Wabanaki Blues (13 page)

Beetle's super-buff, super-jerk friend Brick Rodman hovers behind him, jeering at my clothes. Auspiciously, two girls in string bikini tops lure him away.

Beetle continues to tug at my hood until Grumps comes and snatches him by the shoulder.

“Excuse me, young man,” he says, terse. “You must be careful of that headdress. It belonged to my late wife. I'm Mona's grandfather, Mr. Elmwood. Who might you be?”

Before Beetle can respond, I lay a gentle hand on Grumps heaving chest. “Grumps, I know him from school, back in Hartford.”

Beetle turns on the charm. “The name's Barrington Dill, sir. My friends call me Beetle.” He reaches for Grumps' hand but my grandfather swats it away like it's a bug and sways unsteadily.

“Maybe you should sit down, chief,” says Beetle, reaching to help him.

“I'm no chief, boy. I'm Mr. Elmwood to you.”

Beetle eyes Grumps worriedly and pulls a plastic chair close. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Elmwood.”

Grumps snarls out a “thank you.”

Beetle points to Rosalita lying in the other chair at our antler booth. “She's how I knew you were here, Mona. I recognized your guitar.” He continues to view Grumps, cautiously. “I didn't know you were spending the summer at Winnipesaukee with your gramps.”

“We're staying on a different lake, a little farther north.”

Grumps' fist slams on our vendor table. He must have overheard me say,
a little farther north.
He knows that's a lie. It's like saying I live in the ritzy Upper East Side of New York City when I live in the Bronx—which is also up and east, technically speaking. For all they have in common, the people of Indian Stream and Lake Winnipesaukee might as well exist on different planets.

Beetle scans back and forth from Rosalita and me to Grumps. “I missed seeing you at graduation.”

I roll my eyes. “It wasn't my idea to miss it.”

“I didn't think so.” He grins. “But just so you know, it was a disaster. Some jackweed called in a threat to kill the principal only a few minutes into the event. We never got our diplomas. All we got was Dibble's speech about how we should all be kinder to animals. Can you believe it?”

“I can't believe everybody at Colt High missed having a decent graduation this year. That shouldn't make me happy but it does. In fact, I'm inspired to play you a tune.” I climb behind the table, take up my guitar, and play a few lines from “Thunder and Lightning,” the song I wrote about him, daring to expose my true feelings. This powwow dance circle has given me strength and nerve.

Beetle elbows me. “That tune rocks. Got any lyrics for it?”

My throat closes up because the lyrics are about him. Yet he has no way of knowing that. Besides, I'm desperate to hear his awesome voice. Beetle performed the title roles in our school musicals of
Les Misérables
,
Pippin
, and
Jesus Christ Superstar
. I don't want to miss hearing him sing my best composition.

I grab a pen and paper from our booth. “I'll write the words down. You can sing them. My voice stinks.”

Grumps grunts at that comment and struts away to chat with a Mohegan vendor selling carved gourds.

Beetle and I launch into “Thunder and Lightning,” my original blues song. A few people crowd around the minute I start playing. There's a guy our age with an arm tattoo that says “Mi'kmaq,” a skinny little kid wearing beautiful brain-tanned buckskin, and a grimacing Narragansett elder, all listening intently.

Thunder and lightning fall down from the sky, badum, badum

Since time began, no one has ever asked why,
badum, badum

The crashing symbols, the big brass drum,
badum, badum

Just like you baby, they're big loud and dumb, badum, badum

While we perform, Beetle stares at my hands as if he is worshipping them. We finish and a few bystanders clap. The grimacing Narragansett elder steps in front of us and speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. “A Mohegan can't be expected to know enough not to play blues at a powwow.” A smile flickers across her lips. “But at least you both have talent.”

Her mixed review is fair. Nobody puts on this sort of display. My decision to perform with Beetle was straight up selfish, regardless of any trumped-up justification I might devise about making good medicine with dance and song.

Beetle spontaneously touches my chord hand to thank me for our song. His tan is glowing and he's beaming at me like he's my own personal sun. He leaves his hand on mine.

“Your guitar playing gets better and better. You and Rosalita will be famous one day soon.”

