Callan Wink - Dog Run Moon

When he looked up again a short time later, he saw that there was a man, sitting on the bench next to his mother. They were at opposite ends, and he was too far away to see if they were talking. It didn’t look like they were. It looked like the bench was too small for the two of them, like they didn’t want to be on it with each other. The man was wearing a bright-orange hunting cap. Neon orange. His mom had her bright hat on, and this man had his on, and everything else was white snow or gray tree trunks or black river. He stopped working on his fort wall and started to walk over. His mom thought he was a little kid still, but he wasn’t. He was ten years old now and he’d picked up a fallen cottonwood stick as big around as his wrist, and he was stomping fast through the deep snow, watching his mother the whole time.

When he got closer, he could see his mother wiping at tears, smiling. This was fairly common now too. She had her cheerful voice and then her even more cheerful wiping-away-tears voice.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m okay, honey. Say hi to Ken. We were just talking.”

“Hi, Ken.” He still had his stick resting on his shoulder. Ken’s eyes were red rimmed, and his nose was running. He was leaning over doing something with his hands in the snow next to his leg. He threw the snowball with almost no warning. “Batter’s up, kid,” was all he said.

Probably Ken thought he’d miss, but his dad had taught him how to hit a long time ago, and he was ready even though it looked like he wasn’t. He swung his cottonwood stick as hard as he could, and the snowball evaporated into a mist of cold white powder that slowly filtered down over all three of them. He could feel it melting on his neck under his collar. It turned to wet drops like tears under Ken’s cheeks. It coated his mom’s dark hair so it looked like she’d instantly gone old and gray.

“Hot damn,” Ken said. “What a cut that was. You might make the big leagues yet.”

At the last rest stop before Crow Agency, Perry pulled off and donned the uniform in a stall in the men’s restroom. Navy-blue wool pants and high-topped leather riding boots. A navy-blue wool tunic with gaudy chevrons and large gilt buttons. Elbow-length calfskin gloves. A broad-brimmed hat with one side pinned up rakishly. He smoothed his drooping mustache and ran his fingers through his long blond hair. When he got back into his car, he had to take off the hat. He was tall, and the crown crushed against his Camry’s low ceiling.

Out over the Bighorn range the sky was going red, a red shot through with sooty black tendrils of cirrus horsetail. He came in fast, pushing the Camry up to ninety down the last hill into the Little Bighorn valley. It felt like a charge, headlong and headstrong, brash, driving hard into the final waning moments of a lurid sunset. He put the windows down to feel the rush of air. Only in this place, Perry thought, could the sky look like an expanse of infected flesh. What was the saying?

Red sky at night, sailors take fright?

Red sky at night, keep your woman in sight?

How about: red sky at night, bad men delight?

—

He’d gotten his usual room at the War Bonnet Motel and Casino. There was a king-sized bed and an ironing board that folded down from the wall and an unplugged mini-fridge. The first thing he did was plug in the mini-fridge. The second thing he did was take off and hang up the uniform. Then Perry stretched out on the bed in his boxer shorts and undershirt and fell asleep.

When he woke an hour later it was full dark. He drank a beer and flipped through the channels until he found the weather and was pleased to see the weekend forecast called for high eighties and almost no chance of rain. It was going to be hot and dusty out there but better that than rain. Nothing like rain to ruin a reenactment.

Perry called home. It was only nine, but Andy sounded sleepy when she answered.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“It’s only nine, I didn’t think you’d be asleep.”

“It’s okay. It’s just I had a feeling like I wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight so I took something, and then there was this documentary about meerkats on PBS, and I started watching that and fell asleep and was having these absolutely insane rodent dreams. You know, that’s the problem with when you take something, you fall asleep and then you dream so hard it’s like you have a full day or sometimes it seems like a year, and then, just as you are ready to lay down for sleep, you wake up. You know what I mean? You take something and you sleep, but you’re not rested. Anyway, how was the drive?”

“Fine. Long. I got an audio book at a truck stop in Sioux Falls. It was about this guy in New York who tried for a year to follow the Bible exact. Did you know that the Bible says you shouldn’t wear clothing that is made of fabric that mixes wool and linen?”

“I had no idea.”

“Seriously. Also you shouldn’t trim your sideburns, and the corners of your garments should have tassels.”

“Tassels?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. But, according to the book, there’s a store in New York City that sells nothing but tassels. Tassels Without Hassles.”

“What?”

“That’s what it’s called. The store. Tassels Without Hassles.”

“Huh. Why was this guy doing this? Trying to follow the Bible exact, I mean, what was his reason outside of trying to come up with an idea for a book?”

“To awaken his spiritual side I guess. Connect to his Old Testament ancestors.”

“Is he Jewish, the author?”

“Yeah. In the book he went to a Hasidic dance in Crown Heights in New York, which, from what I gather, is like an Indian reservation but for Orthodox Jews. There weren’t any women there — they didn’t allow them to come to the dance. It was a life-changing experience, he said.”

“Sweet, sounds fun.”

“Yeah.”

“I think if I were a Hasidic woman I’d have a big problem with not being allowed to dance.”

“Perry, I think I’m going to go to bed now.”

“Sounds like it might be a good idea. I’m tired myself from all the driving.”

“Love.”

“Love.”

—

Perry drank another beer, then put on the uniform and headed down to the War Bonnet Lounge. He was surprised to see a new bartender this year, a young guy with a black goatee and a spiderweb tattooed over his elbow. “Well,” the bartender said when Perry bellied up, “looks like the reenactment is in town. Either that or you’re lost. In the wrong century.” He laughed.

“Maybe both,” said Perry. “Where’s Nolan?”

“He died.”

“No shit. When?”

“April.”

“How?”

“He was old. And diabetic. And Indian. How do you think he died?”

“I was accustomed to seeing him here. We were kind of friends. I didn’t know. How old was he anyway?”

“I have no idea, old enough to die and not have it be much of a surprise to anyone that actually knew him.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

“Beer?”

“PBR with a shot of Evan.”

Perry shot the Evan and chased with a small sip of Pabst. He scanned the slot machines. When the bartender came around, Perry asked about Kat.

“Kat who?” the bartender said, narrowing his eyes. “Kat Realbird?”

“Yes, Kat Realbird. She been around tonight?”

The bartender leaned his elbows on the bar and spun an empty shot glass around on the bar top.

“Not tonight. Last night, though.”

“How was she? I mean, how did she seem? How did she look?”

“What do you mean, how did she seem? She came in and played nickel slots with her old grandmother. She had two Coronas with lime. She looked fine. She wore pants. And a shirt. And she had black hair. And she looked Indian. I mean what the fuck do you want from me here?”