Hunter’s Dance (2 page)

He already knew the answer to that. He'd warned Bambi Morlen to stay away from Marvin, but what could he say in a similar vein to Marvin himself? Steer clear of Bambi and his friends, and, while you're at it, stay away from all the other young people, too, and most of the older ones, for that matter? McIntire knew well what being…
different
was like, but also knew that the alienation he'd experienced at various times throughout his life, that still arose from time to time, was nothing compared to the ostracism suffered by the likes of Marvin Wall. Marvin's attempts to find friends among the white youngsters of St. Adele were unlikely to meet with anything but misery. He couldn't tell the kid that. Anyway he was no doubt finding it out for himself.

“We'll get you a ride back to your brother's.” McIntire flipped the knife over in his hand. “This could have gotten you a whole lot worse than a sore nose, Marve.” He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and dealt him one more blow, this time a little below the belt. “It's just as well that your brother's gone home. He wouldn't have been proud of you tonight.”

Marvin stiffened and moved away. “Adam Wall never lets people push him around,” he said, “and that's not the only knife in the world.”

II

He was such a man as women create in their dreams.

Mia Thorsen poured a bucketful of water into the enameled pot and swung it onto the wood range. Water slopped down its sides, sizzling as it hit the hot stove top and sending up a volcano of steam to add to the already sauna-like atmosphere. She opened the stovepipe damper, lifted one of the cast iron lids, and topped the glowing embers with a couple of chunks of birch. The bark caught immediately, spewing out a plume of black smoke in the seconds before she dropped the lid back into place. She picked up a can of coffee and snapped the key off its top.

A sudden breeze swept a cool, inviting breath in through the open kitchen door. Mia hesitated for only a second, placed the key back on the unopened can and surrendered to the siren call, slipping out quickly before anyone could stop her.

It was like a dive into the lake on a sultry summer afternoon. She lifted the braid at the back of her neck and savored the caress of chill fingers on her sticky skin.

Here on the dark side of the hall was an oasis of clear air and blessed solitude. The audience that had collected for the fist fight had gone on to other pursuits. Only a handful of dark figures moved among the parked cars. High school age kids seeking the privacy of back seats, Mia supposed, and people like herself, looking for a few minutes' respite from the noise, the heat, and the soup of odors: sweat, beer, ham, and tobacco—smoked and chewed.

Mia stepped off the porch and wedged herself into a niche between its railing and an overgrown lilac. The music and voices faded into a background rumble that sounded like the roar of the lake on a windy day. She pressed her back against the white clapboards and contemplated the frosty luminescence of the quarter moon floating in a thin layer of cloud.

She wouldn't have much longer before some busybody would come looking for her. It would be a simple thing to walk off through the trees and cut across the field. In ten minutes, maybe less, she could be under the covers of her own bed. No one would be surprised or concerned at her disappearance; it wouldn't be the first time she'd made an unannounced departure from one of St. Adele's social events.

She was in serious danger of giving way to the temptation, wondering if she could risk fetching her coat, when the crunch of footsteps on gravel sounded nearby, and an arrogant voice rang out, “Good evening,
Ma'am
. Arriving a little late,
Ma'am
?”

A surprised gasp and a whoop of laughter followed, and a man appeared around the corner of the building, heading toward the cars. His compact build and a cockiness in his walk were so like her husband that Mia started forward. If Nick was leaving, it wouldn't be without her! She stopped when he reached the glow of the yard light. It wasn't Nick. This man was considerably younger, more of a boy. She felt a clutch deep in her chest when she saw the dark blotch caked over his ear and the thin black trickle snaking to his collar. One of those mixed up in the fight, then. The kid didn't seem to be suffering much from his injuries. He whistled a tune through his teeth and strolled confidently across the grass toward a dark-colored sports car. It was the kind that Mia had seen in movies, only big enough for two people, and built so low that they'd be almost sitting on the ground.

When he bent to open the door Mia saw that once again she'd been mistaken. The apparent wound must have been a trick of the light or her mind; the young man's head was adorned only with chestnut waves, slightly mussed but unbloodied.

Two more shadows appeared from among the trees but stayed on the far side of the car. After a few minutes of mumbling and giggles, doubtless over how they'd all fit into the cartoonish vehicle, the three packed themselves in and drove off.

