Adrift in the Sound (31 page)

She set her mouth and crossed her ankles. The sound of children whooping in excitement tumbled into the room. They heard one of them yell, “Tag! Another shout, “You’re it!” Then a shriek and a fountain of laughter overflowed. Inside, the four of them sat stone-faced.

Abaya smoothed her skirt under her apron, recrossed her ankles primly. “The people disobeyed Thunderbird. They used the sacred arrow, let it fly away, sold our spirit history for pennies to thieves who didn’t care about us—not like Einar. That’s why the Lummi die now like other people.” Raven got up and turned from them, resignation showing through the shirt on his back.

“You’ll dance the beginner’s dance tonight,” Poland said to the insolence glowing from the back of his son’s head. “In a mask of your own making.”

Raven slammed the door on his way out.

Einar sighed and dug in a box. Abaya came to the floor on her knees, pulled out the wrapped objects, stripped away the paper, marveled, went on digging. Leaning way over, Einar rummaged with her to a box bottom and paused, head in the paper. Slowly, he straightened, lifted a cloth-wrapped object, handed it to Poland.

Abaya gasped. The pure white ermine pelts dangled, luminous, the soft black-tipped tails still inky-colored after all these years. She took the circular reed frame of the headdress from Poland, shook it carefully to free the feathers and tails, straightened the reeds on top of the Thunderbird mask that formed the headdress’s crown. She set it on Poland’s head, handed him the two-headed wand carved from bear femur.

Einar watched them from the kitchen door as they walked hand-in-hand across the dooryard to the meadow, children falling in with them, gamboling and whooping in the golden fall. He felt a catch in his heart and remembered Violet. He needed to get her and Lizette. He put his hand in his pocket to check for the car keys.

THIRTY–TWO

VIOLET TIPPED
, first toward one side, then the other. Lizette knelt over the baby, packed a pillow and rolled baby blankets around her, kneeled and pressed her palms against her tiny sides, let go. She flailed her little fists and toppled. “You can almost do it,” Lizette said to the gurgling baby. “Won’t be long before you can sit up by yourself.” She kept working with Violet, grabbing her hands, coaxing her, letting her fall back on the pillows.

Tucker crawled to the window on his belly, growled deep in his throat, alert. He jumped up and paced, went to the door, scratched. Lizette got up and let him out, resettled on the floor, played with Violet, blocking all thoughts, just feeling the warmth and quiet, waiting for her meds to kick in, welcoming the calming feeling.
Rocket
, she thought.
Please come. How can you not love this.
She bent to kiss Violet’s cheeks, wiped teething drool from her perfect, pink lips.

She went to her work table, moved paint rags and a broken metal Slinky aside. She picked the broken toy up, mused over its possibilities for dipping in paint and making the spiral patterns she’d been envisioning for a new canvas. Under a rumpled sheet of paper, she found the box of teething biscuits and crossed to the baby. She paused to scan the western horizon, saw dark clouds piling up.
First storm
, she thought, smelling wet dust in the air. She extended the biscuit. Violet wrapped her fingers around it, put it to her mouth, smacked her lips, pulled it away, considered it, went after it again with eager lips. Lizette leaned back on her heels, watched with pleasure.

A rap on the cabin door startled both of them. She heard Tucker’s nervous barking from the beach. “Come in,” Lizette said. She’d expected Marian, braced herself for the gush of efficiency, Marian’s instant assessment of Violet’s development, the directions on infant care and treating her own condition. Instead, Toulouse stood there, pirate hat under his arm, the long, white ostrich plume pressed against his black cape, his thin dark hair failing to cover his white skull. His skin looked reptilian. He blinked at the sparkling light reflected into the room from the water.

“May I come in?”

Lizette glared then waved him toward the wobbly stool by the table. She pulled up from the floor, through her ankles to her knees, and stood pole straight, imperious and frowning. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” he said, his voice showing a hint of nervousness. “I mean about the fire and everything. Too bad about the Dogs.” She folded her arms across her chest, listened. “I guess they’ll all just drift away now. Except Bomber. Too bad. He was a sweet guy. He survived Vietnam, but not this.” He glanced at her, quickly looked away. “Have you heard from Rocket?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” She pulled a wooden apple box from under the work table, set it on end, sat down, looked at him without flinching.

“And I you,” he said, sounding falsely superior.

