Eagle, Kathleen (4 page)

"He
looks peaceful, doesn't he?" Carter said.

Helen
nodded as she extended her hand. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank
you." He smiled, but he was already looking around the room for something
or someone else, as though he'd been signaled. She was tempted to check behind
his ears for birds, but Carter was like a bird himself, always keeping an eye
out for the next perch. "Just got here. So many details to look after, you
wouldn't believe it. I had to stop in at the casino, plus call my wife and make
sure she's bringing the kids over." He squeezed her hand quickly before
drawing his away. "You're on the schedule tonight."

"I
know."

"Everything's
going to be closed tomorrow for the funeral. Even the casinos. He'd like that.
Show of respect. His favorite word." He glanced at his father's corpse
again, then back to Helen. "Did you get something to eat?"

"Yes,
thank you."

"Well,
look at this. Isn't that Rick Marino, the basketball player?" Carter
nodded toward the door, where the man who had just entered with a small
entourage was turning heads. If he wasn't a basketball player, his height had
gone to waste. He was the only man in the room who stood taller than Reese, who
was welcoming him with a handshake.

"He's
got a hell of a nerve," Carter said. "He wants to build a big casino
over by Spearfish. He's trying to get the state to change the laws and up the
betting limits to suit his plans. Must be nice to be famous." He shoved
his hands in his pants pockets as he eyed the two giants. "We'll have to
raise the roof to accommodate my brother's friends, won't we?"

"The
door frames at least."

"I
gotta meet this guy. Come on, we'll get an autograph." This remark made
Helen draw a quick scowl. "Just kidding," Carter said. "A
handshake's plenty."

"But
you just said he had a hell of a nerve."

"So
do I. Hell,
we
were here first. We're established. We've got Ten Star
behind us, and Ten Star has deep pockets." Carter smiled, still watching
the two once-famous rivals, who were plainly exchanging friendly words.
"Let him pay his respects to both of us. And to my father." He tapped
her on the arm. "Don't be shy, Helen."

"I'm
not. I have to be on the floor in..." She checked her watch, even though
they both knew she had plenty of time. It was a good opportunity to quietly
withdraw.

"On
second thought, I don't think I want to introduce my best dealer to a
prospective competitor." Her boss excused her with a nod. "Thanks for
coming."

She
left without saying another word to Reese or to Jean. Suddenly there was only
one person she wanted to talk to, and he was five hundred miles away. She found
a phone at the Standard station.

It
was suppertime at camp, the best time to get hold of her son. She tried not to
call too often, but staying away from the phone wasn't easy. This was the first
time he had been away from her for more than a week, and a week had seemed
interminable. Yet he'd wanted this particular summer camp for his birthday. It
had been a major expense for Helen, but he was such a gifted child, and gifted
children needed special gifts, special opportunities. Helen wanted to make up
for what was missing in Sidney's life by giving him more opportunities, often
expensive ones. It was right that she should pay. It was the way of the modern,
guilt-ridden parent.

She
managed a casual greeting when he came on the phone. He'd been too old for a
gushy mother since the day he'd started kindergarten.

"Everything's
great, Mom. Tomorrow we're going backpacking up in the San Juan Mountains.
We're only going to eat what we can harvest on the trail."

Across
the road, three boys were playing marbles in the dirt. She didn't know kids
still played marbles. She smiled. "What if there's nothing to harvest?
It's pretty late in the season, isn't it?"

"There's
always food, Mom. This is a survival test."

"But
you'll have a little trail mix along just in case."

"No
way. That would be, like, wimping out. The counselors might have something
stuffed away in their bag of tricks, but I'll just be roughing it."

"I
sent them a boy; they're sending me back a man?"

"That's
what you're paying them for. I scored fourteen points in basketball last night.
I'm getting pretty good."

