William Krueger: Trickster's Point

Liam O’Connor died in October, and for a very long time afterward, Cork’s world lay under a constant gray overcast. He held his grief inside, however, and outwardly went about his days as if losing a father was something he knew how to handle. Partly it was because people were awkward around him, especially his friends, who behaved toward him in a way that made him feel as if he had a terrible illness of some kind. And partly it was because he had no idea at all how to wrap his understanding around so stunning a loss. His mother tried to help, but because she had her own grief to deal with, he didn’t want to burden her any further. In his own mind, he was the man of the house now, and he had to step up to his responsibilities. Almost every night, he stuffed his face into his pillow and wept, smothering the sound so that no one would hear.

The truth, which he didn’t understand until much later, was that he kept his grief deep inside because he didn’t want to give it up. He was afraid that to let go of his grief would be to let go of his father forever.

Aurora Junior High School had a flag football team, and Cork was on it. After his father died, Cork continued to play. He was tall for his age and lean. He was also fast and elusive and was tapped to play end. The team’s quarterback was Jubal Little, who had a powerful arm and a natural feel for strategy. Games were played on Friday afternoons, usually immediately after school. Two weeks after Cork watched his father’s coffin lowered into the earth, the team played its final game of that season in the town of Virginia, an hour bus ride from Aurora.

Cork always remembered that afternoon as overcast, which may or may not have been true. The teams were pretty evenly matched, but with less than a minute left to go, Aurora was behind by a touchdown. Jubal had moved the ball within scoring distance. In the huddle, he looked to Cork and said, “Can you get free?”

Cork said he could.

At the snap, Cork gave an inside fake to the kid who defended him, then cut for the corner of the end zone. A safety moved to cover, closing quickly. When Cork looked back, Jubal had already lofted the ball in his direction. Crossing the line of the end zone, he had two steps on his opponent. His hands were up and the ball sailed into them. Then it slipped free. Cork tried to readjust, turning in midstride, bobbling the ball. In the next instant, it was in the hands of the Virginia safety, and the game was over.

No one blamed him openly, and the coach, a decent man named Porter, told them they’d played a hell of a game and had nothing to be ashamed of. The bus ride home was quiet, and when they arrived at the junior high and disembarked, Cork walked away alone.

He didn’t hear Jubal Little coming up behind him, but the big kid was suddenly at his side.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Jubal asked.

Cork shrugged. “I was thinking of going to Sam’s Place to get a burger.”

“I could use a bite,” Jubal said.

They walked a bit without talking. It was evening by then, the sky a gloomy gray-blue. The town was quiet, and their sneakers slapped softly on the pavement.

“It was a good season,” Jubal finally said.

“I wish it had ended better.”

Jubal laughed. “It was just a game, and a pretty good one.”

“I lost it for us.”

“Bullshit. We had plenty of chances to win it. They just played a little better today. Next time it’ll be different.”

“I hope so.”

“You’re good,” Jubal said. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

When they got to Sam’s Place, Sam Winter Moon greeted Cork through the serving window with “Boozhoo,” a common Ojibwe greeting. “So how’d it go?”

“We lost,” Cork said.

“But we played a good game,” Jubal tossed in.

“Well there you go.” Sam smiled at Jubal. “ Boozhoo. I’ve seen you around, but I haven’t caught your name.”

“Jubal Little.”

“Sam Winter Moon.” He stuck his hand through the open serving window, and Jubal took it. “Tell you what. Dinner’s on me today. What’ll you guys have?”

They sat at the picnic table under a big red pine near the shoreline, and each of them ate a Sam’s Super and a chocolate shake.

“What does boozhoo mean?” Jubal asked.

“It’s kind of like saying ‘howdy.’ Sam thinks you’re Ojibwe. You look Indian.”

In a way, Cork meant it as an opening, hoping Jubal might say something about his past.

“You seem to know him pretty well,” Jubal said.

“My father and him were good friends.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Cork bit into his burger and swung his eyes out across the lake. The evening was windless, the water flat and empty.

“I lost my father, too,” Jubal said.

“When?”

“Couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You get over it,” Jubal said with an unconvincing shrug.

Cork wanted to ask how it had happened but thought maybe that was stepping across a line.

A car drove up to Sam’s Place, and a bunch of high school kids piled out. Donner Bigby was among them. Jubal stopped eating and watched the small crowd gather at the serving window and order. Bigby noticed them and said something to the others. A lot of eyes swung their way.

Jubal said quietly, “Bigs ever bother Winona Crane and her brother?”

“Not that I know of,” Cork said.

“You fixed him pretty good that day in Grant Park.”

Jubal eyed Bigby. “Guy like that, it’s just a matter of time before you have to fix him again.”

Bigby and the others took their food and drove away. Cork and Jubal stood up from the picnic table and got ready to leave. The light was almost gone from the sky. A flight of Canada geese coming from the north swung in a loose V over Iron Lake and came to rest on the water, which was gunmetal gray and looked cold. It was nearing the end of October, and already Cork could sense winter in the air. But he felt a little better at that moment, a little more connected, and he knew it was because of Jubal.

“I gotta get home,” Jubal said.

“Me, too.”

“I’m thinking of putting together a touch football game tomorrow. You interested? You could use the practice.” Jubal gave him an easy grin.

“Sure,” Cork said. “Thanks.”

In the dusk, they went their separate ways, Jubal to his fatherless home and Cork to his.

The summer before Jubal Little died, Cork and several members of the Iron Lake Ojibwe had helped Rainy Bisonette build a tiny cabin of her own on Crow Point, thirty yards east of Meloux’s, set against a line of aspen that ran along the shore of Iron Lake. Before that, she’d slept on a cot in her great-uncle’s cabin. When she decided that she would stay with the old Mide indefinitely in order to learn all she could from him about healing, word had spread across the rez, and folks had gathered in the meadow to give her a little place of her own for privacy.

By the time Jubal Little was dead, Cork knew the inside of Rainy’s cabin well. She’d furnished it simply: a bed with a small stand next to it where a kerosene lantern sat so that she could read at night before sleeping; a table and two chairs; an open shelving unit of honey-colored maple that Cork had built for her himself and that held her folded clothing; and a small, cast-iron boxwood stove that provided heat. A wealth of books stood stacked knee-high against one wall. (Cork had promised that he would spend some time during the coming winter building her a substantial bookcase.) Above the bed, she’d hung three photographs of herself with her children, who were now grown. The room still smelled as if the pine walls were newly cut and planed, and whenever Cork spent the night with Rainy he went to sleep and woke with a fragrance that was, to him, the breath of heaven.