Wabanaki Blues (20 page)

I lean into Mom. “Grumps had a band called The Elmwoods?”

Her face softens, almost lovingly. “I'm surprised he never mentioned it. He gave up playing his guitar after Mongo died of a heroin overdose. You should keep this trunk, Mona. You're the family musician now.” Mom pushes the musty trunk my way. “Back in the seventies, The Elmwoods were a big deal in the Hartford music scene. Grumps was the lead guitarist. He loved performing before large crowds. He moved up here grudgingly, after Bilki's dad died and left her this godforsaken cabin. Your grandfather never fully adapted to these woods. That's when he came to be known as ‘Grumps.'”

“So Grumps was a musician who liked Hartford?” I cough out the words because the whole cabin is now filled with sweetgrass smoke.

Mom's eyes sparkle dreamily. “You should have seen Hartford back in the 1980s and 1990s. The Russian Lady Nightclub. The Whalers Hockey Team. The Civic Center concerts. All the big groups played Hartford—Van Halen, The Grateful Dead, Rush…”

Upon hearing the band name “Rush,” my heart stumbles over its next few beats. I remember Mia's Rush band tee shirt with the rabbit coming out of a hat. I also notice the sweetgrass braid is out. A wispy trail of white smoke above it lingers and expands, curling into a larger cloud that wafts through the room like a faceless apparition. Of course, I know the dead look nothing like this cloud of smoke. They definitely have faces, not to mention hands that you can feel. Sometimes, they even wear band tee shirts.

Mom tries to discreetly clear her throat of smoke before speaking. “My father made a decent living as a musician. He saw a lot of himself in you. That's why ole Reggie gave you his guitar.”

I slump onto the band trunk. “So my guitar belonged to Grumps, and the ‘R' on it stands for ‘Reggie.' Why didn't Grumps say anything when I named her Rosalita?”

“He was proud you gave your guitar her own name, like all the greats. Jimi Hendrix had ‘Betty Jean,' B.B. King had ‘Lucille.'” She holds her head with two hands, as if it's gained weight. “Well, you know all that.”

Indeed I do. I feel exhilarated, knowing Rosalita played concerts, far and wide. I grab her and play the opening chords to
Hey Jude.
I inhale the last of the lingering sweetgrass smoke. I don't cough. I breathe more clearly than ever before. I'm not mad at Mom any longer. I start singing the lyrics, and Mom joins in on the line, “take a sad song and make it better.” We sing the rest of the song together between sniffles. This time real tears flow down her cheeks. By the time we get to the part that goes, “Remember to let her into your heart,” my voice is cracking and Mom's singing off-key. Her parents were right: she has no talent, whatsoever. But we're singing along to Reggie Elmwood's guitar, and that's what matters. This is his musical funeral. It may not be a flamboyant New Orleans affair with a brass band parade but it's not bad for a musician who died in the middle of the New Hampshire woods.

Out of the blue, our harmony improves, like a new voice has joined our awkward duo, producing a lip-buzzing hum. Mom shoots me one of those Indian looks that tells me she acknowledges we have stepped out of our everyday world into what Bilki called “the in-betweens,” the swirling space within the vortex that connects earth and sky. We both know this new sound is actually the voice of Grumps, singing and playing with us. We feel his presence. We join him in belting out the line, “And any time you feel the pain…” Now I swear John Lennon and George Harrison are backing us up.

This is not the first time I've sung with amazing spirits. They may not always be visible, like Shankdaddy and Mia, or talk inside my head like Bilki, but they are definitely here in this cabin with us, in the vibration of every string and vocal cord. This is not macabre. It's joyful. When the living and the dead sing side by side, there is nothing more harmonious. I think of Marilynn Awasos, a black bear from New Hampshire, crying over the passing of an old Mohegan Indian man. After seeing that and hearing this, I can believe anything. Maybe Dad will make the archaeological find of the century. Maybe Mom will overcome her depression. Maybe I'll make it to St. Louis with my blues music, after all.

