Louise Erdrich - LaRose

Nola’s so much better, he said. She’s finally getting over Dusty. She’s, ah, integrating. Right now she’s painting the chicken coop.

This detail pricked at Emmaline. Painting a chicken coop? Why was that some kind of leap?

Almost three years, she hasn’t talked to me, said Emmaline. We’re sisters. She acts like half sisters aren’t real sisters. She’s my sister and she won’t talk to me. But that’s not even it, not really. I’m enrolling him here, in the reservation school, where his family goes to school. LaRose is with us now.

Oh, Emmaline, said Peter, in an unguarded way that brought Emmaline back because she liked Peter fine; he was solid, and had never hurt anyone. She trusted Peter’s goodness and was sure that in past times he’d kept the lid on Landreaux by just taking his own slow way and leading his friend along the innocent dirt road of a Peter kind of life.

I understand, said Peter, careful. He had to stay in control. He knew enough not to escalate this, not to become emotional. Why don’t you keep him with you a few more days? I’ll explain to Nola.

She won’t understand, said Emmaline.

No.

Still. I am taking him back, said Emmaline. It’s time.

She came out of the bedroom and spoke to the others, who were nearly ready: she told them that she was going to take LaRose to their school.

You’re going to school with your sisters, she said brightly to LaRose. Surprise.

He looked from Snow to Josette, who widened their eyes in a silent message, Mom says. He went back to the boys’ room to get dressed. They were talking out there in the kitchen now. Things were always like this. Although LaRose was used to going where he was supposed to go, and doing what he was supposed to do, sometimes they just threw these big surprises at him.

Coulda told me. Like more than a minute ago, he whispered.

He put on fresh jeans, a clean T-shirt. He smelled his yesterday’s socks, threw them down, and took a pair of Coochy’s from the sock pile.

Peter stood frozen, the phone droning in his hands, gaze fixed on the cipher of a woman out there painting a chicken coop with old white leftover gummy paint. Even though she wouldn’t talk to Emmaline, his wife was better, he thought. Maybe. Maybe men just think women are better if they have sex with us, but even so. A few nights ago she put her hands on him, stroked him without saying one strange word. And they had loved in utter peace. He came back into his body. He could not inhabit himself without her. He had that roughed-up Slav shell and inside a milky tender heart. He had guarded it carefully before Nola. There was nobody else for him but this one woman — he might hate her sometimes, but he would go to hell for her and save her cakes.

Two days later, he tried to have the conversation.

I just don’t like her, Peter, I don’t, because she is a self-righteous bitch.

Why do you say that?

Peter had read magazine articles that advised questions when you wanted to divert a way of thinking in another person. Or you wanted to stall.

Why? he asked again, then ventured. She’s your sister. You could try.

Okay, I’ll tell you why I can’t try. She’s got that program director’s attitude for one thing. Like, here’s Emmaline. Posing at her desk. Wehwehweh. I can listen. Listen with my hands folded and my head cocked. You know? Emmaline puts on her listening mask and behind that mask she’s judging you.

They were outside, at the edge of the yard. Nola ripped up a stalk of grass and put the end in her mouth. She narrowed her eyes and stared out over the horizon, that line at the end of the cornfields, between the sweeping coves of trees.

For emphasis she dipped her head to each side. Right. And left. Judging me.

She tossed the stalk of grass away.

Oh, I guess I could. Talk to her. If she would give back LaRose.

Peter glanced at the ground, disguising his hope.

It’s been four days. I get it, said Nola. I really do.

I never said.

But I get it.

Peter nodded, encouraged.

I mean, it’s wrong, but I get it. She’s holding him hostage because she wants my attention. She wants me to be like, Oh, Emmaline, how are you, how is your project, your big deal, your this, your that, your girls that Maggie likes so much? How generous you are, Emmaline, what a big-time traditional person to give your son away to a white man and almost white sister who is just so pitiful, so stark raving. So like her mother that Marn who had the snakes. People never forget around here. And they will never forget this either. It will be Emmaline Iron the good strong whaddyacallit, Ogema-ikwe. The woman who forever stuck by that big load Landreaux and even straightened him out so he could, so he could. . I’m just saying I would kill him for you. I see your face when you’re chopping wood. I’d kill him for you if it wasn’t for LaRose. So their damn unbelievable plan worked its wonder because now I’m better.

Peter questioned that now, but said nothing.

And nobody’s going to kill the big freak. He’s too fucking tall.

He’s only six three, murmured Peter. I’m six two.

I hope our son doesn’t get that tall. I hope LaRose doesn’t turn into a killer hulk.

It’s been a while now, said Peter.

Yeah, the years have gone by, haven’t they, Nola said. Her top lip lifted in the mad little sneer that sometimes jolted a shiver of lust in Peter.

C’mere, he said.

Why? She ripped another piece of grass out and stuck it between her lips. Maggie was over at the Irons’ house, as usual. They were alone.

Peter took the stick of grass from her mouth and lightly struck her cheek with it. She was still. He searched into her face. Kissed her until she kissed him back. She nodded at the house. He picked her up and carried her to the barn.

Not there, she said.

He carried her in anyway. They passed the old halters on hooks, the junked refrigerator, the green chair, the empty stalls. He threw bales down in the last one, a canvas tarp over the bales. There was that good smell of an old barn where animals had eaten, shat, breathed, an old clean barn full of hay and sun. He untied and removed her paint-streaked worn-out running shoes, peeled down her tight jeans, slipped each foot from the creased-up ankles. He knelt before the bale, lay her back, crooked her legs.

She looked over his shoulder. The crossbeam black oak. The rope gone. Gone. Nola flung her arms straight over her head. Her breasts tipped up.

He placed her feet on each side of his chest, placed his hands under her hips, pulled her onto him, rocked into her. And then they both went back and farther back, to the beginning, where there was nothing else, no bad things happened, where there was no child to grieve, no loss, no danger, where a few wasps hovered over but did not land on Peter’s ass, and the sun shafts lighted up with falling ever falling dust.

And why couldn’t she just see the peace and glory in it anyway? Why did she have to think of all the dead and one fine day herself among them, sifting through bright air? She wouldn’t do it. The rope was gone! How? Don’t ask. No, no, of course. Not now. LaRose told her how much he needed her. Maggie watched over her. She could feel it. She had a new life. Still, she had to think about it sometimes, a little, it wasn’t wrong, was it? Just to fall endlessly and rise forever on soft currents of warm air stirred by bodies of the living. There was nothing wrong with giving over to the melty swoon of it, the null. There was nothing wrong with having more in common with the dust than with her husband, with Peter, was there?

I thought I’d call, said Nola on the phone. Just because it’s a rainy day. Just wondering how LaRose is. .

Then she heard LaRose laughing in the background. One of the girls had maybe answered. It wasn’t Emmaline. Nola’s voice wouldn’t come out of her throat. She set the phone down and passed her hand over her eyes.