The burly woman stamped his passport and ordered him to have a nice day. There would be no interrogation, no cavity search, no phone calls to Interpol, no deportation. Not yet, anyway.
Peter picked up his holdall and passed through the doors to the main terminal. He scanned the anxious, waiting crowd, but where was his uncle? It didn’t help that every man seemed to be dressed in a sort of uniform – baseball caps and white trainers, brightly-coloured T-shirts or polo shirts, new-looking blue jeans or khaki shorts.
‘Hey, Pete.’
Uncle Ken lumbered over like a big bear and hugged Peter until he couldn’t breathe.
‘Great to see you, kid.’
Ken finally let go, thumping Peter’s back as if he wanted to expel any tiny air pockets that might still be left in his lungs. Then he took the holdall and guided Peter through the tangle of luggage trolleys, pushchairs, stressed-out passengers, crying children.
When they got to the main concourse, Peter noticed a small old-fashioned aeroplane suspended from the ceiling. On the side of the fuselage was written ‘Spirit of St Louis’. Peter had seen this before when he was little, with Mum. He recognised the dull metal body, covered in tiny dents, as if it had been buffeted by rocks and debris.
‘That’s a replica of Charles Lindbergh’s plane.’ Ken stopped so Peter could take a long look. ‘Kids your age pro’ly don’t know who he was, but he was the first guy to fly solo across the Atlantic.’
‘Amazing,’ Peter said, blankly. He was trying his best to listen, but the terminal building was still packed with security officers and policemen. There were at least a dozen of them, strolling up and down in twos and threes. Was this normal?
‘He’s still famous around here because he was from Minnesota. Charles Lindbergh. The Lone Eagle, they called him. A real American hero.’
Ken moved on, thankfully, whisking Peter through the airport, past the souvenir shops, the fast food joints, the dark, crowded bars. They rushed by the door to a gents’ toilet. Peter was bursting for a pee, but there was no way he was going to stop now. Finally, they reached the end of the long concourse. A set of escalators led down to the car park. Beyond that, there was outside – safety, freedom.
Ken stepped off the escalator and stopped again. Peter nearly tumbled into him. Now what?
‘You fixed OK for dollars, Pete?’ Ken nodded at a cash machine in the corner.
Dollars? Peter felt sick again.
‘We can stop somewhere else, if you want. I just figured, since we’re here.’
Money. Jesus. Quick. Lie.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he squeaked, tapping the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. Inside were two crumpled twenty dollar bills and a handful of quarters.
The automatic doors opened and Peter breathed in the warm exhaust fumes from hundreds of cars.
‘Welcome home,’ Ken said.
Forty dollars and a bit of change. That would be more than enough, wouldn’t it?
JONAH
It rained for the rest of the day, but Jonah’s seals held – the wigwam stayed dry. He sat on the floor, naked except for the heavy, woollen blanket he’d taken from home. It was rough and itchy against his skin. A soft leather cloth would have been better, but there weren’t too many newly-tanned hides in his mother’s bedroom closet.
There he was, thinking about her again, wondering if he should go into the cabin and call her. He wanted to tell her about the things he’d done – building a real wigwam, keeping himself dry and secure with nothing more than the fruits of the forest and the strength and skill of his hands.
She’d probably shrug. ‘Why didn’t you just go to Target and buy a tent?’
And if he told her about seeing the eagle, she’d just roll her eyes.
There was never anything he could do to break her down. He tried talking to her about their heritage, but she’d flick his words away with a wave of her hands, make one of the smart-ass remarks that were her specialty.
‘You want heritage? Go downtown. Hang out with the winos. Plenty of heritage down there.’
Sometimes at dinner, or while they were standing at the sink, washing and drying the dishes, he’d try to wring out stories about her parents or her grandparents. It seemed like a natural time – around the cooking fire, but without the fire.
‘Leave it alone, Jonah. If you want some nice, Dances with Wolves crap about how great our people lived, you won’t get it from me.’
