It’s dusk. No one is watching, no one saw.
I bring Basil inside, sit down on my bed, and text Shannon: I’m sorry if that scared you.
I stare at the phone’s tiny screen and wait.
SOMETIME IN THE NIGHT, I lie awake and stare at Basil, but instead of my loving mutt I can only see that thing that crawled out from the darkness. It’s then that the memory comes back clear.
It was third or fourth grade. Shannon and I stood at the edge of the playground and stared at the metal in the distance.
“Let’s go play on it,” he said.
“What about the zombie dog?”
“That’s a lie the older kids made up.”
“It’s metal. What if we get hurt?”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me with him. Hard enough to leave a bruise. “We’re boys. That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
Two
Nine Isle
LEFT HIM BACK THERE, didn’t you? Didn’t give him the kiss goodbye he wanted.
But why care?
You’re a man’s man. You’re not a faggot. You don’t fuck with guys.
THE RESORT RUNS THE same every year, no matter what part of the country the tourists come from. The majority are southern Minnesotans, but sometimes there’s a family from out of state or even out of the country. They all do the same things, buy the same campfire food from the Geshig store, rent the same canoes or paddleboards, camp in the same cabins or tent sites that thousands have before them.
You should’ve left Geshig when you had the chance. Dad said so back in high school when you wanted to get your first job cleaning cabins.
“Don’t waste your time around here, son,” he warned. “A part-time job becomes a full-time pretty quick in this town and before you know it you’ll be forty and wishing you left this reservation.”
“It’s just some extra cash in the summer. I didn’t sign a contract for life or something.”
But you did. When your sweat dripped across Lake Anders and the small chain of nine islands that gave the resort its name, when you worked longer hours to pay for that truck for senior year, when you were too busy worrying about which girls were next on the list, you signed the contract without knowing.
You cast a line and got snagged, not that that’s a bad thing.
No need to worry about the DNR’s permits since the resort covers you for that, so you and Dad can fish whenever and park the boat at half the fee.
Right now, you need to fish. Get out on the waters and cleanse. Release. There’s nothing better than catching, cleaning, and eating a walleye or a northern and knowing it was done by your own hands.
Because you’re a north woods man, you don’t do shit with guys.
DAD NEVER TALKS ABOUT his health, but you’ve noticed he’s been struggling when he gets into the boat for a few months now. But you haven’t brought it up to him. Instead you say things like . . .
“Doing okay over there?”
“Yeah, just kinda tired, ya know? I been waking up in the middle of the night cause of this dang heat.”
“Gotcha.” Behind his back you smile to yourself about his thick Minnesotan accent and thank god that he didn’t pass it down, or so Mom says. She came from Fargo, but spoke like a woman from the Deep South, and the mix of the two growing up along with the reservation kids in school somehow allowed you to have a regular voice. Talk normal, just like you should.
The boat speeds out onto Lake Anders, smooth as a canoe, quick as a car. Another benefit of working for Nine Isle. Boats are expensive as shit, but the boss gets good financing deals.
Out on the lake is where a man finally relaxes. No more gritting teeth and breathing out the nose. Men belong on the water.
On the first cast, the line gets caught on another. Dad doesn’t watch the water like he used to. Both of you have won a lot of fishing contests, but age wins all.
“What whatchur doing, Shanno!” he says, not a glance over. “I taught you better than that.”
He did teach you better but there’s too much distraction, too many text messages.
“Sorry, Dad.”
The lines are easy to untangle and soon they are trolling through Anders for muskie and walleye. Here they grow biggest in the state, and the lake doesn’t even have that distinction, though it is large, and every inch of the shore is instinct, familiar.
The wind blows from the south today, and it drags the boat across the waters despite the cinder-block anchor being dropped. Only small perch bite for the next few hours, the stubborn waves warning the prize fish of the surface dangers.
But there’s no giving up. You’re the fisherman Dad taught you to be.
The cell phone vibrates against your thigh and invades the peace of the windy lake. The messages come in one after another like useless eelpout.
“New girlfriend?” Dad asks, nudges his elbow against your chest.
“Yeah. Bitches are annoying.”
Fags are annoying too, but you wouldn’t know anything about that.
“Oh I’m sure they’re not all bad. Your ma and I’d love for you to bring someone home one day.”
“I’ve brought girls home, Dad. Ma never likes them.”
“She gets that from your grandma. She never liked me none either, but she warmed up. Just give her time, and she’ll love whoever you bring home.”
“Thanks.”
At the end of the day, there are no muskies or walleye in the cooler, but Dad smiles anyway. Nothing disappoints him. Only one thing could ever disappoint him.
THE MESSAGES DON’T STOP at night. They come in uninvited, some of them angry, some desperate, some with naked pictures.
Stop messaging me, Marion.
No. You’re being ridiculous.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro. I don’t even fuck with guys. GOODBYE!!
Falling asleep brings no relief, the only thing you see is him.
