Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) (12 page)

As the minutes ticked by and nothing happened, the warmth of the trailer grew more stifling. He put his face up to a window for some fresh air. The police still hadn't come. JW's shirt stuck to his skin, and a trickle of sweat ran down the edge of his neck. Maybe it would be all right. There'd been no phone calls, no neighbor coming out, no Eagle, no police. Maybe the neighbor wouldn't even say anything. Or maybe he had imagined the whole thing. Then again, something had crashed inside, so it was likely a person. And if the neighbor did say something, he would have to deal with Eagle directly. JW imagined him coming over with a baseball bat, or possibly even a gun. He wondered how the laws differed on a reservation, and that thought suddenly seemed to ground his thinking. He was a bank president. What he had done was crazy. He had risked everything.

His eyes fell to the Big Book. He pulled it over across the table and started leafing through it. Maybe there was something to it. A sickness was clouding his judgment, and Jorgenson had used it to make him into a tool. And yet he couldn't see a way out of the trap, and it was hard to imagine finding one in the book.

It was approaching five o'clock, and nothing had happened. The road had been unusually quiet. A single small blue Toyota with a red front fender had puttered by, slowly
climbing up the lane to the trailers over the hill. Even the boy hadn't come home at his usual time.

JW was getting hungry. He headed over to the stove. He rummaged through the cabinet above and took down a battered aluminum pot and a box of mac and cheese. He ran the tap and filled the pot halfway up, then struck a farmer's match and lit the stove. He set the pot over the flame, and when crystal bubbles began to rise from its bottom, he poured in the pale tubes of dried pasta.

He looked out the window over the kitchen sink. Still nothing up at the neighbor's house, but to his right he suddenly noticed a police car creeping up the road. It slowed almost to a stop, and then, as if to surprise him, it turned sharply in and parked directly in front of his trailer. JW ducked back away from the window, his heart suddenly racing. He wondered if he, too, could pretend he wasn't at home. The car's door slammed and he peeked out to see a tribal policeman walking around the hood.

He heard the creak of the wooden steps, and then a hard knock on his flimsy door. He leaned on the counter, thinking over his options. How stupid he'd been. What was he thinking? Was this it? Would he be arrested? The knock came again. He realized that the bug receiver was still on the table.

“Just a second,” he called out.

He took the receiver to the bedroom and threw it under some clothes in the laundry hamper. He swallowed and wiped his hands on his pants. Noticed his dirty shirt cuff.

He rolled up his sleeves and went to the door. There was nothing else to do. His lips felt numb. This is the way people's lives change, he thought. In quiet little moments, and there's no going back. His stomach felt jittery. He shook out his hands to get the rubberiness out. Tried to seem calm and cool. Don't
assume he knows anything, or what he may or may not know. Don't incriminate yourself. He opened the door.

The tribal cop was standing on the top stair, which put him a step lower than JW. He had to shuffle sideways to avoid the out-swinging door.

“Yes sir, can I help you?” said JW.

“Mr. White?”

“Yes.”

Through the fog of fear, JW noticed that the man had an expectant smile. He was waiting—for what? A confession? Maybe to see if he would give something away. JW had heard that most one-time criminals admit their crime almost immediately when confronted by the authorities. He wasn't going to be one of them.

“You don't remember me,” the cop said. “Rick Fladeboe. Used to work security at the bank.”

“Rick! Sorry. Of course!” replied JW.

Jesus, he thought. Fladeboe. Security guard.

“You look different in that tribal getup.”

JW knew as soon as he said it that it was offensive, but he desperately wanted to keep the upper hand, so he didn't apologize—he smiled.

“Yeah, well, I heard you were staying out here now. Figured I'd stop by and say hi, welcome to the reservation and all.”

“Well, thanks, Rick,” replied JW noncommittally. “I appreciate that.”

He saw Fladeboe notice that he was sweating.

“You doin' okay?”