Sixteen

The Will of Grumps

A woman about Grumps' age paces outside a rundown log cabin beneath a sign that says “Indian Stream Legal Services.” Her battleship gray hair is cropped above the ears, even shorter than Mom's new pixie. She's perspiring in a long-sleeved button-down Vermont Country Store dress and sensible loafers. Another woman seated under the office sign smokes a fragrant tobacco mix with her back turned.

The pacing woman heads our way, and I smell French fries. “Attorney Sadie Barnes is the name. I am terribly sorry for your loss.” She shakes hands with Mom and me, as though she means it.

This has got to be Grumps' lady friend with the biodiesel beater. Not exactly “sexy Sadie,” if you know what I mean. I'm thrilled to finally meet his mystery driver. I never guessed she was an attorney.

Sadie walks over and taps the shoulder of the smoking woman, who whirls around and enshrouds her in a cloud. She's chewing the stem of her pipe as if it's a tough moose steak, and her silver braid gleams in the September sun. It's Black Racer Woman.

I elbow Mom. There must be some mistake. I can't imagine Grumps leaving Black Racer Woman anything in his will. Mom appears equally stunned.

“My condolences, gals,” says Black Racer Woman, tossing the harsh rope of her braid back on her shoulder. “Surprised to see me? No more surprised than I am to be here. I didn't know the old man had a bad heart. Did you?”

Mom shakes her head.

“It's good to see you, Lila,” says her aunt, “even if you won't be here for long. I know how you feel about the woods. It's all right. You've done your duty by raising Mona Lisa. Now it's her turn.”

I dislike the sound of whatever it is that she's suggesting. Black Racer Woman hugs us both in her slithery way.

“The other folks are already inside,” announces Sadie, marching past us to the cabin door. “Let's get started.”

I mouth the words “other folks,” and Mom smiles acridly.

A fusty smell fills the foyer of Sadie's law office. The temperature is well into the eighties and there's no air-conditioning or open windows. A fan is running, spreading the fusty smell around. I pinch my nose as I pass a bookcase filled with yellowed law books. On top lies a vase filled with dried faded roses beside a dozen or so familiar-looking carved moose antlers. We pass the bookshelves and cross an ancient shag carpet on which lies a heavy mahogany desk that commands the central room space like a casket. Two people are seated on a brown plaid couch in front of the desk. One of their heads has spiked dark hair and the other is lemon yellow.

I step rigidly toward them, like I'm walking the plank. Del and Scales stand simultaneously, holding hands. A sweetheart candy hair clip with three conjoined pastel hearts, saying “My Baby,” “Real Love,” and “Be True,” holds back Scales' bangs. She flashes a gold ring topped with a modest diamond. It appears that Del's complication is a serious one.

Del offers his seat to Mom, but she refuses to sit. The baby fat has shed from his face, revealing strong bones, and his hair has been stylishly cut, definitely in New Haven, not Indian Stream. He's wearing wing tips instead of his usual clodhopper boots. I saw him two weeks ago, and he's changed so much. His dream smile is gone, and his once-beautiful lichen-green eyes have turned the color of toad skin. I toy with the notion he always had this drab urbane appearance, that I only imagined him to be better looking. He eyes my unevenly chopped bangs as if he's thinking something equally negative about me.

Scales presses me with a hug that makes me feel like the tail end of a tube of toothpaste. “Mona, I'm so sorry about your grandfather.” She touches my Bonepile tee shirt reverently. “You are such a musical beast. I can't believe you played with The Blond Bear this summer and this fall you're a star. Del says you are dedicated to your music one hundred percent. You deserve your success. Congratulations on making the big-time, baby.”

“Thanks,” I say weakly. I don't correct her on the fact that I never actually played with the entire Blond Bear band, only Sponge. I figure she has already bragged about it on Facebook to everyone she knows, so there's no point.

“That Beetle dude you sing with is sizzling hot.” She bites her ring.

I picture her breaking her front tooth.

Del looks over my shoulder. “Why isn't your sidekick here?” He eyes my heart locket bitterly.

“Beetle is suffering vocal problems,” I explain.

Scales sticks out her lower lip and says, “Aw.”

A wicked clurichaun smile flutters across Del's lips.

