William Krueger - Northwest Angle

TWENTY-EIGHT

When her father and the others had left, Jenny took the basket with the sleeping baby and went outside. Aaron went with her. They walked to the end of Bascombe’s old wooden dock, where there was a bench, and they sat down. Across the channel lay Birch Island, a broad, unbroken shoreline of birch and aspen, yellow-green in the late afternoon sun. Forty miles north lay Kenora. Somewhere between here and there, Jenny knew, was the place where the child’s mother had suffered horribly and died. Died, she was certain, without saying a word about where her beloved little baby was hidden. Jenny felt a weight on her shoulders and understood that it was a sense of responsibility, not just to the child but to the mother.

She stared down into the basket, and her heart melted. “Look at him, Aaron. He’s so vulnerable.”

Aaron glanced, then looked away. “All babies are vulnerable, Jenny.”

“Not like him. His mother’s dead. Nobody seems to know who his father is. From everything we do know, he doesn’t have a family or anyone who cares about him.”

“The truth is that we don’t know much at all about him, Jenny. When we do, maybe we’ll know about things like family.” He eyed the child again. “And whether there’s hope for that face of his.”

Something inside her shriveled into a hard little ball. “That’s all you see?”

“It’s tough to get past.”

“What if he had a normal face?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would that make a difference in how you felt about him?”

“I don’t feel anything about him, Jenny. He’s not my child.”

“Maybe he could be.”

Aaron stood up, and the whole dock seemed to shiver. “I know where you’re headed here. But, Jenny, you’re going to have to give him over to the authorities at some point. He’ll become the responsibility of the county or the state or someone.”

“I mean, Aaron,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “suppose we had a child and the child wasn’t perfect.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I think it would be too late then.”

“Jesus, Jenny.” He threw his hands up, as if scattering something—crumbs, maybe—across the lake. “I love you. I want to marry you. And I’ve been thinking about this whole issue of children. Okay, I admit it scares me. It’s not something I’ve wanted in the same way as you. But I do want you, and if children will make you happy, then I’m fine with that.”

She gave him a curt little clap of her hands. “Bravo, Aaron. So rational. But I don’t want it to be something that comes from your head. I want it to come from here.” She reached out and thumped his chest over his heart.

“What I feel for you does.”

They were quiet after that, painfully so. A flight of white pelicans cut along the channel, so near the crests of the waves that Jenny was afraid their wings would catch and they would crash into the lake. She watched them curl to the west and glide smoothly to rest in the calmer water of a little bay.

“I just . . . I wasn’t expecting this,” Aaron said at last. “We’re apart two weeks, and when I see you next, you have a baby practically stuck to your breast.”

“I didn’t plan it. But I believe it’s like Amos Powassin said. He’s come to rest where he’s supposed to be.”

Aaron eyed the baby with what Jenny perceived as distaste and said, “Listen to me. You can’t keep this kid.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because anyone who sees the way you look at him would believe he’s yours.”

“I don’t think I want to have this discussion with you now.”

“Fine. But we’ll have to have it at some point.”

“Will we? I’d like to be alone with him right now.”

“Perfect,” Aaron said.

He walked away, and in the quiet after his leaving, she could hear the soothing spill of waves against the shore and the soft breathing of the baby asleep at her feet.

“I don’t think it’s going well,” Anne said from the window of the lodge, where she’d been watching the exchange at the end of the dock.

Mal said, “What do you think of him?”

Anne crossed her arms and gave the question a good long think. “He’s smart. He’s handsome. He loves Jenny. He seems very nice. What’s not to like?”

Mal bent and gently touched his injured ankle. “That sounds rhetorical.”

Rose came from the kitchen, holding a big package of frozen hamburger. “Not the best of circumstances under which to meet the O’Connors, you have to admit. What about meat loaf for dinner? And I can do up some garlic mashed potatoes, and there’s a big bag of peas in the freezer. Nothing for a salad, unfortunately.”

“You know,” Mal said, “I keep thinking about that girl and her situation and who might have been cruel enough or angry enough to do what was done to her. And this other one, too. This Chickaway.”

“Thinking what?” Rose said. She sat down at the table with her husband.

“I had a man in confession once who told me he had horrible thoughts about killing his girlfriend.”

“Are you allowed to tell us this?”

“I won’t tell you who he was, sweetheart. And it was a long time ago. He and God have already had a face-to-face on this issue.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Go on,” Rose said.

“He was inclined to kill her because she’d betrayed him, slept with another man. Sent my guy into a murderous rage. He was going to kill her, and then he was going to kill the guy she’d slept with.”

“But you talked him out of it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Did he?”

“You mean did he kill her? No. He killed himself instead.”

Anne said, “And the point is?”

“Maybe Chickaway fathered the child and took Lily Smalldog off Stump Island before she began to show and anyone would know. He hid her on that remote island and was keeping her safe there.”

“Safe from Smalldog?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Because he knows Smalldog and what he’s capable of.”

“But Smalldog gets wind of it because of all that formula, tortures Chickaway until he tells where Lily is, then kills him, hauls the body off, and goes after Lily. Is that it? A murderous rage? I don’t know, Mal,” Anne said.

Mal shrugged. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“But the baby has a cleft lip,” Rose pointed out. “Lynn Belgea said Noah Smalldog was also born with a cleft lip. So wouldn’t the baby be Smalldog’s?”

Mal considered the possibility, then offered, “You told me she also said that Indians have a much higher rate of cleft lip than other ethnic groups, so maybe it’s just chance.”

Anne said, “He’s leaving her.”

Rose and Mal swung their attention to Anne, who was still looking out the window.

“What? For good?” Mal asked.

“I mean right now. She’s staying on the dock with the baby. He’s heading back here.”

“I guess we can’t talk about him behind his back then,” Mal said.

“You make it sound awful,” Rose said. “It’s just a family discussion.”

“If you say so.” Mal let out a small groan.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m worried about that ankle.”

Mal laughed. “With everything else we have to worry about, this ankle’s nothing, Rose. What kind of Catholic would I be if I couldn’t take a little suffering?”

Anne said, “I’m going out to be with Jenny for a while.”

“Go on,” Rose said. “She could use family about now, I bet. And, Mal, would you mind having a little talk with Aaron while I make myself scarce?”

“A little talk? About what?”

“Whatever he wants to discuss,” Rose said.