This Town Sleeps
Copyright © 2020 by Dennis E. Staples
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events is unintended and entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Staples, Dennis E., author.
Title: This town sleeps : a novel / Dennis E. Staples.
Description: Counterpoint Press : Berkeley, California, [2020]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019019472 | ISBN 9781640092846
Subjects: LCSH: Gay men—Fiction. | Ojibwa Indians—Minnesota—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Legends—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3619.T3675 T55 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019019472
Jacket design by Nicole Caputo
Book design by Jordan Koluch
COUNTERPOINT
2560 Ninth Street, Suite 318
Berkeley, CA 94710
www.counterpointpress.com
Printed in the United States of America
Distributed by Publishers Group West
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to my mother, Karen,
who taught me to read,
and to the memory of Jacob Grissom,
who taught me how to love.
I can
see how easy it is to confuse estrangement with
what comes before that, what’s really just another
form of being lost, having meant to spell out—
wordlessly, handlessly—I’m falling, not Sir,
I fell
—CARL PHILLIPS, “The Greatest Colors
for the Emptiest Parts of the World”
Contents
Prologue: Indian Paintbrush
One: What Boys Do
Two: Nine Isle
Three: What Children Whisper
Four: Ogichidaag (Warriors)
Five: What Mothers Do
Six: Just for Today
Seven: Plastique Shaman
Eight: The Lost Forty
Nine: Red Pine
Ten: This Town Sleeps
Eleven: White People’s Ghosts
Twelve: Two Sisters
Thirteen: The Basketball Champion
Fourteen: Hey, Lumberjack
Epilogue: Awake
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Indian Paintbrush
THE YOUNG MAN WAITED in the woods, and he thought of it like destiny.
Indian men were supposed to be warriors, watchers, killers, the young man thought. Survivors. His own life was a testament to that. Five hundred years since the end, and there were still tribes. Still warriors. Still a young man in the woods, holding a knife.
He had never used it for its intended purpose of skinning and carving deer, or any animal in the north woods that had the honor of dying for another’s sustenance. The knife was clean, blade colored dark green and serrated like a birch leaf, and ready.
Another young man entered the forest. Just the two of us, he thought as he held the knife. Two survivors. Two living, breathing Ojibwe ogichidaag that the chi-mookomaanag had not killed yet.
Darkness hid the waiting warrior from the other, who did not see him approach or the knife as it entered his stomach, his chest, face, back. The young man felt as if he was painting, and each brushstroke ripped apart the tanned leather canvas in lines of sunset. This was art, and he was a flower. An Indian paintbrush. And his roots were being watered with blood.
One warrior walked out of the woods.
One
What Boys Do
I DON’T KNOW WHY I keep coming back here.
Geshig is a reservation town situated on a major highway about fifteen miles from Half Lake. The population sign reads 667, one digit from freaking out the superstitious and religious.
That’s a common thing in Geshig. There are five churches, after all, including an Ojibwe-Christian fusion chapel that started as a Masonic brotherhood. The whites, the reds, the boxes for “other,” and any remaining groups: all are superstitious here.
I drive in from Half Lake, where I live and work as a payroll clerk for a dental office. Sometimes I drive around town at one a.m. but during the daytime I shop at the local grocery store. I pay more money than if I were to just shop at the Walmart in Half Lake but I like the meat from here better. And if my money can help this little town’s economy, I guess that’s good.
When I come during the day, the parking lot is more than half filled with cars. Not all are local. I can tell just by looking at the paint jobs. If there’s no rust, or if it has a full grille on the front, or has never been broken into, then it probably doesn’t belong to Geshig. The closest reputable car dealership is thirty miles away, and on the high side of budgets that this town can’t support except for some of the only good-paying jobs with the reservation.
On the Friday when I cash my check at the grocery store and buy a few small bags of food, there is a woman and her daughter sitting on the sidewalk out front. It’s a hot day in early June but they don’t appear bothered by the heat. They have a cardboard box with five puppies and a bowl of water inside. Three are brown with white underbellies and legs. Two are black and gray. All are staring up and out of the box, yipping for attention. No more than two months old.
On the side of the box in thick black marker is the word Free.
“You want one?” the woman says. She’s a lithe Ojibwe woman with a bubbly olive face and long, swamp-tea hair. Her daughter is focused only on another pup, in her lap with a collar on. It’s brindled, but with a white underbelly and piercing blue eyes.
“Oh I don’t know . . .” I mumble, though I know instantly that I want one.
“Can’t argue with free,” she says. “You got a cigarette?”
“I don’t.” I walk away from them and then, without thinking, I turn back. “What kind do you smoke?”
“Marlboro Lights.”
“Okay.”
I buy a pack of cigarettes for the woman. “This for the brindle.”
She lets out a surprised, satisfied laugh. “Damn, deal, guy!” There was no hesitation.