She
closed her eyes and nodded, picturing him in his oversized shorts, his hair
sweaty, sticking to his neck. He wanted to let it grow, maybe wear it in
braids. He'd suggested that when he'd been mad at her for a remark someone had
made at school. Someone who was white, like his mother, had made a remark about
his being a half-breed, and he'd told her he didn't like the word, didn't like
it that he never seemed to be or have or do any more than half of something. He
just didn't like the sound of "half," so he was going to go the whole
way and the hell with the white part of him that didn't count for anything
because it was the Indian part that showed more. She'd asked him not to swear,
and he'd ignored her. Hell, he was almost
twelve.

"Sounds
better than pretty good to me. How about your writing?"

"I'm
keeping a journal, which is, like, part of the program. I try to write in it
every day."

"I
was thinking about a letter."

"Jeez,
there's so much going on, Mom. I haven't had time for any letters."

Good
Lord, his voice was changing. He sounded so much older, so much like a man,
like...

I
haven't had time for any letters.
The words could have been Reese's echo.

"So
what have you been up to, Mom?"

"Just
dealing cards, sweetheart."

"Not
just.
You're on a case, right?"

She
laughed. "You make me sound like 'Bond. Jane Bond.' " Sidney did the
accent better than she did. "Yes, but I'll have it wrapped up by the time
your program is over."

"You're
letting me stay through both sessions, right?"

"Is
that what you want to do?"

She
heard her own hesitancy, and she wanted to attribute it strictly to the fact
that this would be a long separation, the longest she and her son had ever
experienced, and it was too soon for him to be easy with it. He was still a
boy. She wasn't Mommy anymore, but she was still Mom. And Mom didn't want that
hesitancy to come from any place but her lonely heart. Her son was so far away,
and at this point, she knew she was going to need more time to get her job
done.
Mom
would not allow Helen's slightly shady job to cloud her
noblest instincts. But Helen had a job to do. Helen was the breadwinner.

"You
know what's really cool?" Sidney was saying. "Everybody else in the
program is Indian. I'm not the only one, you know? There's guys from Alaska and
Florida and Montana and New York. They're from all over the place, Mom. But
we're all at least part Indian, and it's cool."

What
had been even cooler was that Helen had not had to provide proof of tribal
enrollment for this program, which was partly funded by federal money. Sidney's
teachers had recommended him, and all she'd had to do was sign a statement that
he had at least one Native American grandparent. She hoped she hadn't risked
any kind of exposure by signing the document and filling in the word
"Lakota" under tribal affiliation. That seemed vague enough. There
were many Lakota tribes.

There
was no documentation of Sidney's affiliation. In the first year of a
twelve-year history of haunting lies, she had put "father unknown" on
his birth certificate. She had never come any closer to overturning that
lie—other than explaining that the reason he looked "different" was
that he was half Indian—than she had when she'd signed his application for the
summer program.

It
had been a good move. He was having a ball. She could hear it in his voice.

"You
can stay, but I want at least one letter a week. Deal?"

"There's
a big deal for parents at the end."

"I'll
be there."

"You
won't believe how much I have to show you."

"I
can't wait."

The
boys across the road had finished their game, and the smallest one was claiming
the winnings.
Something was always wagered,
Roy had said.
Even the
young ones learned to bet what they valued against what they hoped to gain. As
long as you draw breath you will gamble. Everyone does.

"I
miss you, you know."

"I
know. I'll try to write sometime. Listen, I gotta go." But he hung on, and
she did, too, hoping there was more. He cleared his throat. "I miss you,
too, Mom."

***

The
following day Helen attended the funeral of Roy Blue Sky. She stayed at the
edge of the crowd. She waited in line to shake hands with his family. His two
sons, his grandchildren, the daughter Helen had never met but whose stature and
features and regal solemnity were unmistakably Blue Sky.

An
eagle hovered above the mourners as they lowered the casket. It circled when
they dropped gifts into the grave, and it circled still, resplendent against
the clear cerulean sky, as they took turns at the shovels. Women trilled, men
pounded a drum and sang their ancient song, and male and female tears flowed
generously. Helen kept to herself, but she would hold the memory for her son.
He should have been there. By all rights, she knew he should have been there.

