Wabanaki Blues (10 page)

Grumps rumbles, “Be careful what you say, City Gal.”

Del stands frozen and somber.

Grumps throws an arm around him, “Never mind her, Del. She has an overactive imagination.”

“Why would I make this up, Grumps?” I ask. “Do you think I like being stalked by Mia Delaney?”

Grumps storms away into his bedroom, slamming the door.

Del's eyes trail Grumps, as if he wants to follow him. His words tumble over one another awkwardly. “There's something at my house I want to show you.”

“There's no way I'm going back there.”

He speaks soothingly, “Don't worry. Dad leaves for Maine to deliver a painting around noon tomorrow. Please don't say no.”

“Honestly, Del. I can't think of anything you could say that would make me want to go back to your house.”

“What if I tell you that Mia Delaney was my mom?”

Six

The Devil Must Go

Del appears at my door wearing crumpled clothes and a cautious smile, in a newly washed and vacuumed Saab. This means his dad took the Harley. That must have been one small painting to fit on the back of Will's motorcycle. Del has cleared out everything from the backseat but a single piece of paper that contains the lyrics to the song we wrote together. I wonder if his older song lyrics were about Scales. I pick up the paper and read the last line:

The devil must go.

Those lyrics make my throat swell. I don't know a worse devil than Will Pyne. Yet Mia Delaney must have seen something in him, once upon a time. I picture his mayonnaise slick skin, his bile-green eyes, his axle-grease hair. But perhaps looks are deceiving. If he had a child with Mia then maybe Will Pyne was not the devil that locked her in the janitor's closet at Colt High, after all. Still, he's a mean drunk and I don't want to be around him. But I do want to be around Del, so I've got a problem.

“You say Mia was your mom,” I say, picking up at the earth-shattering place where we left off.

“Yes, she gave birth to me in late August after her junior year of high school. She didn't show during the school year, so nobody at school knew she was pregnant. She went back her senior year like nothing had happened. She planned to get her diploma and then come back here for good.”

Del's Saab rumbles toward his house, its multi-colored siding shining in all its autumnal painted glory.

“So this was Mia Delaney's house?” I ask.

“Yes,” Del chokes.

I scan the driveway for vehicles. “You're sure that your dad left for Maine?”

“He headed out over an hour ago.” Del lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You're safe with me.”

My head throbs at his words. I can't help but wonder if this is what Will Pyne said to Mia Delaney before he locked her in the school basement closet.
You're safe with me.
Then I remember Mia is Del's mom. She and Will had a child together. They loved one another. I'm probably all wrong in my assumptions about him. I'm sure that's what Del is dragging me to his house to prove.

Del taps the paper I‘m holding. “Those lyrics we wrote aren't half bad.” He spreads his hands like they're framing a lit-up marquis. “LaPierre and Pyne, I can see it now. We could be the next Lennon and McCartney.”

“Lennon and McCartney, “ I drone. “You like the Beatles?”

His beaming lichen-green eyes tell me that I should already know that. And of course I do. I feel like he was made for me, which is dangerous, and another reason I want to find out what really happened to his mom.

We pull into the Pynes' garage.

“Mona Lisa, this is what I need to show you.” He beckons me toward a cheap beige vinyl door at the back of the garage. This door doesn't appear to get much use; it has cobwebs on the padlock. My nose detects the scent of whiskey and blood beneath the aroma of axle grease. Del smiles at me, inveiglingly. I move closer to him and smell musky honey.

Then it hits me. I'm facing a padlocked door at the home of a man with a green-flamed Harley who keeps a photo of a girl who was murdered at my high school. I picture her getting waved into this locked room, like somebody waved her into the school janitor's basement closet and then locked her inside. Panic sets in. Is Del more like his dad than I want to believe?
Like father, like son?
I can't go inside this locked room.

“Why do you have this room padlocked, Del?” My heart thumps inside my chest. I listen hard for any warning from Bilki.

He holds out the open padlock. “I know this seems weird. But you'll understand when you see what's inside.” He hands me the lock, and it feels like an ice cube. “Inside this room is a gift my dad made for my mom. It will prove to you that he didn't kill her.”