Sadie shuffles through the piles of papers on her cluttered desk, seemingly unable to find something. We all sense it may be a while before our meeting here is concluded.

Mom reaches out to hold Del and Scales' hands, at a distance. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thank you, Dr. Elmwood.” Scales lunges in to squeeze-hug Mom. “Bear St. Jean, Senior asked me to send his regards.”

Mom flushes and gossips with Scales about Bear's dad. Mom never gossips.

I'm grateful for this chance to chat with Del. I move in close enough to smell his skin. “Hi, there.”

He maintains a steel expression. “Did you know that after you rejected me at the Farewell Dance, the police came by and searched our house? They found Dad's secret painted room for Mom, which prompted him to call you and me names I can't repeat. That was the week I got engaged. They also found Mom's yearbook with the picture of Worthless Dill scratched out. Thanks to you, my dad is once again a suspect in my mom's case.”

I grab his wrists, selfishly, before he leaves my life forever. “Don't blame me for your decision to get engaged.”

Fire ants march up and down my arms. I remember our lips melting together. Why didn't I tell him that I loved him?

“I didn't intentionally tell the police about your dad's secret room,” I explain. “I accidentally mentioned it to Beetle. He told his dad. After he saw us together at the dance, he must have gone to the police about the yearbook. I'm sorry. Worthy probably did it to break us up and protect his son's relationship with me. I guess it worked.” Jealousy surges through me as I catch sight of Scales' glittering ring hand. “He might not have bothered, had he known you were planning to get engaged.”

He squeezes my arms. “Don't you dare turn this around. I opened my heart to you the minute we met. I introduced you to my friends. We made music together. I showed you Dad's secret room of flowers because I wished I'd made it for you. I told you that I loved you. You tried everything you could to shut me out. You rejected me.”

“So you asked Scales to marry you to spite me?” My hands vibrate. We're still holding one another.

He yanks me closer, and the room shrinks around us. The dilapidated plaid couch, the casket-style desk, the shelves topped with dead animals, wilted flowers, and castaway antlers all converge, driving us closer together on the musty shag carpet, pushing us nose to nose, wedging us into a tight space smaller than the janitor's closet. He touches my lips lightly with a finger and we jolt from a small electrical shock.

Scales and Mom don't seem to notice. They're effusing over how much they both love cities. I wonder if Black Racer Woman has cast a spell on them. She is spinning around on a swivel chair in the corner of the room, humming a strange tune and tapping her grimy moccasined feet.

“You should never have told me that you loved me if you planned to marry someone else,” I say to Del.

“You shouldn't have told me you were unavailable, if you didn't mean it.”

“All I said was,
I have to put my music first.”

“Fine. But you didn't say you loved me, either.”

“There's no sense in me trying to remedy that now, with you rushing into marriage, like we're living in the twentieth century. My mom rushed into marriage with my dad, and look where it got her—miserable.”

“Well, my dad would have given anything to marry my mom when they were young, and he never got the chance. Look where that decision got him. There is no right and wrong answer to this. There is no correct life plan. You should try going with your heart, Mona Lisa.”

I squeeze my heart locket. It feels icy. “Then why didn't you go with your heart, Del Pyne?” I raise my voice, “Why didn't you?”

That last sentence was too loud. Everyone turns our way.

Mom slaps Del on the back and sticks a tongue in her cheek, “Del, your dad tells me you can take Mona in a guitar duel.”

“Dad is exaggerating. I still suck at guitar almost as bad as Mona's friend, Beetle boy. Of course, he does have a decent set of pipes.” He wraps his arm around Scales' waist. “Almost as good as Scales'.”

I feel like I've been punched in the chest.

Scales slaps her fiancé's arm. “Stop it, Delsy. That's rude.” She pulls him closer. “Anyway, I know this is an awful time to ask but we have an important request. We want you both to come to our wedding on Halloween.”

“Congrats,” I sputter, wondering what it is with Halloween and me. I try not to think too hard about why Scales might be choosing to get married so young and so soon. I can't help but picture a newborn baby girl with lichen-green eyes and spiked blond hair, singing shrill soprano notes while playing the ukulele. “How's the rest of the Blond Bear gang? All happily married as well?” I ask.

Del's nostrils flare.

“Mona, you are too funny,” Scales hiccup-laughs. “Bear may be the next to go. He took off for Arizona with some fancy dancer after the Winnipesaukee Powwow. She transferred to U of Maine. He already calls her ‘the Missus.' His dad is encouraging them to get married soon because he insists true love doesn't come along every day.”

Mom reacts to this by flopping onto the couch, glassy-eyed. She's gone on one of her mental retreats.

“Good for Bear,” I say to close out that topic.

Scales whispers, “Did you hear Sponge is in prison for trying to sell drugs to kids at Little League practice?”

I clap my hands. “I couldn't be happier to see him gone.”

Del's leg buckles, and he groans.

“You okay, Delsy?” asks Scales. She turns to me, confidentially. “His leg hurts him terribly sometimes. But I tell him he should feel blessed. I mean, who else takes a bullet meant for a bear, and survives?” She turns to Black Racer Woman and gasps, “Oops. I'm sorry. I forgot you were the one who shot him. I'm sure it was an accident.”

Black Racer Woman stares down Scales. “Your fiancé should not have tried to protect that bear. That creature needed to die to save these woods.”

I recall my great aunt's argument with Grumps at the powwow. “Auntie, you know my grandfather didn't agree with your ideas about bear sacrifice. We should drop that subject, out of respect for him. We are here for the reading of his will.”

“Agreed, Mona Lisa, I apologize,” says Black Racer Woman.

Sadie harrumphs, “I should think so!” She gathers four mangled file folders that have obviously been reused numerous times and swipes her nose with a tissue. “Now let's skip the legal blah, blah, blah, and get down to brass tacks.” She shakes Mom's limp shoulder. “Lila dear, we will begin with you. Your father has left you four hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Spend it wisely, but be sure to spend it.” Sadie eyes the carved antlers on top of her bookcase, despondently. “I wish he had.” She hands Mom a check that falls in her lap.

Sadie addresses Del, next. “Upon your graduation from forestry school, you are to receive nine hundred acres of woodlands, in trust, along with an annual stipend of seventy-five thousand dollars for your labor and a separate stipend for property maintenance. Should you accept this gift, you are also accepting a lifetime responsibility. These woods can never be sold. They must remain under your care. This is quite a sacrifice you will be making.”

Now I know what Del and Grumps were discussing on that stormy August day when I left Indian Stream: it was Grumps' will. He must have known that he didn't have much time left. It hurts me to think the only ones he told about his final wishes were Del and Sadie.

“I told Mr. Elmwood I wouldn't accept his terms without family approval.” He turns to Mom and me, only looking her
in the eye. “Is this acceptable to you, Dr. Elmwood? Mona Lisa?”

Mom hugs him limply. “You love these woods like my mother did. Who better to protect them?”

I haul up the sides of my mouth, as best I can. I wouldn't call my expression a smile.

Sadie's voice turns raw. “As for you, Mona Lisa LaPierre, your grandfather has left you his cabin, his truck and three hundred acres. If you wish to sell it, he stipulates Del Pyne must be given the right of first refusal.”

“If you don't want the cabin, we are interested in buying it,” Scales injects.

“We'll see,” I say, recalling her recent endorsement of city life.

Black Racer Woman clucks her tongue. “Excuse me, Sadie. My sister had 1,500 acres of woodlands. Del received nine hundred acres and Mona received three. Who got the rest?”

“Reggie sold that land. I realize you would have preferred that your brother-in-law left it to you. But this is all he designated as your bequest.” Sadie passes Black Racer Woman a thin file folder.

Black Racer Woman examines the file's contents with disdain. “This is only a copy! I suppose he still has the real thing locked up like Fort Knox.” She turns to me. “Your grandpa Reggie thought that locking things up could stop the natural course of events. When you discover what he's hidden for you, you won't be very happy with him.”

My great aunt exits and nobody says good-bye. I wonder about this mystery stash of his that she's warned me about.

“That's it, folks,” concludes Sadie. “I'll help you iron out your details independently.”