A Long Bridge Home

by Kelly Irvin

  Keeping a kitchen clean. Christine would excel at this job. She eyed the refrigerated coolers with their neat rows of meats—roast beef, honey ham, salami, chicken, turkey, and at least a dozen more. Then every kind of cheese imaginable. Five kinds of potato salad, coleslaw, macaroni salad, pickles, olives, four kinds of mustard. Tomatoes, lettuce, jalapeños. That didn’t even cover the myriad of breads. Who knew making a sandwich could be so complicated?

  Four customers crowded the glass cases, but the Plain woman behind the counter didn’t seem the least bit flustered. She looked to be in her midtwenties, with acne-scarred cheeks, cornflower-blue eyes, wheat-colored hair, and a frame so thin a brisk wind would blow her away.

  “That’s Esther Marie Shrock.” Aunt Lucy leaned closer and lowered her voice. “She’s worked here for going on three years. Her father is a friend of Fergie’s. She knows the deli inside and out. She’ll be the one to train you.”

  Esther Marie didn’t look up. She worked her way through three sandwiches of roast beef, swiss, lettuce, tomato, spicy mustard, pickles, and mayo on whole wheat submarine rolls without the slightest waste of energy or motion. Not only that, she made it seem easy as she asked questions of the Englisher, who wanted three bags of chips—one barbecue, one sour cream, and one plain—and three chocolate chip and six peanut butter cookies to go with the order.

  “She used to be shy—because of the way she talks—but she got over it.” Lucy rearranged the chip display so all the packages were even in each row. “Her stutter has actually improved the longer she’s been here. Her parents thought it would never work, but when I suggested she take the job, she didn’t even flinch. The tourists get a kick out of talking to Plain people, and they find her charming.”

  If a woman with a stutter could be brave enough to do this job, so could Christine. “I never thought of myself as shy . . .”

  “It can be overwhelming if you’re not used to dealing with the public. St. Ignatius is small, and our store is on the outskirts of town, but everyone and his uncle comes here. Kootenai is so much more secluded. And cleaning houses means you never deal with strangers. I promised my schweschder I would take care of you.”

  “I’m all grown up.” Christine tamped down the words. No need to be defensive. Aunt Lucy was right. She’d lived a sheltered life. One she loved. That didn’t mean she couldn’t learn new skills. The fire, her father’s decision to move, and Andy’s trek to Lewistown converged in a place in time that resulted in her chance to live a different life—if only for a short while. She could do this. “Show me what to do, and I’ll jump right in.”

  The quiver in her voice betrayed her.

  “Ach, sweetie, there’s no rush.” Aunt Lucy wrapped Christine in a hug. Her round body was warm and soft. She smelled like fresh soap. Between her stout body and the crinkly laugh lines around her eyes, she was a Plain version of DeeDee Drake. Christine’s heart dropped another foot. Lucy squeezed harder. “This has been a big day for you. You left home. Your family moved. There’s no need to start a new job too.”

  “I’m gut. I’m ready to go.” Christine heaved a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

  “Tell me about this special friend of yours. How soon will he return to Kootenai?”

  “I don’t know. He couldn’t say.” The words were like shards of broken glass in Christine’s throat. More goodbyes. More loss. “He has family matters to take care of. He didn’t know how long it would take.”

  “But he’s worth waiting for.”

  Absolutely. She’d lost all interest in other men the second she laid eyes on Andy. “He is.”

  “When patience and perseverance are required, we appreciate the fruits of our labor more.”

  Another version of her mother’s platitudes. “I’d like to get to work, if I may.” Work would take her mind off the wait and the homesickness that engulfed her like a dust storm. “I want to make myself useful.”

  Taking a step back, Lucy pursed her lips and cocked her head. “Why don’t you dip your toe in the water today for about an hour? The girls will be here then, and I’ll give you a ride back to the house.”

  “An hour, two hours, whatever you need.” Lifting her chin, Christine offered her a smile. “I can stay until closing time if needed.”

  Lucy’s baby-blue eyes contemplated Christine’s face for several seconds. She nodded, made the introductions, and then rushed off to sign for a shipment of fabrics for the sewing section.