“Cut the crap, Toulouse. I was at Wentz Gallery a few days ago. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“Ah.” He exhaled loudly, shook his head, reached under his cape, pulled out a white envelope. “I’m sure you were pleased,” he said bravely. Lizette rolled her eyes, shook her head in disbelief. “This is for you.” He pushed the envelope across the rough table to her.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

She pulled out several sheets of paper, folded to letter size. A check fluttered to the table. She picked it up, saw it was made out to her for three thousand four hundred and fifty dollars. “What’s this for? Hush money? You’re a thieving bastard and you know it.”

“It’s not like that Lizette. This money is for the small canvases that have already sold. I’m working on some bigger deals right now. At prices I’m sure would surprise you. You don’t understand.”

“I know about the prices and understand that you came in here and took my paintings without permission.” She slapped the table with the flat of her hand. “I understand that you put them in places where people would see them and start asking questions. Some of them weren’t even finished.”

“Rocket helped me,” he said, lamely trying to deflect responsibility.

“You’ve created a huge mess, you idiot!”

“I … ah.” Then, as if a light bulb had switched on, he realized there was something more going on, asked, “Mess? What do you mean?”

“What would you call art fraud?”

“Well, I know I didn’t have permission to represent you, but … “

“Forget your hairy butt,” Lizette spat. “I’m not talking about you taking my stuff and exhibiting it without me knowing. That’s bad enough.”

“Look, there’s the check for the sales,” he pointed to the check laying on the work table. “The details on who bought the paintings and for how much. It’s all listed there on the page. I just took the usual fifteen percent commission. It’s all there … and a back-dated contract saying you agree to have me represent you. All you have to do is sign it.”

“Go to hell! All I have to do is call the cops and have you thrown in jail! You’re a lying bastard.” She got up and paced, scanned the table looking for something sharp, felt like scratching his black lizard eyes out, fingered a paint spattered coffee can, considered throwing turpentine in his face.

“You don’t understand,” she finally said. “My mother … she struggled.”

“All artists are tortured in one way or another,” he said, consolingly. “Look at me, for example.”

She looked at him, a scrawny beanpole in dusty drapery, and sniffed. He got up, walked to her canvases. “May I see?” She said nothing. He turned the top canvas around, gasped, stepped back, whistled softly, exhaled “Magnificent.” She fluttered her long, tapered fingers at him dismissively.

“I’m wet,” he said and turned to face her. “This seascape takes me into the depths, to the water’s secret places. I’m stunned, really. I don’t know what else to say.”

She saw his guileless truth, his mask of condescension stripped away, and felt triumphant, felt her canvas had achieved her vision and intent, had pierced to the heart. Toulouse had understood all along what she’d been aiming at with her painting, recognized its power, but she’d resisted his intrusion, withdrew. Now she was finally ready to share her work, that it was good enough and that Toulouse would stand behind her while she shared it.

“Sit down,” she said quietly and explained the situation with the sales of her earlier canvases, signed by her mother, the questions from the New York art dealer, the investor’s concerns. When she’d finished, he jumped up.

“Nothing the art world likes better than a good scandal,” he said. “There’s a way out of this. It’s a good story.” He went to the small window by the door that looked up the trail to the forest and the ranch’s main house. “I have a friend, in New York,” he said with his back to her. “He writes for
Art Forum
magazine. We could tell him what happened, take pictures of you, here on the island, put an article together. Time a solo show to when the article comes out. There’d be a storm, probably just a squall, you’re not famous … yet, but it would jack up the prices for your paintings, people would feel sorry for you. At least until they saw your new work. Then they’d know what’s really going on with you, that you’ve transcended. What a narrative!”

“But I don’t want to tell people about my mother or about me,” Lizette said. “It’s embarrassing and scary. I just want them to see the work. I’m not Andy Warhol or Peter Max. I’m not gonna paint portraits of Chairman Mao or do graphics for record albums. I’m not going to parties with strangers and show off on TV.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He turned to her, looked at her slumped over her work table in a faded sweatshirt. “I’m talking about calling attention to your work, straightening out any misunderstandings about the authenticity, enhancing its commercial value, bringing it to wider audiences. I’m not talking pop culture rip-off. My fear, however, is that you’re not stable enough to pull this off. There’s more to making it as an artist than putting paint on canvas.”