Grumps returns and clears his throat. Beetle's hand lifts off of mine.

I put a finger to Beetle's soft lips, “Your voice is great.”

Brick Rodman leaps in front of us, performing a made-up Hollywood Indian dance. “Princess Many Strings, 'sup?” He plucks Rosalita's strings.

I swing her behind my back, protectively. “So Beetle, I see you invited your classy friend to stay at Winnipesaukee with you.”

“Don't you know it,” says Brick, tossing an arm around Beetle.

That gesture makes me feel like I've been violated.

“Yo, Beetleman, time to hit it,” says Brick. “Rasima is helping your mom throw a barbeque at the house, tonight. She told me she invited some local girls. We gots to go.”

Beetle doesn't respond to him. He stares at my hands, like he always does, only this time his face is strained. “Mona, we'll practice together when we get back to Hartford. Right?”

I say nothing and cast my eyes down. I'm not sure this is a good idea, with him headed for college.

“Peace out, Injun scout!” salutes Brick, grabbing his friend's arm and heading off.

Grumps starts coughing up a lung, which I presume is a show of disdain over that remark. But he keeps coughing well after Brick leaves.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I am, but you may not be. This was on your chair.” He hands me a folded powwow flyer with a message scribbled on the back.

Hey Dancing Lady,

Sorry to have missed you. Deeply sorry. Great dancing, by the way. Keep on swinging that blues axe. I expect to see your name in lights soon. I apologize for being such an idiot.

Love always,

Del

My heart sinks deep into the dusty earth. Why did he leave before talking to me?

I picture Del's smile, the one true, smirk-free smile I've ever known. If Grumps and Bilki love the Pynes, why am I so critical of them? I run to the parking lot at a full clip, my chest and throat afire. In the distance, I spot a lemony head inside a Saab beside a tuft of spiked black hair. I hate that lemony head because I know it's thinking about utilizing a love charm.

I guess my face tells the whole story when I get back to the booth because Grumps hugs me with all his might.

He shakes a finger in the direction of my great aunt's booth. “Anything bad happening here is her fault. That snake creature is Bad Medicine. You want better luck, stay away from her.” He snatches a bee from the air, squeezing the life out of the poor creature with his fingertips. He buries it in the dirt with his toe and covers it with a sprinkle of tobacco. “That was probably another one of
her
friends.”

I squeeze the red leather pouch under my shirt. His blaming my great aunt doesn't help. I slouch into a sorry lump of wool. Something rustles on the ground beside me, and I reach for it. It's a bouquet of indigo blue cornflowers with a card addressed to M.L. The question is: are these from Del, too? Do those initials stand for Mona Lisa? Or Mona LaPierre? It matters. Del calls me Mona Lisa. Beetle knows me as Mona LaPierre. So who is it from? The note says, “Blue flowers for a Blues woman.” Both guys are musicians, so the note doesn't help identify the gift-giver.

No guy has ever paid attention to me until this summer. Now I don't know which one is leaving me flowers. Maybe my creepy new great aunt isn't
such bad luck after all. I study the note on the flowers for a clue to their sender. I can't figure it out. But I realize I have something that may help!

I pull out Black Racer Woman's pouch filled with May apple root. As she instructed, I name one piece of root “Mona,” one “Del,” and one “Beetle.” The idea is to draw together the two roots of the people who are meant for each other. I roll the three withered pieces of root around, and they vibrate in my palm. This is it. I feel like I'm choosing between two lifestyles rather than two guys. Beetle globetrots the planet like a celebrity. Del burrows into The Great North Woods, like a bear in winter. I roll the roots in my palm one last time for good measure and then squeeze my fist, holding my breath as I begin to open my palm.

Someone shouts, “Louisiana!” and I look up, just as the number one Disney princess girl slams into my booth, knocking me and the three pieces of May apple root out of my hand and into the dust. The girl's mother lunges forward, swoops up her daughter and storms off, trampling two of the roots to smithereens. The third piece, she kicks away, out of sight. I comb the ground with my fingernails, searching for my ruined fortune. But there is no trace of the May apple root. My future is forever embedded in the New Hampshire dust.

