Louise Erdrich - LaRose

Shut up, said Maggie.

Shut up? Shut up? Is that any way. .

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Maggie shrieked.

She ran straight into the house, into her room. Slammed the door. After a while she sneaked out to go to the bathroom. Then in the hallway LaRose came up behind her.

Quit following me around, brat, Maggie said.

Her head felt funny, like what those boys did sucked her brains out. Their touching hands were gross and left germs of stupidness. She wanted to wash and wash.

Little asshole. She nearly slapped LaRose.

But she couldn’t hold on to the bitchiness. LaRose was so frustrating, melting her with nothing particular except he never hurt anything. It got dark early, so Maggie and LaRose went downstairs to see if there was food. They ate some ice cream.

Maggie poured a can of Dad’s beer into the dog’s water bowl. He walked over and sniffed it suspiciously, but the smell was good. He lapped it up. She poured him another. He liked that one too. Then he got a smashed look on his face, walked head-on into the closed glass doors, and fell over. LaRose slid open the doors and helped the dog outside.

Poor stupid dog, said Maggie.

The dog walked in circles and fell off the deck. LaRose sat down in the cold grass with him and cradled its head in his lap. The dog was panting, his eyes were glassy, but his snarl could have been a smile. Maggie sat shivering on a deck chair looking down at them.

The dog whimpered, a drunk dog whimper.

You need coffee, said LaRose. The dog didn’t move; slobber dripped until the dog’s breath bubbled all over LaRose’s hands and legs.

Maggie watched, admiring LaRose because of the way he let the dog slobber on him. And he was always like that. There was the way he always captured spiders, never squashed them, calmed hens before they had to be killed, saved bats, observed but never drowned hills of ants, brought stunned birds to life.

Nola said her Catholic grace before dinner. A thought nagged at Maggie. She looked at LaRose, who was studying his food. He was like that monk in the brown robe, Francis. The animals came to LaRose and laid themselves down at his feet. They were drawn to him, knowing they would be saved.

This thought was erased by the way her mother chewed. Actually, it was everything about the way her mother ate. She was already furious with her mother for being late. For putting her life in danger from those maggots. Maggie tried to turn away, to pretend her mother did not exist. But she couldn’t help watch. Nola poked her fork into one green bean, then raised it to her mouth. Sometimes Nola would look around the table to see if anyone else in the family was eating a green bean at the exact same time. At this moment, she was alone with her bean. Nola caught her daughter’s look of contempt. Surprised, she opened her mouth, bared her lips, and snatched the green bean off the fork with her teeth.

Maggie whipped her head back. How could she? How on this fucking earth? The teeth, the teeth, scraping the fork. The metal-on-enamel click. Maggie felt a sodden roar rising. She stared down at her plate, at the green beans, and tried to counsel her hatred to get behind her, like Satan, as hunky old Father Travis had suggested when Nola dragged her to confession that one time.

She took a deep breath. She picked up one green bean with her fingers. Nobody noticed. It took six hand-plucked green beans, a casual, Hey, hey Mom! Then a provocative mad flare of her eyes as she chomped green beans off her fingers, then the freakish grin that always got a rise.

Nola sat back, her fork half raised. She emitted a blistering wave of force.

This is how you eat a bean, Maggie, she said. Then she lifted the fork, bared her lips, scraped the bean off the fork with her teeth.

Maggie looked straight at her and mouthed words that only Nola, only her mother, could see: You are disgusting.

What’s happening? cried Peter, feeling the soundless screech, missing the lip sync.

The dog dry-heaved in the corner.

LaRose took the bowl and scooped the last of the green beans onto his plate. He ate them fast. He glanced over, worried, but the dog had quietly passed out.

Nola’s face darkened. She was panting hard now, with the shut ups adding to the you are disgusting. Maggie leaned her chair back, satisfied. She excused herself and sauntered up the stairs. Nola’s eyes followed her daughter, sour death rays. She had raised a monster whom she hated with all the black oils of her heart but whom she also loved with a deadly confused despair. Quietly, sinking back into her chair, she experimentally ate a green bean off the end of her fork. Neither Peter nor LaRose seemed to notice. So it wasn’t her? She was not disgusting? A tear dropped on her plate.

Peter saw another tear plunk. Are you okay?

Somebody told me today? said LaRose.

Peter put his arm around Nola, just held her. He was getting good at that.

Told you what?

They said, Your mother’s beautiful.

Nola smiled a wan, bewildered smile.

Before he’d spoken, LaRose had made sure Maggie was shut in her room. This was so awkward for him always to be caught between the two — he had confided in Josette. She had told him it was awkward. She told him that for one thing, Maggie had some kind of grief disorder, probably, that made her act out. It’s us who should adopt her, said Snow. We love her, but she’s hard. Also there were communication problems at her house. Josette said it was very common at her age, the mother-daughter thing. She and Snow and their mom were lucky because Emmaline had given birth young and also she was kind of a ding like the two of them and not trying to be so goody-goody and above them. Whatever works, do it, Josette said, but I feel sorry for you because it is awkward.

Maggie slipped into his room that night. She had been lying in her room — cooling off after another hot, hot shower. She had started to cry, alone. It was okay alone. But she still cut off the crying as quickly as she could, to toughen herself. She was a wolf, a wounded wolf. She’d sink her teeth in those boys’ throats. Her thoughts returned to how the animals were drawn to LaRose. She would trust her paw to his boy hand.

Move over, she whispered, and popped under his quilt.

Her hot feet on his shins.

I gotta ask you something. Her nose was still plugged by the unwilled crying. Her face was swollen. But his skin cooled the soles of her feet.

Please, LaRose. Don’t laugh. I’m gonna ask you something serious.

Okay.

What would you do if boys jumped me, if they touched me and stuff, all over, in a bad way.

I would make them die, said LaRose.

Do you think you could?

I would figure it out.

Could a saint kill for love?

Saints have superpowers, said LaRose.

Do you think you’re a saint?

No.

I think you are, said Maggie.

She rolled over, stared at the crack of dim light underneath the door. It was a cool night. The warmth of him suffused the bed. The itchy, dirty, cooty-fingered film on her skin dispersed. The roiling craziness her mother caused with her chewing habits dissipated. Everything bad was drawn into the gentle magnetism of the bedsheets. She began to drift.

LaRose stroked the ends of her hair on the pillow beside him.

I am a broken animal, she whispered.

IT WAS GOING to snow, first snow of the season, Romeo could smell it. He could always smell that gritty freshness before it happened, before the weatherpeople turned the snow to drama on his television. He plunged outside, across the lumps of torn earth, and took the road to town. Sure enough, as he rollingly walked, flakes began and he had the impression, maybe it was the drug he’d taken, that he was all of a sudden stuck. He was in a globe, frozen on a tiny treadmill in a little scene of a man walking to the Dead Custer, forever, through falling bits of white paper or maybe some snowlike chemical that would sift down over and over as a child turned his world upside down in its hands. He liked this idea so well that he had to remind himself it wasn’t true. The motionless motion was so transfixing, and his thoughts — his thoughts were centered.