
Pike gladly refocused. On the napkin he saw a large box marked “LOdge,” eight small squares in a half-circle near the lodge identified as “cabns,” and a long, thin rectangular object jutting out onto “Gull Lake.”
The mayor grinned, took the napkin in hand, and admired the length of the dock. “Perfect,” he said in a relaxed tone. “Enough berths to tie down all boat sizes. I like it. I like it a lot.” He patted Paul on the forearm.
Gradually a chant of “Speech, Speech!” rose above the café voices, all eyes turning to Pike.
“C’mon, Rolly,” Edgar yelled. “Say something!”
Pike obliged. Nose lifted into the air, setting his cognac gently on the bar, he put his arms out, palms down, calling for quiet. “My good citizens of Westcreek,” he said. “Though we are gathered tonight in celebration, we must also acknowledge a sorrowful reality. In just a matter of days, what once belonged to Americans for decades will belong to Natives.”
Hushed cussing and groaning followed.
“Now, now,” Pike responded, trying to address the disappointment. “We had our chance at negotiating. Our officials met around the clock with the Ojibwa, trying to find common ground—a way for us to stay and for them to be given something of value in return. The U.S. government offered thousands of dollars and large chunks of land to the west of the valley. But the elders wouldn’t agree. To any terms. The valley is very important to them.”
More verbal contempt sounded.
“Business is business, and unfortunately we lost out. Let’s face facts.” Pike reached for his dainty glass. “Tonight, let us toast what was and what might’ve been. We all came to Westcreek to carve out a living and form friendships. It’s our friendships that will endure. We came as friends . . . we will leave as friends.” He kissed his drink. “May God bless us all.”
“May God bless us all!” the crowd repeated.
Carousing and clustered conversations resumed inside the café. Edgar kissed Gloria on the cheek when she poured him a glass of Westcreek Swill. Out of Grain Belt beer, Tommy and Beckett changed to Schmidt beer. Their game continued, with Beckett sinking the most warped pennies into the shot glass. Blaine, holding an empty mug, stole a full one from a meagerly framed customer. And Paul and Alfred, crouching near the floor and huddling over a mostly smashed cocktail table, drew up plans on a different napkin for an even more magnificent resort. Everyone, despite at times feeling lost and dejected, began to feel more upbeat. Everyone became more lighthearted, either by personally accepting fate, drinking alcohol, or both. Everyone except Mayor Pike. Internally he was beyond delighted.
Alone, leaning once more against the bar in comfort, he whispered to himself. “Indeed, we leave as friends. But don’t be surprised by an eleventh-hour save.”
He gulped down the rest of his cognac and beamed.
13.5 The Dreams of Amos
11:34 p.m.
Seated on the stage of the park gazebo, leaning against one of the worn pillars and wrapped in a thinly woven mosaic bl
anket, Amos, the old Indian who blew in with the wind and into Sherriff Cullin’s office, attempted to rest. But noise from the Westcreek Café spilled out onto Main Street, keeping him stuck between sleep and wakefulness. His chin would drop and then quickly right itself. Wooden dream catchers, hanging either from nearby railings or trellises, swung, spun, or flipped end-over-end from teasing winds.
Fanning around or slapping at his ears, he heard buzzing. “Leave me alone, you fools,” he murmured. “Let me be.” Then he listened. “Yes, yes, there’s a new power. A new guardian. It’s his magic. Nothing can save this town.”
The man from Wasin fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt of places not far away. He dreamt of standing in the middle of a large cave lit by torches. Circling above he saw floating, teeth-chattering skulls crying red tears. Around the perimeter of the cave he could see and hear hatchets, feather-adorned spears, and knives laughing. Laughed, they did. Laughed over and over. And under his feet he could feel the hot embers of a fire boiling to the surface of the cave floor. In the vision, Amos tiptoed unwillingly, trying to save his moccasins from the intense heat. But the faster and faster he tiptoed, the more and more the embers grew, eventually igniting his bib overalls. Soon his whole body was engulfed in flames.
“Stop your torture! You know nothing of fate!” he screamed, opening his eyes, still kicking his feet. He swatted harder at his ears. “Be gone with you all!”