He pulls me inside the secret room. My clenched heart melts. I'm in the middle of what appears to be a colossal bouquet. Four wall-size canvases fill the room, each painted with interior designs of rooms made from oversized flowers. The dining room features daisy chairs set beside a sunflower dining room table. Stuffed lounge chairs in the living room are constructed of velvety iris; the carpet is made from delicate cherry blossoms and lady slippers. Purple hydrangeas form poufy couches. The kitchen sink is composed of Borneo silvers, the bathtub of passionate red peonies; everything in these paintings is soft, supple, and scented. Will has painted a fantasy home, a sweet and idealized place to start a family, the kind of place you see inside a dream. His signature sits in the bottom right corner of each of the four paintings, written steadfastly in all caps: WILL.

Del drops down on the floor and pats the boards beside him. “Lie down here, beside me. You haven't seen the best painting, yet.”

A knot cramps my gut and tightness spreads down my legs. No guy has ever asked me to lie down beside him. I slowly lower myself to a sitting position and hold my knees.

Del takes a hand off my leg and kisses it. “Relax. You can't see the best painting unless you lie on your back. It's on the ceiling.” He wiggles into a comfortable position and points upward.

I stiffly recline, trying to focus on the ceiling and not on the padlock still in my sweaty hand, or Del's warm body beside me.

“What do you think, Mona Lisa?”

The canvas overhead depicts a bedroom without color. It's white on white. There's a bed made of calla lilies, downturned sheets made of Queen Anne's lace and a comforter of stephanotis. White tulips form the pillows and the headboard overflows with bellflowers and baby's breath. A painted faux frame of white roses surrounds the whole picture. There are no noticeable shadows in the artwork. But they must be there. Right? Or I couldn't see the white flowers. You have to have shadows to notice light.

Del prods me with a gentle elbow. “What's your opinion of this work?”

“I can't believe your dad painted this for your mom.

“I know. Me, either.”

“What did Bilki say when she saw this painting?”

He rolls over and kisses my shoulder, electrifyingly, shockingly. My body stiffens like rigor mortis.

“She never saw it,” he says, gulping. “Nobody has seen it, except Dad and me. I only found out about this room after Dad was on one of his drunken rants He'd been going on about the surprise wedding/graduation gift in the garage that he'd made for Mom before she died.” Then one day, I happened upon the padlock key in a junk drawer.

I feel like a peeping Tom, viewing this secret painting meant for someone else. While I'm obsessing over my guilty conscience, Del rolls over and kisses my open mouth, mid-thought, pressing me into the floor. I melt into him. I want this. My heart pounds through my chest so hard I know he can feel it. His lips are velvety, like those flower petals. His tongue tastes fiery, like shooting stars. His rock hard hands wrap around me so tightly that I'm not sure where they begin and I end, and I don't care. Everything spins. One minute I'm lying on the floor, the next I'm on that white flowerbed inside the rose picture frame on the ceiling, its white-hot flowers burning through me like flares from a newborn sun.

Del pulls away and sits up, abruptly. “Whoa, Mona Lisa. That was wild. I'm sorry. I've got to remember how old you are and slow down.”

I flush, resenting his self-control. “We're only a couple of years apart.”

“I don't think that's how our parents would see it.”

I want to be back in his arms, melting into him under that white-hot sun. I fight for composure and walk away toward a corner bookcase. It's painted white and set between the paintings. The doors on the front are glass and I can see a single book inside. It has a yellow and black bumblebee cover. The cover says “Colt High Yearbook 1994.”

“This is your mom's Colt High yearbook!” I say.

Del shouts, “Yes! but before you open that, I need to explain!”

I'm already flipping for the senior portraits. One stands out from the rest: a girl with dark curls, wide emerald eyes, and big hoop earrings with LOVE carved across the center. Underneath her photo, it says, “Mia Delaney—destined to follow her star, or some rock star. Wherever Mia goes, there will be music.” The senior pictures follow in alphabetical order. The photo beside hers is labeled, “Worthy Dill.” The guy's face is violently scratched out, as if with a scalpel.

My hands shake. “Your dad really hated Worthy. Didn't he, Del? It seems he reacted poorly to Mia's relationship with him.”

“No! It's not what it seems. Mom is the one who despised Worthy. That's why I wanted you to see this room. Maybe he killed her. You need to know the whole story. Mom mailed Dad this yearbook near the end of senior year. He was living up here with me, waiting for her to complete high school so we could all be together, for good. Everything was all set.”

I point to Worthy's scratched-out picture. “It looks to me like Will did this. Maybe he was mad at your mom because of her relationship with Worthy and killed her.”

