The Sky Fisherman (29 page)

"We can tell Billyum. Maybe he can get the FBI or something."

Jake pressed his hands against his eyes. "Haven't slept in two days. Can't think straight and neither can you."

"I caught a few hours," I said, but when my uncle looked at me and I saw the raccoon circles under his bloodshot eyes, I didn't say any more.

"No point running off half-cocked. Now grab that one night deposit and shove the rest of the stuff in the safe."

When I came back, Jake was watching the kids in the parking lot. The blond girl climbed out of the Starliner, slamming the car door. She started flirting with the guy in the Corvette. After a few moments, he opened the car door and she climbed in.

"When you're that young"—Jake nodded toward the car—"the only thing you worry about is getting her pants down and unrolling the rubber. Then you grow up and things get complicated."

"G
ATEWAY HAS A LOVELY LIBRARY
. It's wonderful when a small town like this takes so much pride in education." My mother took a bite of her onion ring. "Hot!" She sipped her root beer. A thin line of foam clung to her upper lip, and after setting down the mug, she wiped her mouth with an orange and black napkin. "Remember that horrible library in Grass Valley? Those irregular hours? You could never tell when they were open or closed. I even kept a schedule in my purse, but they never stuck to it."

"Well, Gateway has some real advantages, Mom." She was always trying to point them out.

"Franklin's on the library committee," she said. "Their Northwest collection is even better than Central's."

"How about that." I took an onion ring.

"Don't burn your mouth." She had another, nibbling on the batter. "School will be starting soon, and I just wanted you to have a good place to study. Some of our country's best minds have been formed in small libraries—Lincoln, Carnegie, Edison. You don't remember, of course, but when I first took you for your aptitude tests in Waterville, the woman who administered the test kept asking me how old you were. 'Five and a half,' I said. She could hardly believe it. 'Well,' she said, 'he's sharp as a tack. Off the scale. However you do it, make certain you get this boy to college.'" Mom gripped her mug of root beer. "And we will do it. You can study at the library."

"The high school has a library," I pointed out. "Big one."

She wrinkled her nose. "Usually the problem students are sent to the
library for detention. I remember how these things work. How can you study efficiently when they're giggling, writing silly notes, shooting paper clips and spitwads?"

"You must have been pretty familiar with detention to know so much about it. I never would have guessed."

She pretended to be annoyed. "For your information, I
worked
after school to restack the shelves. Anyway, the school library's not open weekends." She pushed the plastic basket toward me. "Have some more. You're not worried about calories."

Every Friday, Mom's payday, we walked the six blocks from our house to the A&W Root Beer Stand for root beer and a large basket of onion rings. She loved the frosted mugs that came right out of the deep freeze. As the frost melted, it slid into the root beer, almost the way melting ice slides down a window pane. "So good and so cold," she said. "I love the way my teeth ache."

What she didn't like were the kids squirreling in and out of the parking lot, gunning their engines and fishtailing in the loose gravel. I imagined these were the ones she thought would wind up in detention, but most likely they were offspring of school board members, prosperous merchants, or rich farmers who received cars for their sixteenth birthdays or high school graduations. As sons and daughters of the community's elite, they held special privileges and were unlikely to wind up in detention. Instead, they were elected Sadie Hawkins, prom king and queen, cheerleaders. I suspected my mother knew as much, but she didn't acknowledge it.

As for myself, I envied their advantages, but at the same time believed I was better than they were—smarter because I had to rely on my wits, tougher because I lacked their cushion. Even so, I was glad to have Jake now as a kind of safety net. Still, I longed for the ease of their lives. And more than anything, while I knew that a car was as out of reach for my mother as the moon, I admired the fancy ones like the Ford Thunderbirds and Chevrolet Corvettes. Not that I said much, but she saw me looking as they whizzed past.

"Cars are so terribly expensive," she was likely to say. "Upkeep and insurance. Even that old clunker Riley had cost a mint. Besides, walking keeps you in shape."

One time she stopped walking and studied her legs a moment. "Not bad. And my thighs haven't turned to waffles."