JW nodded. “Just hot in here. No AC. You want to come in for a sauna?”

Fladeboe laughed. “No thanks. Say, I heard what happened, about you losing your job and so on—”

“Rick, I got some stuff on the stove—”

“I know, I know. I don't want to take your time. Just to say, listen, if you ever want, the tribe's got a gambling and addictions support group. A real nice one, we got top people, trained at UMD, the whole works. It's one of our mandates, for having the casino. We don't want anybody to get hurt.”

He handed JW a business card. It bore a colorful round tribal logo, the name of the group, the Bizaaniwewin Support Group, and a phone number and web URL.

“It's a funny-sounding name,
Bizaaniwewin
,” offered Fladeboe. “Means peace.”

JW looked down at the card. His brow creased as he looked up from it. He felt his pulse in a vein on his neck. He wondered how word of his situation had traveled so quickly, and whether Fladeboe was acting individually, or if this was a visit some band committee had asked him to make.

“Anyway, welcome.” Fladeboe gave him a curt little nod and a wave, then turned and walked back to his cruiser.

“Rick!” JW called out after him. Fladeboe stopped and looked back. “Thanks.”

Fladeboe waved. As he got in his car, JW noticed for the first time that someone was sitting in the back seat. The car backed out onto the road and stopped in front of Eagle's house. Fladeboe got out and opened the back door. The boy from across the street climbed out and sloughed off toward the pole barn without so much as a word to Fladeboe, who saw JW still standing in the door, and waved before getting back into his car. He had kept the kid waiting that whole time.

JW waved back, then pulled the door shut and returned to his macaroni. He stirred it weakly, recovering from the adrenaline rush. He glanced at the business card in his left
hand. Peace. The tiny crescents swam like blind fish in the roiling water. He went to the fridge and pulled out the Red Owl carton of milk. As he turned, he glanced out the window. The boy was tugging on a red lead rope, trying to drag the horse across the lawn toward the riding ring. The animal was ignoring him again. It grazed on the lawn, planting its feet against the lead rope. JW noticed how tightly wound the boy seemed. He was probably recovering from his own adrenaline rush after getting a lift home from Fladeboe. His teenage frustration wafted across the road.

“Come on!”

The horse ignored him, then finally, begrudgingly, it lifted its head and half-heartedly let the boy lead it away from the grass. The boy dragged the horse over to the riding paddock gate, unlatched it, and swung it open. He pulled with first one, then two hands, but the horse stood still, feet planted, head high, refusing to go in.

JW moved to the window, watching this little drama. Horse training was all about convincing a horse that what you wanted was what it wanted too, only more so, and JW could see that the kid had no idea what he was doing.

“Damn it, come on! Come on!” The boy pulled hard on the lead rope, stretching the horse's neck out, but the animal's feet were firm. He stormed up beside it and the horse responded by stepping backward. The boy stumbled as he tried to stay on his feet. JW heard the horse snorting.

“No!” The boy yelled. He punched the horse on the side of the neck. It threw its head and pulled hard backward, squatting on its haunches as it prepared to rear. It stood, which dragged the boy up off the ground and into its dancing front hooves.

“Hey!” he yelled at the window. Stupid kid, he thought.
The rearing horse's head could come down and break his neck, and it would trample him if it ran forward.

The boy twisted to miss the hooves and scrambled to the right, along the horse's front left flank. He's quick, I'll give him that, thought JW. Then the boy wrapped the lead rope around his wrist and kicked the horse hard in its soft underbelly. The horse screamed with a high frightened sound and tried to spin away, but the boy had leverage with the lead rope, so it reared and pulled him right back into the range of its hooves. This time the boy couldn't find his footing.

Before he knew it, JW was out the trailer door and running. The horse twisted and landed and galloped off across the lawn, dragging the boy close to its thundering hooves.

“Pride!” The boy yelled as he bumped along over the ground. “Pride, no!” His voice sounded screechy with fear.

