He had never lived in such times or places. The hunger of fasting was the closest he’d approached starvation, and there was an essential difference in knowing that he might stop fasting when he chose. There was even an element of bravado in holding steadfast to the resolve—the clenched-jaw glory of the marathoner or the anorexic.
All such thoughts—of food, of his own willpower—were at odds with the purpose of the fast, and he did his best to let them scud along their way through the blue skies of consciousness, observed but not obsessed over. For the purpose of the fast, beyond its being a preparation for the sweat lodge, was clarity. It was as though, far off and faintly, he could hear a tapping, like the tapping of the raven in Poe’s poem, but what it meant, where it came from, he could not tell without the acuity that would come from the fasting.
Meanwhile, one of the new screws had summoned him from his cell to take him down to the visiting room, and the passage along the Y-block corridor was a slow-motion moonwalk, another side effect of the fast. Each swing of his leg, each hinging of elbow or knee, took unaccustomed effort and was stretched beyond its real duration as his mind swept up the kind of details you usually only have time to pick up on in movies: speckles of paint, the flicker of a fluorescent bulb, the way the C.O. who checked the pink passes outside the visiting room had nicked his chin shaving. Each detail glimmered with some out-of-reach significance like the clues in a Sherlock Holmes mystery. Jim realized that the fasting had induced a kind of autointoxication. But getting high was not what he was after. He was after clarity; this was a drunk’s illusion of clarity.
And there, already stationed on the central orange vinyl sofa, was his mother, squat and dowdy, with a face that seemed made of welded iron, each wrinkle a testament to some decision formed deep in her genes a century or two before the great collision between the Wabasha and the white man. She did not acknowledge his presence until he had sat down before her, and then she said, in their own language, “I see you are well.”
Like the code-speakers of World War II, they spoke in their own tongue, haltingly, and fused with lots of basic English that had no quick equivalent, but the final mix would surely have baffled anyone monitoring the mikes.
“Very well,” he answered.
“It amazes me that you still have to be here.”
“It amazes me, too. But they want me to sign papers that I won’t sign.” (This was a statement, it occurred to Jim, that must often have been made in the language of the Wabasha.)
“To promise you won’t sue them?”
“I don’t intend to. But they won’t believe that.”
“They are afraid of you now.”
“It’s only a matter of weeks until the court will be forced to release me. I can be patient. I’ve learned that living here.”
“There is another problem that brings me to you. The Johnson boy is in trouble.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. They found his mother. It seems she was murdered.”
“They suspected him, but they had no evidence. Now there’s evidence. One of our ladies died a short while ago, and I had to go up to the attic to fetch her suitcase down. When I did, I noticed a suitcase I didn’t remember. A tan canvas bag with a name tag on it that said J. JOHNSON. J for Judith, I thought. Of course, it might have been used by Alan when he moved in, but I remember he came with just one suitcase, and it’s under his bed. I looked inside the new suitcase, and it had a lot of women’s clothes. Also, an envelope addressed to Jim’s lawyer, Mr. McGrath. Inside was Reverend Johnson’s will, just a scribble, but it was clear enough, and I’ll bet it’s legal. He left his house and the church to you.”
“To me? He hated me.”
Louise shrugged. “He must have hated his daughter and Alan even more.”
“So how did Alan…”
“That was my first thought, too—that Alan put the suitcase there, and that he must know how his mother had disappeared. I thought the two of them must have found the will and kept it secret, and then he’d killed Judy so that he wouldn’t have to share the inheritance. I thought of calling the police.”
“Alan wouldn’t do something like that,” Jim said confidently. “He is not so mean—or so bold a spirit.”
“I know, and that’s why I didn’t call the police. But they came anyhow. They had a search warrant. They looked in Alan’s room, and then they asked to look in the attic. Where they went through all the guests’ suitcases.”
“But they didn’t find Judy’s?” Jim asked.
