Louise Erdrich - LaRose

In the middle of the night, his thrashing, grunting, and squeals of pain woke them. Wolfred lighted a lantern. Mackinnon’s entire head had turned purple and swollen to a grotesque size. His eyes had vanished in the bloated flesh. His tongue, a mottled fish, bulged from what must have been his mouth. He seemed to be trying to throw himself out of his body. He cast himself violently at the log walls, into the fireplace, upon the mounds of furs and blankets, rattling guns off their wooden hooks. Ammunition, ribbons, and hawks’ bells rained off their shelves. His belly popped from his vest, round and hard as a boulder. His hands and feet filled like bladders. Wolfred had never witnessed anything remotely as terrifying, but had the presence of mind not to club Mackinnon or in any way molest his monstrous presence. As for the girl, she seemed pleased at his condition, though she did not smile.

Trying to disregard the chaotic death occurring to his left, now to his right, now underfoot, Wolfred prepared to leave. He grabbed snowshoes and two packs, moving clumsily. In the packs he put his books, two fire steels, ammunition, bannock he had made in advance. He doubled up two blankets, another to cut for leggings, and outfitted himself and the girl with four knives apiece. He took two guns, wadding, and a large flask of gunpowder. He took salt, tobacco, Mackinnon’s precious coffee, and dried meat. He did not take overmuch coin, though he knew which hollowed log hid the trader’s tiny stash, a gold watch, and a wedding ring, which Mackinnon rarely wore.

Mackinnon’s puffed mitts of hands fretted at his clothing and the threads burst. As Wolfred and the girl slipped out, they could hear him fighting the poison, his breath coming in sonorous gasps. He could barely draw air past his swelled tongue into his gigantic purpled head. Yet he managed to call feebly out to them.

My children! Why are you leaving me?

From the other side of the door they could hear his legs drumming on the packed earth floor. They could hear his fat paws wildly pattering for water on the empty wooden bucket.

SEPTEMBER AGAIN. OVER the course of the day it became oppressively hot. Not a leaf stirred. It was the first day of school and by the time the class let out, Maggie and LaRose were drooping. When they got on the bus, trees started whipping around. Hot grit flew through the air. By the time they jumped off at their stop, big fat drops were smacking down. Nola and the dog met them with a flimsy red umbrella that nearly flew out of her fist. They struggled inside and just as they shut the door lightning pulsed around the edges of the yard and half a second later there were slams of thunder.

Inside, before the dog could shake himself, Nola rubbed him hard with an old towel she kept by the door. The dog trembled with excitement, but was unafraid. He fixed Nola with a calculating gaze, then jumped onto the couch, trying his luck. She had taught him the rules for everything — no begging, no jumping on people, no chewing anything but chew toys, no shitting in the yard, only at the edge of the yard, no puking or drooling in the house, if he could help it. She even taught him not to eat until she said eat. The only thing she was inconsistent about was the couch. Sometimes she ordered him off, sometimes she allowed him on. Sometimes she even let him get close to her. He had to read her mood to find out if he would be allowed onto the hallowed green poly-filled pillows. Now the signs were good. He curled silently between Nola and Maggie, and allowed his weight incrementally to sink against them. Gradually, his brows unknit. Moving by centimeters, he managed to rest his head near Nola’s thigh.

Rain surged down in sheets and waves, pounding on the roof like people trying to get in. This scared Maggie but not LaRose. His father had put an eagle feather up in the lodge for him and talked to the Animikiig; he had explained to the thunder beings where LaRose lived so that they wouldn’t shoot lightning and hit him or anyone else in that house.

Nothing’s gonna happen, LaRose said to Maggie. He put his hand on her cheek. Maggie stopped jittering when LaRose touched her cheek. LaRose knew she loved when he was fearless. It was a burden for her always to be the fearless one. Because of what Maggie had said about his father killing Dusty, he didn’t tell her why they were safe.

Maggie clung to him while Nola made their sandwiches and poured their milk. LaRose watched the rain ripple back and forth.

Let’s eat back here, Nola said, nodding at the couch.

The dog raised his head at the proximity of food to cloth but tried to conceal his shock.

They sat with their food and looked out the window from against an inner wall. Sometimes the house vibrated with sound. Maggie quailed deeper into the cushions and pressed against the dog. When LaRose looked up at Nola, she made a funny face, a confusing face, a face LaRose hadn’t seen before. Nola’s eyes went shiny as she looked back at the streaming glass doors. She seemed mesmerized by the branches violently whipping. The face she’d made at him had been a smile.

At school, in LaRose’s combined K–1 class, there was a bigger, older first grader named Dougie Veddar. He throttled kids and gave them what he called the Dutch Rub — grinding his knuckles into their skulls. Twisting their ears. He turned his attention to hating LaRose. Tripped him, pushed him, called him Rosy Red Ass.

Can I borrow your pencil? Dougie asked LaRose during class. When LaRose gave him the pencil, Dougie snapped off the end and handed it back. LaRose sharpened the pencil.

Can I borrow your pencil? Dougie asked when LaRose sat down.

No, said LaRose.

Dougie made a sad face and raised his hand.

Mrs. Heaper, Mrs. Heaper! LaRose won’t let me borrow his pencil!

You have your own pencil, Douglas, said Mrs. Heaper.

Dougie grabbed LaRose’s sharpened pencil when Mrs. Heaper wasn’t looking, and drove it into LaRose’s arm so hard the tip broke off under the skin. Dougie laughed and said he’d given LaRose a shot. That night, LaRose showed his shoulder to Maggie, the pencil tip driven deep.

Her face swelled up. Her lips tightened. Her golden eyes went black.

When she was six years old, her teachers started calling Maggie “a piece of work.” But after her brother died, her work came together. She revved up the other kids by picking friends, rejecting those who displeased her, pitting them against each other for her favor. Although she didn’t exactly talk back to the teachers, there was sarcasm in the elaborate politeness she showed.

Yes, Miss Behring, she would say, and in a whisper only the other children heard, Yes, Miss Boring.

She rolled her eyes, made spasmodic faces, behind her teachers’ backs. They never caught her when she periodically dropped a BB from her jeans pocket and it rolled around and around on the unlevel floor. It made a high, thin, zinging sound that kept everyone in suspense. She kept it up, flicking a BB out every few days until Miss Behring searched everyone’s pockets. Maggie’s were empty like the others. She told nobody what she’d done so that nobody could rat her out. She was a disciplined piece of work.

Maggie had a list.

Dougie Veddar was now on it.

Recess came. He ran thumpingly around thinking he was safe, with his blond crew cut and rabbity teeth. Maggie was friends with an older girl, Sareah, who was fast and tough. The two girls closed casually in on Dougie and herded him away from the other boys.

Wanna share?

Maggie waved a candy bar from her lunch. He came around the playground tree. Sareah stepped behind him and pinned back his arms. Maggie had worn her hard-soled shoes for this. She reared back and kicked him between the legs. Then as he doubled over she stuffed back his shriek with the candy bar.