The brisk air that had been so welcome a few minutes before was beginning to feel decidedly frigid. Mia let her conscience, aided by her discomfort, be her guide and ducked back inside.

Eating had replaced dancing and brawling as the activity of choice, and a sizeable, if ragged line meandered along the wall toward the counter.

Mia nudged Sally Fergusen to claim a spoon. She'd spent the last hour and a half lugging water and tending the fire in the cookstove. She had no intention of now being shunted to the further drudgery of washing and drying the tin plates to keep ahead of the hungry throng, or, as Sally would have said, the “hogs bellied up to the trough.” She inserted herself between Sally and Inge Lindstrom, added a blob of quivering red Jell-O to a plate, and slid it across the counter to a waiting Helmi Jarvinen.

Helmi rested her cane on the counter and shouted, “Now don't you worry, I'll be scooting right back to help soon as I'm done with my supper. Then you can get out of there and keep an eye on that husband of yours!”

Mia bent to the snowy head and spoke into Helmi's ear. “But that's why I took this spot, Mrs. Jarvinen. I can keep track of all Nick's shenanigans from here.”

Helmi turned to look over her shoulder, nodded at Mia's wisdom, and shuffled off into the haze, managing the cane and full plate with impressive dexterity.

Mia's position, aided by her height, did give her as generous a view of the room as thick smoke and dim lighting allowed. She spotted Nick weaving among the tables, headed toward the dance floor in the wake of a blue-dressed matron she didn't recognize.

Before they left home Nick had announced his intention of dancing with every woman present, except, he asserted, Lucy Delaney. “I'm a brave man,” he'd said, “but not foolhardy!” He appeared to be well on his way to accomplishing his lofty goal.

As Mia watched, her husband gave a sudden lurch and grabbed for the back of a nearby chair. If the dear man wasn't careful he'd be jeopardizing his hard-won reputation for drinking more and showing it less than any man in Michigan.

“Beans!”

A grubby claw thrust the plate back across the counter. Mia looked down into a mottled face half concealed by a matted rug of iron gray hair. The abundant locks made a marked contrast to the sparse whiskers twitching on his pointy chin. “I like my beans! Toss on another scoop or two!”

She cleared a spot on the already overloaded plate and added a mountain of baked beans.

The bean-lover lifted his greasy hat and shoved a handful of hair under its brim. The sort of vermin that might have set up housekeeping in that cozy thatch did not bear speculation. The mere sight of the unwashed creature made Mia feel doubly the film of grit building up on her own skin. She concentrated her gaze on the wary, red-rimmed eyes.

“Thanks, Missy, I do like my beans.” A stream of tobacco juice arced over the counter to land with a splat in the corner. If Inge had seen it, the guy would soon be little more than the pile of rags he resembled. Mia wouldn't mind throttling him herself. Let John McIntire break up another scuffle, earn the two and a half dollars they were paying him to be here. The man met her glare with a jack-o'-lantern grin, stuck a fork and knife into his shirt pocket, and picked up the plate.

Mia watched the skinny shoulders disappear into the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea for his passing. Obnoxious runt. And they'd probably never see that fork again. She wondered how he'd gotten here.

Her speculations were cut short by Sally's nudge to her elbow, and Mia looked up into the face of an angel. The next patron at the trough was definitely no hog. Here was a vision of thick silver-white hair, a gentle smile, and bottomless hazel eyes that said that smile was for her and her alone. The room suddenly became, once again, far too hot. Rivulets of sweat began to flow, sending chill tracks from Mia's armpit to her waist and gluing her blouse to her rib cage. She felt an overwhelming desire to scramble over the counter and nestle into the stranger's sweater-covered chest.

“No beans, thank you. Give my share to Yosemite Sam there.” The man picked up his plate and bestowed his intimate smile on Evelyn Turner, who led him off, stuck to his side like a leech.

Sally poked her again. “Do you know that guy?”