“No! Dad says Mom scratched out the picture because Worthy was always bothering her.”

“That's your dad's version of the story.”

I pull the picture that I pilfered from Grumps' cabin out of my pocket. “This photo of my mom with Mia proves a connection between Hartford and Indian Stream, between Mia, Worthy, and Will. I think my mom hid it to protect your dad, to keep people from linking him with Mia after her death. If your dad is innocent, it can't hurt to show the picture to the police.”

“I've never seen that picture of our moms together. I think it's great. But now that you know my family's dark secret, I'd prefer you keep it to yourself.”

I whip around. “But what if your dad actually killed your mom over her relationship with Worthy Dill?”

He falls limp. “He didn't do it, Mona Lisa. The picture will just put unwarranted suspicion on Dad.”

“How can you be sure it's unwarranted?”

He slaps the picture. “He goes to sleep every night with her picture and a bottle of whiskey.”

“That's not good enough. If your dad didn't murder her then why didn't he look for her killer?”

“He became a drunk after she died. You've seen him. He would be convicted instantly of something, if he went to the police. Your grandparents convinced him to lie low.”

A shadow passes over my feet. I catch the curve of a hoop earring in the corner of my eye. My body temperature falls. “Your mom wants justice, Del. For some reason, she has chosen me to ensure that she gets it. When I return to Hartford, I'm telling the police I've found the mysterious biker with the green-flamed Harley that they've been seeking for the last eighteen years.”

“If you truly believe my dad killed my mom, then you should leave—right now,” he says icily.

The white flowers overhead transform into a blanket of snow. It's no longer summer in Indian Stream. What are the odds the first guy who likes me has a dead mother who only I can see, and a murderous father whose guilt only I can perceive? It's a good thing I love the blues.

The drive back to my cabin is a blur. The next thing I know, I'm sitting on my bed, tired and lonely, with Rosalita beside me, her strings hanging loose. I tighten them and tune her, toughening my fingers on a few guitar drills. My George Harrison tee shirt lies soiled on the floor. I pick it up. It's an omen, a sign to focus on my music and follow in George's footsteps, toward virtuosity. It's time for me to do what George and all the great axe men and women have done throughout time. I'll start woodshedding, intensely practicing on my guitar without distraction. Considering the fact that Del and Grumps won't listen to reason about Will Pyne, I believe woodshedding is my best option. It'll be just Rosalita and me, practicing bluesy twelve bars by oil lamps until the end of July.

“We've still got a few weeks here, girl,” I tell her. “We might as well make good use of the time and kick the finger work up a notch.”

I press George's sunny yellow cotton face to my heart and try not to think about the padlocked room at the back of the Pyne's garage with the ceiling filled with white flowers and pure promises of things that will never be. Instead, I take solace in some of George's best lyrics:

With every mistake we must surely be learning

Still my guitar gently weeps.

Seven

Wabanaki Blues

Grumps' leather steampunk goggles prevent flying bone bits from salting his eyes as he carves moose antlers with his electric knife. His generator purrs like a well-fed kitten. I used to resent him using electricity for tools when there was no hot water or lights. Now I'm more concerned with what he's making. He's been carving the entire ten days since I arrived; his pile of finished antlers stands taller than I do. All of them depict black bears. So much for Dad's notion that they're rare around here. Some show natural scenes, with bears swatting at bees' nests and snatching trout from streams. Most offer more fantastical images. One antler is etched with a group of bears playing ice hockey, another shows two bears snowmobiling. These antlers must be intended as knickknacks for tourists. I wonder where he plans to unload them. I wonder where he got the antlers in the first place. But I won't ask him.

“Your mom never appreciated my art,” Grumps says, spitting out antler dust. “Madame Professor said she saw no beauty in carving up animal parts. Yet she's the one who behaved recklessly toward the creatures of these woods. Not me.” His jaw quavers.

The reckless behavior he is referring to is her infamous truck accident, and I don't know enough about that event to judge whether she was at fault. I run my fingers over a raised groove in one of the antlers. It reminds me of her scar.

“Maybe I should take up some kind of art, like you and Bilki.”

Grumps drops his work. “Are you kidding? You're already a top-notch artist! Don't think I don't hear you playing Rosalita all night long. You may make it to the big time, City Gal. Your bent notes ain't half bad and your turnarounds are great. Though I gotta say it. Your music has improved recently. It sounds different—deeper.”