  Her stomach twisted in knots, Christine washed her sweaty hands and donned a store apron, all the while watching Esther Marie’s quick work at filling an order for two pounds of mustard potato salad, three pounds of baked beans, and three pounds of tapioca pudding. The woman never missed a beat when the elderly English woman decided to add three pounds each of roast beef, salami, and spicy roasted chicken—each sliced differently.

  A young man behind Esther Marie’s customer fidgeted. His phone dinged. He thumbed something on the screen, then stuck it in his back pocket. He caught Christine’s gaze. “Are you on the clock?” The question came with a diffident smile. “If you’re not, it’s okay. I can wait.”

  “Me?” Her hands fluttered to her neck. Of course her. To whom else could he be talking? Christine’s nervous giggle only served to make her feel sillier. “I mean, jah, I can try to help you.”

  His smile grew. His teeth were slightly uneven. His almond skin glowed with health. His ochre eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses were warm. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you behind the counter here before.”

  “Jah—yes. You’re my first customer.” Another high-pitched giggle escaped her mouth. Lord, have mercy on me. I sound like a silly duck. Quack, quack. “What would you like?”

  Instead of giving her his order, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Raymond Old Fox. It’s nice to meet you. I stop here on my way home to Arlee from my job in Pablo.”

  Did all the customers introduce themselves? Christine stared at his hand. He had stubby fingers that matched his burly body. They weren’t the hands of a man who worked outdoors. “Is that really your name?”

  Raymond laughed. So did Esther Marie and her elderly customer.

  Embarrassment roared through her quicker than the Caribou fire currently decimating her beloved Kootenai. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Raymond’s hand dropped, but his smile didn’t fade. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good quality to speak what’s on your mind instead of hiding it behind good manners. Old Fox is my real name. It was my mother’s name and her father’s name before her. We’re native Kootenai.”

  In her family’s infrequent visits to Uncle Fergie’s, Christine had spent little time outside their tight circle of Plain family and friends. The families knew their properties were on the Flathead Indian Reservation, but no one thought of it as a topic of conversation. “You’re Native American Indian?”

  “Native.”

  “Native.” She filed his response away for later review. Her knowledge of Indians was confined to the historical Westerns she’d read. “What can I get you? A sandwich for lunch?”

  He didn’t answer for a long moment. Maybe he was still deciding. “Did you just move to St. Ignatius then?”

  “I’m from West Kootenai. We were evacuated because of the fire.” No sense in going into all the gory details with a stranger. “Lucy and Fergie are my aenti and onkel.”

  “Ah.” He seemed to take in that information, mull it over, and accept it. A careful, slow process. “I’m sorry you are uprooted.”

  His gentle sincerity brought Christine’s tears dangerously close to the surface. He had no way of knowing just how uprooted she felt with her family trekking to Kansas as she stood here conversing with him, but his sadness at her loss seemed genuine. For a second she chose to forget about the deli and sandwiches and her state of limbo between homes and families and even with Andy. “You’re kind.”

  He smiled. Such a sweet smile from a stranger. “I try.”

  Esther Marie cou
ghed. Christine jumped. “What did you need? Lunch?”

  “Actually, I’m here for my great-grandmother.” Raymond looked to be in his midtwenties. He wore faded blue jeans and a T-shirt that had a number sign followed by the words Computer Geek run together as one word. His shiny, straight, obsidian hair was parted in the middle and hung long enough to brush his collar. Nothing about him seemed the sort who did shopping for a family member. “She’s been sick, and I’m trying to tempt her to eat. This store is off the beaten track, but it has some of her favorite snacks. I can’t get them anywhere else.”

  “The tapioca is good. Does she like pudding?”

  He laughed again. He had a deep, hoarse laugh like her father’s. “She’s more into smoked horseradish cheddar. I’ll get some sausage, a loaf of dark rye, and peach salsa. She also likes the scorpion cheddar cheese and fresh butter. At her age, she doesn’t worry about too much fat or cholesterol.”

  Scorpion cheddar was made with some of the spiciest chili peppers available. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  A perplexed look on his clean-shaven face, he glanced at his hands and then at her. “I don’t think so. She’s ninety-four. She says her taste buds stopped working somewhere in her eighties. Food tastes like sawdust. She’s wasting away from old age but not for lack of attitude. In her head she’s twenty and eats whatever she wants.”

  “I’m sorry she’s wasting away.”

  “You need not apologize. I promise.”

  She didn’t mind at all. His soft, sweet tone and his concern for his great-grandmother were touching. He’d driven out of his way to a dirt road that led to St. Ignatius’s tiny airport in hopes of finding something that would entice his great-grandmother to eat. Her first customer was a kind man and a good grandson.

  Christine grabbed a huge chunk of the cheese and went to work. Slicing cheese was more difficult than it looked. Her first efforts were ragged and torn. The next slice was thicker than a piece of toast. “Sorry.”

  “Let-t-t-t me.” Esther Marie wiped her hands on her apron and held them out. “There’s a tr-r-i-cccck to it.”

  “Nee, danki, I can do this.”

  “I believe you.” Raymond’s tone said he did indeed believe her. “A person can’t learn skills without practice.”

  With an encouraging nod Esther Marie turned to a new customer who needed a “quick” order for half a dozen sandwiches and all the fixings.

  Finally, Christine handed over the package with a flourish. “I did it. I mean, here’s your cheese. Can I ask you another question?”

  “Sure.” With an oddly formal bow he accepted her offering. “What would you like to know?”

  “What does your shirt mean? Number sign and ComputerGeek?”

  Again, he laughed. He had the unrestrained laugh of a man who used those muscles a lot. “It’s hashtag ComputerGeek. Have you not heard of Twitter?”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay. I’m giving you a hard time. I know Amish people don’t use computers. I’m a computer nut. I live and breathe computers. People think I’m a nerd, but I’m really more of a techie.”

  “They have computers where my father works, and I looked up a book at the library on a computer once.” Acutely aware of Esther Marie’s curious stare, Christine chose her words carefully. Plain people had good reason to avoid technology. It connected people to a world filled with vices and took them away from the important people who were right in front of them—their families. At least that’s what the bishop said. And her father. And he knew everything. “I mean the librarian searched it for me. I looked over her shoulder.”

  Why was she going on and on? This sudden lull in customers left her no excuse to get back to work.

  Raymond Old Fox didn’t seem to mind. Nor did he seem in a hurry now. “You never told me your name.”

  “Christine.”

  “Welcome to the Flathead Indian Reservation, Christine.”

  Something about the way he said the words made her look closer into his eyes. Even with the glasses as a shield of sorts, they were full of life and a touch of humor. They held a note of mystery, of the unknown, and yet invitation. She took a breath. He strode away before she could say more.

  A gray-haired woman in a purple broom skirt and white western-style shirt harrumphed as she picked up the sandwiches Esther Marie had made for her. “Uppity Indians.”

  Christine opened her mouth. Esther Marie shook her head. Christine pressed her lips together, grabbed a washcloth, and wiped down the counter.

  “They act like we stole our land from them. My great-grandparents bought our property in the early nineteen hundreds way before that kid was born. It was surplus left over after the Dawes Act gave the Indians their allotments.” Her long nose wrinkled as if she smelled something bad. “Everybody knows the white people around here bought their land fair and square. Anybody who says different is just a sore loser.”

  With a vague smile Esther Marie handed the woman a huge container of macaroni salad. “Is there anyth-th-ii–nn–g else I-I-I can g-g-get you?”

  “No thanks.” The lady nodded at Christine. “Welcome to St. Ignatius.”

  The final word, apparently.

  After the woman pushed her cart in the direction of the fresh produce, Christine turned to Esther Marie. “What was that about?”

  “Don’t worr-r-r-ry about it.” Esther Marie stowed the remaining roast beef back in the cooler as she talked. “Most folks around-d-d-d here g-g-g-et along well. We share this b-b-b-eautif-f-ful place made by Gott-t-t for all his kinn-n-n-ner. But there’s a few who hang on to old diff-f-f-ferences like their first loves. We find it’s best-t-t-t to ignore them. Outside of our jobs, we keep to ourselves and let it roll off us like water-r-r-r off a d-d-d-uck’s b-b-b-ack.”