Nine

Headed for a Good Fall

It's mid July, nearly a month since I arrived in Indian Stream. Grumps shifts his chin, cutting a ragged new trail into his earth-brown skin. “I hear distant thunder. A storm is coming.”

What he means is that my parents will be picking me up today. I think about how I'll soon be able to use my cell phone again. Funny, I almost don't care. This summer, I learned to appreciate the woods. I even learned to accept Grumps' odd relationship with black bears, though they still maintain a wary distance from me, always posturing, like the friends of your enemies. There is one thing that hasn't changed—despite the upturn in our relationship—I still hate that
Heidi
book.

Outside, the liquid silver sky grumbles like a waking spring bear, tarnishing to squirrel gray, then charcoal, as thunderheads march overhead like an army of sky warriors. A mighty west wind sweeps in, bowing down the tallest pines until their needles brush the forest floor like giant brooms. A golden crack of electricity unzips the grizzly sky, illuminating explosive sheets of rain that turn paths and roads into sputtering white-capped streams. Grumps mumbles something about how lucky we are not to have to worry about losing power. I ignore that remark and retreat to my room, moved by the fierce weather to add a third verse to the song, “You are My Lightning.” I think about Beetle, the guy who inspired its lyrics, and wonder if I'll ever see him again.

Outside my window, a slate-colored thunderhead darkens and expands. That sight is perfect for a bluesy recluse like me. I'm not kidding about the recluse part. Since the powwow, over a week ago, I've stayed home. Maybe I've been woodshedding because I realize my music is all that matters. Maybe I've been afraid I might see Del and Scales together somewhere around town. Either way, I've plucked and picked at Rosalita till her strings frayed. A worn spot on her body reflects the pressure of my wrist. Occasionally, I've heard Grumps sing along when I strum an old Beatles song. Otherwise, he's kept his distance. He's been getting rides to the general store from a mysterious gal pal he calls Sadie. All I know about her is she drives a biodiesel beater that smells like french fries.

I'd be lying if I said I've spent all my time indoors. The other day, Grumps took me on a hike to identify sugar maple fungus. He showed me the ugly pockmarks on the leaves. I was inspired to write a song in honor of these sick maples, called “Too Sweet to Die.” It may be that he's obsessed with keeping the maples alive because they're my grandmother's namesakes. Protecting them matters to me for a different reason: I want to keep eating pancakes with real maple syrup. While I've been here, I've probably eaten a hundred.

Considering my recent woodland excursion, you may find it odd that Grumps still calls me City Gal. But now it's a joke. He doesn't treat me like a kid anymore, either. He knows these woods have changed me, taken root under my skin. In fact, I've been thinking about writing a new blues song, inspired by my arrival here, called “Lost in the Woods.” The only line I have so far is “I lost the trail and found where I was going.”

I'm thinking about that new song, and in the midst of trying to rhyme a line with “showing,” “glowing” or “knowing,” when Grumps calls out Del's name. I shoot my head out my bedroom door, eyes and ears alert. Yes, Del Pyne is here, inside our cabin. His heavy black boots are sodden, his clothes are dripping into a puddle big enough to spawn a lake trout, and his spiky black hair is matted down to an oil slick. Grumps hands him a towel and shoves a stack of papers on the table in front of him. He doesn't even touch the towels or the papers because he's distracted, beaming at me with the world's truest smile.

“It's great to see you, Del.” I say, more tenderly than I planned. “I thought you were back at Yale.”

“I was. Something came up. I had to come home. I'm glad I did. I'm so happy to see you.” He steps forward and opens his arms to hug me. I also move forward. But Grumps steps between us and speaks in a fatherly tone, like I'm a kid again, “Mona Lisa, I have a private business matter to discuss with Del Pyne. He graciously drove all the way back here from New Haven today in this storm. He doesn't have much time and neither do you. You need to finish packing. Your mother will be here any minute to take you back to Hartford.”

Del shudders at that last word. “Can't our business wait a couple of minutes, so I can talk to Mona Lisa, Mr. Elmwood?”

Grumps shakes the papers at him. “No, Son. There's no time left.”

Del scribbles his signature on one of the papers, and turns to Grumps. “Fine, then I agree to your terms, Mr. Pyne, with the stipulation previously discussed.”

