The trail cut through national forest land for a while, then entered the rez. We crossed Wine Creek and a few minutes later broke from the trees. Fifty yards ahead stood Meloux’s cabin, an ancient structure but sturdy, made of cedar logs with a shake roof covered by birch bark. Meloux had built the cabin himself, and as long as I’d known him, had lived there year-round. He had no running water, no indoor plumbing. He used an outhouse.
The door was open. As we approached, something in the dark inside the cabin moved. A long, yellow face appeared, big brown eyes patiently watching us come.
“Walleye,” Stevie called and raced toward the dog.
The mutt padded out, tail wagging.
Many rural people in Tamarack County keep dogs. They have them for a variety of reasons. Companionship, of course. But also security. A dog will bark a warning. Not Walleye. Or at least, not when it was Stevie coming. The two had become good friends over the past couple of years. Stevie threw his arms around the big mutt and buried his face in Walleye’s fur.
“Hey, boy, how you been?” he said. “Missed me?”
I gave the dog’s head a good patting and stepped through the doorway into the cabin.
The structure was a single room. Meloux’s bunk was against one wall. In the center near the potbelly stove stood a table with a few chairs around it. The four windows had curtains that had been a gift from one of the old man’s nieces. On the walls hung a number of items that harked back to a different time: a deer-prong pipe, a birch-bark basket, a small toboggan, a Skelly gas station calendar nearly sixty years out of date.
Stevie came up beside me. “He didn’t close his door.”
“I’m sure he thought he’d be back soon and left it open so Walleye could come and go as he pleased.”
“He never locks his door. Isn’t he afraid someone’s going to steal from him?”
“I think Henry believes that what’s in here wouldn’t interest anyone but him.”
“I think it’s cool stuff.”
“So do I, Stevie.”
Meloux had told me to look under the bunk for the watch. I crossed the floorboards, knelt, and peered into the dark beneath the bed frame. Shoved into a far corner against the wall was a wooden box. I lay down on my belly, stretched out my arm, snagged the box, and pulled it into the light. It was cedar, ten inches long, six inches wide and deep. Carved into the top was an image of animikii, the Thunderbird. Under the bed, undisturbed, it should have had some dust on it, a few cobwebs attached, but the box was clean. Meloux had handled it recently. I opened the lid. Inside, on top of a stack of folded papers, lay a gold pocket watch.
I picked up the watch and snapped it open. Opposite the watch face was a tiny photograph of a handsome young woman with long black hair.
Stevie looked over my shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Not what, Stevie. Who. Her name is Maria Lima.”
“That picture looks old.”
“It is. More than seventy years old.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Keep it, for now. I might need it.”
“Why?”
“Henry asked me to do something for him. Two things actually. And one of them was to take care of Walleye.”
I put the watch in my shirt pocket, closed the box, and slid it back into the corner where I’d found it.
“If Henry is in the hospital, maybe we should stay out here,” Stevie suggested. “So Walleye won’t get lonely.”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t we take him home?”
“Really?” A huge, eager smile bloomed on his face.
“Just until Henry’s better.” Though I didn’t know if that was going to happen.
Walleye had padded into the cabin behind us and sat on his haunches, watching. Stevie turned to him and scratched the fur at the dog’s neck.
“You want to come home with us, boy? I’ll take good care of you.”
Walleye’s tail swept back and forth across the floor.
“Come on, boy. Come on, Walleye.” Stevie slapped the side of his leg and headed out with the dog at his heels.
I closed the door behind us. There was no lock.
Walleye paused beside me, looked back at the closed door, then followed my son, who danced ahead of us down the trail as if he were the Pied Piper.
SIX
That night when I walked in from closing up Sam’s Place, Jo was sitting on the living room sofa, reading a book. She looked up and smiled. “Good night at Sam’s?”
“We made a buck or two.” I kissed the top of her head and sat down beside her. “Where’s Walleye?”
“Sleeping with Stevie.”
I was surprised. That afternoon when she saw the dog follow Stevie through the front door, she hadn’t been happy. I’d explained my dilemma, and she reluctantly relented. She wouldn’t allow the dog in the house, however. Not only because Walleye had come from the woods and might have ticks or fleas but, more important, because Jenny was allergic to dogs. And cats, too. Our pets had always been turtles and fish, and once we had a canary that wouldn’t shut up. Jenny named it The Artist Formerly Known As Tweety. We called it Art.
“We put up a tent in the backyard,” Jo said. “They’re both out there. Is Jenny with Sean?”
“Yeah. She promised to be home by midnight. So now do I finally get to hear what the big secret is?”
Jo closed her book and set it on the end table. She composed herself. I’d seen her do this sometimes before difficult summations in court. It didn’t do a lot to reassure me.
“Sean’s not going back to Macalester this fall,” she began calmly. “He’s taking the money in his bank account and using it to go to Paris to live for a year.”
“Do his folks know that?”
“As I understand it, not yet.”
“Can’t imagine that’s going to please Lane. He’s been counting on Sean to finish his degree and take over the pharmacy. What’s this got to do with Jenny?”
“Sean wants her to go with him.”
“That’s it?” I laughed with relief. “Hell, Jenny’s too sensible for that.”
Jo didn’t laugh.
“Isn’t she?”
“She’s thinking about it, Cork.”
“Running off to Europe instead of college? And what? She and Sean’ll live together?”
“She thinks Sean’s going to ask her to marry him first.”
“Oh, Christ.”
I couldn’t sit still. I got up and began pacing.
Jenny’s the academic in the family, takes after her mother. That June, she’d graduated from high school, valedictorian. For a long time, she’d had her sights set on Northwestern University, in Evanston, Illinois. It was her mother’s alma mater and had an excellent writing program. When she’d gone with Jo to look at the school, horrible things had happened-not to her but to Jo-and the result was that the idea of attending Northwestern had turned bitter. She’d chosen the University of Iowa instead, hoping eventually to be accepted into the writing workshop, which she said had a terrific reputation. Robert Frost had taught there, and Robert Penn Warren. We did the financial calculations, Jo and I, and told Jenny that we could foot the bill for out-of-state tuition for the first couple of years without help. Or she could do her best to get a scholarship and we might be able to give her a hand all four years. Like her mother, whenever she puts her mind to something, she makes it happen. She got a good scholarship. And a couple of grants, and a hefty student loan, and the promise of a job on campus. Jo and I still