“You should’ve thought of that before
you
ripped me off,” she said. “It’s too late.” She flipped through the pages he’d put on the table, found the agent’s agreement, reached for a splattered ballpoint pen and signed it, looked up at him defiantly.

“It’s done, then,” he said, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket. “If I hadn’t taken action, brought some attention to your work,” he pointed at Violet, lolling on the floor, “how’d you plan to feed that kid?”

“Leave her out of this. I’ve adopted her. She’s mine.” Lizette got up, turned to Violet, heard Tucker’s angry barking, realized it had been going on for a while, and went to the window. The dog circled a black lump on the beach, dug in his hind quarters, stretched toward the mound, barking with his head close to the sand, signaling alarm. At first she thought it was a big rock, but knew nothing like that had been there before, protruding from the sand. She scooped Violet up. “Come on,” she said to Toulouse and bolted for the door. “Something’s down there.”

When they got to the beach Lizette handed Violet to Toulouse, who moved back from the water line. She pulled Tucker away, held him by the shoulders as he lunged and barked himself hoarse. She gave him stay commands and the dog sat twitching. The orca’s mouth lay open, slack-jawed, conical ivory teeth exposed. Its pink tongue lay flaccid in its mouth. “Looney!” She yelled. “It’s Rocket’s orca!” She saw Toulouse didn’t understand. “He’s dead!”

“Rocket?”

She took off her sandals and waded to the orca’s side, looked into the abyss of its filmy black eye, the spirit gone. She put a hand over Looney’s sunken blow hole, confirmed that he wasn’t breathing. His long dorsal fin that once had moved through the water like a victory pennant, lapped in the surge. She moved around the animal, surveyed its body. A fishing net was tangled in his tail flukes, parts of the torn strands floated on the water’s surface, blood pooled at the water line beside his head. There was a smell, sweet and fetid, coming from his body.
Looney has been dead a while
she thought and watched flies feed on his blank eye. She turned to Toulouse, who’d moved further up the sand from the water, felt anguish clog her throat, realized he was no help.

“We’ve got to get Marian,” she croaked. “Carry the dog.”

“The dog? I don’t want wet dog hair on me,” he said, holding Violet closer to his chest.

“Oh, for chrissakes!” She scooped up Tucker from the surf and stormed up the beach, Toulouse wobbling behind her in his pointy-toed Beatle boots and silly hat.

She cleared the trees and the house came into view. Her father’s Volvo and a big truck with a metal rack on the side were parked by the barn. The sign on the truck’s door read: Fisher’s Glass and Sash, Kent, WA, with a phone number. She hurried faster, relieved that she wasn’t alone, burst into the kitchen, dropped the wet, sandy dog to the floor.

“Rocket’s orca! On the beach! In the surf! Oh, my god!” She paced in front of the sink, bent and poured her anguish into the bowl shaped by her hands. “Just lying there! I don’t know for how long!”

Marian came out from her bedroom, her father stood up in the living room where he’d been drinking a beer with Fisher, concern drawn on his face.

“What’s up?” Marian said, rushing into the kitchen. “Slow down. Stop babbling. Rocket’s here?”

“No, Looney! Rocket’s orca!” she shouted, mince-stepping in a circle, hunching her shoulders, shaking her hands.

Einar entered the kitchen, gripped Lizette’s arm reassuringly, snatched Violet from Toulouse, who stood there blinking. “Who’s this?” Einar said, jerking a thumb toward Toulouse. “We haven’t met.”

Fisher stepped forward. “He’s OK. We know him.” Einar looked at the hat and cape and seemed unconvinced, held Violet closer, rocked side to side with her, patted her back.

Lizette wheeled on her father, caught his wary eye, lifted the baby from him. “He’s my agent,” she said haughtily. “The one who’s going to get us out of the little mess we’re in with the New York art gallery.” She raised knowing eyebrows at her father and turned back to Toulouse. “Meet my father, Einar Karlson.” Toulouse stepped forward, tried to smile, extended his hand. Einar shook it limply, stepped back.

“Lizette, please sit down,” Marian said. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She took a deep breath. “Looney, the orca that hunts in the cove. The one that attacked Tucker? The one with the scars on his back?” Marian made a big “Oh” with her lips. “He’s the orca that waits for Rocket, follows his tug when he’s working in the Sound. It’s Rocket’s orca, his spirit guide.”