Grumps shoves the signed paper in an envelope and seals it. “You need to get this to Sadie right now, before her office closes for the day.”

I wonder where this mysterious Sadie works. The post office? The bank?

Del pushes past Grumps toward me. He puts a hand on my arm, setting it afire. “Good-bye, Mona Lisa.” His eyes sink as he turns and heads out. I think I hear him whisper, “I'll miss you.”

Wind and rain whistle and splatter into the room until he slams the door behind him. Why did he leave so suddenly? I tell myself the only consoling thing I can. That I'll soon be back in Hartford, where I can put Delaney Pyne and the rest of Indian Stream behind me for good. Del's world is ugly and complicated. His mother is the walking dead, his father is a murderer, and his lemonheaded girlfriend hexed him, whether he knows it or not. I'm sick of these backwoods people and their dark secrets.

Before I can confront Grumps about what he was doing with Del, the door bangs open and my heart leaps with hope Del has returned. Rain sprays sideways, and in blows a mud-plastered, dangerously tanned woman—my mom.

I feel like I've been shot.

“Let me guess, Mona,” she hurls her words at me like daggers. “From the lousy look on your face and the lousy expression that Delaney Pyne wore when he just passed me, I'll bet my father, here, is doing something secretive he won't explain to you.”

I finger the picture of Mom and Mia in my pocket.

My mother storms around the room, soaking everything. “I see you still have no running water or adequate electricity, Dad.” She turns to me, “Mona, I apologize for leaving you here in this hellhole while your father wasted my time studying his ridiculous bear sacrifices. Even your grandfather knows animal sacrifice is nonsense.” She scowls at Grumps. “Don't worry, Dad. We'll be out of your hair in no time.”

Water sprays off her as bitingly as her sarcasm. Grumps opens his arms, but she storms toward my room, arms swinging like flying hatchets. An alien may as well have landed in this log cabin; that's how strange and out of place she seems. I cautiously follow her inside my room where she shoves dirty clothes into my duffel along with my clean stuff and wraps the handle around her arm, tightly, like a tourniquet. Her choice to soil clean clothes seems super-callous to me. She's obviously forgotten how long it takes to wash them when you're doing it in a lake.

“Lila Sassafras Elmwood!!” belts Grumps. “You can't come here for the first time in decades, insult me and my home, rudely snatch up your daughter, and then run back to the big city without a decent word to me.”

“Reality check, Dad. Reality check,” Mom twists the duffel handle further, making her wrist red. “I live in the twenty-first century. Stop pretending you live in the nineteenth, then maybe we can talk.”

Grumps body slumps. I cringe at the thought of him morphing back into the miserable, lonely, filthy old man I saw when I first arrived.

He converts his remorse to rage. “You better look in the mirror, missy. For a pretty gal, you ain't looking so good, these days. Misery is taking its toll. I'm not the only one who is stuck in the past because someone I cared about died. I work out my feelings for your mother the old-fashioned way. I'll admit, I cry a lot, because that's natural. You dope yourself up with medications so you don't have to think about your past.”

Mom storms to the kitchen counter where she picks up a bunch of bananas and shakes them at Grumps. “At least my mourning process doesn't include delusions about magical bears.”

“How dare you speak that way about The Great Bear?” says Grumps.

Mom unwraps the duffel from her wrist and throws it on the ground so she can fling her arms around, lunatic-style. “Don't go there, Dad. I hit a bear once, a normal bear, and I'm sorry. It was an accident. It wasn't my intention or my great aunt's intention for that to happen, and it had nothing to do with any woodland curse. So just drop the issue, once and for all.”

“Mom, you hit a
bear
?” This stuns me more than her sideways confirmation about knowing Mia Delaney.

She waves off my question as insignificant, even though I've never heard of anyone hitting a bear. I wonder if she killed it, if this murdered bear was a relative of Marilynn, maybe even her parent. Now I know Marilynn dislikes me because she sees me as “the murderer's kid.” I suddenly feel guilty about judging Del for having a murdering father. I imagine what animal-loving Principal Dibble would think of my mom if she knew she killed a bear.