“Never seen him before,” Mia answered, without taking her eyes off the dampish curls at the back of his neck. No, they weren't long enough to be curls. Just endearing little wisps of silver lying on suntanned skin. The man found a seat and was descended upon by a group of middle-aged women who suddenly remembered that they had not yet paid their respects to Mrs. Turner. Mia had the feeling that, if the enchanting newcomer stuck around, they'd all be hearing plenty of him. Nick might have more than his reputation as chief imbiber to look out for.

III

Can anyone whose soul has been filled with legends ever free himself of their dominion?

Adam Wall lived in a twenty-five foot trailer house wedged among the stately beech trees that fringed the shore of Lake Superior. He'd hauled it over the ice the previous winter. This time of year his home was accessible either by water or a half-mile footpath that led from the grounds of his parents' only slightly more impressive dwelling.

McIntire chose to walk, even though it would mean a staring match, or worse, with Charlie and Eleanor Wall's two dogs, animals that Charlie proudly claimed to be “purebred Australian shepherds.” McIntire might not be an expert on canine pedigrees, but even he could see that these two brindled brutes weren't pure anything except evil. This morning they occupied their usual positions on the faded boards of the Walls' front porch, chins on paws, eyes lazy yellow slits. He left the car at the end of the short driveway and set out, with feigned confidence, toward the yard.

On his first step, four bristled ears lifted almost imperceptibly. On his second, the two sets of malevolent eyes opened and locked on his. On his third step, the pair rose as one, silent, languid, not a wasted movement, block-like front quarters slowly coming erect, then a momentary hesitation before the haunches followed in one sinuous movement. On his fifth step the blankets of hair on the shoulders rose up. McIntire decided against a sixth step.

The Walls' Plymouth was not in the yard. They'd likely gone to Mass in Aura; no hope of rescue from that quarter. But McIntire knew his part in this minor pageant, and he played it out as he had many times before.

Adam Wall's Ford pickup sat on low tires in its customary spot under a willow tree at the side of the drive. McIntire sidled up to it, and, without taking his eyes off the twin hounds of hell, felt for the door handle, pulled it open, and gave a short blast on the horn. The sound was met with a ferocious baying, not from the alleged Australian shepherds but from the beagle belonging to Sulo Touminen across the road. Without so much as a snarl in his direction, the sentinels abandoned their post and barreled down the driveway in gleeful pursuit of the canine interloper. McIntire, wishing he wasn't too dignified to sprint a little himself, walked very fast between the house and barn and headed for the sanctuary of the woods.

He might have elected to face off with devil dogs rather than taking the water route, even if he hadn't had a lifelong antipathy to all forms of water craft. This was the kind of day made for walking. The annual premature death of the Northern Michigan equivalent of summer was not without its compensations. Autumn could, at times, seem almost worth the pain of the winter that would follow. At least for now, he could luxuriate in the butterscotch light filtering through the flame colored canopy, temporarily forgetting that it presaged months when his life would be centered around little more than shuffling firewood and snow. Winter was something he seldom allowed himself to contemplate until he stood thigh deep in white. If he really thought about it, he feared he'd soon be packing up his fishing rods and his wife and boarding the first train south, or a plane heading back across the Atlantic.

He breathed deeply. Maybe if he sucked enough of the undefiled air into his lungs, he could clear out the residue of the semi-solid atmosphere that had filled the town hall the night before. Leonie had commented that she came home feeling like a chimney sweep. Just before falling asleep she had mumbled, in a voice conveying a mixture of dismay and awe, “When one bathes after an evening of dancing, one doesn't quite expect to see mud running down the plug hole.”

McIntire strolled along the sandy path as the yipping of the thwarted dogs faded. Dogs, he thought, had to be among the most brainless creatures on earth. What did it say about Man that he had selected such mental deficients to be his best friend?

The trail ran gradually downhill, and almost too soon a sliver of water showed through the trees. He'd often envied Adam Wall his uncomplicated existence, a little fishing, a little hunting, waking up each morning to nothing but the sounds of the earth and the sight of the single biggest accumulation of fresh water she had to offer. McIntire had visited several times in the months that Adam Wall had lived here. Wall's little hunting and little fishing were frequently conducted with amazingly little regard for state game laws.

