with his mother from the West, though from where exactly seemed a bit of a mystery. Although there was clearly Indian in Jubal’s blood, his mother didn’t look Indian at all. And while Cork knew that looks alone didn’t tell the whole genetic story, he figured that it was probably Jubal’s father from whom the son had inherited his appearance. But Jubal had arrived in Aurora without a father, and no one, as far as Cork knew, understood the why of that situation.
Jubal’s mother worked as a waitress at Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler. She was pleasant and pretty, a slender blonde with a ready smile but with eyes that always seemed a little sad. On Friday nights, Cork’s family often ate at the Broiler, taking advantage of the best all-you-can-eat fish fry in the whole North Country. Whenever Jubal’s mother waited on them, Cork found her immensely likable. His father said she lived with her widowed sister on the west side of town, and his mother said that she often ran into her in the library. Jubal’s mom was, apparently, a voracious reader. One evening at the Broiler, Cork told her that he knew Jubal, and she seemed oddly pleased, as if happy to hear that Jubal might have a friend. Cork didn’t tell her that they weren’t close.
But for tragedy, he and Jubal might have gone their whole lives living in the same town with no real relationship. In the fall of Cork’s seventh-grade year, however, his father was killed, shot down in the line of duty. And that changed everything.
Liam O’Connor died in October, and for a very long time afterward, Cork’s world lay under a constant gray overcast. He held his grief inside, however, and outwardly went about his days as if losing a father was something he knew how to handle. Partly it was because people were awkward around him, especially his friends, who behaved toward him in a way that made him feel as if he had a terrible illness of some kind. And partly it was because he had no idea at all how to wrap his understanding around so stunning a loss. His mother tried to help, but because she had her own grief to deal with, he didn’t want to burden her any further. In his own mind, he was the man of the house now, and he had to step up to his responsibilities. Almost every night, he stuffed his face into his pillow and wept, smothering the sound so that no one would hear.
The truth, which he didn’t understand until much later, was that he kept his grief deep inside because he didn’t want to give it up. He was afraid that to let go of his grief would be to let go of his father forever.
Aurora Junior High School had a flag football team, and Cork was on it. After his father died, Cork continued to play. He was tall for his age and lean. He was also fast and elusive and was tapped to play end. The team’s quarterback was Jubal Little, who had a powerful arm and a natural feel for strategy. Games were played on Friday afternoons, usually immediately after school. Two weeks after Cork watched his father’s coffin lowered into the earth, the team played its final game of that season in the town of Virginia, an hour bus ride from Aurora.
Cork always remembered that afternoon as overcast, which may or may not have been true. The teams were pretty evenly matched, but with less than a minute left to go, Aurora was behind by a touchdown. Jubal had moved the ball within scoring distance. In the huddle, he looked to Cork and said, “Can you get free?”
Cork said he could.
At the snap, Cork gave an inside fake to the kid who defended him, then cut for the corner of the end zone. A safety moved to cover, closing quickly. When Cork looked back, Jubal had already lofted the ball in his direction. Crossing the line of the end zone, he had two steps on his opponent. His hands were up and the ball sailed into them. Then it slipped free. Cork tried to readjust, turning in midstride, bobbling the ball. In the next instant, it was in the hands of the Virginia safety, and the game was over.
No one blamed him openly, and the coach, a decent man named Porter, told them they’d played a hell of a game and had nothing to be ashamed of. The bus ride home was quiet, and when they arrived at the junior high and disembarked, Cork walked away alone.
He didn’t hear Jubal Little coming up behind him, but the big kid was suddenly at his side.
“Mind if I walk with you?” Jubal asked.
Cork shrugged. “I was thinking of going to Sam’s Place to get a burger.”
“I could use a bite,” Jubal said.
They walked a bit without talking. It was evening by then, the sky a gloomy gray-blue. The town was quiet, and their sneakers slapped softly on the pavement.
“It was a good season,” Jubal finally said.
“I wish it had ended better.”
Jubal laughed. “It was just a game, and a pretty good one.”
“I lost it for us.”
“Bullshit. We had plenty of chances to win it. They just played a little better today. Next time it’ll be different.”
“I hope so.”
“You’re good,” Jubal said. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
When they got to Sam’s Place, Sam Winter Moon greeted Cork through the serving window with “Boozhoo,” a common Ojibwe greeting. “So how’d it go?”
“We lost,” Cork said.
“But we played a good game,” Jubal tossed in.
“Well there you go.” Sam smiled at Jubal. “ Boozhoo. I’ve seen you around, but I haven’t caught your name.”
“Jubal Little.”
“Sam Winter Moon.” He stuck his hand through the open serving window, and Jubal took it. “Tell you what. Dinner’s on me today. What’ll you guys have?”
They sat at the picnic table under a big red pine near the shoreline, and each of them ate a Sam’s Super and a chocolate shake.
“What does boozhoo mean?” Jubal asked.
“It’s kind of like saying ‘howdy.’ Sam thinks you’re Ojibwe. You look Indian.”
In a way, Cork meant it as an opening, hoping Jubal might say something about his past.
“You seem to know him pretty well,” Jubal said.
“My father and him were good friends.”
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Cork bit into his burger and swung his eyes out across the lake. The evening was windless, the water flat and empty.
“I lost my father, too,” Jubal said.
“When?”
“Couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You get over it,” Jubal said with an unconvincing shrug.
Cork wanted to ask how it had happened but thought maybe that was stepping across a line.
A car drove up to Sam’s Place, and a bunch of high school kids piled out. Donner Bigby was among them. Jubal stopped eating and watched the small crowd gather at the serving window and order. Bigby noticed them and said something to the others. A lot of eyes swung their way.
Jubal said quietly, “Bigs ever bother Winona Crane and her brother?”
“Not that I know of,” Cork said.
“You fixed him pretty good that day in Grant Park.”
Jubal eyed Bigby. “Guy like that, it’s just a matter of time before you have to fix him again.”
Bigby and the others took their food and drove away. Cork and Jubal stood up from the picnic table and got ready to leave. The light was almost gone from the sky. A flight of Canada geese coming from the north swung in a loose V over Iron Lake and came to rest on the water, which was gunmetal gray and looked cold. It was nearing the end of October, and already Cork could sense winter in the air. But he felt a little better at that moment, a little more connected, and he knew it was because of Jubal.
“I gotta get home,” Jubal said.
“Me, too.”
“I’m thinking of putting together a touch football game tomorrow. You interested? You could use the practice.” Jubal gave him an easy grin.
“Sure,” Cork said. “Thanks.”
In the dusk, they went their separate ways, Jubal to his fatherless home and Cork to his.