You don’t know how it happens, you never know. One moment he’s not on your mind, the next you’re already in your truck, on the way to his house, and inside his bedroom before you can remember the regret that swells through your mind every time you leave.
Every damn time.
“Hey.”
His voice, soft, like a woman’s, it scares you. Freezes you in place. You don’t know what to do or how to respond so you fall onto your stomach, bury your face in the mattress, and somewhere between the beginning, the end, the climax, pain and pleasure, postcoital regret, you think you feel something like happiness.
Marion stares at the door. He knows you want to leave, because you always do.
Before you turn to the pile of clothes on the floor, you look at his shirtless body. Small lines of hair, a jungle compared to most Indian men you’ve seen, and maybe just for a moment you think that it looks like a nice place to rest.
His hands run through your moss-short hair and beard while you listen to his heartbeat, right below your ear. Nothing needs to be said, nothing at all.
“When was your first time?” you whisper.
He lets out a breathy laugh that you can feel brush past your face. “I was nineteen. Living in the cities. Had my first . . . boyfriend, I guess.”
“Did you top or bottom?”
He laughs again. “I don’t remember . . . Sometimes I try not to.”
You roll over, so you can see him but still feel his body on your head and back. “Why?”
“It’s complicated,” he says. “I was . . . well, like you are now. Didn’t want anyone to know what I did, even if it was in private. So I stopped seeing him.”
“What was his name?”
“Gordon.”
“Do you still talk?”
“No.”
His hands stop caressing your scalp and you fall asleep, each beat of his heart a lullaby.
BEZHIG. ONE.
You’re straight. You only fuck with dudes when you’re drunk, but that’s just the whiskey.
Not all nine of the islands
are habitable by humans. Three are too small, only six are used as campgrounds, and the biggest one is half owned by rich snowbirds who only show up for weeks in the summer. One island has a boys’ summer camp, also for the rich, but there is enough space on each for public camping.
The islands are named after the Ojibwe words for one through nine, but you’ve never been good at speaking it.
Bezhig. One.
The first island is the biggest. In that way, the islands go in reverse order with the last three being the ones that men can’t really do anything with, unless they wanna camp on ten square feet of prickly grass and wake up in the water. What makes Bezhig notable is the presence of a small lake, a record holder for a lake-within-a-lake, but it’s been disputed because of its size.
Niizh. Two.
The second largest, and the only one not owned fully by the state. The land is open to the public, which of course means the rich. No resorts on Niizh, just private summer lake homes and thick woods. Marion was quick to point out that none of the owners were Indians. He’s always looking for problems.
Niswi. Three.
The third island is the most likely destination for campers who aren’t rich, with its smaller size being cheaper to rent but more crowded.
Niiwin. Four.
Marion says the way they’re spelled on the signs is wrong but Indians didn’t develop their language for English.
Naanan. Five.
You don’t fuck with guys.
Ingodwaaswi. Six.
Ignoring him has been fruitless. It’s more than a hint of disinterest, it’s a clear answer that he won’t accept . . . Still, it’s nice to be wanted.
Niizhwashwi. Seven.
One more message and you’ll kick his ass.
Nishwaashwi. Eight.
You like women, drinking, fishing, hunting.
Zhaangaswi. Nine.
If Dad knew, he’d kill you or keel over. Either way, there would be death.
Midaaswi. Ten.
There’s no tenth island. But Marion taught you how to say ten, back in middle school when you were struggling in class. He was always a good guy, you know that.
Bezhig.
You want him, but you’re just not that kind of man.
THE BOSS CALLS AT seven a.m.
“Shannon, we need ya ta clean up da west shore.”
“Clean up what?”
“Dead rabbits.”
“The fuck?”
“Sumfins’ been killin’ critters around the Tamarack Walk. Tourists don’t like to see dead bodies on their vacations. You get to scoop up the guts.”
“Lucky me. Any idea what it is?”
“Nah, but bring a gun just in case.”
Driving from the east parking lot over to the rest area, you’re sure to keep your eyes away from the grass. The trail begins about a half mile from the rest area, over a bridge that the Mississippi passes under, and today there are few people hiking. Your nose guides you, and you find the first carcass only a mile in.
The tan and white spots on what little fur is left are familiar. A fawn or a doe, hacked to bits. Not the graceful cuts Dad taught you how to do, just a violent mess. The carrion smell is thick, but you’re used to it. The fetid mush falls into the sack like a colostomy bag and the search for more begins.
From the first pile of guts, it’s not hard to track the rest. They are spread out like a vicious connect-the-dots. The worst is a carcass that looks like a cat. It is no bigger than a human forearm, each bone like a toothpick. Almost all bone except for a few patches of flesh and fur still attached, nothing that tells what kind of critter the mush used to be.
When all the bodies are bagged, you dig a hole off the side of the trail and bury the stench where no one or thing will ever find it. The last scoops of soil that round out the top of the hole come with a satisfaction, a job well done.
Because you’re a man’s man. This is what you do.
