A Certain Kind of Hero (9 page)

But he skirted the invitation with a shrug. “Arlen's never been what you'd call a sociable fellow.”

“Is he as mean as he looks?” Peter wondered.

“He just looks
old,
” Gideon said. “And he
is
old.” That was about all he could say for sure about the man, besides the fact that he was a “traditional,” and he was reclusive, even among his own people. What little contact he'd ever had with Arlen Skinner had been accidental and had always made Gideon feel a bit uneasy.

“No, I don't think he's mean.” Even now he had to make a concerted effort to shake off the uneasy feeling. He'd long since learned to arrest such feelings by distancing himself from personal ties. He could put Arlen into perspective by thinking of him as one of the elders. One whose realities dwelled, for the most part, in the past. One who remained behind as a reminder. One who deserved respect.

“Arlen's lost a lot over the years,” Gideon said. “The older people remember how the land was appropriated by waves of newcomers. Around here, it wasn't so much the land but the timber they wanted first. Villages were a nuisance to the
loggers, and logging drove the game away, anyway, so some of the bands agreed to move farther north. Our little band resisted.

“This is prime real estate.” Gideon glanced out the window at the lakeshore below. “But we didn't know anything about real estate. We just knew we belonged here. We couldn't keep the miners out next, or the farmers, but in those days the United States didn't care that much about the hunting and fishing, so they said, ‘We'll pay you for the land, but you can keep on hunting and gathering on it.'” He shook his head and chuckled at the irony of it all. “None of our people ever saw much of the money. Coincidentally, the Chippewa owed the white traders almost exactly the amount the government was paying for the land. So why not cut the red tape and send the money directly to the creditors? Makes sense.” His full mouth turned down at the corners, and he nodded in a parody of understanding. “Eliminated a whole step. Went down in history as an early attempt to make government carry out its duties efficiently. But the Chippewa didn't much care for the way it worked out, so we've seen more than our share of red tape ever since.

“Anyway, with all the logging and the farming, the game kinda disappeared, so the Chippewa had some pretty hungry times. Most of the bands were relocated, but some families hung tough here by the lake. Guys like Arlen remember real well that after the loggers and the traders and the farmers, along came the weekend sportsmen, then the lake cabins. We didn't have much land left by then, but we still had our hunting and fishing rights. People like Arlen, the older ones, they just kept to themselves and watched over what was left.”

As Gideon watched now. Long, silent moments passed as he watched a fishing boat head out from the lodge. Evidently Pine Lake had become everybody's current ideal recreation spot.

“What do you think he wants, Gideon?”

“Arlen?” Gideon turned from the window to find both Raina and Peter looking to him anxiously for the answer. He felt a little foolish. Maybe they didn't see any connection between his story and Arlen's demands. Maybe for them there wasn't any. “Guess he wants a grandson.
His
grandson.”

“Which means—” Raina gestured, hopeful of something simple and straightforward “—visits, right? He wants to be able to see Peter periodically, the way…the way grandparents do. The way they
should.
I have no problem with that, and I'm sure Peter—”

“I'd like to get to know him,” Peter chimed in. “As long as he's not as mean as he looks. Heck, I guess that's how I'm gonna look when I get to be old, you know? I'm gonna look a lot like him. I'm
related
to him by blood.” A first for Peter, that much clearly impressed him. “Maybe he could come and watch some of my swim meets this year. Some of the guys' grandparents come all the time.”

“You're a swimmer?” Gideon smiled. It was the phrase
related to him by blood
that got to him. And pride, and a strong sense of the circle. Maybe his sad historical tale had played a part in prompting this show of optimism.

“Yeah. Swimming and soccer.” Peter turned to his mother. “I gotta be back by the time soccer practice starts. You remember the date?”

“I have it written on the calendar.” She shot Gideon a look that pleaded for reassurance.
He'll be back in time, won't he? Tell him he will, and tell me this will all be settled and we'll be on our way home soon.