She
also knew instinctively, while she listened to the heavy clay fall into the
hole, that Roy's death was no accident. The old man had not been afraid to blow
the whistle, to call for an investigation that could implicate some of the
people who stood around his grave. Management, employees, tribal officials,
even Roy's own son. How many of these people knew about the investigation? Roy
had bypassed Ten Star's in-house monitors and contacted the Bureau of Indian
Affairs, which was the reason Helen was involved. Roy's suspicion that somebody
was taking the tribe to the cleaners was no secret, but had he told anyone that
he'd done more than just make some local noise? Nobody loved a whistle-blower,
and Roy no longer had breath to blow.

But
Helen did. She had breath, skill, and mandate. And she had duty to a friend.

The
woman still made him feel like
King Kong peering over the treetops at
Jessica Lange. He knew damn well she was a different breed, but just the smell
of her hair made him feel like turning cartwheels. The thought of Reese Blue
Sky turning himself into a windmill over a woman made him laugh. Now
that
would
sell tickets.

He
didn't remember exactly how long it had been since he'd seen her—he generally
wasn't one to count the years too precisely—but he hadn't forgotten her. She
was the one who got away. He'd been backward and boyish, desperately hanging
onto the illusion of cool, and she'd walked away when his back was turned. He
should have tied her to a tree when he'd had the chance.

He
pulled the rented Lincoln Town Car up to the casino's main entrance, under the
sprawling portico bearing the Pair-a-Dice City sign, which was impressively
spotlighted at night. But it was early afternoon now, and the parking lot was
two-thirds empty, so he figured this was a good time to drop in. He'd just come
from the Rapid City airport, where he'd put his sister, Rose, on a flight back
to Eugene.

Maybe
he wasn't exactly dropping in. He knew Helen would be there. He'd called a
friend who worked in the front office and asked for her schedule. Truth was, he
didn't much like casinos, but he was curious about Helen's quest for the
perfect job. He was curious about
Helen.
Damn, it had been good to see
her. After they'd gone their separate ways, it hadn't taken her long to hook up
with somebody else and have a kid, but he wasn't going to get hung up on
details. A dozen years would add up to a lot of details. He was just curious
about the big picture. How was Helen, the unforgettable woman who had stolen
his young heart?

The
uniformed valet who opened the car door had finally found his ideal job, if not
the ideal uniform. Elvis Spotted Dog's paunch was about to win the battle with
his shirt buttons, but Reese remembered the way Elvis had loved nothing better
than getting behind the wheel of someone else's car when they were in high
school. He still had the aviator shades and the slick black pompadour. Without
much facial hair, he had never had a serious option of sideburns, but whenever
anyone called him "the King," he fell right into character.

"Hey,
Blue, how's the Big Gun?"

"Still
hangin'. How's the King?"

"The
King lives. Tell the
Enquirer
you saw him yourself on the Indian casino
circuit." Elvis grinned and patted his belly. "Tell them he's still
just a hunk-a hunk-a." With a laugh, he whacked Reese on the shoulder.
"Or a hunk-a
hunka."
With the nasal Lakota inflection and a
shift of emphasis, the word meant
ancestor.
"Ol' El played an
Indian pretty good in that one movie."

"We're
all related, son." Reese's Elvis imitation had the King cackling as he
claimed the driver's seat and immediately started testing out buttons on the
control panel. "You'll be a hunk-a Graceland grits if I find any dents in
this barge."

"This
is one fancy buggy, Blue."

"It's
a rental, and I waived the insurance, so take it easy."

"Mind
if I adjust the seat?"

Reese
laughed. "Don't get yourself wedged in."

The
car started rolling. "Mind if I pop in a tape?"

"Are
they paying you by the hour here?"

Grinning,
the King leaned out the window and adjusted his shades, his chunky Black Hills
gold ring flashing in the sun. "Bet red."

Reese
nodded and tapped on the car roof to send Elvis on his way. It was good to see
people working. He'd lost count of the number of people he'd visited with
during the vigil over his father who had talked about their casino jobs. If the
gaming industry could put a dent in unemployment on the reservation, he was all
for it. But he still didn't like casinos.

