Percival Everett - Half an Inch of Water - Stories

“Come on, Tuck.”

It was snowing again when Oliver arrived home to find Lauren rearranging the furniture in the living room. The rug was rolled up and shoved to one side. She had put towels under the feet of the sofa so that she could slide it across the floor.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said.

“I won’t complain if you help me.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“No.”

“Well, okay then.” He helped her move the sofa across the room and turn it. He stood away with her and looked at it. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Nope. Back where it was.”

They pushed it back.

“So, where’d you run off to this morning?”

“Went to see twin foals up on the rez.”

“That’s cool.”

“It was pretty cool. Big App mare, identical babies, mother and children doing well. A real beautiful scene.”

“Somebody’s going to die,” she said.

“You got that right.”

“Why are you such a pessimist?” she asked.

“Hey, I didn’t say it, you did.”

“I only said it because I knew you were thinking it.”

“Seriously, though, I hope those babies make it. They looked strong.”

“So, who called you?” She followed him into the kitchen.

Oliver grabbed a couple of mugs and poured coffee from the pot that was sitting out. “Got a note. Tacked to the back door when I came in from feeding. It was from Billy White Feather.”

“Who the hell is Billy White Feather?”

“Some white boy with an Indian fetish, from what I gather. I’d never heard of him.”

“So, why’d he leave you a note?”

“Beats me. It’s pretty weird.”

“While you’re in town I want you to pick up a package waiting at the post office.” Lauren sipped her coffee.

“Who said I’m going into town? I just got back. I’ve got work to do around here.”

“Please? It’s snowing. I hate driving in the snow.”

“Everybody hates driving in the snow,” he said.

“Pretty please?”

“I love it when you beg. I’m leaving Tuck here.” He looked at the dog. “Be a watchdog. Watch.”

“Hey, he’s old.”

“He’s still employed.” He gave the dog’s head a rub.

The new post office was right beside the old post office. Oliver wondered if a post office needed an address. The only part of the old one that was still used was its parking lot. It wasn’t that the new lot was ever crowded, but the lines of the spaces had been painted so close together that no one could fit a truck into one. Oliver walked inside and handed the slip to the clerk, a large woman with large hair named Pam.

“You don’t look like a Lauren,” Pam said, looking at the paper.

“Haircut.”

He watched as she waded through the piles of boxes into the back. He looked at the bulletin board beside him and wondered when they’d quit putting wanted posters on the wall. Someone was missing a tabby cat. There were some shepherd-mix puppies free to a good home. And there was a sheet with tear-off numbers offering guitar lessons from one Billy White Feather. Oliver tore off one of the tabs.

Pam came back with the box. “Here it is, Lauren.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Just sign right here.”

“Pam, have you come across a Billy White Feather?”

“Jerk.”

“You’ve met him.”

“No. He came in here and caused a ruckus a while back while I was out to lunch. Drunk.”

“You know his address?”

“Yeah, Ethete.”

“Ethete? But he’s a white guy.”

“You get kicked by a horse? His name is White Feather.”

“Folks up at Ethete say he’s a white guy.”

“Well, maybe he ain’t Arapaho, but he’s an Indian. Got a jet-black braid down to his narrow ass.”

“Then you’ve seen him.”

“I wish I would see him. After what he said to that Dwight girl.”

“Duncan Dwight’s daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?” Oliver asked.

“I can’t repeat it. But Duncan Dwight will shoot him if he sees him. And I wouldn’t blame him.”

Oliver picked up the package. “Thanks, Pam.”

“You have a nice day now. Barn journey, as the French say.”

Behind the wheel of his truck, Oliver called the guitar-lesson number on his mobile phone. A recording informed him that the line was not in service. Of course, he thought. He put the phone away and stared ahead through his windshield at the old post office. He was near laughing at himself, taken as he was by what seemed to be a mystery. The irony was double-sided, as, on one hand, he really had no interest in Billy White Feather, whether Indian or white, and, on the other, he recognized that pursuing an answer here was the same as falling for whatever con game this Billy White Feather was running around playing. But why had this guy left him a note? Why had he been at his place?

Oliver felt uneasy and so he called Lauren.

“You get my package?”

“Yep.” He didn’t want to alarm her, but he had to ask. “Has anybody come by today?”

“No. Why?”

“Just asking. Keep an eye out.”

“Ollie?”

“I’ll be home directly.”

Even though he was anxious about getting home, his next stop was Duncan Dwight’s office. He was an attorney and a cattle detective. He’d done Oliver’s will and living trust. He was a short man who was comfortable with his size. He never rode a horse, but he was a real cowboy.

Duncan was chatting with his receptionist when Oliver walked in. “How do, Oliver. What brings you around?”

“Just came from the reservation. An App just dropped twins.”

“Really?” He led the way into his office. “Come on in.”

“All healthy so far,” Oliver reported.

“Pretty cool.”

“They’re gorgeous. Born last night. And somebody tacked a note to my door telling me about it.”

Oliver watched Duncan respond to his tone. “Okay, a note,” Duncan said. “Why are you saying it like that?”

“A note from Billy White Feather.”

Duncan pulled a cigar from the box on his desk, snipped off the end, and put it in his mouth. “Billy White Feather.”

“You know him?” Oliver asked.

“Never met him.”

Oliver walked over and looked at a wall of photos. Duncan posed with various people, maybe famous. There were a couple of pictures of Duncan standing with prized beef. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Heard some people talking about him. Nobody seems to like the guy very much, if at all.”

“I heard he said something to your daughter.”

“I heard that, too, but she says she never saw him.” Duncan lit his cigar. “What are you after, Oliver?”

“You know the folks up on the rez say Billy White Feather is a white guy?”

Duncan blew out a cloud of smoke. “White Feather sounds awfully Indian to me. What’s eating at you?”

“This guy left me a note about buying horses that weren’t his to sell. Left the note tacked to my door. “He sighed, thought about Lauren at home, and said, “I’d better get home.”

“Maybe Billy White Feather isn’t Shoshone or Arapaho, but everybody described him as an Indian guy to me,” Dwight said.

“What else did they say about him?”

“Great big guy.”

“Fat?”

“I heard big. Could be he’s fat.”

“Woman up at Ethete described him as a skinny blond man to me.”

Oliver and Duncan stared out the same window.

“Well, I gotta go,” Oliver said.

“I’ll ask around some,” Duncan said.

Oliver nodded and left.

Oliver arrived home to find Lauren dragging a bag of fertilizer across the yard. He got out of the truck and picked it up for her. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said. “This shit is heavy.”