13.6 Creatures of the Night
11:38 p.m.
Standing on the border between white and tribal-owned land, Doc Baker, the gangly physician with small spectacles and a twitchy gray mustache, yelled frantically into the dark forest. He called out the names of his prized golden retrievers, Duke and Shannon. Both had uncharacteristically run off, chasing a group of what—to Doc—were foxes. But they made weird noises and even spoke a sort of broken English—a language he could barely understand, so he wasn’t sure what “they” were. Or why they came. Or why they taunted and lured his precious pets away.
Doc heard distant barking. He also heard hissing. And he thought he heard, “Let’s play, let’s play,” from the distant, high-limbed trees.
“Duke? Shannon?” he screamed into the forest with dread. “Get back here this instant!”
Above the physician’s head, a human arm of concentrated clouds dropped from the storm and cuffed his gray hair with the energy of massive flatulence. Doc panicked, cowered, and grabbed his skull with both hands, expecting another hit. But nothing else happened.
An uneasy silence came from the forest.
“Duke? Shannon?” Doc said reluctantly. “Hello?”
Sudden yelping, like two miniature poodles getting stepped on, eventually sounded, and Doc recoiled.
Then the yelping ceased.
Doc creeped forward with apprehensiveness. Clutching a skinny, shedding birch tree for support, he leaned into the darkness.
“My pets?” he said with gloom.
No answer. No movement within the forest.
Twitching his gray moustache, adjusting his spectacles, he went into the woods, determined to find his four-legged companions.
13.7 Gloria’s Heart
11:42 p.m.
The back door of the Westcreek Café flew open, and with it a fluff of thick cigarette smoke and boisterous conversation. When the same door was closed behind Gloria on her way out, all sounds and scents disappeared. On a broken cement stoop, she took a break from work, her breaths labored and the skin on her face, neck, and chest feeling clawed-at and tender. The flirting had been especially tough tonight.
Wincing from one especially deep fingernail scratch on her left breast, she sat, spread her legs in her tiny skirt for comfort, and searched the gravel for the butt of a Lucky Strike cigarette, hoping enough tobacco remained to get a puff or two or at least one long drag. She found a stub. To Steven’s mother, the lit taste was intensely intoxicating and soothing. The world on the other side of the door froze in time; in the here and now, she was the only one around.
Reaching into her apron to count her scant tips, she discovered a small folded note. It read:
My dear Gloria,
Maybe our time has passed.
But I can’t help thinking, when I haven’t been drinking,
That found love mighta last.
My dear, never fear,
Memories seldom fade.
And if you move on, to a different song,
I’ll consider friendship given . . . overpaid.
Draining the last fleck of tobacco from the orphaned cigarette, Gloria closed her eyes slowly. Then she squeezed the piece of paper and held it near her injured breast.
13.8 Sheriff Cullin Goes to Church
11:51 p.m.
On the opposite side of Main Street, a lawman reflected.
Sheriff Cullin leaned over the exposed top drawer of his file cabinet. The power was out. Again. A large lit candle in hand, he thumbed through several scrunched-together folders. His jaw was locked, his eyes blinked at faster and faster rates with each folder perused, and sweat formed near his hat line. Occasionally, he’d pull a sheet of paper or two out, holding it near the flickering flame. His lips would move as he read quietly.
“July 19th, 1940, one p.m.,” he said. “Jay White Eagle presents to sheriff’s office. Reports home burglary yesterday while he slept. Discovered ripped window screen at approximately ten a.m. this morning. Reports ham radio, a carton of cigarettes, and $12.52 missing. Will investigate.” Cullin’s head oscillated back and forth, skipping a few lines in his report. “July 19th, 1940, three thirty p.m. Interviewed several townspeople. Received tip that James McMillan was seen entering Jay White Eagle’s home through a window at about two a.m. One anonymous female at the Westcreek Café stated that James McMillan bragged about the crime during lunch. This officer confronted McMillan outside his tent at the lumberjack encampment. He admitted to the crime. This officer ordered McMillan to return the stolen items and repair the broken screen.” Cullin raised the paperwork nearer to his eyes. “July 22nd, 1940, nine a.m. Parties of Jay White Eagle and James McMillan came to sheriff’s office. Both report that all items have been returned and work completed on broken screen. Case closed. Law enforcement as needed.”