He
didn't like the flashing lights or the drifts of smoke or the random
cling-cling-cling
announcing a slot machine payout. He especially didn't like the eyes of
some of the players seated at the machines. Some looked as though they'd been
watching TV for a week. Others resembled those of guys coming off a four-day
drunk. But the eyes that bothered him the most were the brightest ones, the
ones that looked cornered and scared, the desperate ones. A desperate player
was a sure loser. Reese didn't like losers. When he was losing, he didn't much
like himself. But he loved playing the game, and he sure loved winning. Cards
and dice simply didn't enter into it.

The
feeling that he'd lost something with Helen Ketterling had nagged at him
periodically over the years. The nagging had become distant, like somebody
calling to him once in a while from a back room. But now she'd opened the door
and peeked in. Of course, she'd disappeared without a word from his father's
wake, as she had in the past. He had to come looking for her, but that was
okay. Pride wasn't such a big deal to him anymore.

He
rounded the corner on a bank of quarter slots just as an elderly man in bib
overalls and a faded Cargill cap hit paydirt. He looked up at Reese as though
his score was something they might have in common. Reese smiled, gave the guy's
row of cherries its due nod.

"You
stick with her long enough, sooner or later she'll put out," the man said
cheerfully. He bracketed the machine between his thighs while a gush of
quarters tumbled into the tray.

Reese
felt like someone who'd caught himself peering though a keyhole. He turned
away. "I'm looking for the blackjack tables."

"Some
in the middle, some straight back. Depends on what kind of betting limit you're
looking for."

"I'm
looking for a dealer."

Reese
was pulling away, but he could hear the old man raking his change into a
plastic cup. "Not too busy this time of day," the man was saying.
"You can probably have one all to yourself for as long as your chips hold
out."

It
was unsettling to see her standing there, waiting, arranging fans of cards on
the green table. He imagined a forsaken hostess absently playing with the
unused table settings for a party that had never got off the ground. A strand
of summer-gold hair that had escaped from the clip at her nape sketched a long,
lazy .s from her forehead to her delicate chin. Soft, polished, elegant. She
was just as compelling to him now as she had been the first time he'd seen her
coming toward him across the school playground.

Reese
was no card player, but if she had been selling fruitcakes from last Christmas,
he'd be pulling out his billfold.

"What
do I need to get into this game?"

"Money
to burn." She met his gaze, then lifted her chin. "And time."

"Got
those bases covered." But the handful of bills he offered without counting
might well have been aflame, the way she waved them off. "It's perfectly
legal tender," he told her. "Best kind of tinder. Or do I need chips?
They burn, too, but they've gotta be—"

"I
can't take it from your hand. Put it down and I'll exchange it for you."
She counted his cash and announced the amount to the pit boss as she slipped
the money into a slot on her side of the table. She gave him two stacks of
chips. "Is this another one of your games?" she asked quietly,
sliding over two stacks of colored chips.

"Not
unless I get points for flipping the cards into some kind of a hole."

"This
is a twenty-five-dollar table."

"So
the sign says. One of these, right?" He placed a green chip in the box
before him. "Where are you staying?"

"I've
subleased Carmen Benzinger's place. Are the cards to your liking?"

He
remembered he was supposed to see that the required components of all four
decks were there and they weren't marked, a gesture he considered a formality,
like tasting the wine you'd ordered for dinner. Hell, it was...
"Fine." She flipped all of them over with a neat domino trick, and he
grinned. "Excellent." He didn't care if she had an ace up each of her
crisp white sleeves. "You're not looking."

"Sure
I am. Show me the Ketterling shuffle."

Her
fine-boned hands fascinated him, so deftly did they handle not one deck but
four. She made it look as though the cards had a life of their own and she was
just keeping them contained while she made conversation.

"You
remember Carmen, don't you? She still teaches biology. She's up at UND for the
summer."

"I
remember her. Your sidekick. I saw her once when I was home, and I asked her
about you." He waited until she glanced up at him. "She said she'd lost
track, never heard from you anymore."

