Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) (25 page)

“Good job! He did it!”

Jacob laughed and patted Pride on the neck, his face brightening, and he looked over to see JW give him a big thumbs-up.

“Really good! A tough situation and you handled it! Okay, take him around again!”

Jacob turned the horse back toward the tarp at the far end of the paddock.

“You know that boy loves you, don't you?”

It was a woman's voice, reedy and husky. JW turned to see her walking up to the paddock fence rail next to him.
She was in her mid- to late-thirties, he guessed, and she had a rough but beautiful appearance. She had high cheekbones and wore feathers tied into her shaggy dark hair. She was wearing an olive T-shirt and skinny jeans, cheap sandals and a toe ring, and she smelled strongly of alcohol and cigarettes.

“You're the neighbor,” he said.

“Yeah.” A flicker of emotion flowed through her face and was gone. “Is that a problem?”

“It depends.”

She nodded. “I've been watching you,” she said, turning to observe Jacob. “He doesn't get like this with most people.” She pulled out an American Spirit and lit up with a cheap plastic lighter, then held the pack out to him.

“I don't smoke.” JW turned back to Jacob. “Okay, bring him around again!”

He turned back to her as she stuck the cigarettes back in her tiny jeans pocket. “So, do you party every night, or do you take weekends off?”

She blew smoke. “Really? That's how your mother taught you to start a conversation? ‘JW, when you grow up, first thing you do is to give a woman shit'?”

“You know my name. Well, you're right, and I'm sorry.”

Then to Jacob: “Again!”

And then back to the woman beside him: “I guess you saw me raiding Johnny's house for booze, then.” It was a calculated risk, but one he had to take.

“Is that what it was?” She blew more smoke. “You should have asked me.” She extended a hand to him. “I'm Mona.” Her eyes managed to look at him and away at the same time, darting above a smile that was both coy and somehow volatile.

“I tried. You wouldn't answer the door,” he said, ignoring her gesture.

She smirked and dropped her hand. She walked up to the rail and put her arms up on it. His eyes fell past the shelf of her breasts to the midriff exposed under her T-shirt. A tattoo climbed out of her jeans, a bird of some sort.

“If you were a single white woman who saw an ugly Indi'n going through your brother-in-law's house next door, would you answer your door?” She glanced at him.

“Ugly!” JW grimaced. “If it was so scary why didn't you call the police?” He turned back to watch Jacob, who was circling the horse in a smaller loop at the other end of the ring.

“I thought maybe you were a friend,” she said, blowing smoke at the horse. “Obviously, that was before I came to know who you are. And then I watched my nephew fall in love with you. Don't blow it with him. I don't want to see him let down. It wouldn't be pretty.”

She looked at him, then began walking toward her house. She turned back with a wry expression. “Oh and uh, nice ass. For an ugly white guy.”

He sensed a kind of teasing amusement as she brushed the hair and feathers out of her face. It was strange, considering what she had just said. Especially on the reservation, where most Indians looked at him with silent resentment. She smiled, sensing his confusion, and walked away more rapidly.

23

JW watched as Mona walked toward her house, but she didn't look back. It was as if a ghost had blown in and become suddenly animate, altering everything about the situation. He refocused on Jacob and the horse.

“That's right,” he said. “No matter what distractions come up, you keep him on task. Again!” He wasn't used to women being as aggressive as Mona, either. He had been so wrapped up in his own collapse over the last year that the idea he might be attractive to a woman hadn't really occurred to him.

As he stood there at the rail, he remembered the foreclosure notice in his back pocket. He pulled out the crumpled document, then refolded it and put it in his shirt pocket. He leaned on the rail and watched Jacob. He had recorded the safe clicks. The mini-recorder was in his jeans pocket. He looked toward the pole barn. The Indians were hard at work. In the paddock, Jacob was repeating the routine with Pride. JW glanced back behind him. Mona was gone now. This could be his best chance. The house was just a few short steps away. Just take the pot out of the safe and put it in the desk drawer, he thought. It wasn't stealing, and it wasn't planting anything. It was making Eagle face himself, just like he had to face himself. And it was advancing the cause of justice.

He watched Jacob make another round on the horse. If Johnny didn't wind up opening the bank, he'd still have
his wild rice business. There would be no foul. It might be better, in fact. Eagle was too absorbed in the battle, forgetting in the process what was important about a boy and a horse—and about the wide river of time that flowed through our bodies with such force and speed that it took things away before we knew what was happening. If Eagle were to lose the bank, maybe he would focus on his son again. JW knew it was a rationalization, but it was also true. He would still have to find a way to deal with Jorgenson, of course, but first things first. If the Big Book was teaching him anything, it was the importance of taking life one day at a time. He looked up at Jacob, still on the horse.

“You keep working,” he called to him. “I gotta run inside and use the bathroom.” Jacob waved to acknowledge him, and JW headed up toward the house. He didn't notice Ernie watching him from behind the smoke of the parching fire.

JW stepped inside and closed the front door.

“Hello? Johnny?”

There was no answer. Eagle's Bronco was gone, but he needed to be sure. He had only a minute or two. In the study, he looked out the window. Jacob was still working Pride down in the paddock. The lawn was clear.

“Hello?” It was like calling into a forest. The aspen leaves fluttered, watching. He took Eagle's fancy pen off the desk and headed for the closet. He opened the door and quickly lay down on the floor in front of the safe.