Grumps continues, his voice shaking. “We have more in common than you want to admit, Lila. Neither one of us finds it easy to mourn the loved ones we have lost. Bears, mothers, friends….”

“Maybe you're right, Dad.” Mom eyes me furtively. “But, you know I can't talk about that right now.”

I speak up. “I know about Mia, Mom. Don't avoid talking about her on my account.”

“What? How did you find out?” Mom's face is veiled in shame, as if she's been stripped naked.

“I pieced it together from things I heard,” I explain, thinking it imprudent to bring up my interaction with the dead, at this moment.

Grumps presses Mom. “There's no reason for us to quarrel, Lila. Neither of us is comfortable with the sacrifices these woods have asked of us. That bear…”

“Stop it, Dad. You're prattling like some yogi mystic again. These woods did not ask anything of anyone. They did not ask you to move here so you could be bored to tears. You moved here because Bilki wanted to be near her relatives. That was your mistake. It made you miserable and it ruined my life. Fare thee well.”

I'm still in shock over learning Mom killed a bear when she drags me outside into the sopping downpour and shoves me inside Red Bully. I feel a sharp physical pain in my chest at not having a chance to say a proper good-bye to Grumps. Her soggy head shakes with fury. She shuffles inside her pleather purse, through bundles of crumpled receipts, keys, and pill bottles, to locate her nerve medicine. Dad raises a finger to acknowledge my return and hits the gas. Through the rear window, I can barely make out Grumps' sad Santa frame, waving from the doorway through the torrents of water. Marilynn materializes and ambles toward him. I take a deep breath. Her odd blond tuft of head fur drips water into her copper penny eyes, making it look like she's crying, which I know is not the case. In the trees, I spot what look like three moving boulders. That's probably her cubs. But they quickly fade from view.

The cluster of four birch trees that guided us here from the main road comes into sight. We pass it, and I know I'm leaving Indian Stream. Not everything that happened here was bad. Some of it was miraculous. I met Del, and some interesting Abenaki relatives. Best of all, I got to know Grumps.

All too fast, we are up the road and gone. I sink into the backseat behind the wicked queen who is my mother and the evil robot who is my father. Once we're beyond the bumpy back roads of northern New Hampshire, the weather quiets and the sky turns cornflower blue, reminding me of the flowers from Beetle at the powwow.
At least I hope they were from him.
I picture us singing together when I get back to Hartford. I fantasize about taking him on the road with me, even though I expect he's headed for a life as the big man on campus at some small ritzy New England college. I quell all romantic thoughts about Del. He and I will be finished for good the instant I report my suspicions about his father's role in Mia Delaney's death to the Hartford police.

Dad wipes his ever-dripping forehead. “Phew, am I glad to be out of that mess. Wild weather, wild animals, wild people. Are they all as crazy up there as your grandfather, Mona?” His eyeglasses flash in the rearview mirror.

I fold my arms in defense of Grumps.
“He graciously took me in while you played Indiana Jones. You should be grateful to him. All you and Mom can think about is how much you hate him. I have more serious matters to consider, like how Mom's friend, Will Pyne, may have murdered a girl from Hartford.”

Mom jumps in. “Don't be ridiculous. Will did no such thing. He makes a bad first impression. That's all. Consequently, he has always suffered at the hands of ignorant people who look at the surface and don't see him for the wonderful heartfelt genius he is. He's an artistic miracle and probably the only truly sane person in Indian Stream.” She turns, trying to wrangle my trust. “He used to be a good guitarist. You two have a lot in common.”

“I'm certain I don't have anything in common with Mia Delaney's murderer.”

“That's enough! Stop the car, Bryer.”

Dad screeches to a halt on the side of a cliff. I wonder if this choice of location is meant to intimidate me or if his eyeballs have rolled up into his head and he has no idea where we are.

“Mona, listen to me,” says Mom. “Don't be duped by those insane rumors. If there's one thing I can guarantee, it's that Will Pyne never hurt my friend Mia Delaney. Don't you dare get mixed up in that awful case.”

“It's been a few years since you've seen Will, Mom. He's pretty messed up.”

“Will is harmless. If you cross me on this, Mona, I swear…”