Louise Erdrich - The Round House

It’s okay, said Sonja to me, over her shoulder. Whitey’s feeling low. He’s hungover.

Whitey’s jaw was still set in that mean way. He stared straight ahead.

Yeah, he said. Hungover. Not the kind of hungover you’re thinking of.

Whitey had a jailhouse spit—so sleek, so accurate. Like he’d gone a period of his life with nothing to do but spit. He jumped out of the car, slammed the door, spat, hit a can, ping , and walked away even though there was someone waiting at the gas pump. Sonja just moved over, parked, and unlocked the station. She gave me the keys to the pumps without looking outside and told me I should handle that car. This was the second bad thing.

I’d seen this person, he was familiar, but I didn’t know him. All of his features were neat and regular, but he was not good-looking. He was a brown-haired, sunk-eyed white man with a slack but powerful build, a big man in neat clothing—a white shirt, brown belted pants, leather lace-up shoes. His longish hair was combed back evenly behind his ears so you could see the tracks in it. His ears were oddly small and neat, coiled against his head. His lips were thin, dark red, like he had a fever. When he smiled, I saw his teeth were white and even, like a denture commercial.

I went over to wait on him.

Fill ’er up, he said.

I unlocked the gas tanks and pumped gas. I washed his windows and then asked if he wanted his oil checked. His car was dusty. It was an old Dodge.

Nah. His voice was genial. He began counting fives from a wad of bills. He handed over three of them. My car was thirsty, he said. I drove all night. Say, how are you?

Sometimes grown-ups recognize a kid and talk as if they know you, but they really know your parents or uncle or were somebody’s teacher. It is confusing, plus he was a customer. So I was polite and said I was fine, thanks.

Oh, that’s good, he said. I hear that you’re a real good kid.

I took him in, now, put him together. A good kid? Second white man to say that this summer. My thought was, This could wreck me .

You know—he looked at me hard—I wish I had a kid like you. I don’t have any children.

Gee, too bad, I said like I meant the opposite. Now I was put off. I still couldn’t place him.

He sighed. Thanks. I don’t know. I suppose it’s luck, starting a good family and all. Having a loving family. It’s pretty nice. Gives you an advantage in life. Even an Indian boy like you can have a good family and get that sort of start, I guess. And maybe it will let you draw even with a white kid of your own age, you know? Who doesn’t have a loving family.

I turned to walk off.

Oh, I’ve said too much. Come back here! He tried to give me another five. I kept walking. He looked down and turned the ignition key. The engine coughed and caught. Well, that’s me, he called. Always saying too much. But! He slapped the side of the car. Say what you will, you’re the judge’s son.

I whirled around.

My twin sister had a loving Indian family and they stuck by her when times were hard.

Then he drove off, and because of what Linda had told me, I knew I had spoken with Linden Lark.

I decided that I wanted to quit and go home now. I was mad at Whitey. I’d pumped gas for the enemy. Sonja bothered me too. She came out of the station, chewing gum. As her jaws worked, those earrings twitched and flashed. She’d spun her hair up in a flossy cone held with clips of hot pink enamel. Those jeans fit her like paint. The morning seemed to last forever. I had to stay because Whitey was gone. Then around eleven he returned and I realized he’d had a beer or maybe two. Sonja pretended, insultingly, as though she didn’t notice his silence as he came and went.

At noon Sonja made us the sandwiches out of bread and meat from the cooler, so there wasn’t any joking about how good our rez steak was or if I wanted mine well-done. She just handed me the sandwich and a can of grape Shasta. Later on she gave Whitey’s sandwich to me. His had lettuce on it but I ate it anyway as I watched him changing a tire for LaRose. My mother, Clemence, and LaRose had been inseparable once upon a time. In Mom’s little photo album there were pictures of them in school shots at their boarding school. Mom always talked about going to school with them. LaRose figured in her stories. But when it came to the present, they didn’t visit often, and when they did, it was always just the two of them talking intensely, away from other people. You would have thought they had some secret, except that this had been going on for years. Sometimes Clemence joined in, and again they always went off, the three of them, and nobody else.

LaRose was always there and not there. Even when she looked right at you and spoke, it seemed her thoughts were elsewhere, elusive. LaRose had had so many husbands that nobody kept track of her last name anymore. She had started out a Migwan. She was a skinny, fine-boned, birdlike woman who smoked brown cigarillos and wore her silky black hair in a glistening beaded flower clip. Sonja had come out to stand by LaRose, so there we were. Three pop drinkers watching a sweaty Indian Elvis try to loosen up a set of rusted lug nuts. He strained. His neck bulged, his arms inflated. His gut was padded by those nightly beers, but his arms and chest were still powerful. He sank his weight on the wrench. Nothing. He knelt back on his feet. Even the dust was hot that day. He smacked the wrench in his palm and then he stood up suddenly and winged it into the weeds. Again, he gave Sonja that crafty look.

Don’t gimme snake eyes, you bastard, she said, just because you can’t turn a damn screw.

LaRose raised her curved eyebrows and turned her back on the two of them.

C’mon, she said to me. I need another pack of smokes.

She put her hand on my back, an auntielike gesture. She steered me forward. We went into the store and were alone together. She reached behind the counter for what she needed. I didn’t care how elusive LaRose was, I’d question her. I asked her if she was related to Mayla Wolfskin.

She’s my cousin, lots younger than me, said LaRose. Her dad was Crow Creek.

Did you grow up with her?

LaRose lazily lit a cigarillo and snapped out the match with exaggerated wrist swipes.

What’s going on?

I just want to know.

You a FBI, Joe? I told that white guy with the dirty eyeglasses that Mayla went to boarding school in South Dakota, then was going on to Haskell. There was this program where they took the smartest ones to have a special job in the government, something like that. Gave a stipend of money, everything. Mayla got in the papers—my aunt clipped the article. Chosen for an internship. She looked so nice. Wearing a white headband, jumper she probably made in Home Ec, knee socks. I know that much. She worked for that one governor, you know. He did all those bad things. Nothing stuck to him.

Sonja walked inside and sold LaRose the cigarillos she was already smoking. I looked outside and saw that Whitey was headed for the Dead Custer.

Ah, shit, said Sonja. That’s no good.

LaRose said, My tire.

I’ll fix it.

She smiled at me—the reflection of a smile. She had a sad calm face that never really lighted up. Her delicate silken brown skin had fine lines if you were close enough to smell her signature rose powder. A silver tooth glinted when she smoked.

Have a go at it, my boy.

I wanted to ask her more about Mayla, but not with Sonja around. First I went and found the wrench in the weeds. When I came back, I saw that the women had brought lawn chairs and set them up in a crack of shade next to the building. They were sipping cream sodas.

Go ahead! Sonja waved. Smoke drifted from her fingers. I’ll take care of customers, if we get any.