I pick up the other brindle from the box and get a good look. Male. Not shy. He licks my face as soon as he can and doesn’t stop until I pull him away. The little girl is sad to see him go.
“I’m Marion. What’s your name?”
She has the same face as her mother, except with a wider smile, with big, bright teeth. “Ma’iinganikwezens! Mommy calls me Maya.”
Ma’iinganikwezens. Wolf Girl. I smile. “That’s a great name. And how about you?”
“Gerly.”
“Gertie?”
“Gerly. Short for Gertrude.” She blows her first puff of smoke to her right, as if that will protect her daughter’s lungs. “Pokegama. I know. White-lady name. I always hated it.”
The name seems familiar to me, but I don’t think I recognize her face. “I know how you feel. ‘Marion’ got made fun of a lot growing up. Also didn’t help that ‘Lafournier’ was easily made into ‘La-Four-Eyes.’”
Gerly shakes my hand. “Good luck with the pup. He’s a rezdog.”
I have a name picked out for the dog before I leave the city limits. Basil. Because the herb was on sale in the store, two for one, but I o
nly needed one. Now I have the other.
THE LIGHT ON THE message screen pings. The profile is blank but in a small town that could mean many things. Discretion. Shame. Desperation. The need for relief in a failing marriage. This man on the other end doesn’t say much about what he wants. He won’t even send a face pic and he doesn’t want to see mine. I’m not closeted; I used to have my face showing but men wouldn’t reply when they saw my Indian skin.
After hearing a brief description of my body, the only thing he will agree to is meeting at a dark place in the middle of the night. To most men this is probably a red flag.
Basil is sleeping in his pen near my TV and has food and water. He’ll be okay for the next hour or two.
Right at the south end of Geshig, there is a rest area near a small park and a few acres of marshland. Until a few years ago, the park was an aging, dangerous structure filled with slivers, metal bars, and, according to some rumors, dried blood where children were either murdered or simply scraped their skin. Now it’s a plastic pastel paradise with padded corners and a soft mulch ground instead of the pebbles that were once the endless ammo for rock fights. But most kids still prefer the elementary school park because of how much bigger it is.
The parking lot is well lit from the streetlights, and the new playground catches enough of it to discourage post-curfew children or drug deals.
Far behind the rest area building, away from the light pollution and near the cattails is where I meet him. As soon as I see his silhouette approach from another far end of the area, I begin my typical bout of last-minute nervousness and convince myself that he is a murderer. He is coming here to strangle me and throw me into the marsh. My body will not rot and future generations will study my mud-mummified corpse during their wetlands section of general science. That will be my reward for anonymous sex.
He sits next to me in the grass. “Hi.” We sit there for a few moments before he reaches over to me. I expect his hand to land right at my groin, but instead he touches my stomach. His hand traces my sternum up to my shirt collar and then brushes over my neck and chin. For a long time, he touches the stubble on my face and says nothing. Then he moves back to my chest, lifting up my shirt and running each finger through the short tangles.
He removes my shirt and with both hands begins to squeeze my pecs, softly at first and then harder. I haven’t experienced this before. Is this how a woman feels?
His hands dig into my skin. I let out a squeal and he stops. “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to . . .”
Even in a quiet whisper in the night, I recognize his voice. I smile and bring his hands back to me. “Don’t worry. I liked it.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a smile and begins grabbing me again. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“I wanna see you first.”
The outline of his head looks over to the parking lot before standing up. He caresses my hand and leads me toward the back of the rest area.
I see his face before he sees mine.
The moment Shannon recognizes who he’s been groping in the dark, he pulls his hand away and runs back to the shadows of the grass.
“I knew I shouldn’t have done this. I’m so fucking stupid!” His whispers are full of anger, almost enough to scare me. I follow him and repeat “Calm down” until he sits back on the grass and puts his head in his hands.
“Good to see you?” I pull my shirt back on and zip up my jeans.
“I shouldn’t be here . . .”
“But you are here.” I scoot closer a few inches. “Might as well make the best of it.”
“Sorry. I don’t think I can.”
I laugh. “How were you having a better time feeling up a guy you didn’t know?”
“You won’t get it.”
“I won’t ask you to keep going but you had a need. You’re here. I’m here. It’s up to you.”
“Do you have anything to drink? Whiskey? Beer?”
“At a rest area in the middle of the night? No, I don’t. I have weed in my car though.”
“No, I don’t smoke. Can we go back to your place?”
It’s a nice surprise to hear those words. Usually the men who meet in the dark would never want to have any contact outside of the shadows.
“If you want.”
He lets out a loud sigh and falls back on the grass. “Or maybe we could go for a walk first?”
“I guess it’s as good a time as any. Where to?”
Shannon Harstad was voted king at our junior prom. The theme was Fairy Tales and he danced with the queen, Leah Littlebear. I was working the concession stand, not actually part of the fun. Shannon’s own participation was reluctant. He was never the spotlight kind of person, not like the other popular boys.