I can't tell him that these woods have changed my music because they feel like my long lost home. Besides, his compliment is hollow. Grumps has no idea what good guitar playing sounds like. He knows nothing about turnarounds.

I examine one of the antlers and picture it on the mantle of somebody's log cabin. “Do you plan to sell these antlers at the general store?”

“Heck, no, I usually let Will sell them for me online along with his paintings.” He scrutinizes my face for signs that I'm giving in on the issue of Will Pyne.

I stiffen my jaw, not only because of Will but because I'm trying not to think about Del's kisses.

Grumps turns off the electric knife and the generator. “There's a powwow this weekend down south. I sometimes set up a vendor table, there. I wouldn't have remembered it, this year, if somebody hadn't shoved a flyer under my door this morning. Maybe we can head south and make us some mad money.”

A powwow.
I groan inwardly. Sure, I go to the Twain Campus Powwow and Mohegan Wigwam Festival every year with Mom. There are things I like about them and things I don't. The drumming is great. I love the frybread. But the dancing is a big problem for me. My feet never follow the drum exactly. It's not about me lacking a sense of rhythm; I'm a musician for God's sake. My rhythm is fine. There is something else going on with me and my inability to dance in the traditional woodlands Indian style. I've heard Indians say Native dancing is like sweetgrass or sage, a barometer and guarantor of personal spiritual cleanliness. To be in step with the earth is to walk purely, in oneness with all creation. That's more than likely my problem: something about me has always felt ugly, dirty, and out of step with this world. Besides, I don't have any of my proper Mohegan regalia with me, which means I can't dance in the powwow circle, even if I want to.

Grumps peers at me as if he's reading my mind. He bends low and grunts to unlock a hidden cabinet behind the kitchen table. He pushes the chairs aside and drags out a psychedelic trunk with a neon orange sticker stamped with his family name, “The Elmwoods.”

He pats the trunk. “This contains your grandmother's old Abenaki regalia. It's time you acknowledged not only your Mohegan blood but your Abenaki roots, too. You're what I'd call a true Wabanaki gal.

“Wabanaki? As in The Secret of Wabanaki?”

“Yes. That's the ancient name for the confederation of Native people in the northeast. Mohegans used to live further north. It includes us, the Abenaki, and others. The symbol of the confederation is a star.”

“Is that why Bilki talked so much about stars?”

“In part. There's a bit more to that. You need to learn about Bilki's side of your family. There's a whole lot more Abenaki in you than you think.” He bites his lip as if he'd said something he shouldn't have, and his voice grows solemn. “You need to remember that two nations live inside you, City Gal.”

Two nations? I already know I'm Mohegan and Abenaki. I want to tell him there are plenty of other nations that also live inside me, from my dad's side of the family. But he tries to forget that.

The inside of the open trunk smells like Lizzy's dog Hank when he's wet. I turn my head and hold my breath.

“That mustiness will air out in no time,” Grumps promises, swatting his nose.

The handcrafted Indian clothes folded inside the trunk are mingled with sweet-scented cedar shavings to keep the moths from gnawing them, but this stuff still doesn't smell or look very wholesome. He pulls out a crimson wool skirt beaded with a wavy golden design, that I know represents the path to the stars.
I guess tribal camp taught me a few things.
There are a couple of tiny moth holes in the matching crimson leggings, and there's a tall peaked cap to go with it, that I'm uncomfortable about wearing. You don't see tall pointed headdresses like this one in southern New England. I picture Bilki wearing this red ensemble with her strawberry smile, and it seems appropriate. I recall the photo I saw of her as a kid, resembling me, and try to remain optimistic about how this regalia will look on me.

“Did Bilki bead this skirt and leggings?” I ask.

He grumbles out some Mohegan cuss words, leading me to assume the answer is no, and that he isn't fond of whoever did bead them.

Nestled in the bottom of the trunk are several pairs of moccasins, ranging in size from newborn to Sasquatch. Grumps hands me a medium-sized pair lined with patchy rabbit fur. I check them for mites before trying them on. They look remarkably like the moccasins on my charm bracelet. From another locked wall compartment overhead, he pulls out a varnished wooden hatbox containing a turkey feather headdress. He ties it on his head. The leather headband is crackled. One of the feathers is droopy. None of this regalia appears very regal. But there is something about it that feels important.

