William Krueger - Northwest Angle

“Tom says he can navigate by the stars.”

Kretsch shook his head and grinned. “GPS, actually. It’s much more reliable.”

Jenny took the deputy’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

Kretsch looked down, as if embarrassed, and Cork thought he was going to say, “Ah, shucks.” Instead, he said, “I’m just glad I could help.”

“You get yourself and my father back to Oak Island in one piece,” she said seriously.

“We’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Cork told her. “You just get safely to Henry. I’ll feel a lot better when I know you’re there. And give a call to Bascombe’s place, let everyone know you’re safe.”

Cork gave her a long hug, then turned to Stephen. “Tell Henry boozhoo for me, and thank him. And take care of your sister and the boyo, okay?”

“I’m on it, Dad.”

Stephen tolerated Cork’s hug, even gave him a quick squeeze of his own in return.

He turned to Aaron and shook his hand earnestly. “When this is all over, we’ll sit down with a couple of beers and really get to know each other.”

“I’d like that.”

Cork nodded toward the truck that held his daughter and the baby. “Thank you.”

“I’ll make sure we get to your friend’s place safely,” Aaron promised.

Cork stood back and watched them climb into the cab. Aaron kicked the engine over and turned the truck around. As they headed into the waning light of evening, they gave him a last wave of good-bye.

“They’ll be fine,” Kretsch said.

“From your mouth to God’s ear.” Cork turned back toward the cove. “Let’s get ourselves on that lake before I lose my nerve.”

“We’ll be home before midnight,” Kretsch said.

“I don’t think so,” Cork replied.

“No? Why not?”

“Because we’re going to make a stop before we get there.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Cork said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

For a good long while, they drove in silence. The baby slept. Aaron had the radio turned low, listening to Minnesota Public Radio broadcast out of Roseau. Stephen stared out the window at the passing landscape, a mosaic of dark evening colors. Jenny was thinking. She thought about all that had happened in only two days, a kind of frenzy that was difficult to put together in a way that felt believable, though she’d been there through it all. She thought about the people she loved whom she’d left behind on the Angle, still in danger, perhaps, and she worried. She thought about the roads ahead: the one that led to Henry Meloux, which she knew well, and the more difficult road she would have to navigate at some point that led through a bureaucratic minefield to a place where the fate of the baby would be decided. Of all the unknowns ahead, that was the one that made her feel most helpless.

They had dinner in International Falls. Jenny left the ice chest in the truck and carried the baby in her arms. She changed his diaper in the restroom and prepared a bottle, which she handed to the waitress and asked her to heat. When the woman saw the baby’s cleft lip, she didn’t look horrified at all. She was thin, maybe fifty, with hair that was drugstore blond, and too much eye shadow, and ruby-colored nails, and an empty ring finger. She smiled with a genuineness that made Jenny love her instantly.

“I’ll have them put a pan of water on the stove and heat it up for you, hon. What’s his name?”

Jenny hesitated, awkwardly.

It was Stephen who replied. “Waaboozoons.”

“Waaboozoons? Never heard that one before. Is it foreign?”

“It’s Ojibwe,” Stephen said. “It means ‘little rabbit.’ We call him Waaboo for short.”

“Don’t that beat all,” she said. “Well, I’ll have the little rabbit’s bottle for you in two shakes.”

“Where’d that come from?” Jenny asked her brother when the waitress had gone.

Stephen stared at his menu and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just came to me, and it sounded right.”

Jenny could have told him that the term “harelip” came from the resemblance a cleft lip bore to that of a rabbit’s divided upper lip, but she didn’t. The truth was she liked the name.

It was hard dark when they headed south on U.S. 53 toward Tamarack County. Jenny was exhausted and sat quietly in back, listening to Aaron and Stephen talk up front. They seemed to have warmed to each other as the miles went past.

“How come you’re not in school this week?” Aaron asked.

“Most schools in Minnesota don’t start until after Labor Day. It’s like a law or something. And Labor Day’s late this year.”

“Do you play any sports? Football or run cross-country?”

“Football in the fall.”

“What position?”

“End.”

“Offense or defense?”

“Both. What about you? Did you play football in high school?”

Jenny could see Aaron’s face, his profile hazy from the glow of the dash lights. It was a handsome face. His voice, when he spoke, had a deep timbre that made her think of some rich, dark wood, like teak or mahogany. He could be extremely gentle, and his poetry was stunning in its sensitivity to relationships in life, especially those between nature and humans. There was so much to like about him. And yet, in the last few weeks, she’d found herself holding back more and more, and the why of it was something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on.

“Lacrosse,” Aaron said.

“Lacrosse?” Stephen seemed surprised and pleased. “I’ve never played, but it looks pretty cool. An Indian game, right?”

“Right. Those Indians were pretty creative and competitive.”

“We still are,” Stephen said.

Aaron glanced at him and gave a serious nod. “Of course.”

“Were you any good?”

“We took state my senior year.”

Stephen gave a low whistle to show that he was impressed. They drove through Ray and Ash Lake and Orr, dark little towns surrounded by deep woods and with a few lights in the windows.

“I read a book of your poems.” Stephen sounded as though he were making a kind of confession.

“No kidding? Which one?”

“The Heart’s Divide.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Bought it off Amazon.”

They crossed a bridge that spanned a channel between two lakes. The moon was up, and the channel was a brilliant, iridescent spill between two vats of silver.

“Okay,” Aaron said, “the suspense is killing me. Did you like my poems?”

Stephen stared out at the lake, then glanced at Aaron. “I liked the ones where you talked about the land. I could see what you were getting at. Some of the others, well, I didn’t understand them.”

Aaron nodded. “Fair enough.”

At last they turned east and entered Tamarack County. A sense of gratitude overwhelmed Jenny. She’d thought, years ago, when she left for the University of Iowa, that she was leaving Aurora and the house on Gooseberry Lane behind for good, but now it felt wonderful to be coming home. It felt safe.

“Tell me about this Henry Meloux,” Aaron said.

“I’m not sure I can,” Stephen replied. “I think you have to meet him. He’s . . .” Stephen seemed to be searching for the right word. “Unique.” A few moments later, he added, “And important.”

“Dad says he’s not well,” Jenny said from the backseat.

Stephen half-turned. “He told me that, too, when I came home from Texas. He said there’s someone staying with Henry. She’s like a nurse or something.”

“His great-niece. Dad says her name is Rainy Bisonette. She wants to become a Mide, like Henry.”

“I’m going to be a Mide someday,” Stephen said with certainty.

“What’s a Mide?” Aaron asked.