“I’d taken off the name tag and put her clothes in the duffel with other things that will go to the Methodists’ garage sale. I put Mrs. Schermer’s collection of old TV Guides from the ‘60s in Judy’s suitcase. The will is in a safe place. The police took away the boy’s computer, nothing else. But their coming to Navaho House, and the way they knew just where to look in the attic, made me think that the suitcase had been put there not to be hidden but to be found. I think someone told them where to look and what to look for.”
“Who would want to do that?”
“Who could do that? It had to be Mrs. Turney’s daughter Diana. She comes and goes as she likes, so she could have planted the suitcase where I found it. How she came to have it, and that will, I can’t even guess.”
“Why would she try to get the boy arrested? Last time you told me they were in love.”
“They were. And he’s still always sniffing after her. A puppy. But she’s changed since she went to the farmhouse. You know how a person can change if they win a lot of money up at the casino? How the money can charge them up?”
“I can’t say I do, Mom. The guys here don’t get to the casino much.”
Louise smiled ruefully. “Well, she’s like that. But it’s not money with her. I don’t think it’s sex either, or not exactly. I don’t understand the situation. But it has a bad smell. I think she’s up to no good, and I’m worried for the boy.”
A chill breeze sprang up just then, ruffling Louise’s hair and making the leaves shimmer in the mural behind her. Jim heard the caw of a crow, and then, in the pastel sky of the mural, the bird appeared—first as a simple V-shaped brushstroke, then, as it drew nearer, assuming the features of the crow he’d spoken to not long before in the exercise yard on the roof of the prison.
“Jimbo,” the crow greeted him, “I said I might come during visiting hours. I’m keeping my word.”
“You said you’d find out more about my friend Alan.”
“No. That’s what you said, buddy.”
“Tell me about this woman he’s in love with. Diana Turney.”
“She’s his wife now. Would you believe it? But somehow I don’t see that marriage lasting a long time. Or him either.” The crow lifted its wings in preening menace.
“Tell me about the woman,” Jim insisted.
“She is a witch.” The crow spread its wings again, not preening now but wanting to fly off. But Jim’s gaze tethered it to the branch of the tree on which it had alighted.
“Tell me more, Old Crow. What kind of witchy things has she done?”
The crow cawed, but it could not refuse to answer. “Remember that screw called Carl? Carl was her brother-in-law. And the other guard, Tommy, who disappeared last winter? He was her first. Then there was that old flame of yours, Judy Johnson: she disappeared. I think your friend Alan would have already disappeared himself by now except for one thing. He’s still a virgin, so her magic don’t work on him. A gun would work, but the lady is gun-shy. But you just gave me an idea, buddy. Hunger. You been fasting, haven’t you? I can feel it, the hunger, like bees in the air. And it would be right for that kid, don’t you think? I mean, he’s all hunger.”
“Jim,” said Louise anxiously. “Jim, are you all right?”
Jim’s attention shifted to his mother’s face for only a moment, but that was time enough for the crow to slip loose and hide itself in the dense viridian tangle of foliage shadowing the stream.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Are you sure? I thought for a moment you were having a stroke or something.”
“I’m fine. But I need to ask a favor. Can you get in touch with Gordon Pillager at the rez?”
“Not very easily. Gordon doesn’t have a phone.”
“But you know where his cabin is.”
She nodded.
“Tell him I need my medicine.”
“What medicine?”
“He’ll know. Tell him I need it tomorrow.”
“You want me to go to that cabin of his tonight?”
Jim nodded. His eyes had returned to the painting. Where the fawn had stood behind its mother, there was now only a boulder mottled with moss and a few speckles of vermilion, representing blood.
“Time’s up,” the C.O. announced.
Louise got to her feet, then bent down so that Jim could kiss her cheek.
It was to be their last farewell.