Placing the candle carefully atop the file cabinet, flicking off a smattering of wax that dripped onto his hand, the sheriff reviewed another folder. “August 3rd, 1940, eleven p.m. Kathy Schmitz, twenty-eight, knocked on this officer’s door at his home address. Subject was crying and had visible cuts and bruises on her face. Complainant states that husband, Warren Schmitz, thirty, beat her and forced her out of their joint home on Pleasant Drive. Will investigate.” Using his pointer finger as a guide, he highlighted key information further down the report. “Confronted Mr. Schmitz. He denied any wrongdoing. However, this officer noticed bruising on Mr. Schmitz’s right hand and blood near his knuckles. Arrested Mr. Schmitz. Will detain in Westcreek until a transfer to Cass County Court House can be made.” Cullin nodded his head, as if pleased with the police proceedings. “August 6th, 1940, three p.m. Mr. Schmitz plead guilty in court. To pay fine. Ordered to live away from home in Westcreek until reconciliation can be made. Both parties in agreement.” He smiled. “August 21st, 1940, noon. Schmitz family reunited without incidence. No further concerns. Law enforcement services as needed. File closed.”
Reviewing the next folder, Cullin initially frowned. “September 1st, 1940, seven a.m. Westcreek sheriff’s office called. Asked by Leech Lake Ojibwa elders to mediate dispute over fishing rights. Sheriff agreed to request. Reportedly, an equal number of young Indian and white males are at a standoff on the southeast shore of Leech Lake. Dispute apparently over walleye limit differences between the two cultures. Indians can harvest unlimited amounts. Whites just six a day. Sixty over a season. Whites also angry because they can only fish on certain parts of Leech Lake. Both sides threatening violence.” Cullin strained to read his own handwriting. “September 1st, 1940, seven fifty a.m. Arrived at dispute. T
wo groups of men seen yelling at each other. Use of profanity. Some present holding small 2x4s or crowbars. This sheriff stepped between both groups. Pushed each apart. Shouted at everyone to stop yelling. Discussed ways to resolve differences. Asked the tribe for leniency regarding fish limits and what parts of Leech Lake could be fished by non-Indians. In exchange, asked whites present to allow gillnetting and respect Indian traditions. Also suggested that a late-fall fish fry take place in Wasin and that whites be invited.” Cullin’s face lit up with pride. “Follow-up. October 20th, 1940, six p.m. This sheriff took part in a fish fry and potato bake. Sixty-two members of the Leech Lake Tribe and fifty-four citizens from Westcreek took part. No reports of civil disobedience. Tribal elders say they will not pursue charges at the federal level over treaty violations. Elders state Fish Fest a success and helpful for cultural relationships. Say Fish Fest will be an annual event. Follow-up as needed. Case closed.”
But then the sheriff’s stomach twisted in pain.
He knew Fish Fest never took place again.
Thumbing reluctantly to the back of the file cabinet, Cullin withdrew three folders. His muscles tensed, as if expecting the coming words might punch at his well-being.
He continued speaking to himself. “August 18th, 1943, nine a.m. Jay White Eagle presents to sheriff’s office. Reports home broken into while away attending powwow in Wasin. Says front door kicked in, wooden chair smashed, fabric on living room couch ripped by knife. Twenty-three dollars and one two-liter bottle of vodka stolen. Victim states that this is third burglary this month. Says he will leave Westcreek. I will visit home and investigate.”
Cullin sifted through the paperwork within the second of the three folders. “August 30th, 1943,” he barely said, mentally noting the absence of time. “Returned to Westcreek after investigating deer poaching tip near Ten Mile Lake. Noticed Indian male prone on the right side of the road. Investigated. Saw young man about twenty-one years of age. Could identify the man as Jay White Eagle. Had a bruised left eye, bloody left lip, and scrape marks near his scalp. Jay White Eagle refused to give name of perpetrator or perpetrators. Returned victim to Wasin, where he now lives. Will question citizens of Westcreek about incident.”
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 13