television and radio and print reporters was swelled by gawkers who descended like locusts.
Graduation that year was a solemn affair. The governor and the state’s two senators came to address the graduating seniors. They spoke of reconciliation, of keeping eyes on the brighter horizon, of moving on.
And moving on was exactly what happened with the reporters and the politicians and the interest of the rest of the nation. Once a year, for several years, as the anniversary of that terrible day approached, a little airtime and a little column space-less and less each year-was given over as a perfunctory nod to the event. But the truth is that tragedy remains tragedy only for those who experience it. For everyone else it becomes history.
Haled as a hero, Uly Kingbird was besieged with requests for interviews. 60 Minutes, the Today show, Larry King Live all wanted to talk to the young man who’d been both the friend and the end of the enigmatic Darrell Gallagher. On his son’s behalf, Will Kingbird declined them all. Uly hated the publicity. He spent a good deal of time in counseling trying to deal with the shootings, and at Cork’s suggestion, he accepted the help and guidance of Henry Meloux as well. In late August, shortly before school was to begin again, Will Kingbird sold the Gun Sight and moved his family to Des Moines, Iowa. Lucinda confided to Jo that they hoped Uly might have a better chance of escaping the notoriety and putting together a more normal life. Uly-who kept in touch religiously with Annie over the years-would ultimately find refuge in his music and eventually achieve modest fame as a musician in the mold of his idol, Bob Dylan. He was often accompanied on vocals by his niece, a beautiful dark-haired singer named Misty Kingbird.
Annie O’Connor didn’t go to Madison to play softball for the University of Wisconsin. The shootings altered her course and directed her down a different path.
In the years after, in those nights when she would wake to the sound of gunfire that proved phantom, when her pulse raced and her breath came fast and shallow and she waited for the bullet that was never fired, Annie O’Connor would remember how, in comforting Uly Kingbird in the midst of his grief, she had for a while been able to forget her own. She would grieve, yes-in a way, never stop grieving-but Annie understood that for her there was a way through grief, through sadness, through hate and anger and all the anguish and confusion of the world. It was a path that in a strange way led through the hurting hearts of others, a path that she believed always led to God. And throughout her life Sister Anne would follow it.
On a clear day in late August, Cork O’Connor sat in the cabin of Henry Meloux, smoking tobacco with the old Mide. Outside, Stevie played in the meadow grass with Walleye, trying to coax the relaxed old mongrel into chasing butterflies with him. On the table between Meloux and Cork lay a. 38 police special and a Remington Model 700. The rifle Cork had used for hunting since he was a young man. The revolver his father had carried as sheriff of Tamarack County, and Cork, too, when he was sheriff.
“Why not sell them?” the old man suggested.
“That just puts them into someone else’s hands, Henry.”
“There will always be other rifles, other guns, Corcoran O’Connor. I can’t keep them all.”
Through the open window, Cork watched his son play and his heart felt heavy. “I’ve killed men, Henry, and convinced myself it was the right thing to do. Now I lie in bed nights thinking about Darrell Gallagher. In his own mind, I’m sure everything he did was justified.”
The dark creases at the corners of the old man’s eyes deepened and Meloux nodded thoughtfully. “In the woods sometimes I find the bones of deer left by the wolves that brought them down. If a deer had a rifle and could shoot the wolves, I expect it would do just that.”
“My life has been steeped in bloodshed, and God help me, some of that was because I wanted it that way. Once you turn to violence as an answer, Henry, it’s hard to stop looking there first. I don’t want my son growing up to be me. I don’t want him to be able to pick up a gun and have it feel like he’s shaking hands with an old friend.”
Meloux, too, looked through the window and watched Stevie at play in the meadow. “I have been told, Corcoran O’Connor, that the heart has two chambers. I believe it because I do know that the heart has two sides. One is love and the other is fear. One creates, the other destroys. Not every person kills, but every person could. It is how the Great Spirit created us. I do not pretend to understand why; I only know it is so.”
“Maybe you can’t alter the human heart, Henry, but you can remove the weapons. Maybe not so many people would kill then or so many die.”
The ancient Mide gave his head a faint shake. “Handing me your firearms won’t by itself change anything.”
“It’s a start.”
“All right,” the old man agreed, though his voice betrayed his skepticism. He reached out with his wrinkled, spotted hands and drew the weapons toward him. “They’ll be here when you need them.”
“I won’t be needing them, Henry.”
“We will see.”
They left the cabin and walked into the sunlit meadow.
“Time to go, Stevie,” Cork called.
His son bestowed on Walleye a prolonged patting in good-bye and came trotting to his father’s side.
“ Migwech, Henry,” Cork said.
Meloux smiled and gave a small shrug, and Cork knew exactly what the old Mide was thinking. It didn’t matter.
Together, father and son walked the path toward the woods that edged the meadow. Halfway there, Stevie said, “I’ll race you, Dad.”
“Okay, but wait until I say go.”
Stevie poised himself as if at a starting line.
“On your mark,” Cork said. “Get set.”
And he took off.
“Hey!” Stevie yelled at his back.
In a few seconds, Stevie had caught up. He ran past Cork, his arms pumping hard, his small strong legs carrying him away. Cork slowed and, as he watched his son, his beloved son, racing away from him, he was struck with an overwhelming and inexplicable sadness. In only a moment, Stevie had sprinted out of the sunlight, entered the shadow of the deep forest ahead, and disappeared from his father’s sight.