“Let it go!” JW yelled as he ran after them.

The boy took a hard bump on a root and let go, and the horse galloped off. He lay on his stomach, the wind knocked out of him, his cheek pressed into the grass. The horse slowed to a trot and began to circle in the yard. Then it stopped at a safe distance and snorted and pawed at the lawn.

“You okay?” JW asked as he ran up. The boy was wheezing for breath and wincing back tears. He slowly got to his hands and knees. Then, ignoring JW, he headed shakily after the horse.

“Hey!”

The kid spun around. “I got it!” he yelled, then fell into a coughing fit. He was wearing jeans and a baggy Twins jersey.

“Okay. Nice to meet you,” said JW. “I'm your new neighbor, by the way. Why don't you let me help.”

The boy ignored him and turned back toward the horse, which trotted a few steps farther away.

“Fuck!” He stopped and stood, angry.

“You're chasing him off.”

The boy's posture slumped, but he didn't turn around. He took another step toward the horse, but it jogged even farther away.

“Goddamn it!”

JW glanced back toward the trailer home. The door was standing open. He looked down at the waxy milk carton in his hand.

“Hey kid!” he said, and began marching toward the boy's back. “I got something for you.”

The boy turned around. “Hold this,” JW said, and shoved the milk carton into his hands. He turned toward Pride and gave him a snappy whistle. Pride snorted as he grazed, made a big sigh, then took a few steps toward the neighbor's house, still munching on the lawn.

“You're chasin' him off, old school,” said the boy.

JW turned, irritated. “Go over there,” he said, and pointed toward the house. “So you're not between him and the gate. Go on!”

The boy didn't move.

“You want your horse back?” JW looked at him and he looked back. “I did this for a living,” said JW. The boy shook his head and walked across the yard to where JW had indicated. When he was a safe distance off, JW nodded. “Okay.”

He looked down at the ground, hands in his pockets. He jangled his keys and assumed a relaxed air, not a care in the world. Just him and the horse, together and alone in a herd of two. It was like a mantra. It all came back as if it had been yesterday. If he got his mind in the right space, JW knew the horse would follow. He started whistling softly—“You Are My Sunshine”—and he grazed with his feet, swinging and
poking them at the grass. He walked wide around the horse, not paying it any attention, not getting too close, just focused on the grass. I'm just doing my thing here, just leave me alone and I'll leave you alone, he thought, walking and whistling.

Pride's ears followed him like radar dishes. He stopped about fifteen or twenty feet behind the horse, between him and the house. Pride grazed, flipping his ears around, flapping his tail to scare off the flies. But JW could see from the tension in the horse's muscles that he was ready to leap, turn, and trot off down the road at a moment's notice. He stopped whistling and looked up—at Pride's chest, not his eyes. The horse snorted long and low as he grazed—a dramatic, put-upon snort.

JW took a big step toward his rear end and lifted up his arm toward him, as if he were reaching for his tail. Pride lifted his head and trotted eight or nine steps toward the gate, then went back to grazing, with a frisky air about him, light on his feet.

JW noticed the boy was studying his moves intently. He felt a sudden affection for him, rude and surly as he was. JW kept looking at the grass and whistling. He strolled wide and away and then angled back, stopping behind and to the side again, but closer. Then he took his hands out of his pockets. He kept whistling, and he walked slowly, eyes averted, toward Pride's side. The horse's ears flicked around as he grazed, but he stayed where he was.

The boy watched him, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. JW reached out and petted the base of the horse's sweaty neck. Gentle. Relaxed. No reason to hurry. Just the two of them grazing. Then he reached down and picked up the lead rope, but left it slack. They stood there grazing for another minute, the horse munching and JW poking the grass with his toe. He examined the rope in his left hand,
pretending to be interested in its fine weave. Not a care in the world, until he reached back wide with his right hand, toward Pride's rear end, and whistled sharply.