Adam Wall also played a little chess. The constable's official calls more often than not stretched into a few hours spent hunched over a board set up on a stump with McIntire agonizing over each move, while the younger man dozed, smoked, and in general paid scant attention to the game until he unfailingly administered the
coup de grâce
. McIntire had his suspicions about how much of the apparent unconcern was genuine. Adam Wall wasn't clairvoyant. He had to be putting a bit of thought into things. The guy should have taken up poker.

When the play got really slow, Wall whiled away the time by imparting to McIntire what he knew of the Chippewa language. Chippewa was the only tongue common to Flambeau County in which McIntire could not claim fluency. It was a deficit he planned to attend to someday, but he would need to find a more knowledgeable teacher than Adam Wall.

The Good Life notwithstanding, Wall's lakeside estate looked anything but idyllic. The trailer, well-traveled long before Adam got hold of it, hadn't been improved by the trip over the ice. It sat propped on concrete blocks, listing to the west, shedding bits of its outer covering like a molting aluminum goose. An open lean-to stacked to the beams with firewood and a pretentiously large white-painted outdoor biffy, with a window overlooking the lake, completed the homestead.

McIntire found Wall standing with both feet in an oversized wooden bucket, clutching a pole of peeled aspen in his hands. One end of this staff was planted on the ground, and he leaned onto it while energetically rotating his hips. He nodded in McIntire's direction but didn't slacken in his mysterious gyrations. McIntire walked to him and peered into the bucket. Adam Wall's booted feet, none too clean, trod several inches of wild rice.

“Thank God,” McIntire said, “for a while there I thought you were trying to pole your way to town in that tub.”

“Got to get the husks off,” Wall panted. Using the pole for balance, he stepped out onto the grass. He squatted to sift the insubstantial looking grain through his fingers, gave a satisfied “humph,” and dipped out a portion into a shallow birchbark basket. Shaking the basket lightly, he allowed the breeze to winnow away the loosened husks.

McIntire watched, fascinated. It was a procedure he hadn't seen before. Wall hadn't learned it from his parents. Charlie and Eleanor didn't bother much with the practices of their forebears, but their son had returned from his stint in the army, according to Charlie, “more Indian than Sitting Bull.”

Only when he had dumped the stripped kernels into a dented pail and set the basket down on a rusty metal chair did he turn to his visitor. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were lines of fatigue on his face. “This about my brother?” he asked.

McIntire nodded and handed him the puukko. “So he told you about the fight?”

“Fight? Nah, I ain't heard about no fight.” The upward lilt of Wall's voice made it sound like a question. “But I can't think of anything illegal I've done lately that would interest you. I got a feeling you didn't cut into your Sunday fishing just to pass the time of day. And,” he added, “I do know that boy's having a hard time.”

Maybe the man
was
clairvoyant. “He'd be having a hell of a lot worse time if he'd gotten the chance to use that thing,” McIntire said.

“Thank you for returning it.” The words sounded strangely formal. Wall snapped open the sheath and held the knife up to the light. “It was Grandpa's. The old man always said ‘life circles around.' Looks like he was right about that. Grandpa got this the same way you did. Took it off a drunken Finlander when he was breaking up a fight. But he wouldn't even have thought of giving it back. Confiscated property was one of the fringe benefits.” He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. “Those Finns really know how to make a knife.” He shoved the implement back into the sheath and stuck it into his belt. “Who'd Marve try to cut? He was drinking, I suppose?”

“He wasn't drunk that I could see. He got in a mix-up with a kid from the Club over in Thunder Bay.”

Adam bent to scoop up another basket of rice. “Ah, talk about things going in circles, I don't guess Grandpa'd have been overly upset about his knife being used on one of that bunch of assholes.”

“Walleye was hardly alone in those sentiments,” McIntire commented. “Did your grandfather have something against the Clubbers? Something that was out of the ordinary, I mean.”

“It was one of them shot him in the foot. He was only a kid, maybe about Marve's age, when it happened. It was his first day back home after he got out of the boarding school. He didn't realize that the lake he'd fished all his life had got to be part of their private territory. He met up with some vacationing banker and ended up losing two toes.”