“This headdress belonged to your Mohegan great-great grandfather, Eliphalet Elmwood, City Gal. It's the Elmwood family's finest.” He adjusts the headdress, failing to make it look any more centered. “If you want, you can wear some sarcastic tee shirt, like the rest of the summer tourists. Or, you can wear the proud traditional Abenaki clothes that Bilkimizi saved for you.”

Bilkimizi.
I never heard him say my grandmother's full Abenaki name before.
Bilkimizi…Maple Tree.

He hunches down low, over his belly, and dances in a circle, toe heel, toe heel, in the ancient step.

“I'll be powwowing in my ancestor's fancy feathers this weekend,” he says. “Good thing that gal slipped the powwow flyer under our door today. I suppose that your Abenaki relatives sent her here because they all want to see you at the powwow.”

I recall what Bear said about word getting around the tribe about me. “Who did you say dropped off the flyer?”

“No clue. All I can tell you is that I saw her blue fingernails under the door.”

I hope I look less pale than I feel. I picture the electric blue fingernails of the graffiti girl at school. I know there are a million logical possibilities but I'm pretty sure Mia dropped off that flyer. I wonder why Mia thinks it's important for us to go to this powwow. This makes me far more excited about attending it. I tell Grumps to turn around while I busy myself with trying on Bilki's Abenaki clothing.

He turns his back, anxious. “Let me know when I can look.”

After fumbling all the old buttons and ties, I say, “Ready.” I'm surprised at how well Bilki's clothes fit, even the pointed cap.

Grumps grins broadly. “Wow! Indian clothes suit you.” He taps my headdress. “This cap shows where you're from: the place where the white pines touch the sky.” He makes a peak over his head with his fingers. “Now you've learned something.”

The cap feels great, like Bilki is holding my head in her lap. But I'm certain he's lying about it looking good. It reminds me of something worn by a medieval princess, a class dunce, or a Scandinavian gnome. I step in front of the kitchen looking glass and blink in surprise. Actually, I look half-hot. Older perhaps? Or from an older time?

I examine my full reflection in the window and have to admit these clothes are perfect for me. Best of all, I don't look short anymore. The hood gives me several much-needed inches.

“Your grandmother called that cap her Abenaki crown.” Grumps swallows hard.

I march over to Bilki's picture and thank her with a kiss. Sometimes she doesn't need to speak inside my head for me to feel her presence. With this regalia, she's conveyed something heartfelt, even though she's not here. Grumps sniffles. I won't turn around and embarrass him. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the picture's glass. What would Beetle think if he saw me wearing these clothes? He only shops at high-end stores. I know Lizzy would say something like “Baby It's You,” in our steady habit of quoting Beatles' lyrics for everything. If only this place had cell phone service so I could text her a photo of me.

“Well, whad'ya say, City Gal?” asks Grumps. “Are we powwowing together this weekend?”

He performs a “sneak-up” dance step, behind me, chasing me around the room. A squeal escapes my lips.

I signal for him to stop and point to the three giant mounds of carved antlers. “You really think you can sell all of these at the powwow?”

He sticks his thumbs in his belt loops, cockily. “Yep, as long as you help me man the vendor table. Young ladies always improve sales.”

I squint my eyes, questioningly.

“Seriously,” he swears. “It's a time-honored fact. We'll split the profits.”

I picture the vintage Beatles tee shirt I saw before I left, on eBay. It's probably sold already. If not, it probably costs more than I'll earn at any powwow, but my share of the profits could give me a start.

“Let's do it,” I say, shaking hands.

His eyes dance with fond memories. “Yes, Ma'am. We're going to have a fine time on Lake Winnipesaukee.”

“We're going to Lake Winnipesaukee?” My heart roars. Everything is different now. I'm travelling to a legendary vacation oasis—Beetle's crystal blue summer heaven—an enchanted place frequented for centuries by New Englanders with overflowing bank accounts. I feel certain I'll see Beetle. My summer is saved.

I grab Rosalita, sling her over my shoulder and rock a few bars of “Let the Good Times Roll” by blues legend Muddy Waters. I hit it hard on the turnaround and the repeating music reminds me of dancing the never-ending circle at a powwow. Grumps taps his foot and does a modified version of the toe-heel. We sing together, with Grumps picking up the harmony. I stare down at my new Abenaki regalia, think of Bilki, nod at Grumps, and add a modified song line:

Who'd ever know, I got the Wabanaki blues.