‘I don’t want that, Mom. I just want the truth.’
‘They didn’t live great, OK? That’s the truth.’
Usually, she’d go quiet on the subject, something she never did otherwise. He should’ve told her friends or the people she worked with – you ever want my mom to shut up, just ask her about being an Indian. Even better, ask her about her dad.
But one time she got so angry Jonah thought she would hit him. It was this summer, after a pork chop supper and a couple of glasses of red wine. She was at the sink, running the tap, rinsing the plates, humming to herself. He asked her a question, tried to slip it in, take advantage of her good mood. He couldn’t remember what the question was exactly – something about life on the reservation.
‘Why don’t you give me a break, Jonah?’
She spoke very slowly, but he could hear something simmering in the back of her throat.
‘Seriously, Jonah.’ She picked up a plate, turned around to face him and let the plate slip through her fingers and shatter onto the floor. ‘Why don’t you just give me a fucking break.’ Another plate went onto the floor. Then the salad bowl.
‘I’m sorry, Mom, it’s OK, just stop that now.’
She threw things across the room – glasses, bowls, knives, forks – over and over, opening drawers, emptying cupboards, and all the time she was screaming at him.
‘You are not an Indian, Jonah, you hear me? Your father was white. White, Jonah. White. You’re not even half an Indian because one of my grandfathers was white.’
She kept on until she’d smashed everything. Then she stomped over to the back door and opened it, sweeping her arms like she wanted him to leave.
‘You go. Go to any tribe, go to any reservation. Tell them about your heritage or your blood and see what they do. They’d just laugh at you, a stupid half-white boy who doesn’t know how lucky he is, how lucky he is not to be a fucking. . .’
She shook her head. It was like she couldn’t even say the word.
And then she cried. She sat at the kitchen table and cried until it looked like her face would crumble, collapse into itself like a flood-damaged building. Jonah stood in the doorway, too angry and hurt to comfort her, too shocked at the hateful, shameful power of her words.
After a while she tried to talk. Something about boarding schools and Vietnam and someone being a drunk and dying at fifty, but the words weren’t coming out right and Jonah had been in no mood to hear them.
Two months later and what she’d done still felt like an open wound.
Jonah wrapped the blanket around his waist and stepped outside the wigwam. The rain had stopped, although soft drops still filtered through the branches and leaves of the trees. The air was like perfume, sweet and herby, warm and moist. He took deep breaths, as if the fragrance could heal his memories, take away their sting. And if it couldn’t, what did it matter? He lived here now. The earth was his mother. Yellow Lake was his home.
Chapter Five
ETTA
Friday night. Three whole days since Kyle caught me alone in the trailer, and he hadn’t been around since. Maybe Mom got wise to him. Maybe she told him where he could stick it.
We were having dinner, takeout pizza in front of the TV, watching Friends, and Mom was laughing out loud at the way Monica was bouncing off the furniture in a fat suit. Normally, Kyle would come around on a Friday. It was weird that she didn’t mention him, so when a commercial came on I asked her if something was up.
‘Up?’ Mom asked. She sounded normal, relaxed. She bit into her piece
of pizza, wiped some sauce from her chin. ‘What do you mean, up?’
‘I mean, did you guys break up or something?’
‘No, he’s just busy is all. He’s starting some deal with these guys from Kenosha.’
I didn’t say any more. I let the big sale announcement for Menard’s Lumber Warehouse take up the silence. If Mom didn’t want to talk about it, then that was OK.
Only she did want to talk.
‘You know, like a business.’ Mom’s voice sounded a little higher than normal. ‘A factory. Making stuff. OK?’
I wanted to ask her what kind of stuff, but I knew how she’d take it. Turned out, my not asking made her take it the same way. After a few seconds she picked up the remote and turned down the sound.
‘It’s all on the up-and-up, Etta. A business opportunity. Car parts or something.’
I kept my mouth shut. Car parts, right.
