This Town Sleeps

by Dennis E. Staples

“Probably not. Little brat likes to pretend we don’t exist. He gets that from me though.” She turns the bundled towel over in her hands. “Before I show you this, I just want to tell you a bit about my family.”

  As she tells the story, some of it comes back to you from when Marion talked about it on the way to the cemetery.

  “I always thought it was just one of my aunt’s ghost stories. They talked about it more than my mother did, but all of them were convinced it was real. I grew up afraid of being with any man because they talked about a curse so much, but eventually I grew out of that. And then, back into it. Marion’s father went off to war, just like mine did. He came back, but he never once tried to speak to me again. Or meet his son. I believe this thing is why.”

  The towel comes unwrapped and in Hazel’s lap is a glossy, black statue of a half ring of teeth.

  “My grandmother Bullhead cut her husband’s throat and then took out his jawbone. Then she used what she knew of her tribe’s teachings to keep its spirit at bay, but she couldn’t live forever . . . I suspect she wanted to spare her children from having to be attached to this thing so she had Tomas bury it with her ashes. But we are still dealing with it.”

  The jawbone is cold when she puts it in your hands, and rock solid.

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Burn sage in it. Break it. Use it as an ashtray. Whatever you want, but I’ve had a husband for years now, one spiritually strong enough to resist the kind of bad medicine this thing has on our family. But Marion isn’t, so I fear that you’re either in danger, or just your relationship is in danger.” Hazel stands up and walks to the front door. “If you truly want to be with my son, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She leaves without another word.

  Hey, lumberjack, if what she says is true you have two choices. Leave well enough alone, and Marion will continue to leave you alone.

  Or break it. Smash it to pieces. And prove to both him and his mother that this thing is just a fake. There’s no curse, no bad medicine. Just paranoid Indian shit.

  You take it outside, stand on the sidewalk, and slam it into the concrete like a football after a touchdown.

  Under the sooty black layers white teeth shatter and spread across the road.

  HEY, LUMBERJACK, YOU’RE GOING to come out one day.

  You’re going to go out fishing and say everything that you’ve never wanted to say.

  To your father. His reaction is key. If it doesn’t go well with him, your world will end and you will kill yourself.

  To your mother. Her reaction will be easier, you think. She used to speak fondly of her gay friend in college, and she watches Ellen every day.

  You wonder what will change. Family is one thing, work is another.

  Hey, lumberjack, what’s working worth if you’re not happy with the life it’s paying for?

  THE PHONE RINGS TWICE before Marion answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe,” you say. It feels unnatural to say this to a man, yet it’s exactly what feels right. There’s a lightness in your chest as soon as the words come out, and you know now. It’s him. “I miss you.”

  “Shannon . . .”

  “Just listen . . .” Hey, lumberjack, it’s now or never. Bezhig, niizh, niswi . . . “I can’t be the man you want overnight, Marion. But I will be one day. I’ll be ready for you . . . I think I love you, and I don’t know if you’ll understand this, but that isn’t a good feeling right now. But I want it to be. I feel so wrong every day when I think about you, but I also feel more complete than I’ve ever felt. I don’t know how to deal with this, but I know that I want to deal with it with you. If you’ll let me.”

  “Shannon, I’m moving to Minneapolis.”

  Hey, lumberjack.

  You waited too long.

  Epilogue

  Awake

  SHANNON HAS AGREED TO buy my house. I’ve inspired him to finally get out of the town we grew up in and move away. Only, he’s moving twenty miles and I’m moving two hundred. Again. Hopefully for the last time.

  Basil will be staying here.

  I love him, I really do, but he’s a country dog. He loves walks in the woods and running through fallen leaves and chasing other animals. He loves Geshig, and because Shannon works there he’ll be there a lot, even during work hours.

  Maybe Basil is just like me. He was born in this town and even though something brought him away, he went back and enjoyed it. I could’ve enjoyed so much more about Geshig though.

  Year-round events that I’ve taken for granted now seem like major attractions. In February, Lake Anders has an Eelpout Festival where men and women will get drunk, go ice fishing, and catch the ugly eelpouts that are the namesake of the reservation. Sometimes they’ll even kiss them. In late spring, there’s a 5K on the Tamarack Walk that pays out great prizes for the winners, not that I’d ever place, but I could’ve challenged myself.

