William Krueger: Thunder Bay

“Did he tell you where to look?”

“Ontario, Canada.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“The mother’s name.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. He fathered the child over seventy years ago. And he’s only seen him in visions.”

“Then how can he be sure?”

“He’s Meloux.”

“What are you going to do?”

“First, head to his cabin. There’s something I’m supposed to find.”

“What?”

“A watch. Also, he asked me to take care of Walleye while he’s in the hospital.”

“Do you have any idea how you’re going to do this?”

“I’m waiting for inspiration to strike. Okay if I take Stevie with me? He’s looking a little bored.”

“Thanks. I’m kind of overwhelmed with paperwork.”

I filled my water glass again and took another drink. Jo pulled a cup from the cupboard and poured herself what was left in the coffeemaker on the counter.

“I saw Jenny at Sam’s Place,” I told her. “Whatever had her sick this morning, she seems better now. Sick from drinking, maybe? Is that what we need to talk about?”

“Tonight, Cork. We’ll talk. You need to get out to Meloux’s.” She practically pushed me out the front door.

Outside, Stevie was using the driver as a rifle, kneeling behind the railing of the front porch, firing off imaginary rounds.

“Okay, Davy Crockett,” I said. “Time to desert the Alamo. I’m going up to Henry Meloux’s cabin. Want to come?”

He jumped at the prospect. “Is Henry there?”

Meloux and my son had a special bond. Stevie had gone through a traumatic experience a couple of years earlier, a kidnapping. The old Mide had spent a good deal of time with him afterward, helping him deal with his fears and return to wholeness.

“Henry’s in the hospital, Stevie.”

“Is he sick?”

“Yes. And we’re going to help.”

“Can we visit him?”

“We’ll see. But Walleye’s alone at the cabin. We need to take care of him.”

Walleye and Stevie. Another special bond.

He dropped the golf club on the porch and ran to my Bronco.

I pulled to the side of a dusty county road a few miles north of Aurora. Far behind me were the last of the resorts on Iron Lake, hidden in the deep cover of red pines and black spruce. All around me was national forest land. A few miles farther north lay the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. I parked near a double-trunk birch that marked the beginning of the trail to Meloux’s cabin on Crow Point.

Stevie leaped from the Bronco. He was already on the trail before I locked up, skipping far ahead. I followed more slowly. Age, yeah, but also because the trail to Meloux’s cabin always had a sacred feel to me. It was a hot afternoon, typical of early August. We were in the middle of a grasshopper infestation, and the woods were full of their buzz, a sound like tiny saws cutting the air. Sunlight broke through the canopy of pine boughs overhead and lay in shattered pieces on the ground. Thirty yards in front of me, Stevie danced through caverns of shadow and into moments of radiant light. I loved him deeply, my son. Every day, I counted him-and my daughters-a blessing.

Meloux had never seen his own son. Never carried him on his shoulders or held him when he cried. Never felt the small boy’s breath, warm and sweet smelling, break against his face. Never knew the pleasure of being for his son the slayer of monsters imagined in the night.

God, I thought, the emptiness.

Yet I’d never felt that from Meloux until, lying on that hospital bed in a web of modern medicine, he’d looked up at me, lost, and asked a favor, father to father.

I didn’t doubt Meloux, didn’t doubt that he had a son he’d seen only in visions. Over time, I’d experienced too many unexplainable moments with the old Mide to be skeptical about something like this. It did make me wonder deeply, though, about the circumstances.

The trail cut through national forest land for a while, then entered the rez. We crossed Wine Creek and a few minutes later broke from the trees. Fifty yards ahead stood Meloux’s cabin, an ancient structure but sturdy, made of cedar logs with a shake roof covered by birch bark. Meloux had built the cabin himself, and as long as I’d known him, had lived there year-round. He had no running water, no indoor plumbing. He used an outhouse.

The door was open. As we approached, something in the dark inside the cabin moved. A long, yellow face appeared, big brown eyes patiently watching us come.

“Walleye,” Stevie called and raced toward the dog.

The mutt padded out, tail wagging.

Many rural people in Tamarack County keep dogs. They have them for a variety of reasons. Companionship, of course. But also security. A dog will bark a warning. Not Walleye. Or at least, not when it was Stevie coming. The two had become good friends over the past couple of years. Stevie threw his arms around the big mutt and buried his face in Walleye’s fur.

“Hey, boy, how you been?” he said. “Missed me?”

I gave the dog’s head a good patting and stepped through the doorway into the cabin.

The structure was a single room. Meloux’s bunk was against one wall. In the center near the potbelly stove stood a table with a few chairs around it. The four windows had curtains that had been a gift from one of the old man’s nieces. On the walls hung a number of items that harked back to a different time: a deer-prong pipe, a birch-bark basket, a small toboggan, a Skelly gas station calendar nearly sixty years out of date.

Stevie came up beside me. “He didn’t close his door.”

“I’m sure he thought he’d be back soon and left it open so Walleye could come and go as he pleased.”

“He never locks his door. Isn’t he afraid someone’s going to steal from him?”

“I think Henry believes that what’s in here wouldn’t interest anyone but him.”

“I think it’s cool stuff.”

“So do I, Stevie.”

Meloux had told me to look under the bunk for the watch. I crossed the floorboards, knelt, and peered into the dark beneath the bed frame. Shoved into a far corner against the wall was a wooden box. I lay down on my belly, stretched out my arm, snagged the box, and pulled it into the light. It was cedar, ten inches long, six inches wide and deep. Carved into the top was an image of animikii, the Thunderbird. Under the bed, undisturbed, it should have had some dust on it, a few cobwebs attached, but the box was clean. Meloux had handled it recently. I opened the lid. Inside, on top of a stack of folded papers, lay a gold pocket watch.

I picked up the watch and snapped it open. Opposite the watch face was a tiny photograph of a handsome young woman with long black hair.

Stevie looked over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Not what, Stevie. Who. Her name is Maria Lima.”

“That picture looks old.”

“It is. More than seventy years old.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Keep it, for now. I might need it.”

“Why?”

“Henry asked me to do something for him. Two things actually. And one of them was to take care of Walleye.”

I put the watch in my shirt pocket, closed the box, and slid it back into the corner where I’d found it.

“If Henry is in the hospital, maybe we should stay out here,” Stevie suggested. “So Walleye won’t get lonely.”

“I have a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t we take him home?”

“Really?” A huge, eager smile bloomed on his face.

“Just until Henry’s better.” Though I didn’t know if that was going to happen.

Walleye had padded into the cabin behind us and sat on his haunches, watching. Stevie turned to him and scratched the fur at the dog’s neck.