"It'd be nice to have a car," I said.

She put her arm around me. "You need to stay in shape for basketball.
After college, when you settle down, you'll have plenty of time for a car. Just promise you'll come take me for a ride—very first thing."

"Sure, Mom, but after college I'll be an old man."

Now she finished her root beer. "Wonderful. I feel so refreshed. But the onion rings tasted a little like smoke."

"Since that fire, everything tastes like smoke."

She smiled. "Except my cooking, I hope." She shook her head. "I feel sorry for those poor men. Some have applied to Sunrise Biscuits for elevator work, but we just don't have any openings. If they were in Minneapolis or Omaha..." She reached in her purse to pay the check. "Do you think they'll rebuild that plant?"

I shrugged. "Even if they do, things will never be the same. Jake says most likely they'll move it to the reservation. If the Indians build a plant and make plywood from their own timber, they'll get some big tax breaks."

"After what we've done to the poor Indians, I should certainly hope so. It's been one big disgrace." She shook her head. "Well, I don't understand all I know about it. The papers keep talking about this plan and that buyout, this deal and that offer. All big numbers and gobbledygook. The average person can't tell. However, Franklin does agree with Jake. The Indians will get some tax breaks. But we'll see. The older I get, the less I believe what I read and hear."

"It's pretty complicated, Mom." From time to time the back room crackled with talk of federal grants for the tribe, wheeling and dealing, political jostling. Speculation leaned to the Indians' controlling their own timber from the logging to finished product. This would require federal assistance, allowing them to build a plant on the reservation, managed by the tribe. Under these circumstances, a lot of townspeople stood to lose their jobs or seniority.

Still lurking behind the rebuilding of the plant was gossip about the fate of the old one. Rumors of arson persisted. The state police arson squad had listed the cause of the fire as "undetermined" but also cited the plant for negligence. The insurance company investigators hadn't reached a decision. No one was satisfied, and the bellyaching persisted.

My mother put enough money on the table to cover the check and tip. "Well, our society has certainly made a mess of things. That's perfectly clear." Reaching across the table, she patted my hand. "I'm very thankful the bright minds in your generation can unscramble the mess."

"I take it these are not the same hooligans staying after school in the library."

"Speaking of the library, they have lovely wildflowers from this area on display. Tables of them. Be sure to compliment the librarians when you're studying. People remember good manners and are likely to return the favor—order a book you need or something."

One of the farm kids pulled up in a white Ford convertible with a red interior and bucket seats. His muscular arms appeared even tanner because he wore a white sports shirt with little silver threads through it. When he removed his sunglasses, his blue eyes blazed. I regretted having to walk with my mother past his car and hoped he'd get an order to go.

Several of the waitresses gathered around the Ford, jostling one another to see who might take the order. Rising off the seat, he snatched away one's black and orange hat, holding it at arm's length when she reached for it, trying it on and mugging at her when she didn't.

"Don't I look just like a waitress?" he mocked. "Can I take your order, please, sir?"

"You better give that here, Price. Right this minute." The waitress had red hair and a lapel pin that said
BETSY
. Her face was becoming red. "I'm going to tell Shirley." Pointing to the empty passenger seat, she asked, "Where is she, anyhow?"

"Big deal, Lucille. That's for me to know and you to find out."

"She went to Central," another waitress said. "A sick aunt or something."

"Real sick." Grinning, he patted the empty seat. "Hurry and hop in before that old aunt recovers."

"That obnoxious show-off," my mother said, witnessing the scene outside.

The redhead started walking off but he called after her. "What about taking my order, Betsy? How do I get decent service around here? Where's the manager?"

The other waitresses offered to take his order, but he enjoyed tormenting the redhead. After stalling a minute, she went back, hatless. "All right, then." She flipped open her pad. "What can I get you?"

"Just a second, miss." He pretended to observe her. "You're out of uniform. Isn't that against A&W regulations? Can't take an order without your hat." He placed the hat on his lap. "Here it is, if you say 'Pretty please.'"