Home,
Gideon reflected. His idea of home was a far cry from Raina's. Not better. Not worse. Just
different,
and the difference would take some serious getting used to for Peter, if it came to that.

“How about taking Oscar out in my canoe?” Gideon suggested. “He's been bugging me again this morning.”

“All four of us?”

“Four would be crowded,” Gideon acknowledged as he crossed the room to lay claim to the large duffel bag Raina was zipping shut. “You're a swimmer. Oscar's a paddler. Between the two of you, the important bases are covered.”

Raina glanced up. “You've got something else to do?”

“Some calls to make.”

“Yes,” she said, as if she'd just remembered. “I guess I do, too.”

“Hey, you're comin' over to my place with us. I'm responsible for him for—” Gideon shrugged apologetically “—probably for just a few days. Nobody said you can't be with us while I have, uh…”

“Custody of my son,” she said bluntly.

“I'm his uncle,” he reminded her, feeling the pressure of stretching his light tone beyond anything he felt. “Could be worse.”

“You're also the tribal chairman. You ought to have some…”

“Pull?” The notion made him chuckle. “Tell you what, we're gonna take Peter's stuff over to my place and pick Oscar up on the way.” He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder, carefully, as though he were testing the boy's forbearance. Peter lifted his eyes to meet Gideon's, offering tentative trust. The big hand tightened in a gesture of reassurance. “Then we'll see how much pull this guy can manage on a canoe paddle. What's your event?”

“Event?”

“Isn't that what you call it in swimming?”

“Butterfly and breaststroke.”

“Hey, I'll bet you can paddle that thing all the way to Canada.”

 

They had shared Raina's picnic lunch on Gideon's porch. Afterward, the boys had gone out in the canoe, and the phone calls to the attorneys had been made. Independently, the counsel for the Pine Lake Band and Raina's lawyer came up with similar pronouncements. It sounded like a “sticky” situation. “
Sticky
just means they're gonna charge more.” Gideon opened the refrigerator door and gestured for Raina to stash the remaining lunch meat inside.

“Easy for you to say. Yours is on retainer.” She offered him the last of the plums. When he shook his head, she tucked the fruit into the crisper. “Did he sound as confident as mine sounded doubtful?”

“Our attorney has dealt with the issue before. Yours probably hasn't.”

“I've heard about it, of course, but I'm not sure I understand…
completely.
” She closed the refrigerator door, leaned back against it and stared him down across the narrow width of his kitchen. “You explain it, Gideon. Just what is it we're dealing with?”

He braced the heels of his hands on the edge of the sink behind him and took a deep breath, as though he'd been backed into a corner and now had to make an official statement. “The Indian Child Welfare Act was passed in 1978, and basically what it says is that the tribal court has the right to—” he lifted one shoulder, as though the right were self-evident “—become involved the way it just has. Used to be that Native American children were being siphoned away from their people, first into boarding schools, then non-Native foster homes and adoptions.

“Finally, the people said, ‘no more.'” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes looking for the kind of understanding that
ordinarily would have come naturally to her. Quietly, he told her, “They said, ‘You take our kids away, we've got nothing left.' So recently they passed the law to protect Native families and to preserve the integrity of Native American nations.”

“This all sounds very—” she sighed, gesturing impatiently “—philosophical and political and…and it sounds like an interesting topic for discussion, but this is
my child
we're talking about.”

“I know.” He laid his hand on her shoulder in a gesture that was pure brotherly love. “I can't see the judge taking him out of a good home after almost thirteen years.”

“He could do that?”

“I don't know.” Technically, the answer was yes, but the judge's
will
to do it was another question, and of that possibility, Gideon could honestly say, “I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know? You're a tribal leader now, for God's sake. If you don't know, who
does?
If you can't do anything about this, who—”

“Raina.” Gently he squeezed her shoulder, then let his hand fall to his side. “This is a complicated issue. We're going to take it one step at a time, and—for Peter's sake—you're going to stay calm.”

