CHAPTER 6
The summer before Jubal Little died, Cork and several members of the Iron Lake Ojibwe had helped Rainy Bisonette build a tiny cabin of her own on Crow Point, thirty yards east of Meloux’s, set against a line of aspen that ran along the shore of Iron Lake. Before that, she’d slept on a cot in her great-uncle’s cabin. When she decided that she would stay with the old Mide indefinitely in order to learn all she could from him about healing, word had spread across the rez, and folks had gathered in the meadow to give her a little place of her own for privacy.
By the time Jubal Little was dead, Cork knew the inside of Rainy’s cabin well. She’d furnished it simply: a bed with a small stand next to it where a kerosene lantern sat so that she could read at night before sleeping; a table and two chairs; an open shelving unit of honey-colored maple that Cork had built for her himself and that held her folded clothing; and a small, cast-iron boxwood stove that provided heat. A wealth of books stood stacked knee- high against one wall. (Cork had promised that he would spend some time during the coming winter building her a substantial bookcase.) Above the bed, she’d hung three photographs of herself with her children, who were now grown. The room still smelled as if the pine walls were newly cut and planed, and whenever Cork spent the night with Rainy he went to sleep and woke with a fragrance that was, to him, the breath of heaven.
They didn’t make love that night but lay together under the soft, heavy quilt and talked.
“Why would someone kill him?” Rainy asked. Her cheek was against his shoulder, and her warm breath ghosted over his bare skin.
“You didn’t know him,” Cork said.
“And if I did, I wouldn’t have to ask?”
“He was a complicated guy. A lot of good in him, and that’s what he showed most people. But there was a dark side to Jubal he didn’t like people to see.”
“But you saw it?”
“Oh yeah.”
“And yet you were still friends.”
Cork said, “I don’t know.”
“You weren’t?”
“We were best friends when we were kids, but people change. We changed.”
“I don’t think the essence of who we are changes much, Cork.”
She was right. Who Jubal was at heart, Jubal had always been. “When we were kids,” Cork said, “it was easy to overlook.”
“What was he like as a kid?”
“Like I said, complicated. He had a reputation for not tolerating bullies. He went to the mat for a lot of kids who couldn’t defend themselves.”
“I heard you were that way, too.” She kissed his shoulder.
“Yeah, but when Jubal stepped into a situation, he could back it up. Me, as often as not, I got my face pushed in.”
“It didn’t stop you from trying.”
“I did it because I thought I had an obligation. It was what I thought my father would have done, or would have wanted me to do. Jubal did it because he could. In a way, it was his form of bullying. He just bullied the bullies.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Complicated.” A wind had come up, and the cabin creaked, and Rainy listened for a moment. “What else?”
“You couldn’t always believe what he told you.”
“He lied?”
“Not exactly. He was kind of a politician even back then. He said things in a way that led you down one track while the absolute truth lay in the track next to it. You were always going in the right direction, just not necessarily on the right path. Do you see?”
“Not really.”
“His father, for example. He told me he’d lost his father, and the way he said it made me believe his father was dead, but that wasn’t true.”
“We all know about his father.”
“Sure, now. Jubal’s been trading on what happened for years. But it was a big secret for him then, and you can understand why.”
Something tapped the window, and they both fell silent.
“An aspen branch,” Rainy said. “The wind.” Then she said, “Tell me more.”
When Cork was fourteen, the summer before he entered high school, he began working for Sam Winter Moon. Sam usually hired high school kids to give him a hand during the season, and Cork became one of them. Because the business Sam ran in the old Quonset hut was not about making a lot of money-he was very Ojibwe in his approach to wealth; what you made you shared-Sam Winter Moon was a peach of a boss, and a lot of kids in Aurora, white and Ojibwe, got their introduction to the working world at Sam’s Place.
Cork had been on the roster at Sam’s for a month when Jubal Little asked if there might be a chance he could work there, too.
“My mom needs some money,” Jubal explained. “I thought maybe I could help.”
Cork understood. His own mother had begun to let out one of the upstairs bedrooms, and there’d been strangers in the house, summer people up to enjoy the season. It was uncomfortable, but a financial necessity. He talked to Sam, explained to him about Jubal’s father being dead and his mother needing extra money, and Sam was congenially accommodating.
Jubal wasn’t only a quick study; he also very soon became the favorite of customers. He had an easy, assured manner and assumed a brash familiarity with everyone that still somehow never quite crossed the line beyond politeness. Folks responded to him in the way they might have a cheeky but beloved cousin.
On Jubal’s first day of work, Sam spoke to him in Ojibwe.
Jubal gave him a blank stare in response.
“Anishinaabe indaaw?” Sam said again, which, Cork knew, meant “Are you one of The People?”
Cork said, “He’s not Indian, Sam.”
“No?”
Sam laid his dark eyes on Jubal, who held steady under their gaze, smiled amiably, and said, “Nope. I’m all American.”
Sam nodded and replied gently, “So am I, son.”
It was a good summer, working with Jubal. Cork had many friends, but he began to think of Jubal as the best of them. They fished together on Iron Lake, and floated down Mercy Creek in inner tubes, played baseball, and went to the Rialto Theater on Saturday nights when they weren’t working at Sam’s Place. They biked the ten miles to the Ojibwe reservation on the far side of Iron Lake to visit Cork’s grandmother Dilsey, who lived at the edge of Allouette, the larger of the two rez communities, and who took an immediate liking to Jubal. Whenever they were in Allouette, Cork kept an eye out for Winona Crane, who’d begun to dominate his thinking in a way that made him intense and nervous. Occasionally he’d run into her in town with Willie, and whenever he first caught sight of her, dark-eyed and willowy, his heart always did a little ballet leap.
One day in late August, Cork invited Jubal to go ricing. This was an annual, seasonal tradition for the Anishinaabeg, one Cork loved being a part of. His mother took them to Allouette in her station wagon and dropped them in front of George LeDuc’s general store, which also functioned as the town’s post office. That day, LeDuc had turned operation of the store over to his wife. He greeted them both with a hearty “Anish na?” which meant “How are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but said to Jubal, “I’m betting I can get a good day’s work from you.”
“Yes, sir,” Jubal said.
LeDuc was black-bear big. He had a long ponytail, a broad, honest face, and dark eyes that danced nimbly over the boys and were full of good humor. “Sir?” He laughed. “ ’Preciate your manners, but you can call me George.
