LaRose (35 page)

Everything that LaRose said shocked Emmaline. He’s a little man, she thought. He’s grown up.

So I gotta go back there, Mom. I like Mrs. Shell. She’s not picky. But I need to go back to Dusty’s family.

You remember him, Dusty?

He’s still my friend, Mom. I got his family on my hands, too. So can I go back?

Really, my boy?

She thought she’d better stop the car and throw up. Plus her head hurt suddenly because her boy remembered Dusty, spoke of him with such immediacy, felt this level of responsibility. It was too much to put on him, but there it was.

Yeah, Mom, it’s too late to go back on your promise.

She did pull over, but just put her face in her hands and was too overwhelmed to cry. Anyway, she never cried. That was Landreaux’s job. He cried for both of them. Emmaline tried to cry, tried to well up just to get some relief. But she was Emmaline.

LaRose patted her arm, her neck.

It’s okay, you’re gonna make it, he said. If you just get going you’ll feel better. One step after another. One day at a time.

LaRose was used to mothers’ despair and these were the words that Peter used with Nola.

LANDREAUX DROVE HIS
son to the Ravich house. He could see that the change in routine had made LaRose anxious, and restoring the old order was the right thing. Still, Landreaux had trouble letting
LaRose go. He hugged his son just before LaRose swung out of the car with his pack on his shoulder.

It’s all good, Landreaux muttered.

He was not all good, would never be; yet there were slender threads of okay.

Landreaux watched LaRose run up the steps. Maggie was at the door jumping up and down. LaRose bounced straight in. Neither Maggie nor Nola had ever waved at or acknowledged Landreaux. It was necessary to be invisible to them, but not to his son. At the last moment LaRose stuck his head out the door and waved good-bye.

The little things that get you. Choked-up smile from Landreaux.

He will be okay, he muttered, pulling out and driving away. This was a phrase he repeated like a mantra when things were not okay. After a while it made him feel better and after a time it worked.

MAGGIE HELD THE
stack of new school notebooks in her lap. She was in the passenger’s seat. LaRose was in the backseat. Nola was driving them to school because they weren’t on the bus route. Last year they could have walked over to the Irons’ house, just over the reservation boundary, and taken the bus with them. But the bus no longer stopped there because Hollis drove. Maggie hoped that Hollis would get a bigger car so she and LaRose could ride along. She was tense. Sitting beside her mother going sixty-five miles per hour, she tried not to hyperventilate. Maggie held her breath every time a car swished by in the other lane. Let it out when the danger was over. She had developed propulsive convictions since finding her mother in the barn—like if she held her breath when cars came, her mother would not swerve and kill them all. Or if Maggie held her breath even longer, Nola might swerve but she and LaRose would miraculously survive the crash. Right now, with all the school supplies in the car, and her mother so pleased about having bought new fine-point markers, packages of notebook paper, labels, even a magnetic mirror for the inside of her locker door, Maggie felt the danger of a murder-suicide was pretty low, still she held her breath.

Maggie was dizzy by the time they stopped at the school entry. The doors swished open, the kids were talking. LaRose went one way, she went another. Josette and Snow had flipped a coin to see who got to be her First Day Mentor. Only kids with a top average could get that honor. You got an automatic late pass to your own classes, because you showed the new student around, went to each class to make sure they found the room.

Snow had won. She was standing tall and serene in the entry, wearing a hot-pink tank top layered over a slinky purple T-shirt, waiting with a class schedule and a lock for Maggie’s locker.

Don’t sweat it, she said. Maggie thought she might look nervous, so she tossed her head and grinned.

Hey, Cheeks, said Snow to a stagey-looking boy with earrings and tattoos, meet my little sis.

Hey, Sean, said Snow to a boy with floppy pants, sagging jacket, and wildly inappropriate Hooters T-shirt, meet my sis. Sean, you’re gonna get kicked out for that T-shirt.

I know, said Sean.

Hey, Waylon, said Snow to a scary massive dude with heavy eyebrows, plush lips, football linebacker vibe, meet my little sis. You guys are in the same class.

He put out his hand to shake, formal.

Ever so pleased, he said.

A girl behind him laughed. Get away from her, Waylon! She was tall like Snow, her eyelids hot blue, hair to her waist, balloony blouse, tight jeans.

This is Diamond. The three girls walked to Maggie’s first class. It was Physical Science taught by Mr. Hossel, a painfully thin young man with scarred red hands.

We think maybe he blew himself up, whispered Diamond, in a chemistry accident. Nobody knows.

He’s enigmatic, said Snow.

They left Maggie alone; she went in and sat down. Eyes rested on Maggie, she could feel them, and it felt wonderful. Nobody knew
her. Nobody hated her yet. Light, she felt light. Shed of an insufferable responsibility. Nola off her hands for the whole day. Nothing she could do. No way to stop her mother. No way to know. And LaRose safe also in his own classroom so he wouldn’t find Nola dead and be scarred for life. Maggie smiled when she told her name to the class and smiled when they muttered. It wasn’t a mean mutter, just an information-exchange mutter. She smiled when the teacher introduced himself to her and smiled when the class shifted their feet. She smiled down at her new notebook as he went over the day’s assignment and reminded them that his rules included no makeup application during class. Two girls lowered their mascara wands. Maggie dreamily smiled at Mr. Hossel as he told her what she needed to bring to class. Startled, he caught her smile, and thought she might be a little odd, or high. But the class began to murmur, so he went on trying to interest them in the laws of motion.

The Powers

TRYOUTS FOR THE
team were that Saturday.

