“Potpie,” she said, and went back to fill her mop bucket.
Oh god. Barnes was hungry. He was always hungry. And potpie was his favorite, or second or third favorite, of her reliables. She used lard from St. John in the rich crust, and got her chickens over the border from a Hutterite colony. The Pembina potatoes, which she picked every year herself, and hoarded, were small and new because it was September. The carrots were perfectly cooked through but not mushy. The lightly salted golden gravy. The soft tiles of onions, browned first. She had sprinkled in a liberal amount of Zanzibar pepper. When he finished, he bowed his head. Juggie was the reason that some of the teachers renewed their contracts, and it wasn’t hard to see the source of her power over Superintendent Tosk.
Barnes sighed and brought the pie plate over to the counter.
“You outdid yourself.”
“Huh. Got a smoke?”
“No. I really quit this time.”
“Me too.”
They both paused, in case . . .
“Let me finish my floor,” said Juggie. Then she stood straight up, narrowed her eyes, glanced around, and plucked a wrapped parcel from under the counter. Supper, for her son. She shoved it toward Barnes.
Wood Mountain was already at the gym. Barnes found him at the sawdust bag. Little puffs of dust popped from the burlap when Wood Mountain struck with his left. He had more power in his left, though he was right-handed. Barnes put the package down by the neat roll of clothing that Wood Mountain had brought with him. He was Juggie’s son with Archille Iron Bear, a Sioux man whose grandfather had traveled north with Sitting Bull, on the run after Little Big Horn. A few families had stayed in Canada, some at a sheltered spot on the plains called Wood Mountain. Most people had forgotten the actual name of Juggie’s son and called him by the place his father had come from.
“Looking good,” said Barnes, shedding his jacket.
Barnes picked up a pad he’d sewed together from old horse blankets, more sawdust inside. He held it up and danced it around for Wood Mountain to hit. There was a ragged circle of red cloth stitched onto it. Barnes changed the location of the circle every few days.
“You’re clenching up before the strike. Relax,” he said.
Wood Mountain stopped and bounced, his arms dangling loose. Then he started again. Barnes’s forearms began to ache, absorbing shock after shock behind the pad. It was good he’d stepped out of the ring before Wood Mountain got there. Barnes was taller, but the two of them fought the same weight class. Both middleweights, topping out at 170, usually, though now Barnes weighed more. He blamed Juggie.
Noko
Thomas drifted to the surface of his sleep. He heard the mice, skittering pleasantly behind the plaster and reed insulation against the roof. He heard a car drive up, then the buggy his father still kept. Rose and the girls were hooting and laughing. The babies shrieking. He was too buoyant. He tried to weight himself, to sink back under the surface of the noises. He pulled the pillow over his head, and was gone. The next time he came to, the sun was paler, the light half spent, and his body had relaxed into such a pleasant torpor that he was pinned to the thin mattress. He finally loosened himself and left the old house, walked to the little house, into the kitchen.
Sharlo, his daughter, was a sharp, lively senior in high school, dark hair pin-curled every night, jeans rolled up her ankles, checkered blouse, sweater, saddle shoes. Fee was quieter, just eleven, dreaming as she worked the pedal on the butter churn. Rose was frying onions and potatoes. Wade was in and out, popping air punches, supposedly filling the woodbox.
And the babies, oh the babies were always up to something. One was blubbering lightly in sleep and one was trying to get his chubby foot into his mouth.
Rose had a kettle of hot water ready on the stove. She gestured at the basin. He poured a measure into the bowl, and she added a dipperful of cold from the water can. After Thomas washed, he whisked up lather in his copper shaving mug, dabbed the foam on his upper lip. The small square mirror in its carved wooden frame belonged to Rose. It was made of good thick glass, well silvered. She had brought it with her when they married. Thomas had about forty whiskers on his face. He stropped his razor, elaborately shaved them off. Then he stripped to his waist and used a cloth to wipe himself clean. He took the cloth and bowl into the bedroom to complete the job.
Rose’s mother was dozing on a chair beside the washing table. Noko snored lightly, head bowed. Her fragile old skull was bound in a brown head scarf, tiny shell disks hung from the drooping petals of her earlobes. Her gnarled hands rested in her lap. She twitched, dreaming. Then her head jerked up, her lips pulled back, and she hissed like a cat.
“What is it, Momma?”
“Gardipee! He’s at it again!”
“Gawiin, it’s okay, that was a long time ago,” said Rose.
“He’s right there,” she said. “He busted in again!”
“No, Momma. That’s Thomas.”
The old woman glared suspiciously.
“That man’s old. Thomas is a young man,” she said.
Rose put her hand over her mouth to hide her laugh.
“What, Noko, don’t you think I’m young anymore?” Thomas grinned.
“I’m not a fool, akiwenzi. You’re not Thomas.”
The old woman said this with firm indignation, and slowly folded her skinny arms. She remained like that, watching every move Thomas made. He sat down at the table.
“What are you here for?” She narrowed her eyes as he ate the plate of fried mush Rose put in front of him. “Are you after my daughter?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Noko, I’m Thomas. I got old. I couldn’t help it.”
“Rose is old too.” Noko widened her eyes and looked helplessly at her daughter, whose hair was nearly all gray.
“Rose is old. Rose is old,” said Noko, in a wondering voice.
“You’re old too,” said Rose, irritated.
“Maybe,” said Noko, sneaking a crafty look at Thomas. “You gonna take me back home? I’m damn sick of this place.”
“Stop talking like that to him,” Rose cried out.
It was difficult for her when Noko became too estranged from this life. She yelled, as if that would jolt Noko back into the reality they’d once shared. Now, overcome, Rose picked up an armload of laundry and rushed out to the shed, where her wringer washer was set up. Thomas heard the gurgle of the last of the water and remembered how she held the washing back so he could sleep.The rain barrel was empty. He’d better hop to and fill the cans at the well by the lake. He touched Noko’s hand and said, “You’re tired. Can I walk you over to your bed, so you can sleep?”
“I can’t get out of my chair.”
“I’ll help you up,” said Thomas.
“I’m stuck.”
Thomas looked down and saw that Noko’s long thick white hair had wrapped around the doorknob. Sharlo loved to comb her grandmother’s hair and had left it loose.
“Come here, Sharlo,” he called, and together they unwrapped the hair.
“Oh, Noko,” said Sharlo. “I tangled up your hair!”
“Don’t you worry, my girl,” said the old woman, stroking Sharlo’s face. “Nothing you can do could hurt me.”