Helen
offered a tight smile. "I'm not very good about keeping in touch."

"Guess
I'm not, either."

"I
saw you on TV a few times, playing basketball."

"You
never watch TV," he recalled.

"Did
I actually say 'never'?" He nodded once, challenging her to admit it. She
handed him a colored cut card. " 'Never' is such a bad word. A surefire
liar-maker."

"Not
if you like double negatives." Which she didn't. He remembered that she'd
corrected him once or twice. He eyed the stack of cards, picked a spot, and
stabbed with the cut card. It figured to be his best move of the game. He
smiled at the dealer. "So you
didn't never
see me play basketball
on TV?"

"Didn't
never."

"Two
negatives equal a positive," he quoted.

"It's
kind of exciting when you actually know someone who's playing." She
dropped the cards into the plastic box, or "shoe," from which she
would deal. Then she "burned" the top card in the discard rack.
"I think I've even dropped your name once or twice."

"Dropped
or drop-kicked?"

"Dribbled."
She brightened as she demonstrated in front of his nose, her pretty hand
tickling the keys of an air piano. "Sprinkled it like holy water when I
thought it might raise the dead. You know, during an uncomfortable lull in the
conversation."

"And
did it?"

"It
worked if there were any serious basketball fans in the room." She
shrugged off any illusions he might be harboring. "Well, your name isn't
exactly Magic."

He
laughed. "Still easy on the eyes and hard on the ego."

"Only
because your ego always seemed invulnerable."

"Really."
He remembered being invulnerable once upon a time, but it was ancient history.
He chuckled. "You didn't know me very long. A piece of a summer."

"Not
very long or very well, really. Except in the biblical sense."

"Is
that what that was? And they said I didn't learn anything at the mission
school."

They
shared a laugh, surprisingly as easy as it was intimate, the response to sweet
memories that were theirs alone.

She
dealt him a ten of clubs.

"What
are you doing in this joint?" he asked. "I thought you liked
teaching."

"I
did." The cards were down. She was showing a nine. "I do. This is the
part where you tell me what you want and I give it to you."

He
looked at his hand. "I want an ace, but a ten or—"

"Tap
the table for a card." He did. She gave him less than he wanted, so he
tapped again. "I love teaching, but this is what I'm doing now."

He
stood on eighteen. She ended up with nineteen. "You're good at it,"
he allowed as she claimed his bet.

"I
know the game, and I enjoy getting paid by the hour to play it. The odds favor
this side of the table." He was still waiting for an answer. She smiled.
"This is just temporary."

"You're
just here for the summer?" He anted up again. "I left abruptly
before. Transferred. Took a job closer to Denver, which is..."

"Where
you came from," he finished for her.

"I've
always wanted to come back to Bad River, though, at least for a visit. I think
I needed closure."

"Closure?"
He glanced at the cards she'd dealt him, then quickly sheltered them, creating
a roof over them with his big hands. He didn't remember what they were except
that one had a face. "Like nailing down the lid on the box?"

What
he wanted from the opposite side of the table in that instant was a real hand,
a human hand, her hand touching his. According to the sign on the table, it was
against the house rules. No contact, no touching. What kind of a game was this?
Sterile at best. You looked down, and there was a cold face, some face of
hearts. The house was cold, the heart was cold.

But,
damn, they weren't his. They were not his shabby house, not his faulty heart,
not
his,
these cold things that created gloom.

I
don't care what's in the cards, just touch my hand.

"I'm
really sorry, Reese."

His
back stiffened. "For what?"

"I
liked your father a lot, and I'm so sorry he's gone."

He
couldn't look at her just now. He nodded. "But now we get this closure
thing, right?" In the absence of touching, sarcasm felt good. He looked at
his cards again. Good hand. Cool, stiff hand, a breaking hand. The kind a cool
guy would play cool, offer a cool smile, cool talk, like, "Put the body in
the box, close the lid, say a few words, and drop him in the ground. Case
closed." Cool, dismissive gesture. "And what a case he was."