C’mon, Josette yelled from the pickup. Snow was driving. Maggie got into the jump seat just behind. They drove to the school and parked by the gym entrance. The gym was huge and there were three courts with nets rolled up in the steel rafters so that there could be several different games played at the same time.

The eighteen girls trying out for the team wore ponytails centered high on the back of their heads, and wide stretchy headbands of every color. Some looked Indian, some looked maybe Indian, some looked white. Diamond grinned at Maggie. Six feet tall and in full makeup, she danced around, excited, snapping gum. Another girl’s ponytail, even tightened up high, hung nearly to her waist. She was powwow royalty. Regina Sailor was her name. Snow was five ten and her ponytail was also long—halfway down her back. Maggie decided to grow her hair out. Diamond was powerfully muscled and the powwow
princess had extremely springy crow-hop legs. Maggie decided to work out more. The coach was small, round, smiley, maybe a white Indian. He wore a bead choker. His thin hair was scraped into a grizzled ponytail. He was Mr. Duke.

Coach Duke started the girls off with warm-up exercises. Josette paired off with Maggie and Snow paired with Diamond. The powwow princess, very striking with winsome cheekbones and a complex double French braid, looked at Maggie with cool scorn and said, Who’s that.

She’s my sister, Josette said. She’s a digger, too. You watch.

The coach made them number off twos and ones, for a scrimmage. Josette and Snow were twos. Maggie tried to stand in a spot where she would be a two, but she got stuck as a one. She was on the same team as Diamond and the princess. They seemed to know where they played best and took their positions. Diamond passed Maggie the ball and said, Serve!

Maggie’s throat went dry. She slammed the ball on the floor—it didn’t bounce crooked like in the yard. The ball came right back to her hand as if it liked her. She tossed the ball high.

Wait.

Coach hadn’t blown his whistle.

Okay. He tweeted.

Maggie tossed the ball up again, knocked it into the net. But the others just clapped and got down to business. Her face was hot, but it seemed nobody cared. There went the next serve. The princess returned it. Josette set the ball and Snow launched, legs gangling, spiked the ball left of Maggie just the way she did in practice. There wasn’t time to slide under it so Maggie dove fist out, konged it up high, and rolled. Diamond messaged that one deep but Josette was there with a bouncy blonde, who again fed the ball to Snow, who again whacked it straight at Maggie.

Ravich! she screamed.

Maggie dug it out again with a kamikaze dive.

Holeee, screamed the powwow princess. Another girl set and the
princess slammed a pit ball past Snow’s lifted arms right into the sweet spot of gym floor nobody could reach.

Kill!

Maggie couldn’t serve or jump. She couldn’t hit for squat. She wasn’t graceful, but she got to where the ball was, wherever it went, and popped it up. Sometimes she pounced, sometimes she frogged, sometimes she stag-leaped to cork it overhead, backward, if a teammate smacked it out of bounds. And her placement was good. Her craziest save was playable. She gave everything—every fret, every gut clench, every fear—freed herself for a couple of hours, made the coach laugh, and picked up the team with her slapstick retrievals.

Okay, you might be on the bench a lot at first. Don’t worry, said Josette, when they found out she’d made the varsity team. You mighta got more play JV. But we need you.

You’re suicidal out there!

Snow laughed. They were driving back. Neither of them saw Maggie’s face freeze at the word, saw her eyes lose focus. She was suddenly in the barn—her mom standing high in the slant of light. Zip. She ricocheted back into the car. She was afraid that she felt too good, too happy, and that would make her mom feel the opposite. She watched the road, anxious as the sisters gabbled. Snow was driving fast enough, but still, she needed to get home.

RANDALL HAD A
friend who had inherited a permit to cut pipestone at the quarry in South Dakota where the pipestone lived. This friend gave pipestone freely to Randall, who gave it to Landreaux, who made pipes for him. But this was a pipe for Landreaux’s own family. They all took the pipes into the lodge whenever they went. They treated the boys’ pipes like people. All the children were given these pipes early on, but didn’t smoke them until they were grown. LaRose was the last child without a pipe, so Landreaux was making one. He used an electric saw, then a hasp file on the red stone to
rough it out. Later, a rasp, finer files, and a rattail file for the curve in the bowl. He would use graduated grades of sandpaper. At last he would use fabrics, then polish the bowl with his palms and fingers for a few weeks. The oil from his own hands would deepen the color. It was a simple pipe. Landreaux didn’t believe that pipes should be made in eagle head, otter, bear, eagle claw, mountain goat, turtle, snail, or horse shapes, as he’d seen. They were supposed to be humble objects to pray with humbly.

Landreaux felt that working on a pipe was a form of prayer, but prayer where you could multitask. He often brought a pipe bowl to work on when he sat with his clients as they went through procedures, waited for tests, watched TV in hospital lounges or at home.

Today, he brought the pipe to work on when he went to Ottie and Bap’s. He got Ottie’s hygiene taken care of first. He showered Ottie and carefully protected the still healing fistula that would help access large veins in his chest. Landreaux also bathed Bap’s dog just because she’d be pleased. Bap was visiting their daughter in Fargo. Ottie rolled up to the television, pointed the weak-batteried remote, and flipped erratically through the channels while Landreaux made them sandwiches, nothing juicy. Sometimes Ottie said he longed for an orange so bad he wanted to cry. He was on a low-fluid diet. Ottie found the cooking show he liked, and they ate while watching the flashing knives, close-up batter whipping, sizzling, critical tasting. But Ottie was still washed out from dialysis the day before, couldn’t finish his sandwich, and soon even the show couldn’t hold his interest. He wanted to talk, though. He switched off the tube and asked how things were going for Landreaux. His voice was thready and soft.