  The words slipped from Esther Marie’s tongue with more ease than any had previously. Almost as if she’d heard them oft repeated. Nodding in agreement, Christine stared at the Englisher’s retreating back. A new home, a new job, a new world.

  A Native man with eyes the color of volcanic rock who invited her to take a road to no place she’d ever been.

  If all her customers were like Raymond Old Fox, she might like it here in her new world.

  11

  Arlee, Montana

  Gramma’s formidable stare from the couch where she lay propped up on a pile of oversized pillows on the sofa in her tiny cabin’s only room meant she was having a good day. Good days were to be celebrated. Raymond set the Valley Grocery Store bag on the skinny pine table with its hanging leaves squeezed against the wall next to a mini refrigerator and small gas stove that served as Gramma’s kitchen.

  Ignoring her scowl, he stowed the food, set up his laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch, and then added a straw to the cherry milkshake he picked up at The Huckleberry Patch on his way down Arlee’s main drag and took it to her. “Ki’su’k kyukyit. What’s new, Gramma?”

  She peered over the thick black rims of glasses that needed to be cleaned and frowned. Her deeply wrinkled, sun-leathered skin mapped the geography of her face like so many hills and valleys. Those wrinkles told her story if a person only knew how to read them. “Ki’su’k kyukyit, Raymond. An obedient and loyal great-grandson visits his elders regularly. That is new.”

  “It’s only been three days since my last visit.” He handed her the shake without adding that his three great-aunts—her sisters—had visited during that time. And his Grandma Velda, who was his true gramma. Never a day went by that someone did not visit with his great-grandma Sadie Runabout. She might be old, but she still had much to say, and they wanted to listen for as long as they could. “I see that you’ve eaten nothing of the groceries your sisters brought you. How do you expect to maintain your strength if you don’t eat?”

  “I am as strong as a bull moose. I eat plenty. One little runner my size and age does not need to gorge on meat and bread and potatoes. You want to feed me like I work building bridges.” She leaned back on her pillows, h
er frown replaced by her trademark impish grin. “I am only teasing you. I know you go to work. You volunteer at The People’s Center. You volunteer at the grade school, teaching Kootenai. You have a full life. That is good.”

  The rest of her thought hung in the air between them. Words not spoken could still be heard. She wanted a good, honorable life for her great-grandson. If that included a wife and children, it would happen in its own time. Not necessarily on her time. Neither of them controlled its passage. The desire to have his children sit at Gramma’s feet and learn the ways of their people grew strong roots that wrapped themselves around Raymond’s heart and squeezed with greater ferocity each day. Yet the woman who could prune and shape those desires, freeing his heart, had yet to appear.

  His phone dinged. An email from his boss about a difficult project they’d tackled earlier in the week. He tapped out a response before he reengaged. “You won’t be strong as a bull moose for long if you don’t eat.”

  “You work too much.”

  He shoved his glasses up his nose and rubbed his forehead. Work filled his life like dirt in a series of holes. Working at S&K didn’t fill a hole in his soul, but it did take his time. And what he chose to do, he did with determined enthusiasm. A man gave his all or stayed home. “I took today off, as a matter of fact, to use up some leave before I lost it. But I do what the job requires. Otherwise, how can I accept the paycheck?”

  “When I’m gone, will you still fill up your days with work instead of people?”

  “You wanted this for me, Gramma. You told me to stay here, to go to school here. And you’re not going anywhere.”

  “When I go, I go.”

  Knowing this to be true didn’t make it easier. Gramma Sadie had raised Raymond and his two brothers when their mother died in a car accident while working as a tribal cop. Grandma Velda continued to work, so Sadie had no choice but to be mother to her great-grandchildren. Memories of his mom were hazy. A warm, soft hand on his cheek at bedtime. A laugh. The jangle of beads when she dressed for a powwow. Her smell of sun and sweat after an afternoon of picking chokeberries.