‘Can’t you give the guy a break?’ she screeched.
‘What are you talking about, Mom? I didn’t say anything!’
She threw down her pizza and folded her arms. ‘You didn’t need to. I can tell what you’re thinking.’
‘That’s crazy, Mom.’
‘No, it ain’t.’
‘Yes it is.’
She was acting like a five-year-old, so she must have known something was wrong – with that business, with me. When the show came back on she turned the sound up so loud the laugh track hurt my ears. I should have taken the remote off her and made her listen, for a change. I should’ve told her about Kyle calling me a slut. I should have tried squeezing her arm till it bruised, seen how she liked it. I should’ve told her what I heard him say on the phone to some guy named Charlie, that stupid gangster stuff about ‘lessons’.
But she wouldn’t even look at me, let alone talk. She stared at the TV like her eyes had got stuck in that position and wouldn’t ever move.
‘OK,’ I said, sarcastically. ‘Sorry I even asked.’ I made a big show of stomping out of the trailer and letting the door slam behind me. It felt good, hearing the metal steps shudder and shake, made me feel like I was a normal everyday teenager, one with normal, everyday problems and a normal, everyday mom.
I ran down the bike trail, headed into Welmer. It was like being the last survivor in one of those movies about the end of the world. The houses were all dark, the streets empty. When I got to town I walked right in the middle of the road, just like in the movies. There was nobody to stop me. No one to even see.
Then a car came up the road, swerving back and forth, catching me in its headlights, forcing me to skip onto the sidewalk. It drove past, slowed down so the boys inside could lean over for a quick gawk before speeding up and skidding around the next left turn.
I turned right on Main Street, walked past a boarded-up store and a tavern with no lights on. I took another right at the next corner – not that I cared what direction I was going in. I had nowhere to go. The houses on this street were small, with tiny toy-covered front lawns and open square porches. There were warm yellow lights on in some of them. I saw the wallpaper in a kid’s room. Disney Princesses, pink and pretty. I don’t know why that made me jealous. I hated Disney. I hated pink even more.
I slowed down, dragging my feet along the sidewalk, dipping the toes of my sneakers into the cracks in the pavement. I had to make a plan. I couldn’t just walk around in circles all night. I needed to think things through. What if I told Mom everything and she took Kyle’s side? What if she thought I was making it up? What if she had been telling everybody I was some kind of slut? Those questions kept going round and round in my head. Worse ones, too. What if she was in on something with him, something really bad this time – something dangerous or illegal, not just stupid?
The car full of boys turned back onto the street. They crossed the centre line, slowed down, pulled over onto the grass, nearly cutting off the sidewalk, blocking my way. It was nice car – new, metallic blue, just like Kyle’s.
‘Hey.’ The driver’s head bobbed out of the open window. Country music was blasting out of the speakers. Some deep-voiced hick was whining about trains. ‘You’re that chick from the trailer court.’ The boy was wearing a baseball cap that said, ‘Welmer Panthers. All-State Basketball Champs.’ He didn’t look too bad, a little shiny and pimply was all.
The guy in the passenger seat leaned over for a better look. He had a long, skinny face, and bleached blonde hair under a Minnesota Twins cap. His tiny eyes were glazed over, either drunk or high.
‘We seen you down by the football field that time,’ he mumbled. Both boys were messed up, but at least they were smiling. Maybe I should do what Mom said, give them a break.
‘We got beer,’ the driver said. The two boys in the back seat raised their Leinenkugel cans in a kind of salute. ‘Other shit too.’
‘And we got a place to do it.’ The driver revved the car engine for effect.
‘You wanna go there?’ More revving, louder this time. ‘It ain’t far.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Christ Almighty,’ the front seat guy said. ‘Ain’t you stuck-up?’
‘I gotta go home,’ I said.
‘Think you’re too good for us or something?’ the driver asked.
‘Honest, guys, I just gotta go.’ I sounded like Mom, kissing some loser’s butt.
