Louise Erdrich - The Round House

Take this! Go on, live it up. Majaan!

I didn’t take the bill.

You’re up to something, Mooshum.

Up to something, he said as he sat down, up to something. Then he said in low outrage, How can a man be a man!

Maybe I can help you, I said.

Eh, so be it. Clemence keeps my bottle high in the kitchen cabinet. You could fetch me that!

It wasn’t even noon, but then I figured what could it hurt? He’d lived long enough to deserve a drink of whiskey when he wanted it. Clemence had given him but one pour on his birthday, then lots of swamp tea to counteract the effect. I was standing on the countertop, trying to find the place where Clemence hid the bottle, when Sonja came in the back door. She was carrying a plastic shopping bag with sturdy handles, and at first I thought she’d shopped again with my money and was coming to show Clemence her purchases. I clambered down with the bottle in my hand and said, in a belligerent tone, So, you went on another spending spree! I stood before her. We’re going to dig up those passbooks, I said. We’re gonna go around and get all that money back, Sonja.

All right, she said, her blue eyes soft with hurt. That’s fine.

Stop this talk of money. Mooshum stumbled close to Sonja. Took her arm. He spoke silkily.

This old man has money and a bottle too, ma chère niinimoshenh.

Mooshum steered Sonja and her heavy shopping bag toward the bedroom.

Get out of here now, he said to me. Get! He held his hand out for the bottle.

But I stood my ground.

I’m not going anywhere, I said. Clemence told me to stay.

I followed them into the bedroom. They stared at me in a helpless way. I sat down on the bed.

I’m not leaving, at least, until I see what’s in that bag.

Mooshum gave me an outraged snort. He snatched the bottle from my hand and took a quick pull. Sonja sat down sullenly and puffed out her lips. She was wearing one of her tracksuits, plush and pink, and a T-shirt with a plunging neckline; a silver heart at the end of a silver chain pointed to the shadowy swelling line where her breasts were pushed together. Her hair glowed in light from the window behind her.

Joe, she said, this is Mooshum’s birthday present.

What is?

What’s in the bag.

Well, give it to him, then.

It’s ... ah ... a grown-up gift.

A grown-up gift?

Sonja made a face that meant duh .

My throat shut. I looked from Mooshum to Sonja, back and forth. They wouldn’t look at each other.

I’m gonna ask you to leave in a nice way, Joe.

But as she spoke she started taking things from the bag—not exactly clothes—tatters of cloth and sequiny things and glittering tassels and some long strands of hair and fur. Heeled sandals with long leather laces. I’d seen this stuff before, on her, in my folder labeled HOMEWORK.

I’m not leaving. I sat down next to Mooshum, on his low cot.

You are too! Sonja stared at me. Joe! Her face hardened in a way I had not seen before. Get outta here, she ordered.

I won’t, I said.

No? She stood, hands on her hips, and puffed air into her cheeks, mad.

I was mad, too, but what I said surprised me.

You’re gonna let me stay. Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Whitey about the money.

Sonja froze and sat back down. She was holding some shiny cloth. She stared at me. A remote, mystified look crept onto her face. A shiny film flooded her eyes, making her look so young.

Really, she said. Her voice was sad, a whisper. Really?

I should have left, right then. In one half hour I’d wish I had, but also be glad I stayed. I’ve never felt all one way about what happened next.

Money again, saaah, cried Mooshum in disgust. Which made me think about the money and about Sonja’s diamond earrings.

I grabbed Mooshum’s bottle and drank. The whiskey hit me and my eyes watered too.

He’s a good boy, said Mooshum.

Sonja wouldn’t take her eyes off me. You think so? You really think he’s a good boy? She sat down and slapped the shiny bra she held against her knee.

He takes good care of me. Mooshum drank and offered me the bottle again. I passed it to Sonja.

You’ll tell Whitey, huh?