He took out his little spiral notepad and set it on the carpet in front of the safe. He spun the dial to zero and pulled the digital mini-recorder out of his jeans pocket. He switched it to quarter-speed playback, thumbed the volume to max, and pressed play. He mimicked the number of clicks—one, two, three—until he got to nine, then pressed stop and wrote
a nine on the notepad. He picked up the recorder and pressed play, turning the dial once again with each click, going all the way around and past nine, past zero, and then back to the number ninety-one. He pressed stop and wrote ninety-one, then pressed play one last time and turned the dial forward twenty-two clicks to thirteen.

He turned the lever and the safe opened. There was a heavy footfall outside on the deck. His heart leapt into his lungs. Too late to quit. He'd have to be quick. He stuffed the spiral notepad back into his shirt pocket and pulled the safe door open.

The screen door spring stretched and twanged outside. The front door opened. Inside the safe was the baggie of weed and an artsy pot pipe, as well as cash and files. He reached for the weed, which was on the bottom, on top of the Silver Certificate. He heard a footstep in the front foyer.

“JW?” It was Ernie's gravelly voice.

He pulled the baggie out and saw the label: Organic Indian Tobacco. He laughed silently. How stupid, he thought. He sniffed the baggie to be sure. Rich and earthy. Definitely tobacco. He stuffed it back into the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial. He quickly stepped across the hall into the bathroom and swung the door shut as Ernie stepped into the hall.

“Hey whitey.”

“Are you calling me?” he said. It was possible Ernie had seen him. He looked in the mirror. The beads of sweat on his forehead glistened with the pale green of the wall tile. The door stood slightly ajar.

“Where are you?”

He heard Ernie heading down the hall, and saw him moving through the door crack in the mirror. He reached over and flushed the toilet as a ruse. He opened the bathroom door.

“Just going to the bathroom,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. He turned to the sink and ran the water. He made a show of washing his hands. Ernie stood in the hall, watching. JW glanced up at him in the mirror and caught his eye. He dried his hands and face, then turned and walked out into the hall.

“Excuse me.”

Ernie grabbed his arm. Tight. Close. His breath was rich with clove chewing gum. He breathed heavily through his nose as his grip tightened.

“I don't trust you,” he said.

JW looked at him. “I don't blame you,” he said.

“Why are you sweating?”

“I'm not feeling well. You don't want to get what I have, believe me.”

Ernie studied him, then relaxed his grip. JW passed, stepped out onto the porch, and wiped his face on his arms. A cool breeze greeted him and his skin began to contract. His shirt was sticking to his back and his pits were wet and cold. He wiped his palms on his jeans and headed back down to the riding paddock.

Then he remembered the pen. He had left it on the floor in front of the closet. He thought about what this might mean to Ernie when he saw it. He would pick it up and think of the safe. Open the closet door. Try the handle. JW had spun the dial, so it would be locked. He would walk to the window, perhaps, and look out at him through the blinds, to make sure he was walking back down to the boy. Had he left any other evidence? He patted his pocket. The spiral notepad was still there. He should be okay, except for the pen out of place, which was inconclusive. Ernie would set it back on the desk and maybe mention it to Johnny, but what would it mean? Nothing.

JW returned to the rail. Jacob was still on Pride, but he was walking him now, in the cooldown phase, the horse and boy moving as one, with ease, each footfall in the sand relaxed and steady.

“You're a good learner,” JW said, feeling a sudden wave of giddiness after his narrow escape. “He's really learning to trust you.”

“Thanks.” Jacob smiled.

JW thought again about the tobacco, and as he did he experienced a sense of freedom he hadn't felt in years.

Jacob stopped the horse nearby. “Hey,” he said, interrupting JW's thoughts.

JW looked up and saw Jacob's furrowed brow. “What's up?”

“My dad doesn't want Mona over here.”

JW's lightness returned. “That's okay! I don't want her here either. She called me ugly!” He laughed. “Seriously, it's perfectly fine. I didn't invite her over, and I don't want you to get in any trouble.”

“Okay, thanks. It's just that Ernie tells my dad.”

JW nodded and Jacob turned away. Standing against the rail, he started running through the implications of the fact that there was no pot in the safe. He could use it to turn things around and get out from under Jorgenson's thumb. “Jacob,” he said. The boy turned the horse back around. “I got an errand to run. Can you go swear at Ernie some more until he lets me use the truck?”

Jacob laughed. “Yeah, I can probably do that.”

24

JW sped into the bank parking lot and pulled into the spot marked President, his strategy becoming clearer by the minute. The wild rice truck's front bumper bent the President signpost back, but he didn't care. Clapton fell quiet and the engine churned as he got out. He looked down at Sam's black car with its red NRA bumper sticker and noticed the camo and deer hunting gear inside. The deer opener wasn't for another month and a half. The guy was a nut, a survival fetishist. Schmeaker's macho fascination had always struck him as playacting, considering the man's fragile jaw, slender frame, and feathered hair.

He threw open the main door and marched inside toward his old office.

“Sandy,” he said as he passed the reception desk.

“Mr. White!” She rose, alarmed, and began to follow him through the open area under the large log trusses as he headed for one of the glassed-in offices around the perimeter. “Mr. White, he's busy!”

He heard her clacking heels step off the tile and onto the carpet. “He'll make time,” JW said, and kept walking.

Other employees looked up as he passed through the open area, Sandy trailing him. Through the glass wall of his former office he could see Jorgenson at his old desk, meeting with Sam Schmeaker, who stood to intercept him as he opened the door.

“John, we're in conference,” Schmeaker said.

“Out of my way, Sam.” He pushed the door farther open and shouldered past. He tossed the foreclosure notice and the hand-scrawled note on Jorgenson's desk.

“Seriously?” His voice was loud. Confident. For the first time in ages, it seemed, things were becoming clear to him. “This is your idea of communication and management?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Jorgenson,” Sandy said, arriving at the door, “he walked right past me—”