46
For Janet’s homecoming dinner the leaf had been added to the dining room table. There was a white tablecloth and six place settings, five of them with the Orient Fantasy china that Janet and Carl had got from Mr. and Mrs. Turney, who’d received it themselves as a wedding present from Grandma Turney’s parents, the Iversons, way back in 1957. There would have been a full complement, but Kelly had broken the sixth dinner plate just today when she was setting the table for dinner, and so she would be eating off her own everyday dinner plate with the portraits of Princess Di and Prince Charles, which Diana had bought for her at the Methodists’ Saturday garage sale.
Kelly had not got much of a scolding for breaking the plate, because they’d just got home after the long drive from Mankato and everyone was walking on eggs. Last night, when Janet had phoned Diana from the second motel they were staying at, Arrowsmith Motor Court, the two sisters had got into an argument. Diana had thought they should just keep heading for home, since they were only two hours away in Sauk Centre, to which they’d made a detour in order to see the grave of Sinclair Lewis. But the cemetery was closed when they got there, so they’d had to stay over. Diana didn’t think Sinclair Lewis was important enough to justify postponing the homecoming dinner, which was already in the oven, but Janet refused to be bullied. “I’ll get home when I get home!” she yelled into the phone, and then hung up without listening to any further objections. Kelly was delighted to see her mother standing up to Diana. It was something she couldn’t do herself.
Kelly spent the night in her very own room at the Arrowsmith Motor Court, and the next morning they all had the deluxe breakfast at McDonald’s, with pancakes and sausages and everything else, using coupons Kelly had clipped from the Sunday paper. For only 89 cents extra Kelly got a souvenir Pocahontas tumbler. Then they went to the cemetery, where Kelly took a picture of her mother and Alan standing in front of the granite monument for the whole Lewis family. For the rest of the drive home they listened to the tape recording Alan bought at the museum of the book Sinclair Lewis wrote about Sauk Centre, Main Street, and every few miles Alan would start laughing for no reason at all, and then her mother would, too. Kelly didn’t understand why Sinclair Lewis was supposed to be so funny, but she figured Main Street had to be full of dirty jokes that were over her head. It made it a long drive.
When it was time for everyone to sit down to dinner, Diana pointed to the chair at the head of the table, where Kelly’s father used to sit. “Merle, you sit there,” Diana said. “And Kelly, you’re next to Merle, and, Mother, you’ll be here beside me.” She placed her hands in a proprietary way on the back of the chair at the other end of the table from Merle.
“No,” said Janet, “I think Mother should sit at the head of the table, and I’ll sit at the other end. That’s always been where I sit, and this is my homecoming, right? Alan, you sit between me and Kelly. Now, Kelly, do you want to say grace?”
Kelly dutifully bowed her head and clasped her hands in front of her Princess Di plate, but she couldn’t remember the exact words of the prayer, since lately they had not been saying grace as a regular thing. “O Lord…” was as far as she could get unassisted.
“O Lord,” Alan prompted, “for what we are about to receive…”
“Make us truly thankful!” Kelly chimed in.
They all said “Amen,” and Janet and Diana went into the kitchen to get the food.
The four remaining at the table couldn’t think of much to talk about until Grandma Turney said, “Well, Kelly, it sounds like you had quite an adventure in Mankato. Everyone was looking for you like you were an escaped convict.”
“Uh-huh,” said Kelly guardedly. Her mother had said it would be best not to talk about how she’d been in the back of the car all the time. The motels they’d stayed at were another topic to avoid, since they didn’t want Diana to get all heated up again. But that didn’t leave much she could talk about concerning the trip.
“I got this at McDonald’s,” she said, holding up her Pocahontas tumbler.
“Oh, yeah?” said Merle. “Tell us about it, kid.”
So Kelly told them about the deluxe breakfast, and how Janet had to argue with the manager about the coupons because it was almost eleven o’clock, and then about the Pocahontas headband that she got for free, and how Alan’s head had been too big for his headband to fit, and Grandma Turney made a comment about when she first knew Alan and he thought he was an Indian. Alan said, “Hey, let’s not go into that.”
Merle laughed out loud and then said, “Sorry,” with a big smirk. “I was just imagining you dressed up like Pocahontas.”
Alan gave him a nasty look.
