Mistina Bates - Indian Country Noir

“Name’s Don,” he had said.

“I’m Heather.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Your badge.”

“Oh. Of course.” She had felt her cheeks redden.

He drove fast, with the window open and one arm along the back of the passenger seat. They had stopped for a hamburger at a crossroads restaurant, and then kept on going. He’d parked his car down by a river just past a little town. It was very quiet, almost as if the town were miles away, not barely out of sight behind a hill.

He removed a green plaid blanket from the trunk. Heather, pretending she didn’t know what was coming, wished that she were wearing sexy underwear instead of cotton briefs. As he pulled her down onto the blanket, she remembered the condoms. Don was prepared. But he took a lot for granted, didn’t he?

With her next paycheck, Heather had purchased five pairs of lace panties at La Senza. For the rest of the summer, she and Don had made love a couple of times a week, either on the plaid blanket or in the backseat — depending on the weather. In November they rented an apartment together.

To help out with expenses, Heather stole things from the drugstore: condoms, toothpaste, aftershave, deodorant. It was easy.

While they were sharing a joint one afternoon, Don said, “I’ve figured out a way to make some real money.”

“How?”

“There’s stuff with street value in that drugstore. Uppers. Downs. Dexedrine. Cold remedies. We can make crystal meth out of cold remedies right here in the kitchen.” His eyes locked on hers. “What about it?”

She had felt scared. “I can’t. I don’t have access to the dispensary.”

“I don’t see any bars keeping you out.”

“Only the pharmacists ever go behind that counter.”

“Come on, Heather. Don’t tell me you can’t.” A deep sigh. “This is the first thing I’ve ever asked you to do.”

Don had pushed her for a couple of weeks before giving up. A cloud settled over their relationship. She had let him down.

A few weeks later, Mr. Stonefield, the drugstore owner, caught her sneaking a bottle of aftershave into her handbag. Peering at her through his trifocals, he said she was lucky he didn’t press charges. This was true. But now she had no job, no income, and no chance to pick up little extras for Don. Again, she had let him down.

While Don napped — all he ever did was smoke and sleep — Heather grabbed her chance to rummage in the junk room. There she found a man’s rubber boot mixed up with rusted buckets, fishing poles, kerosene cans, and coils of rope. Embossed in the boot’s red sole was the number 13 . Further searching produced the boot’s mate. When she turned the second boot upside down, mouse dirt and popcorn kernels rained onto the floor.

Gingerly she pulled on the boots and took a few steps. It was like trying to walk with her feet in a pair of cardboard cartons.

Don opened his eyes as she stomped into the main room. “You look like a circus clown,” he said.

She didn’t care what she looked like, as long as he didn’t take away the rubber boots. For the rest of the day she tramped around the cottage, bumping into furniture and tripping over her own feet — sometimes on purpose, to demonstrate that she couldn’t run fast enough to escape with them on her feet. He let her keep the boots.

An airplane droned in the distance, louder and louder, coming from the south. Heather, wrapped in her sleeping bag on the love seat, looked up. Through the tall windows she saw the plane’s black shape against the gray sky.

“Cessna,” Don said. “Single engine.”

“Is it coming here?”

“How would I know?”

“It is coming here!” As it descended, she saw that the plane was yellow, not black, and that it had skis instead of wheels. Heather’s heart pounded. She wanted to run out onto the snow-covered lake, wave her arms, and shout: This way! Save me!

But before reaching Osprey Lake, the plane dipped behind the trees and disappeared.

Don walked over to the window. “Not coming here. It’s landing on Mud Fish. Could be the air ambulance.” He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the butt, and then lit another from it. The engine’s drone continued.

“He’s not sticking around or he’d have killed the engine,” Don said. “He’s picking up somebody or letting somebody off.”

The air rumbled as the plane took off. It reappeared above the trees, circled, and headed south. An ache of loneliness came over her. She felt abandoned, like a castaway on a desert island who watches a ship draw near and then sail away. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop her tears as she listened to the receding drone.

Don flopped into a chair. “How about something to eat?”

“There’s nothing left but sugar and flour.”

“Can’t you make something out of them?”

“Such as?”

“Bread, maybe?”

“Christ! And you think I’m dumb!”

Heather pulled on the rubber boots, clomped into the kitchen, and lit the Coleman. A skin of ice had formed on the water that she had melted from snow two hours earlier. She broke the ice, poured water into a saucepan, and stirred in half a cup of flour and a spoonful of sugar.

While she was bringing it to a boil, she heard Don go out the back door. It sounded like he was straightening the woodpile, which was pointless since he wouldn’t let them have a fire anyway. By the time he returned, the liquid in the pan had thickened enough to coat a spoon. She sipped a few drops, added a dash of sugar, then sipped again. Slightly better. After filling a couple of mugs, she carried them into the main room.

Don stood by the windows, staring south at a pillar of black smoke that funneled into the sky. Something was burning, back there along the track.

She handed him a mug. Don cradled it in his hands.

“Looks like a big fire,” she said.

“Yeah. Somebody’s torched the car.” He raised the mug to his lips, grimaced as he swallowed. “What do you call this stuff?”

“Gruel, I guess.”

“It’s disgusting.” He put his mug on the table. “We have to clear out.”

“When?”

“First thing in the morning.”

It was pitch dark outside when she heard the creak of the mattress. She knew that sound — how the mattress squeaked when you sat up, squeaked again when you rose from bed. Why was Don getting up?

The floor now creaked. He had left the bedroom. He had reached the back door. Maybe he just needed to pee. She turned her head, looked out the window, and there was Don, the gym bag in his hand. For an instant she could not believe it. Don was taking off with the money, and he was leaving her here alone.

She pulled herself out of the sleeping bag and, draping it over her shoulders, stumbled into the front room. She could see him from the window, heading toward the road.

“You greedy bastard,” she said, right out loud. What kind of boyfriend would leave his girl to starve or freeze? Should she go after him? For the past six months she had been trotting after him like a love-sick puppy.

The thought filled her with sudden disgust. Let him go. He was welcome to the money in the gym bag. Providing she got out of here alive, she would be happy to never see him again.

I can walk to that village, she told herself. Find the blue house. Ask Rosemary Bear Paw to help me. She might know when the bus goes through Huntsville. Or maybe there’s a closer stop, a depot in some country store along the way. Heather glanced at her wristwatch. Nearly 7 o’clock. It would soon be light.

Between the cottage and the hill there was shelter from the wind. But the moment she turned the corner, the wind slammed into her face. It howled across the lake, lashing her cheeks with icy grains that stung like tiny needles. The osprey nest at the top of the dead pine rocked in the wind.