Dead Sleeping Shaman (30 page)

“The hell you will.” I tried to get my rage back. “I changed your name. You won’t even be in there …”

“Yeah, like you got any stories without me.”

“I don’t need you or …” I complained, but the real venom was gone. I was at ease, the hands on me working magic, the warmth of touch moving along my skin. I gave up fighting.

I finally grinned at her. “Sure I do, Dolly. I need you and you need me.”

She gave a thumbs-up that took us right back to where we used to be.

“And, you know what?” I said. “I’m going to throw you a birthday party. You’ve got it coming.” I reached down inside for something mean to follow with, but Dolly nodded. The delighted look on her face gave away her pleasure at the thought of a birthday, and a party to go with it. She folded her hands in her lap and set her chin down on her chest, no doubt contemplating the big wish she’d been saving for just such an occasion.

Sonia tightened her grip on my hands, kneading and patting. I was pure putty. “Maybe love coming your way,” she whispered close to my ear.

Felicia, hands still on the top of my head, moved the pads of her fingers back and forth. She leaned down to look hard into my face. “I don’t know … maybe you don’t want to hear this one. Ooh, ooh … it’s your poor dog, Emily. He wants you home. He’s peeved and put out with you. It looks like … oh, my heavens. He’s lifting his leg on your sofa.”

No doubt the women couldn’t comprehend my smile. At last, on this, the first day of the rest of my life, my little boy had become a man.

It was an ordinary
northern Michigan morning; late into the fall. No drama in the heavy sky above our heads. A few ragged clouds floated by, some outlined in bright white, most the color of pewter—the kind of sky that would stay until spring, soon dropping snow, day after day after day.

We stood on the high banks of the Manistee River: Dolly, her grandmother Cate, Crystalline, Sonia, Felicia, Officer Omar Winston, Lucky Barnard, Sister Sally, Brother Righteous, Bill Corcoran, and I.

We’d slowly filed by Winnie Otis’ longtime grave, which was filled in but still rough from the recent digging. We’d passed Marjory’s last resting place. At each spot we’d stopped, bowed our heads, said silent prayers, then moved on, farther into Deward, the place where it all began.

High on the Manistee switchback, we stood side by side, looking down at the near-motionless water as three crows fluttered by with weak, muted “caws.” Crystalline held an urn with the ashes of Marjory Otis. Felicia held the urn with Marjory’s mother’s ashes. Brother Righteous held the ashes of the Reverend Fritch.

I took Bill’s thick arm and held on. A slight breeze sprang up, forcing us to huddle down into our warm coats as we stood in silence, above the river. The wind rose and pushed the water along faster. It blew dead leaves around our feet, then sighed softly away through the pines. Crystalline stepped forward, pulled the top from the urn she carried, and held it up first to the east, then to the south, to the west, and finally to the north—land of the dead. She turned and, leaning over the embankment, sent what was left of her friend, Marjory Otis, into the air above the water. As the ashes fell, a veil of brown sinking toward the river, the breeze grew stronger, lifting the ashes, then twisting them into a spiral hanging in space.

Felicia opened the urn she carried and sent Winnie’s ashes over the edge, into the spiral.

Brother Righteous launched the ashes of the Reverend Fritch at the same time—into what had become a small cyclonic squall. The ashes mingled, turned, then rose together in a graceful dance. They became one veil of ash. They skimmed along the Manistee’s surface, flew until they were a momentary shadow above the river, settled down to the water, and then they were gone.

About the Author

Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli is a creative writing instructor at Northwestern Michigan College. She is the author of novels, short stories, articles, and essays. Her work has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies.