A Certain Kind of Hero (13 page)

“You don't think it'll work?”

Peter's face formed a get-real expression.

“You've never had to worry about bad dreams?”

“I've had a few.” Reclaiming his gift, he rolled his thumb over the blue bead. “Sometimes I dream that my dad's still alive. The only bad part is waking up and realizing it was just a dream.” He lifted his bony shoulders in an exaggerated, heartstring-tugging shrug. “Then sometimes I dream that he's not dead yet, but I, like,
know
something bad's about to happen, and I want to stop it, but I can't.”

Abruptly those big, black eyes looked up at Gideon, their innocence completely unguarded. “It's pretty stupid, you know? But it seems real, even after I wake up, at least for a minute or two. I really hate it when that happens.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Sure.” He wanted to hug the boy, to take comfort with him after the fact. But he held back, laying a hand on his shoulder instead. “Sure I do. I've had dreams about him, too.”

Peter hung his head, ostensibly studying the intricacies of the dreamcatcher. “Sometimes I don't want to sleep at night.”

“I know how that is, too. A guy gets to be your age, he
starts feeling a little restless. Hungry for a little excitement.”
That's when you go out and try to hunt up some kind of distraction.

Peter tapped Gideon's arm with his fist. “I suppose when a guy gets to be
your
age, the excitement's pretty much over for him, so he turns into a killjoy for the rest of us.”

“How did we go from me sympathizing with you to you pushing me over the hill prematurely?”

“We were talking about dreams, and how a guy can wake up—” Peter's short-lived smile faded “—feeling kinda weird.”

“You mean weird
scared,
or weird
weird?
”

“Weird like you see something in your dream, like maybe a picture you saw in a magazine or something.” He risked a brief glance at Gideon's poker face. Seeing no sign of comprehension, he took the further risk of elaborating. “A magazine that you didn't buy yourself, but another guy maybe found in his dad's workshop. You know what I mean?”

“I'm pretty sure I get the picture.”

“Really. Pictures like you can hardly
believe.
You know, it
is
kinda fun to draw mustaches and glasses, tattoos and stuff like that, on
most
of 'em, but then—” he popped a quick shrug “—maybe you leave one or two without any touch-ups…you know, artistically speaking…just because you kinda like them the way they are.”

“Some of them aren't half-bad without the tattoos,” Gideon allowed, hanging on dearly to that poker face. “A guy might even be half-tempted to tear one of those pages out of the magazine and stick it in his drawer.”

“Nah, my mom's always putting my clothes away, so I can't keep anything private.” Peter's careless drop onto the bed stretched the wheezing springs to their limit. “I mean, if I
wanted
to keep something like that around. Which I wouldn't,
because sometimes if you go to sleep thinking about, say something in a picture, and you dream that, like, something happens, and you wake up, and you realize it was only a dream…” His voice dropped to the confessional level. “But something really happened.”

“And your bed's wet,” Gideon kindly finished for him.

“I'm not a baby.” Peter's cheeks flashed like neon apples. “I don't wet the bed. Something
else
happened. What, do you think I'm a
baby?
”

“I think you're becoming a man, and men—”

“Ejaculate, I know. I mean, hell, I'm not a little
kid.
I know all about sex and stuff, but—” his hands flopped helplessly against the bed “—I wasn't
doing
anything.”

Gideon sat down on the bed beside him, bracing his elbows on his knees and wondering who'd ordered him up this baptism by fire before breakfast. He'd just barely had time to get his toes wet.

After a couple of false starts, he spread his hands in a commiserating gesture. “You don't have to be
doing
anything.”

At the news, Peter looked grief-stricken. “You mean it can happen, like,
anytime?
”

“It can happen in your sleep. It happens to all of us.” Gideon's nod affirmed their fellowship as two healthy, normal males. “Mostly when we're your age. Before the excitement's pretty much over for us.”

“It happened to you?”

“Sure.”

God help him, he didn't want to mess this up. He had to give the boy credit for having the nerve to broach the subject with an adult instead of another kid his age. By the time he was Peter's age, he'd managed to gather such an encyclopedia
of misinformation that he'd gone to the mirror one morning expecting to find that his eyes were turning green.

Peter was visibly relieved to learn that he wasn't alone in his predicament. He toyed with the dreamcatcher, rolling it between his palms. “What did you do about…the bed?”

“I cleaned it up.”

“My mom would get pretty suspicious if I washed my own sheets.”

“Your mom knows all about sex, too.”

“She doesn't know about—” Peter's eyes flashed in horror. “I told you, I wasn't
doing
anything.”

“I know what you're saying.”
Anybody else's mom but yours. You don't want me to mention your mom and sex in the same sentence.
“At least you've got a washing machine. We didn't. No dryer, either. So I just kinda cleaned up a little, left the bed—” He glanced over his shoulder at the rumpled sheets. “You're not still letting your mom make your bed, are you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“There's your problem. See, I never had my own room. I had to share. And nobody ever cleaned up after me. But I think if you take care of your own bed, put your own clothes away, keep things kinda straightened up, you'll have more privacy.”

Peter had to think that one over.

And another one, as well. “You really think she knows about stuff like this? My mom?”

“You mean, sex?” Gideon smiled benevolently. “It's hard to imagine, isn't it?”

“Kinda.” Peter shrugged. “Hell, she doesn't know anything about what it's like to be a
guy.
”

“She knows what it's like to be a woman. That's pretty
damned hard for
me
to imagine.” Gideon gave a quick cross-check. “How about you?”

“Imagine being a woman? Who'd want to be a woman?” He rolled his eyes at the very thought. “Or a girl. I wouldn't want to be a girl. Geez, that would
really
suck.”

“I think women have it hard in a lot of ways, but the old way teaches us that women have strong power, and they must be respected for that. They have life-giving medicine.”

“You mean, they can have babies. Big deal. I'm glad
we
don't have to get pregnant and stuff.” Peter's boyish laugh sounded, blessedly, as giddy as any twelve-year-old girl's. “Imagine a pregnant soccer goalie.”

Gideon grinned. “Is that your position? Goalie?”

“Yeah.”

“I'd like to see you play sometime.”

Peter nodded. Then he remembered the catch. “Maybe I won't be playing this fall, huh? If I have to stay here?”

“How would you feel about changing schools?”

“I wouldn't like it much.” He examined the dreamcatcher, which seemed to have become a touchstone for serious consideration. “I guess one of my buddies is moving to Cleveland next month. His father got transferred.”

“So you understand that it's a necessity sometimes?”

Without looking up, Peter nodded. “Is it going to be
this
time?”

“We'll try to take things as they come, okay? We'll work things out one step at a time.”

“My mom's talking about applying for a job here.”

“I know. You can be damn sure, whatever happens, she's gonna be right there with you.”

“It was pretty nice of
nimishoomis
to make this for me.” He lifted up the hoop and held it toward the window, letting the morning light flow through.

“You got that word down pretty good,” Gideon allowed. “
Nimishoomis.
Do you take any languages in school?”

“I've had some French. I could learn Ojibwa easy.” Peter closed one eye, sighting through the web. “So some dreams get caught in the web, huh? They just get stuck there, like, where everyone can see them?”

“Not
those
dreams. Only the bad ones.” Gideon gave Peter's knee a playful sock with his knuckles. “The kind you were talking about? It lets those through. They're really not bad.” He bounced the edge of his curled hand repeatedly on the boy's knee as he spoke. “Stuff happens to guys, stuff happens to girls. It evens out. It all works out pretty good in the end, you know, when you get older and you partner up with the right lady.”

“So where's your lady?”

“We-ell, guess I must be doing something wrong. I've been dreaming about her since I was your age, but no partnership so far.” Gideon shrugged. “Nothing lasting, anyway.”

“Kind of a late bloomer, aren't you?” Peter offered the dreamcatcher as he elbowed Gideon's arm. “Maybe you'd better get
nimishoomis
to make you a few of these. Increase your odds before you
really
get too old.”

“Trouble is, these only work when you're asleep. With my luck, I'll be meeting up with the ones that should have gotten caught in the web.”

“Never know,” Peter hinted, flashing an impish smile. “Maybe
you're
the one that got caught in
their
webs.”

A
rlen wanted his grandson to spend a weekend with him. He'd been asked to judge more dance contests, and he was “kinda startin' to like the idea of pickin' the winners.” He also liked the idea of an old man's grandson accompanying him to the powwow, listening closely to his words of wisdom, picking up a little Ojibwa language and a few dance steps along the way.

At first Gideon had been inclined to dismiss the idea, but he thought better of it after he'd put the suggestion to Peter, who was willing. By this time Peter had made friends with a couple of boys his age, including Marvin Strikes Many's son, Tom, who lived only a couple of miles from Arlen's cabin. It had been a few years since Arlen's own offspring had left home, and Gideon suspected that having a teenager around for a couple of days might be all it would take to convince Arlen to back off on his demands, to accept regular visits from his grandson rather than push for a change in Peter's custody.
Arlen was also just the man to encourage Peter's burgeoning interest in North American ways.

The trick would be to persuade Raina to give grandfather and grandson a little space without her supervision. In pursuit of that end—and maybe in the interest of getting away from any mention of the words
treaty rights
for a couple of days—he decided after supper one evening to ask her to share his own favorite space and a brief bit of time exclusively with him.

“Oh, it's been so long since I've been to the North Woods, Gideon, I'd love to go.” Her smile was at once wishful and apologetic. “But I think Peter should go along with us. After all, he hardly knows Arlen.
I
hardly know Arlen.”

Gideon handed her the after-supper cup of coffee that was becoming a nightly ritual, then took his seat beside her in what were becoming the his-and-hers chairs on the porch. “Would you consider leaving him with your own father for a couple of days?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And your father lives where?”

“A retirement community in Arizona, which is why we haven't…which is why Peter doesn't—”

“Know
him
very well, either?” She nodded regretfully. He offered an accommodating comeback. “That's the way things are these days. People are free to find a climate that suits them, but the downside is that family members are scattered from hell to Texas.”

Ease her into this, he told himself. He considered the various aspects of his plan as he sipped his coffee. He liked its prospects. It involved a fair amount of diplomacy, which was turning out to be one of his strong suits. If he played his cards right, he might be able to keep everyone happy.

“I think it might help your cause if you showed the judge
that you're willing to let him have a relationship with his grandfather.”

“I am,” she insisted. “I want that, for Peter's sake. I've said so.” She glanced away. “But I'm not sure we should…”

“What?” By
we,
he knew she meant the two of them. “What are you afraid of, Raina?” She stared out at the lake. “Are you still afraid of me?” he asked carefully, barely disturbing the weight of her silence.

“I was never afraid of you.” Her voice trailed off on the tail of her flimsy fib. “I just don't think I should go traipsing off….”

“With me.”

“Without Peter.”

“Peter will do just fine with his grandfather for a couple of days, and you'll be okay with me.” He laid a hand over his heart and offered his most endearing smile. “Will you trust me on this one?”

She held up two fingers.

“What does that mean? Peace? Victory?”

“Two,” she informed him. “Two counts you're asking me to trust you on.”

He slid his palm over the two fingers, folding them back into her hand, his eyes inviting her to give in to her own fancy for a change, to stop questioning and submit. Enveloping her small hand in his, he brought both to rest on his thigh.

“You remember that place I told you about way back when?” For him it was a once-upon-a-time. It had no name or number. “I told you I'd take you to a special place come spring, a place you'd never want to leave.”

“I remember. You called it Hidden Falls. We never got there.”

“Come with me now.”

He waited, his eyes daring her to accept, even though he
knew damn well he'd already lured her past her intent to refuse.

She drew her smile out slowly, but her answer glittered in her eyes.

 

Ordinarily it would have been next to impossible to get a permit to go into the wilderness area on such short notice, but having been a guide himself, Gideon had connections. All it took was a phone call to his old friend and former employer, camping outfitter Jim Collins, and everything was arranged. Jim had their canoe and supply packs ready. Gideon didn't need the detailed maps the outfitter also provided. Even Jim allowed that the “chief” of the Pine Lake Band of Chippewa knew the North Woods better than anyone.

But he did have one word of caution for Gideon. “There is one fishing party out there that… Well, maybe you'll just wanna keep an eye out and steer clear.” The outfitter looked at Raina reflectively, then added an extra foam pad to the sleeping gear. “You wanna take special care when you're escorting a pretty lady, take a few extra precautions, add a little extra comfort.”

“Keep 'em comin' back. Yeah, I remember.” Gideon offered Raina her pick from the beef jerky jar on Jim's desk. When she declined, he helped himself. “So what's with this fishing party? What's their problem?”

Lean as a scarecrow, Jim gave a sardonic chuckle as he hitched up his ever-sagging jeans. “Nothing a little attitude adjustment wouldn't cure.”

“Always give the client his due, Jim.” Gideon tore into the strip of leathery meat with his back teeth. “Couple of weekend Daniel Boones who don't need a guide?”

“No, these two are regulars. Been coming up here for years.
Chuck Taylor and Daryl Weist. Did you ever run into them when you were working for us?”

“I don't remember taking them out back then, but I know I've run across those names recently.” It was important to remember the names. The same ones showed up repeatedly on letters and petitions. He made a point of remembering the names of his adversaries, but he didn't want the faces fixed in his mind. The smug and incensed faces of people who showed up at public information meetings and statehouse-step rallies. “Those guys belong to a group called the North Woods Anglers Club,” he told Jim. “Real vocal about their commitment to saving
the state's
natural resources.”

“They also know everything there is to know about Indians.” Jim slanted his friend a look that mixed amusement with disgust. “Why, they were telling me just yesterday how a compromise with the Pine Lake Band would be just like making a pact with the devil, since Indian fish and wildlife managers never bother to enforce the tribal regulations and quotas in the first place, and since they don't know, uh—” He grinned. “Don't know diddly-squat about wildlife management, anyway.”

“Yeah, right,” Gideon sneered. “Did they really say ‘diddly-squat'?”

“Well, words that smelled the same.” Jim tossed Gideon a waterproof bag emblazoned with the outfitting company's logo. “Compliments of the house.”

“Thanks.” Gideon opened the bag and started transferring the contents of his pockets.

“Besides,” Jim went on, “these guys have read their history books, and they know damn well Chippewa don't really believe in civilized law. According to them, that's why the tribal courts routinely dismiss most of the cases that come before them.”

“Can I count on that?” The irony of the claim almost made Raina laugh.

“You can count on not being tried in tribal court,” Gideon told her. “Their jurisdiction doesn't cover you.” He raised a warning hand. They had an agreement. “End of discussion.”

“For now.”

“So these guys gave you quite an earful.” Gideon tucked his billfold into the self-sealing bag. “Where do you stand on the treaty issue, Jim?”

“On the side of good sense. The way I see it, you guys decide to go to court, you're gonna win. You
should
win. Just out of curiosity, I read a copy of the treaty. I'm no lawyer, but it looks to me like you could end up with half the fish and game harvest in that couple-million-acre—whaddyacallit?—ceded territory area if you take this thing to court. I think you oughta hang in there and go for the brass ring, man.” With a shrug, Jim acknowledged that it was no risk to him to talk big. “'Course, my business is outside of that ceded territory.”

“Yeah, well, if we could compromise, we might be able to keep the peace.” Gideon sealed the bag, then nodded toward Raina. “Doesn't she get one of these, too?”

“Sure.” Absently, Jim turned his attention to the supply shelves. The seat of his jeans drooped like an empty feedbag. “Besides—” for a moment he forgot what he was looking for, and his hand was still busy helping him expound “—there ain't enough of you to make a dent in that kind of haul. What've you got down there? A couple thousand Pine Lake Chippewa?”

“Twenty-five hundred, and most of the members are living off the reservation.” Gideon noted with some amusement that Jim, all wound up in his discourse, had just given Raina two of the complimentary bags.

“Okay, so every man, woman and child goes out hunting
and fishing three hundred and sixty-five days a year, these guys still got nothing to worry about.”

“They're worried about Indians getting something they don't have themselves, which would be a real turnabout, wouldn't it?” Gideon helped himself to another stick of beef jerky, using it as a pointer. “I'm worried about the threat of violence. Like you say, our numbers are small.”

“The thing to remember is, these two guys didn't talk real nice.”

Gideon opened his mouth, then closed it, the meat forgotten as he eyed Jim. “Did you have anything to say to them?”

“I told them I didn't think the settlement would hurt anything.” Jim shrugged, flashing Gideon a look of apology. “Hell, those guys and their buddies are paying customers, Gideon. You know how that is. I ain't gonna argue with them
too
much.”

“You can't change their minds, either. No point in trying.”

“Just so you know they're out there.” Jim took a sparring stance and playfully cuffed Gideon on the shoulder. “Hell, they mess with you, they'll learn a little something they probably ain't figured out yet. Like you don't wanna back Gideon Defender into no damn corner, that's for sure.”

“Sounds like there's a story there,” Raina said.

“Hot damn, you should have seen this guy.” Jim hitched his jeans up on his skinny hips. He didn't seem to notice that the effort was wasted. “Playing pool down at the Duck's Tail, and some jerk tries to bad-mouth this ol' warrior for dancin' with the wrong, uh….” Jim flashed Gideon a querying glance.

“Don't tell me the whole thing blow-by-blow,” Raina said, settling the question. “Just tell me exactly how many of his own teeth this man has left in his head.”

“Never seen Gideon on the losin' end,” Jim said. “But I'm sure he's sent a few dentists some business.”

“Well, as my buddy Clint Eastwood said…” Gideon went snake-eyed, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “‘I ain't like that no more.'”

 

Shoreline trees bowed close to the lapping lake, some dipping their leaves like women washing their hair. The morning sun cast its bright gems into tranquil waters as the canoe approached a family of loons, the two babies bobbing along behind their parents. The distinctive yodeling call carried across the water, answered in the distance by a similar song.

“Can you tell the male from the female?” Gideon asked, as though he was giving a test. The question was posed to her back, for it was Gideon's powerful paddling that provided most of the propulsion and steered the canoe, as well.

Raina got to play at paddling while she enjoyed the ever-changing view. “They look the same.”

“Only the male does the yodeling. He's letting his neighbors know he's out strolling in his own backyard.” Even as Gideon spoke, the loon changed its tune from the haunting yodel to a quavering tremolo. Abruptly it drew itself upright on the water, coiling its neck and stretching the fullness of its five-foot wingspan.

“My God, he's big.” Raina's paddle froze in midair. “Gideon, I think he's angry.”

“He's charging,” Gideon said with a chuckle. “And we're paddling on past, Papa, so just relax.”

“I had no idea they were that big. Boy, is he mad.” She swiveled in her seat, amazed by the bird's ability to pull itself up in the water like a 747 taking to the air. “And their call always sounds so peaceful.” The loon gave out another warning. “On CD.”

“On CD?”

“‘Sounds of Nature.' I use them to help me sleep.” The loon's angry cry echoed across the water. “Whoa, I think they edited that one out.”

“He's just letting us know he's there to protect his family. He helped incubate those chicks. Earlier in the season, he carried the little guys on his back a lot when Mama wanted to go diving.”

“Diving?”

“Best diver there is.” Gideon's paddle dripped across the canoe as he switched it to the other side. “We call him the
mahng.
Legend has it that once the world was all water. And
Chimaunido,
who is God, asked for a volunteer to dive to the bottom and bring up some mud, so that He could create the land. Otter, Beaver and Muskrat each tried and failed.
Mahng
was the only one who could hold his breath long enough and dive deep enough to get the job done. His bones are solid, so he's a much heavier bird than, say, the mallard. The air sacs under the loon's skin keep him afloat. When he wants to make a dive, he just lets the air out.”