‘What you getting so high and mighty about, anyway? You’re the one living in the trailer park.’
The guys in the back seat laughed, choking on their beer until it spewed out of their mouths like foamy fountains. One of them chucked his empty can out of the window. It clattered on the sidewalk next to my feet.
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ I said, picking up the can and backing away from the car. ‘I might’ve gone to the wrong house if you hadn’t pointed that out.’
From inside the car, one of the boys shouted, ‘Smart-ass, ain’t ya?’
I scrunched up the can with my fingers. There was no point in wasting any more of my words.
‘Bitch!’ The car pulled away clumsily, no squealing tyres, no gravel dust. It was a let-down, really, but still they kept shouting. ‘Bitch. Whore.’ They called me the other name, too – the really nasty one.
I wound my arm back and let the can fly. It took off like a cannon ball, soaring through the air, catching the light, until it clunked straight onto the blacktop, short by a mile.
Ten minutes later and I was back at home. Mom had left the living room light on for me. She’d cleared away the pizza and put the box in the garbage. My uneaten pieces were on a plate on the counter, neatly wrapped in aluminium foil. There was a post-it note on the top.
Day off tomorrow. How about Duluth?
That made me smile. Maybe she wasn’t so bad.
I finished off my pizza and went to bed. For a long time I lay awake in the dark, thoughts niggling in my head. It was about those stupid boys in the car, something they had said.
Just after midnight, it came to me. It wasn’t what they had said or the names they had called me.
It was the car – same make as Kyle’s, same colour as Kyle’s.
I could see it now, pulling away. I’d been too angry and upset to notice it before. There were bumper stickers on the back, side by side – one Harley Davidson logo, one American flag.
Same as Kyle’s.
PETER
The alarm clock read 2.00 a.m. It wouldn’t be light for another two hours. Peter lay on Ken’s living room sofa, eyes closed, trying not to think about things so he could get back to sleep.
Uncle Ken’s flat – Ken called it a ‘condo’ – was in a brand new building, with white walls, bare wooden floors and what Mum used to call that ‘new motel’ smell. Peter had never been in a new motel, but he knew what she meant – unused, sanitary, too clean for Mum’s taste – and smelling it made him think of her. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering if she was thinking of him too. He knew it was mad, but he couldn’t help it. He felt her eyes on him sometimes, and he imagined her, d
ressed as normal in jeans and T-shirt, peering down on him through a telescope from a very high cloud.
Peter thought about his dad, too. He’d still be in Italy, basking beside some pool. What time would it be there? He checked his watch. 10.00 in England, an hour later in Italy. Dad would be home in a few more days. At least nobody had called yet – no police, nobody in England, wondering where he’d gone. His aunt Emma was supposed to be checking in on him. She must’ve believed his text that said he was staying at his mate Luke’s for a few days. Luke and his family were on holiday and wouldn’t answer their phone, so that might hold her till Dad got back.
Outside, a car alarm went off and a dog started to bark. Peter pulled the pillow over his head to drown out the sound.
It was no use. He tossed and turned for a few minutes, then finally gave up. He pulled on his jeans and shirt and crept through the darkened flat to the balcony. Ken’s condo overlooked the Mississippi River. It was too dark to see, and too noisy with the hum of air conditioners to hear, but from the balcony Peter could at least smell the Mississippi, earthy and brown.
He wondered if the river would lead to Yellow Lake. He supposed it would, eventually. That’s how rivers worked, right? Maybe he should take off now – he’d already wasted enough time in Minneapolis – go down to the riverside, see if there was anyone with a boat for hire. It was worth a try. Or he could hitchhike. Yellow Lake wasn’t all that far from Minneapolis. He had money for a map, he could take some food, buy a little more – he’d be at the cabin in a matter of hours. He could leave a note for Ken, explain that he couldn’t sleep, that he’d decided to beat the rush hour, something daft like that.
At Yellow Lake Page 4