Perma red, p.26
Perma Red, page 26
“Not now anyway,” Jules said.
She heard Stoner reach in the glove box and saw him grab a flashlight. “I’m going to see if I have a rope in the trunk,” Stoner said. She knew Jules was looking at her so she kept her eyes closed, her head resting on the seat back. She stayed very still.
“Jesus,” Jules said. “Is she dead? I don’t see the point of this.” Stoner was so busy in the trunk she doubted if he had heard Jules.
Jules got in the car beside Louise and she allowed herself to slump against his shoulder. She could feel his cold through her coat. His teeth chattered so hard she had to clench her jaw to keep from shaking beside him. She could feel the line of blood that ran from her nose up to her forehead pulling tight, drying. She felt a cold rag on her face and knew Jules was dabbing the blood from her nose. His hands were shaking. An anxious cold was settling in her chest. He reached across her and started the engine.
“What the hell are you doing?” Stoner yelled.
“I’m freezing my ass,” Jules yelled back. Louise heard Jules mutter. There was trouble brewing between the two men.
She heard an approaching car, and opened her eyes to see the haze-ringed headlights of a truck. This was her chance. She punched Jules with a sidelong swing and reached for the door handle.
“Grab her, dammit,” she heard Harvey’s urgent voice. She felt the crack of Jules’s fist to her jaw, and then he pressed her face into the shoulder of his coat with such force she felt the smothering blood bubbles in her throat, her nostrils. She tried to push him away, but he held her tight, then tighter. She felt the scratch of his coat against her face and then she felt the sudden, dizzy heat of sleep.
She thought she heard another man’s voice, a voice she didn’t recognize.
“No problem here,” Harvey was saying. “Looks like they made up.”
She heard the crunch of footsteps beside the car door, and Jules Bart clamped his hand to the back of her head and held her very still.
“Lovers’ quarrel,” Harvey said.
Louise heard the car as it was passing them. Jules released his hold. She felt the driver’s door open, the seat dip as Harvey got in. Her tongue was swelling and she wanted to spit. “Hold her down this time,” Harvey said. She felt Jules lean toward her. She lay still, snorting blood.
“She’s out now,” Jules said.
She had fooled them twice. She began to believe she had another chance.
Harvey’s foot weighed the pedal. They passed into the dense lifting heat of the river. Louise could hear the lick of tires on wet ice. She braced herself, knowing the steep bank of land that rose up from the left and then the right side of the car, the high whining curves, the places where the road shot off to darkness. She struggled to wake, but everything seemed to be whirling around her. She lifted her head and opened her eyes. She saw Harvey’s grim face. She could feel the car fishtail the road but Harvey drove on faster. It seemed to Louise he was trying to chase the fog. She tried to concentrate.
Jules turned to Harvey. “What are we going to do?” he said, his voice quavering. “What the hell are we going to do?” He wasn’t looking at Louise. He was leaning toward Harvey Stoner. He was slapping the back of his fingers in the palm of his hand but he wasn’t looking her way. She leaped for the door handle and before Jules could grab her she had his side door open. “Shit,” Jules said. She could hear the hollow loud wind as she shoved at Jules. He grabbed the dashboard to hold on. The car weaved on the road and she could feel the pull of the open door. The wind woke her. Harvey slammed his elbow deep into her throat and she coughed. She grabbed the steering wheel and tried to punch the brakes. She was slapping at Harvey’s head. She was gouging his eyes with her nails. Jules was trying to grab her hands to hold her, but she was determined to get out of the car. The deep fog curled around the hood then lifted again to night. Harvey yelled. Jules threw his hands over his face. Ice so slick they seemed to be flying, and then the car was. They were flying. Wind sailed past blinking stars for one moment forever.
Charlie Kicking Woman
BAD ROADS MILEPOST MARKER 104
I did what I felt a good man would do. I took Baptiste Yellow Knife home to his mother. He wouldn’t let me help him into the house even though he needed my help. He yanked his arm away from me and I thought about the young boy he had been, stubborn, pigheaded, and knew that part of his nature would always be dependable. Beaten to hell and still refusing any assistance, my assistance. I tapped the horn and waited for Dirty Swallow to help her son into the house. After all I had done, I wanted to do more. An old woman’s help was all I had to offer him.