But he took half a step back, because her defensive stare accused him of taking something from her. “I think the judge is going to want Peter to have a chance to get to know his grandfather, but I don't think he'll decide to turn the boy's whole world upside down, take him out of school, take him away from—” he glanced at the top of the refrigerator and the cabinet above it, searching the high places in his kitchen for some assurance to offer “—his mother. I just can't see him doing that now.”

“Excuse me, but I'd like to hear something a little more
decisive, a little more positive, than what sounds like a cloudy forecast from your crystal ball.”

Stung by her sarcasm, he shrugged. “Call your lawyer back, then.”

“I didn't like…what I heard in his voice….” Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice came dangerously near cracking. Her lips trembled as she drew a deep breath, searching for something that would steady her. “…any better.”

What he saw in her eyes embarrassed him, and he glanced away. It wasn't easy for her to admit to a fear that might bleed her of her strength. He was afraid to touch her. He was afraid that if she fell apart and the pieces of her scattered across the floor, he wouldn't be able to put them together. He wanted to fix things for her, but he didn't know how. Arlen Skinner saw her as an outsider, and she sure as hell looked like one.

But this was Raina—Peter's mother, Jared's widow and Gideon's…

Gideon's
what?

Sister-in-law. That was enough. She was family. The Indian way, he needed no more explanation, no other excuse. It didn't matter who he was or what office he held, she was family, just like Peter, and she deserved his protection, his care, all the comfort he could give her. He took both her shoulders in his hands, effectively pinning her to the refrigerator.
Ask me,
he willed.
Care, comfort, the strength in my body—they're yours for the asking.

But that was not what she asked. She lifted her chin, her eyes pleading with him to use his power on her behalf, whatever power he had to steer the course of events.

Her silent, desperate plea clawed at his heart. The power she wanted didn't extend to her. It was for Peter and Oscar, even Arlen. But it was not for Raina. He was the chairman of the Pine Lake Band of
Chippewa.
And there was nothing
he could honestly say to allay a white woman's fear. There was no promise he could make—honestly—and there was precious little he could give her in exchange for her tears.

He pulled her away from the refrigerator, drew her close until her shirtfront touched his, until he could feel the small, delicate impressions of her breasts through the layers of cloth. He slid his hands over her shoulders slowly, maintaining the lock his eyes had on hers, giving her fair notice, ample warning. Her eyes slid closed, and a tear escaped. One sparkling tear slipped down her cheek. He caught it on his tongue, tasted its wonderful saltiness, murmured something about her liking this better, this would be better, this would be…

A kiss. That was all. There was power in it for him, but little promise for her. Maybe she knew that. Maybe she didn't. When he felt her arms encircle him, he didn't care either way. All he wanted was the taste of her sweet mouth deep inside his, the feel of her tongue against his, and the dampness—the dampness of tears and kisses and opportunities long ago denied him. But the need for more than that swelled low in him, slow in him, gathering strength from the response her lips made, moving with his. His soft, involuntary groan expressed the depth of his need. He held her tight and pressed himself against her, letting her feel what he had to give. This and more, his hungry mouth promised. Don't be afraid. Don't…

Raina tore her mouth away on a desperate gasp. “Oh, no, not this.” Her quick, frantic breaths fluttered against the base of his throat. She clung to him even as she denied him. “Gideon, we can't let this happen.”

He drew back slowly, thinking—hoping—he hadn't heard her right. They'd put their arms around each other and shared a kiss, for God's sake. It tasted good. It felt good. It was what they both needed. What could be wrong with something that felt this right?

“Peter,” she began as she sidled away, still gripping him at the waist for support. “Peter might…”

A thousand retorts raced through his mind, but he allowed none to pass his tongue. He couldn't afford to. The state his head was in right now, he couldn't be sure which one would cut itself loose first. Something about her or himself or the two of them together. Or something about Peter. Or Jared. God help them all, he thought as he finally stepped back. With everything that had happened already, this was a tangled mess.