Kelly felt she’d said the wrong thing and could not be coaxed into any more news about the trip to Mankato. Grandma Turney was reduced to praising the weather before she, too, joined the silence.
The silence was broken by a scream from the kitchen, followed by the crash of something heavy and metallic. The scream was Janet’s, and the crash, Alan saw as he reached the kitchen, the first to get there, was the pan in which the pork roast had been cooking. The pan and the roast itself were on the floor, as was Janet.
“Are you okay?” Alan asked, bending down to help her to her feet. “Did you burn yourself?”
“No—but I did!” Diana announced in an aggrieved tone. She was wiping her leg with the sponge from the kitchen sink. The skin had already blistered.
“I’m sorry,” Janet said, almost in a whisper.
“Sorry doesn’t help. What in the world possessed you?”
“It was the roast.”
“The roast!” Diana repeated. “Oh, my God, Merle, get the roast back into the pan. But don’t burn yourself.”
When Janet, limping, had been helped to a chair beside the kitchen table, Merle used the carving set to return the pork roast to the pan and got the pan on top of the stove. Grandma Turney busied herself with paper towels, sopping up the pool of hot grease from the floor in front of the oven.
“Everyone back to the table!” Diana commanded, taking the roll of towels from her mother and using it as a baton to steer Kelly out of the kitchen. “The crisis is over. Merle, stay here and carve the roast. The rest of you, out!”
Janet made no protest as Alan led her back to her place at the dining room table.
“What happened in there?” he wanted to know. “You fell down getting the roast out of the oven? Or what?”
“Or what,” Janet replied. “Would you get me my drink, Alan? I left it on the TV.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Janet,” Diana said from the doorway to the kitchen. “Maybe you’ve had enough already.”
“Thanks, Officer. Maybe I’m old enough to decide that for myself.”
“Hey, it wasn’t me who fell on my butt just now. I don’t know how you did it.”
“Get off my back!”
“Girls, girls,” Grandma Turney scolded.
Janet leaned over toward Alan and whispered something in his ear.
“Would you excuse us a moment, Mrs. Turney?” Alan said.
“Janet and I have something we need to discuss.”
When Janet and Alan went out to the front porch, just Mrs. Turney and Kelly were left at the table. “Good Lord,” said Mrs. Turney. And then, “I think I need a cigarette. Would you get my purse, dear? It’s on the coffee table in the living room.”
But it wasn’t, so Kelly had to think where else it could be, and the likeliest place was in Alan’s car. But that meant going out the front door, and that was where Alan and her mother had gone to discuss what they couldn’t talk about at the table. Her mother was crying.
Alan said, “Hey, hey, it must have been upsetting, but you know that’s not what you saw. I was in the kitchen, I saw Merle get the roast back into the pan. It was just a pork roast. Maybe a little burned.”
“I know that,” Janet said.
“You’re upset,” said Alan. “That’s understandable.”
“Why is that Merle here? Who is he?”
“Hey, maybe the best thing is for you to go upstairs and rest. You can say you hurt yourself.”
“I did hurt myself!”
“So it wouldn’t even be a lie. The rest of us will have the dinner—except I’m not having any of that damned pork roast—and then if Merle doesn’t get the message, I’ll ask him to drive Mrs. Turney home.”
“Would you?” said Janet.
And then Kelly saw them kissing, and at the same time Janet saw Kelly.
“What are you looking at!” Janet shouted at her, pulling away from Alan.
There is nothing quite so unfair as being blamed for knowing something about someone that they don’t want you to know. Kelly was more upset by the way her mother shouted at her than by having seen her and Alan kiss. Hadn’t they slept in the same bed at the Arrowsmith Motor Court? She knew that when grown-ups slept in the same bed they were kissing each other all the time. She hadn’t seen them do it, but she wasn’t stupid.
“I’m sorry,” said Kelly, hoping that would do the job. Then, “Grandma sent me to get her cigarettes.”
THE SUB A Study In Witchcraft Page 25