I thought about what Louise had said, that I didn’t know Yellow Knife. I learned that night she’d been right. I didn’t know the man and I figured I never would but I found something out about myself. I had been wrong about many things. Seeing Yellow Knife as a beaten man and hanging onto life changed the way I saw the world that night.
It was closing in on Christmas. The days after Christmas were always my worst times working. The dream of Christmas was over. People found the last push of winter burying them. Hope wasn’t even a word they lisped. People drank too much. People fought. Men shot their wives and called it suicide. Too many men had gone to war and returned broken in some way, or were just sick of being married, or trying to swat women away.
Two days before Christmas and out across the miles I could see a string of red Christmas lights around a small window, and every time I looked in that direction I remembered Yellow Knife was alive and kicking and I had something to hope for. Yellow Knife had made me promise to find Louise. I was looking forward to bringing her good news, looking forward to putting the past behind me. I had a light feeling straddling my chest, a hopefulness I couldn’t deny. I figured I’d take a few days off starting Christmas. I’d take the bus to Yakima if I had to, but I’d get my Aida back. I’d be a better man. I’d bury my pride and chase after the dreams that would make my life easy. I still had a chance.
I drove first to Grandma Magpie’s house with my squad lights racing. Even the fog didn’t deter me. Around the last turn I doused the lights. I didn’t want to scare Louise’s grandma. I was unnerved when my headlights flickered through the cottonwoods to find Grandma Magpie standing on the road to her house. I switched the fan on and a breeze blew at my face, cold, iced. I didn’t want to see Louise’s grandmother standing outside in deep snow in moccasins, only a thin scarf covering her head. I rolled my window down and she met my car. “Have you come with news of Louise?” Her breath was puffing damp clouds.
I had to take her back into the house. She looked out the dark curtainless windows and told me she had heard Louise call her name. She couldn’t sleep, she said. She’d gotten out of bed to make a pot of coffee and wait for Louise. She had heard Louise’s voice plain as day, she told me. “Something has happened to my granddaughter,” she said. I couldn’t shake her of the idea, though I tried. I suggested she’d been dreaming still. That could have happened. She didn’t buy my faithless notions. I did what I could for her. I chopped some wood and built up the fire, but even the fire didn’t help much. She shivered so hard I could hear her bones knocking. I wrapped her with a blanket and told her to sit by the fire. I’d bring Louise home. But as I left the house I couldn’t keep my belly from shaking. My nerves popped in my legs and I had to steady my breath. I gripped the wheel. Maybe it was the night drifting in fog, the uneasy blindness of low clouds. Maybe it was the story that Yellow Knife had told me, the old stories that ached in my stiff hands, but I had an ominous feeling settling on me, and I didn’t want to let go of the hope I had found.
I turned on my brights, a poor idea. Bright lights churned the fog, an eerie swirl that reminded me of blood clogging the drain. Road ice was gray, the color of scaled fish, and so slick the bite of chains did not prevent sudden slips. I found myself praying for road markers, praying my way through fishtails, praying for prudence. The night would bring accidents, I knew that much. Finding Louise was a bright spot on my long-night agenda. As soon as I found Louise, I assured myself, the night would go easy no matter what else happened.
My mind raced with stories I thought I had left behind. As I drove into Dixon I remembered the ghost story of the young girl who froze in fear when the Dixon ghost followed her. The story goes that a girl was traveling in the back of her grandparents’ wagon, and as they passed over the Jocko Bridge the old white man ghost came up from the river and followed the travelers. I was like a kid, frightened to glance at my side windows, afraid the white man ghost was seeking my attention, a ghost tapping my frosted windows, calling me. I remembered the story of the Mission ghost who was said to haunt the church, a woman who appeared to people praying in the early-morning hours, the ghost dressed in black who liked to light the church stove for the prayerful, a fire that never gave warmth. It just popped and hissed and scared everyone. I remembered the crying grave that I had been called to many times, hearing for myself the high whining cry of a child. And I had to tell these people they were hearing a distant voice carried to the graveyard on wind when I didn’t believe my own explanation. The thought prickled my neck. I was scaring myself and I knew I had to settle down.