Three
What Children Whisper
BASIL’S GROWTH SPURT ENDS just as September begins. He’s about fifty pounds now, most of it muscle. He has short legs, thick arms, shoulders, and withers. His face is wide, squarish like a pug’s, but with a long muzzle. Once big and floppy, his ears are now small points on a fat face, as if they’ve been the same size since his birth.
My tiny house and yard are no longer enough for him. Now he wants the world. I bring him to the Geshig Elementary School park. Right away, he takes an interest in the soil underneath the spot where the merry-go-round sat. His eyes grow big and focused as he paws at the dark circle.
“Think you can find it for me?” He pants and jumps on my leg. “Do your best.”
He begins to walk and pull on his leash. Basil isn’t a trained hunting hound. It’s unlikely that he’s leading me anywhere intentionally. But stranger things have happened in this park.
First he brings me through the park gates and to the foot of the biggest slide. On top it’s a faded, metallic red with hundreds of scuff marks and a faint pattern of a brick chimney. On the other side it’s covered in graffiti, mostly permanent marker that has been either scribbled over by more marker or scratched out with a file or knife.
A piece of graffiti etched into the eagle pillar catches my eyes, and brings back memories. It’s an upside-down crucifix with the initials NN in the top corners. Neo-Nazi. Or Native Nazi. I don’t remember what they called themselves but I was standing in the same place I am now when it was carved into the wood.
The summer right before eighth grade, me and Amos were walking around town trying to escape the heat and decided on the park. We went underneath the wooden walkway that was attached to the eagle pillar. The pebbles were cool on our skin and left behind a chalky residue.
Amos pulled out a small blue plastic pipe and began to light it. “You want a hit?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Amos smiled and took the hit. “It’s cheap shit anyway. When you do smoke you should get some good grass.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I wouldn’t even smoke this stuff but I can’t live without it like every day.”
“Mmmhmm . . .”
“Where does your mom get hers?”
“I don’t know.” That was a lie. I knew where my mother bought her drugs, but it wasn’t a place I wanted Amos to ever try to find. Though I never really thought of him as a guy that needed to be protected, I didn’t want to have any part in letting Geshig claim him.
Before we left the park, Amos took out a pocketknife and began to carve the symbol of the gang that he claimed he and his older brother, Isaac, were a part of. I don’t think they espoused any ideals close to those of the Nazis, I think they were just too young and naive to really consider how that name would come across. Then again, teenage gangs don’t exactly have logic working in their favor.
Basil pulls me forward, away from the eagle pillar and toward the edge of the park and the highway.
Geshig’s public high school was always more Indian than white, but even the white children were like a special kind of Reservation White. They knew the town. They knew powwows. They knew the culture. Some went to church, some didn’t. If they had bad things to say about Indians, it was usually a joke, and even if it wasn’t, the same things could easily be said back to them. But Amos, his family was not that kind of white.
They had moved to Geshig from southern Minnesota only three years before. At lunch, I saw a pale, blond kid with crooked teeth and tired eyes. He was sitting alone but didn’t seem concerned about it at all.
I’d like to think that befriending him was the kind act of a fifth grader who saw the new kid sitting alone, but the only reason I sat down was because he happened to be at the table where I usually sat alone. I don’t like breaking routines.
Basil takes me across the highway toward the north side of town. I’m not scared to go through there, but I prefer to avoid it if I can. Ghetto, project, slum, any word
you can use to disparage a whole neighborhood is used to describe the north side. It’s a place of cracker-box houses with few bedrooms and many people in each. The older members of the community sometimes call it the NeighborHUD.
Relief. When we reach the other side of the highway, Basil walks past the main road into the north side and toward the eastern exit of the town. Here the woods grow thicker and the air smells fishy from the lake wind.
“Why is there a cop here?”
It was not the response I expected when I had sat down and asked Amos his name. “Um. To protect us?”
“From what?”
“Bombs?”
“Who brought a bomb?”
My face turned red and I hoped no one had heard him. “There was some bomb threats or something. I wasn’t in school when they happened but everyone was scared.”
The bomb threat was like a mini-9/11 that I had slept through. My mother, Hazel, had made me stay home because of a fever and when I returned the teachers were tense, the kids quieter, and multiple cops were patrolling.
Amos glared in the direction of the school cop. “I don’t like cops.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re part of the government. And I don’t like the government.”
You and everyone else, my old friend.
“My mom doesn’t either.”
“Do you?”
My answer was honest back then and today. “I’m scared of them.” Amos laughed at me and then told me his name.
My arm jerks forward and the leash almost slips out of my hand. Basil pulls hard enough to make the tug of the collar choke himself. He is staring down a paved trail that leads into the forest. The leaves are fading but still thick, and they hide everything behind them in green shadows.
Ahead is a long, winding trail called the Tamarack Walk. For nature lovers. Bikers. Kids playing hooky. And something that has captured Basil’s full attention.
This Town Sleeps Page 3