She gave me an ugly smile, a smile that jolted me. Then she knocked back a long swallow. Mooshum took a sip and handed the bottle back to me. Sonja narrowed her eyes until the blueness turned black. So it’s you and Whitey. Okay then. I’m onna dress in the bathroom. You boys stay right here. And if you ever say a word about anything to anybody, Joe, I will cut off your puny dick.

My jaw dropped, and she laughed mean. Can’t have it both ways, you lying little phony. I’m not momming you anymore.

She took a tape player out of the bottom of her bag, plugged it into the wall, and popped in a cassette.

When I come back in, turn the music on, she ordered. Then she went across the hall to the bathroom with her bag.

Mooshum and I sat silently on the cot. I now remembered the two of them talking low at the party, and how they had annoyed me. My head started buzzing. I took another swig from Mooshum’s bottle. After a while, Sonja came back in, shut the door behind her and locked it, then turned around.

I suppose the two of us gaped at her.

Hit Play, Joe, she growled.

The music began, a low faraway series of wails and chants. Sonja’s hair was held straight up in a metallic cone that acted as a fountain, spilling tons of hair, more than she really had, down her shoulders and back. She wore heavy makeup—her eyebrows were black wings, her lips a cruel red. A formal gray sheath of silk hung from her neck to her legs and covered her arms. She drew a long wavy dagger from her sleeve. Then she lifted her arms like an ancient goddess about to sacrifice a goat, or a live man tied on a slab of rock. She held the dagger in both hands, then switched to one hand, staring at the dagger. She pushed an invisible switch. The dagger lit up and glowed. The music changed to guttural, grinding moans, then a sudden series of yips. Along with each yip she cut apart a piece of Velcro that held her robe together. She teased us for a while. The robe had slits in the sides. One armor-plated breast would appear. A leg in the sandal laced to her thigh. Finally, after a chorus of chants and howls, there was a sudden shriek. Then silence. She dropped her robes. I grabbed Mooshum’s arm. I didn’t want to waste a second looking at him but didn’t want him to fall over backward, either, and hit his head. I have never, ever, forgotten her in the dim glory of Evey’s bedroom. She was tall in those heeled sandals. With her hair in that cone she nearly touched the ceiling. Her legs went up forever and she wore a bikini bottom that looked like it was forged of iron, padlocked shut. Her stomach was pure and lithe, toned I don’t know how. I’d never seen her exercise. And my loves, her breasts, also cased in bits of plastic armor, pushed at the seams of the breastplate, which had been made with fake erect nipples. Skins and scarves flowed off her. She held the dagger in her teeth and then she began to rub and work the fur and fabric all over her body. She wore thin vinyl gauntlets. She took one off, lightly whipped herself and scoured her chastity belt with it, and then cracked me across the face. I almost fainted. I grabbed Mooshum again. He was panting with happiness. Sonja smacked me right in the eye with the other gauntlet. The drums began. Sonja’s belly and hips began to gyrate in a different tempo—so fast her movements blurred. Mooshum gave me the bottle. I choked. Sonja whirled. Kicked me in the knee. I bent over in pain but my eyes never left her. The drum fell silent. She played with the leather strips that held her armor bra together and then suddenly she let it drop. And there they were. Wearing only gold tassels that she twirled first one way, then the other, mesmerizing us. I was dizzy by the time the drum quit. Mooshum’s breath came ragged. I could hear the tape scratch. She pulled the ties on her sandals and stepped out of them, threw them at my head. She unsnapped the cone from her hair and it fell around her face in a wild waterfall. She threw the cone at me too. Barefoot, she stepped close and began to grind her hips to the howls of wolves, but when she reached down into her iron bikini and slowly pulled out a key on a silken string, Mooshum was ready. He snatched the key from her fingers and without a tremble in his ancient fist he opened the padlock, unhooked and threw it to the side, and there was a G-string made of soft, black, dense fur. Well, it was a rabbit pelt. But so what. She straddled Mooshum’s lap but carefully did not let down her weight. Cupped her tasseled breasts in her hands.