I was relieved when I heard the crackle of static on the radio, a connection with firm reality, even a grim reality. Railer’s voice was high etched, a choirboy pitch. There had been an accident, a bad accident involving Harvey Stoner outside Perma, and I’d have to turn back around. It occurred to me that what goes around does come back around but I found no good feelings in Stoner’s misfortune. I was only annoyed I was called to his rescue when I should have been looking for Louise. I didn’t want to go but I had informed Railer of my location. He had me. Railer was just outside of Polson and in this weather he wouldn’t be on the scene any time soon. I was the man. I bit the inside of my cheek. I didn’t want to see Stoner under any condition but this was the worst of circumstances.
I turned on my squad lights. I couldn’t help but think about Stoner’s beautiful car rolled in the ditch or top-up on the road. Stoner’s yellow Buick towed to the junkyard in Ravalli where it’d be set up on blocks like a monument. Fog steamed the road. I searched the dim roadside for his car. My high beams couldn’t shatter the white darkness. My eyes watered. I switched my beams on low and crawled. I could have walked faster. I prayed Aida was safe and sleeping in my mother-in-law’s house. I saw only the snowdrifts of fog, then blackness. I wasn’t much concerned with Stoner’s plight. He was getting what he deserved. Even in my anxiety, there was a laziness about my search, an eerie calmness that came with driving so slowly, driving so deliberately almost as if nothing had happened.
The initial call for help had been made from the Perma Bar. Sanders County would be called too. Railer was called because he was a close backup but I wished he’d been left out. Everybody would be on their toes because Stoner’s power knew no boundary lines here. But Stoner would soon be getting his comeuppance. Yellow Knife was alive and healing.
My headlamps roiled in the haze. I could make out the lights of Grandma Magpie’s house and I didn’t feel good about abandoning my search for Louise to help the likes of Stoner. Just past the White Elk allotment the fog became so thick I rolled the window down and felt the wet chill on my face. I was afraid I would run into the wreck, or worse. I stuck my head out the window, desperate to find a marker, and then I saw the tracks, the distinct box trail where the car had passed and then fallen to the tracks below. I saw a man making his way up to the roadside. His face was busted up so badly I thought he was Stoner but he was not. I pulled my car over.
“Sir,” I said. “I’m Officer Kicking Woman. I was called to this accident.”
“I know,” he said. “I was the one who made the call.”
“Sir. Stay where you are. I’m coming,” I said. The man kept walking toward me. He tried to wipe his face on his coat. I saw his nose had been so badly cut it needed compression. He staggered a bit toward me and I recognized Jules Bart. I found myself thinking he wouldn’t be so good-looking now.
“I’m no good,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He nodded down to the tracks below. I grabbed a first aid kit from under the seat and blankets from the trunk. I tossed a blanket to Bart and I headed down the steep embankment. And then I was falling. I felt the sharp bite split the leg of my pants, a rock bruise. I cussed and then pulled myself up. The car was on its top on the railroad tracks and I was worrying about a scratch on my leg.
I looked at my watch. I would have to cancel the train from Pend d’Oreille. One headlight of the car cast its long light down the length of the tracks. I could see the light from the car’s dashboard, pink and green, almost pretty. I heard music, the soft sound of the radio playing a tune I had not heard before. I wanted to stop, listen hard enough to identify the melody. Stoner lay next to the Buick. He held his ears from the cold. I wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. His cheeks were flaming red and circled white. Frostbite was near him. “Pull that up over your head,” I told him. I could see the car was unsteady beside him, pitched on its side on the track edge.
“She’s over there,” he said with such a grimace he looked to be grinning.