Without looking at me much, Shannon leads me across the highway and onto the sidewalk off Fourth Street. Every time I try to catch up, his shoulders go tense and he walks faster.
“Have a place in mind?” I ask.
“Don’t know.”
“It’s past the curfew.”
“We’re adults.”
We walk past the Geshig Elementary School and just as we’re about to pass the park, he stops. His gaze is transfixed into the darkness of the wooden fences and metal slides.
“Here.”
At the edge of the fence we stand and look at each other’s silhouettes. I didn’t get a good look at him on the way here, even with the streetlights around, but I recognize the outline of his face. Even with age, he’s still the same Shannon Harstad that I grew up with all through school.
“So . . . you’re gay?” He turns from me and starts walking away from the fence. “Wait, I’m sorry.”
At first it seems he is angry but then he leads me toward another dark shape, about fifty yards from the park.
The merry-go-round.
He stops at the edge, but doesn’t turn it. “Do you remember this thing? No one liked it because of the dog thing.”
“I remember.”
Every child in the elementary school knew the story. A dog went under the merry-go-round to die and no one would play on it. There was one time, though, a guy dared me to. The same guy I’m now hooking up with in the dark.
“Do you know if that was true or not?”
“No clue . . .”
He turns to me and finally starts kissing me again. His hands grip my shoulders and he tries to lay me down on the merry-go-round.
“Um, bad idea,” I say, pulling away from his tongue.
“Why?”
I push the iron bars and a loud, rusty screech blasts into the night. “Too loud. And we’re way too close to a school. What if we get caught?”
He sighs and his lips brush mine just a little. “You’re right. I’ll take that drink now.”
His truck follows my car through Geshig and westward toward Half Lake.
The first chance I had to move out of Geshig and off the Languille Lake reservation, I took it. I moved to the Twin Cities for college. And then as a few years passed, and after a disastrous relationship or two, I found myself back in Half Lake, and spending a lot of time in my hometown. It pulls me back here like the door at the end of a dream that you don’t want to go through, but you can’t control your feet.
My house is just on the inside of the Half Lake city limits, close to the highway. It’s a small, pale cream house with a decent yard, and rent to own, so I’ll be here for the foreseeable future.
Inside, I grab a bottle of whiskey and bring it to Shannon. He sits on my couch and I sit across from him in a small armchair. I would sit next to him but it’s probably best to let him get a few drinks before we start again.
“I’m guessing you’re not out?”
The bottle is thrown back. Eyes wince. “Fuck no.”
“You’re twenty-seven, right?”
“Exactly,” he says with a bitter whiskey laugh. “I’m almost thirty. No wife. No kids. No fucking anything.”
He takes another drink and th
en stands up. “You’re hard.” He’s right. I had thought about being polite and hiding the bulge but I didn’t think it would matter since whatever else he was feeling his lust is what got him in this situation.
“I have patient boners.”
He walks over to me and grips it through my jeans. It’s not an uncomfortable grip, but it feels unsexual. “What if I squeezed really hard? Would you like that? Would you still wanna fuck?”
I have no response but a hope that he doesn’t deliver on that offer. I don’t want that. And I don’t know him, not anymore, probably not ever. I have no idea if saying the wrong thing will set him off and make this whole thing end badly. “Is that what you’d like to do?”
The grip relents a little and he traces the tip with his index finger. “Do you have a bed?”
“Of course I have a bed.”
His hand stops. “Never done it on a bed before.”
My first instinct is to laugh but instead, I stand up and lead him to my bedroom. The overhead light is off but there is a dull blue glow from the muted TV in the corner. Nearby in a pen is where Basil is sleeping. I sit at the edge of the bed and look up at Shannon. In the dusky light standing over me, he looks more imposing than ever. He has a round face and a shaved head, but his short beard looks thicker, bushier. The glare from the screen reflects in his glasses so I can’t see his eyes.
“So . . .”
Shannon wastes no time. I feel his hands grab my shoulders and push me down. His body, softer than in high school but no less powerful, covers me. The taste of the whiskey hits my tongue. He smells sweet, fruity, almost like a car air freshener or a candle. The smell is soft, but his body is urgent, wanting.
Urgency doesn’t equal grace, and it shows in the awkward, inexperienced way he positions my body and prepares to enter me. He avoids touching my ass with his hands, which does not make lubing an easy task for me with him on top. When the condom is on, he works himself inside slowly, asking over and over if I’m okay. As soon as I grab him by the hips and pull him in faster, his concern and gentleness are gone, and his body begins to take mine.
I lose myself in the fucking and when he finishes his last thrust, I’m not sure how much time has passed. He stays inside and on top of me for a few moments before pulling out and lying down next to me. We speak only with heavy breaths and light touches across our chests.
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