A distant look came into Wall's eyes and he sat down heavily on the chair, cradling the basket in his lap. “God, do you realize how long ago that was? When my Grandfather was born, the Civil War hadn't ended yet. This was a different world then, a…
primeval
world. Life had gone on the same here for thousands of years. But think of the changes that old man saw in the time he spent on this earth. Not all of them good.” His fingers caressed the bone handle of the puukko. “Hardly any of them good.” He looked up with an apologetic smile. “Anyway, he always wanted to get back at the son-of-a-bitch that shot him. Maybe it's his spirit just now getting around to it.'

“His spirit might have picked a more likely avenging angel than your brother. As you might have noticed, Marvin got the worst of this battle.”

Wall looked quickly down, stirred his rice and picked out a stray pine needle. “Oh, well, Grandpa'd take revenge anywhere he could get it. He was an adaptable guy. He knew how to make the best of most any situation that came along. I guess that's why he got on so well in the world, changes or no. Even losing those toes had its bright side, he said. He had to fill out his shoe with wool, and that foot always stayed nice and warm even when his other one was freezing.” He stood up, dumped the rice, and asked, “You know what started the fight?”

“Just ordinary horsing around. The Club kid throwing his weight around, girls, the usual.” No need to mention the “redskin” ingredient. Adam Wall could surmise the meaning of “usual.”

“You sure about that?”

“Why? Do you think it might have been something else?”

“No. Hell, how would I know? I wasn't there.” He gazed thoughtfully toward the sun. “It's only that Ma always taught us that if we were going to use a knife on somebody we'd better have a damn good reason.” McIntire felt his jaw drop slightly. Adam Wall's contemplative aspect was obliterated by a broad grin, and McIntire wondered if the day would ever come when he was no longer such a perfect patsy for his neighbors' ribbing.

Still he couldn't help but remember that Adam Wall spent four years of war on active duty, and undoubtedly had ‘damn good reasons' for using a weapon plenty of times.

A trio of mallards sailed low over the water, thought better of making a landing, and lifted off again. A wise move. It was past time they should be long gone.

McIntire followed their example and turned to leave. “Well, keep an eye on your brother. The other kids see he's got a temper, and they're gonna bait him every chance they get.” It hadn't escaped McIntire's notice that Marvin was lending neither hand nor foot to the rice processing. He glanced toward the trailer. “Hope he got home okay last night. I went to fetch Guibard to look at his nose, but he took off before we got back.”

Adam Wall picked up the old pillowcase containing his rice and poured a short stream into the tub. He replied with his back to McIntire. “I haven't seen Marve. He'd have stayed with Ma. He wouldn't walk out here in the middle of the night.”

He stepped into the tub, and McIntire left him to his jitterbugging.

***

If someone wanted to murder Charlie and Eleanor Wall in their beds, they would have only to circle around the barn and approach the house from the rear. The canine sentries had nothing against those who didn't arrive by the main road. They thumped their tails in tandem when McIntire stepped onto the porch to tap on the elder Walls' door, thinking to check on the state of Marvin's nose. He got no answer. Marvin had either gone with his parents or was keeping out of sight.

He felt more relief than disappointment. He'd done his job now and could get back to his own life.

As he walked back to his car, a movement in the trees at the edge of the yard caught his eye. He guessed what it was and checked himself in time to keep from turning. Twyla Wall, Walleye's widow and a living ghost. He knew that if he looked in her direction she would evaporate like a fragment of mist. McIntire kept his head down and studied her in his rearview mirror. She stood watching him over her armload of firewood, a shadow within the larger shadow of a giant pine. How could anyone shrouded to the ground in a tattered brown wool coat appear so ephemeral? Wisps of pale hair floated about her head like a halo of spider's webs loosed from a braid that dangled over her shoulder and hung almost to the coat's hem. Walleye's life may have been a story of acquiescing to change, but his wife had not succumbed. She had somehow managed to carry that “primeval world” with her, maybe by simply refusing to acknowledge any other. McIntire had once asked Charlie if his mother spoke English. “I don't know,” he'd answered, “she doesn't like to talk.”

He lifted his head and raised his hand in salute. The sharp black eyes met his for the briefest possible span of time before the old woman, with no discernible movement, vanished, leaving McIntire to wonder if she'd been there at all. Maybe she really
was
a ghost. Would death alter her existence in any way, or would she simply continue as she had in life, alternately materializing and fading until her spirit finally tired and dissolved forever?