“I’ve got to make a call,” I told him. “The train’s still coming. I’ve got to stop it.” Stoner tried to lift himself up from the tracks like I meant “this very moment.” He looked down the rails both ways.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he said. I didn’t talk. I knew his statement was the voice of implication, not flattery. I scrambled up to the car and radioed to stop the train. It was almost one in the morning. Then I headed back down to Stoner to survey the damage. “She’s over there,” he said. He grabbed my arm. “Let her die,” he said. “She knows too much.” I shined my flashlight on a form. They had covered her with a blanket, a blue Pendleton blanket with a red border. I shined my flashlight on the woman, steadily, carefully, because the new dead hold fragile information.
I saw what I did not expect to see. I saw the sweep of an arm beneath the blanket. I saw the flutter of her fingers. Then I saw breath. The halo of labored breath rising from the blanket. Beads of frozen breath collected on top of the blue blanket, small silver drops. I thought. Or maybe I didn’t think. They had left her to die in the brutal snow. The woman lay parallel to the railroad tracks. I looked at Stoner. He had turned his back to me. I could not see his face but in the darkness I heard the crack of his smile.
“This is a peach, isn’t it?” he said.
I couldn’t see anything at first. I saw the round red pulse of my blood on the night sky. I had to look back into the darkness several times before I saw the light. I had to get her up out of the snow fast, but I wondered if there was any hope for the woman. It was so cold the stars were brittle. Snow was so tight it squeaked beneath my boots. I was sure I saw the mist of her breath. I pulled the blanket from the woman’s face as she struggled. I felt the push of her hand. Her head tipped back and for a moment her eyes opened on my face, but there was so much blood running from her scalp I could not see her. I could not tell what color her hair was from the blood. And then my teeth were throbbing with chattering. I couldn’t quell my panic.
“Charlie,” Stoner said to me like a command but I couldn’t hear the words that followed.
I lifted her head up with one shaking hand. My palm warmed by her blood. The breath of her blood rose around us.
“She knows it all,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” I yelled. My heart exploded. I felt the thunder of my wild pulse. They had left Louise to die because of a mistaken idea. “You crazy sons of bitches,” I said. “She knows nothing.”
Sickness kicked me. My hands shook violently. My worst fear had struck. Years of the nuns’ cruel words buzzed in me like hornets in the ribs of deer. I would learn one thing, they had told me: I was good for nothing. I felt the lump of my heart sinking. The last thing Louise would see, I thought, was my failure. My life’s work boiled down to this moment. In the snow my skin pulled up so tight my bones knit. I knelt down beside Louise, removed my jacket and clutched it to her thin shoulders. There was no wind, no sound at all except for her breathing etched, her lungs squeaking. The tight cold moving tighter around her. Her eyes were colorless in the darkness, the pupils opening, pulsing, then opening again. But I remembered the color of her eyes in sunlight, how she would turn to me and her brown eyes could change to green. Her breath labored to clouds. I caught for a moment the gleam of the river, the black, pulling current beside our grim vigil. Seconds ticked in me.
She was dying.
I wasn’t going to let this happen, not to Louise. Louise was not going to die by the roadside. I clasped her wrist in my fingertips and checked her pulse. I felt the strong beating will of her heart. “Hold on, Louise,” I whispered to her, and she squeezed my hand.
I heard the screech of the car slipping, and Stoner yelled to me, “Get me the hell out of here.” I detected the hysteria in his voice and felt a sense of satisfaction, a sense of power. I didn’t have time to rescue the bastard. I had to save myself. I had to save Louise. I pulled Louise to my chest, and her body was frail and light in my arms. I remembered carrying her mother from her deathbed, and closed my eyes. “Give me a chance,” I said, hoping it would suffice as prayer. I prayed as I carried her up the steep embankment, prayed I wouldn’t fall, prayed for strength for the both of us. I could hear gasoline hissing from the punctured tank of Stoner’s car, gasoline gurgling along the outline of the car’s fractured frame. I had to move fast.
I heard the cowboy sniffle and knew the man was crying. I laid Louise close beside him. “Help me here,” I said to him. I had to trust him then. The cowboy opened his arms to shelter Louise in the folds of his blanket. “I’m sorry,” he was saying, and I realized he was speaking to Louise. “I’m sorry for everything,” he said.