  There’s a barbecue festival in the middle of summer when the sun is turning everyone’s skin as red as the pots of chili for the annual cook-off. There’s various powwows for the different holidays: Fourth of July, Labor Day, Memorial Day—and those are always good for fried food, maybe some hominy and wild rice soup.

  But that’s not the Geshig that I knew in the last few years of being here.

  The day I move away, and Shannon and I exchange nothing but a handshake to transfer ownership of house and dog, I don’t take the highway on the south end of Half Lake to get down to the cities. I take a detour home and visit the park one last time. It’s still just a park.

  I walk to the painted silo where I used to take part in the community garden in elementary school. The tradition is still carried on, but right now the plots are covered with the first blankets of November snow.

  For just a moment, I consider walking back to the spot where the merry-go-round used to be. Ever since Kayden left, I have felt a strange incompleteness that I think will only be solved by finally leaving. I would stay if just one more time I could go to that merry-go-round and remember everything about why I came back, why I used to love it here.

  But it’s better to wake up than fall back asleep in a town with no dreams.

  Acknowledgments

  THE JOURNEY TO THIS novel passed through a lot of darkness, but I’m grateful for the people who fill my life with light and help bring out my best. This work couldn’t have been possible without the ever-present love of my family, friends, and the organizations who took a chance on me and shared their wisdom.

  To my agent, Eleanor, who believed in me and guided me through my first contract. To my editor, Harry, who helped me shape the book into its final form.

  To the staff, writing community, and others I’ve met through the Institute of American Indian Arts: Derek Palacio, Claire Vaye Watkins, Pam Houston, Chip Livingston, Kim Blaeser, Ramona Ausubel, Marie-Helene Bertino, and many others.

  A special thanks to Terese Mailhot, Casey Gray, and Tommy Orange for helping me through this process. No words are enough to express my gratitude.

  To Clarion West and the Class of 2018 for the best summer of my life. May our stories be filled with stars and monsters and squids and smut.

  To the Octavia E. Butler Society. Thank you for keeping her legacy alive and uplifting diverse voices.

  To any teacher or professor whose had the misfortune to try to teach me. I’ve learned a lot, and I swear I’ll turn in my homework one day.

  To my professors at Bemidji State University who shaped my understanding of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and life: Maureen Gibbon, Lauren Cobb, Larry Swain, Mark Christiansen, Jessica Durgan, and Carol Ann Russell.

  All current and former staff at Bemidji State Upward Bound Program—Steve Berard, Kelly Steggall, Leah Girard—for believing in me and providing a path to success. My journey through college and to this book started from the steps of Birch Hall. Thank you.

  No writing project of mine would be complete without the help of music. I’d l
ike to thank the band Cloud Cult for making beauty out of pain and sharing it with the world.

  To my best friend Autumn, who has stuck with me through laughter, tears, college, and late-night trips to Walmart. To Ethan, who more than anybody saw my writing evolution in real time. To Taylor, for always giving honest thoughts and advice on my work.

  I’d like to express my love and gratitude to my family, who have always had endless patience for my whims and projects. This book was no different, and I couldn’t be more grateful for everyone’s support throughout the process.

  To my sisters, Brittany and Samantha, who always know how to make me laugh.

  To my brothers, Dimitri, Anthony, Miles, and Mackensie, who always inspire me to learn more about the world.

  To my father, David, who has always worked hard to help everyone.

  To my mother, Karen, who encouraged me to read everything I could.

  Finally, to Sandy Mills. From the first page to the last, Jacob was never far from my mind while writing this book. Thank you for bringing such an amazing man into this world and keeping his memory alive for all those who loved him, near or far.

  Miigwech

  © John LaTourelle

  DENNIS E. STAPLES is an Ojibwe writer from Bemidji, Minnesota. He graduated from the Institute of American Indian Arts with an MFA in fiction. He is a graduate of the 2018 Clarion West Writers Workshop and a recipient of the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship. His work has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction and Nightmare magazine. He is a member of the Red Lake Nation. This Town Sleeps is his first book.