Mistina Bates - Indian Country Noir

He saw the outline in the dark. A click or so back from the gravel road, snow drifted in deep piles at the base, further rounding the silhouette softened by time and wind. A frozen tear fell down from the Morning Star, plunged into the snow, blending with the rest of the grinding whiteness, but Boon didn’t notice. Fine as sand, snow sifted into his runners as he walked up where the old path ran beneath it. There was still wood in the woodpile, but Boon ignored it, hopped up on the porch, turned the knob, and worked the door, stuck in its frame, until he could just squeeze in. His eyes adjusted as he made out the old chair, still there, with the blue, tatted quilt, purple yarn dotting it like stars, holding the whole thing together. He pulled the gun from the small of his back. Boon walked over, gently lifting it, folding down the edge, letting it fall around his shoulders, sinking at last into the chair, laying the gun in his lap.

Going home was the last thing he wanted to do.

He’d started smoking that shit while he was still with Regina. As much as Boon tried not to cry, a tear ran down his cheek as he lay curled in the quilt in the empty house. Regina had loved him so much, more than any other woman ever had, but there was something in him, some huge empty wound that made him fuck up everything he touched. He’d done all right for a while, holding down a construction job out on the rez, living with Regina at her mom’s in Laverne. Regina had been so proud of him. Boon felt a sharp pain in his chest, worse than the one far below it. His head was light. He could barely keep his eyes open now. How could he have fucked up so much? Regina had been everything he had ever needed or wanted. She was beautiful, and despite how much he had screwed up as a kid, she loved him anyway, loved him with her whole heart. He remembered her long dark hair, how it swayed down and brushed her breasts when they made love, how she looked at him. That’s what killed him the most, when she stared at him with that total adoration, him knowing he didn’t deserve it.

When Grandpa died, Boon had been fifteen, and he’d just lost it, running the roads, drinking, smoking weed. He and his friends started busting in joints, jacking folks, doing whatever they had to do to get money to get fucked up. But Regina loved him anyway, thought he deserved a second chance in life. Boon was crying harder now, the pain in his chest getting worse and worse. From the waist down, he was already numb. Damn, I should have never left that girl. He wondered now if she would still take him in — a crazy thought, but he wondered anyway. Would she still love him now, even after he’d done this? Boon’s lip quivered. The chinook was howling away outside, eating away the snow, singing through the boards of the old house. Boon shifted in the chair, the wet, sticky quilt clinging to his groin and leg as he moved. The blood was starting to freeze. Even if Regina loved him after all this time, she wouldn’t after she heard the news, he thought. That was the worst part of all.

He ended up homeless with that other one in Saskatchewan because of the crack, because of the meth. Jennifer had been a common whore, not even attractive, but she was good at being on the streets, and she could get some shit from truckers when all else had failed the two of them — shoplifting and pawning crap, stealing from old ladies, whatever. He hadn’t even enjoyed sex with her — all he could think about when he was with her was Regina, and there was no way Jennifer compared to her. Stupid lot lizard, he thought, scurrying from truck to truck giving blowjobs for meth.

If only he’d never left Regina, chasing that glass pipe. It had all started when he was working construction up in Edmonton one winter, building a Mormon church, making pretty good money. At first, Regina had been so proud when he came home for the weekends; even her mother was proud of him. But then that whore Jennifer had taken a room down from his and Trevor’s in the motel their boss had put them up in. She’d been in the bar one night when he was drunk, hitting on him pretty hard. But even drunk, he knew she was a whore and an ugly one at that. At twenty-one, she’d looked forty, easy. He must have left the door cracked when he stumbled back to his room that night, though. In his inebriated slumber, he thought he was dreaming of Regina when Jennifer went down on him. When he awoke, exploding in her mouth, it was too late. He knew Regina would hate him for cheating on her, even if he never meant to do it. He hated himself enough, that was for sure. It wasn’t long before he was picking fights with Regina on the phone, avoiding coming home, trying to make her hate him. Anything was better than admitting to her what he’d done, drinking again behind her back when he’d cleaned himself up for so long. Soon, he was out of a job, living in Jennifer’s room, hitting that pipe with her, walking Edmonton’s cold streets while she was screwing her tricks. When the dealer two doors over from her got busted, he hitched with her back to Saskatchewan, the name of the city they landed in only reminding him more of his pain.

Over the years, he hated her more and more, hated her for making him lose Regina, hated her for making him lose himself, hated her for the whore and the thief she was, hated her even for being ugly, the one thing she couldn’t help, the one thing that had made him feel sorry for her at first. He thought about his old friend Nolan Little Bear. Nolan had tried to save him when he started smoking that crap on the job site up in Edmonton. He wondered if Nolan would come to his funeral now. Nolan was like that, always a good friend no matter what. Boon remembered Jennifer’s body lying in the snow. Maybe not, he thought. Maybe not after this.

The gunshot wound had almost stopped bleeding now. The whore had won in the end, Boon thought. That’s what she’d always wanted — to win. That’s what she had told him years ago, in that Edmonton bar, playing poker. “I’ll win,” she leered, holding her cards where everyone could see them. “I’ll win.” But after he’d done what he did, after his hatred toward her had finally blown up, after they’d come back here, back to his home, where all he could think of was Regina and the loss, he knew it was the only noble thing to do, shooting himself, blasting away the cause of all of his agony. He wasn’t a man anymore anyway, not really, and he didn’t deserve to die as one.

Boon pulled the quilt closer, thought of his grandma, his mom, of Regina, of all the women he loved who loved him, of Grandpa. He pulled the quilt closer, and he floated high into the dark blue sky, reaching for those stars that had eluded him, knowing his real home was up there with them.

Mistina Batesis a transplanted Texan and freelance writer living outside New York City. She is the great-great-granddaughter of a full-blooded member of the Cherokee Nation who served as a Texas Ranger.

Jean Rae Baxter’saward-winning short stories have appeared in various anthologies and literary journals. Her debut collection of stories, A Twist of Malice , was published in 2005, and her young adult historical novel, The Way Lies North , was published in 2007. In 2008, Seraphim Editions released her literary murder mystery, Looking for Cardenio . Her ancestry is German, French, English, and Pottawatami.

Lawrence Blockhas won most of the major mystery awards, and has been called the quintessential New York writer, although he insists the city’s far too big to have a quintessential writer. His series characters — Matthew Scudder, Bernie Rhodenbatt, Evan Tanner, Chip Harrison, and Keller — all live in Manhattan; like their creator, they wouldn’t really be happy anywhere else.