My mother took some coins out of her purse and tapped them on the counter, attracting the cook's attention. "I'd like another root beer, please. To go."

The redhead wouldn't reach for the hat. Her face was bright. She tried taking his order again, but he refused and threatened to call the manager.

"I don't need the lid," my mother told the cook.

"Listen, Mom," I started, but she was out the door, marching toward the car.

"Give her the hat right this minute, you silly hooligan." Her chin jutted straight ahead.

The sun was at her back, so he couldn't see clearly. Maybe he thought she was the manager. "I was just having a little fun."

My mother stood over him with the root beer, and I thought she was going to cool off his head or crotch. "Right this minute."

"All right, then." He had figured out she wasn't the manager but handed back the hat anyway. "You must be some kind of nutcase."

"Excuse me, please." Reaching across him before he could react, she poured root beer all over the passenger seat. The paper cup seemed bottomless as root beer ran everywhere. He watched, mouth agape, until she was finished and stepped back. "Now, what else can I get for you besides the root beer?"

He found his voice. "My car, God damn it! I just had it cleaned." The veins bulged in his neck when he stepped from the car. His white canvas shoes were spattered with brown root beer. He must have purchased the shoes in Central because no store in Gateway carried shoes like that.

My mother handed him a wad of napkins from one of the tin containers. "You'll want to clean that up before you get Shirley. I doubt she wants to sit in all that stickiness."

As we left, I could feel the looks of the waitresses and Price burning into our backs. "Who the hell is that woman?" he said. "Maybe I've seen that kid around."

"I don't know why you couldn't wait, Price," I heard one of the girls say. "We've got a restroom inside."

The others laughed.

Price had been in the store a couple of times, and he'd acted arrogantly there, too. He might try to settle up later, so I decided to start working out with the weights in the back room.

My mother remained casual. "Your father used to love going out for a root beer. When he got paid, we'd drive to a little place called the Hand Out for soft drinks and sandwiches. Way on the outskirts of town. They tore it down years ago to build tract homes. I believe the Hand Out had better root beer, but perhaps that's because I was so much younger then. Everything seemed so fresh."

"You're not exactly tottering on a cane, Mom. But it's sure too bad we can't still walk to the Hand Out. We could really get in shape. Maybe we should walk to Central. Thirty miles—we'd get in
top
shape."

"Stop it." She tapped my shoulder. "I'm glad you have a sense of humor. That was the single thing missing in your father. So serious."

"Maybe I got my sense of humor from Jake. The 'ho ho' gene."

"I certainly hope not. Humor is fine, but Jake carries things too far. All that horseplay."

I stopped walking. "How can you say that after your root beer stunt?"

"That boy made me a little crazy. I couldn't help it." She shook her head. "Most mothers would trade eyeteeth for a son like you. I consider myself very fortunate." We started walking again. "Do you think Price will come after you?" A worried line wrinkled her brow.

"Maybe," I said. "But Riley taught me a thing or two."

"Well, don't go breeding a scab on your nose. Always try to avoid ! violence." She paused. "But if that boy starts something, whip him good."

We had walked a little farther when she said, "Since you mentioned Central, I was thinking you and Franklin should go shopping for that blazer as soon as possible, before all the merchandise gets picked over. You might get a sweater, too. Brown to match your hair and eyes. Or burgundy."

"It's too hot to try on sweaters," I said.

"Once the school year starts, the holidays will be here before you know it."

"Maybe I should wait until then. They'll get in a bunch of new stuff."

Her brow furrowed. "By then the merchandise will be poor quality, very poor."

"For Christmas?"

She nodded. "They know people are anxious to buy. They get you coming and going."

She went on about the merchandising, but I quit listening because I had spotted Billyum's tribal rig outside the Alibi Tavern. The tavern was fringed by pickups and farm rigs, a few beaters that belonged to the field workers. Billyum's large arm hung out the window and he tapped his fingers against the side of the door, perhaps keeping time to the honky-tonk music. Neon glare kept me from seeing the other occupants clearly, but there were two. Billyum's head turned as he remarked to them.