Starfish_ A Novel - James Crowley [45]
“Made up? well, all names are made up at some point and be that as it may, that’s his name.” Avery John Hawkins stood and extended his hand.
Lionel looked up at him for the first time and realized that he was different from the men at the outpost. To start, his skin was dark like his and Beatrice’s, darker, actually, and his hair at its peak sat about six inches from the top of his head. It wasn’t straight like his or Beatrice’s, either, but clung wildly in dry, tight curls, reminding Lionel of the tuft of hair on the mounted buffalo head that hung in the captain’s office.
Lionel took Mr. Hawkins’s big hand. “I’m Lionel. That’s my sister, Beatrice, and that there is Corn Poe, Corn Poe Boss Ribs.”
“And Junebug Hawkins sounds made up?” Hawkins said, smiling. “Nice to meet you, Corn Poe.”
“My name ain’t made up. It’s what my paps calls me,” Corn Poe said, still eyeing Junebug and the rifle with suspicion.
“Why, come on down, son, and put the rifle away,” Mr. Hawkins said to the boy he called Junebug. Then, turning to Beatrice, he extended his hand once again, which Beatrice reluctantly took hold of, and Hawkins pulled her to her feet.
“Sorry about that, Beatrice, right? I thought you were fixin’ to take old Mr. Hawkins’s horse or worse.”
Beatrice stood, collecting herself. Lionel watched her, amazed at how small she looked next to Mr.
Hawkins. He was a big man, almost the same size as Corn Poe’s father, but not as wide.
“Now, it’s gettin’ late. If we can agree to be friends, maybe we could get some supper goin’.” Mr. Hawkins rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then we’ll figure out what we’re all doin’ in each other’s lodge.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
HAWKINS’S BISCUITS • ELK DOG • TRUST
AVERY JOHN HAWKINS crouched beside a small fire pounding dough in his large hands. He dropped the dough as biscuits into the bacon grease that popped and hissed in the blackened skillet.
“I tell ya. During these summer months I do prefer to stay out of doors as long as the weather permits,” Mr. Hawkins said, dropping another biscuit into the pan. “It helps during them long winter months, when that cold got you froze clear to the bone.”
Mr. Hawkins looked at the sprawl of stars that spread across the inky black night.
“You stop and think to yourself, It sure is cold now, but I do remember a warm summer evening not too long ago, and that does what it can to stove off the night,” Hawkins continued. “Even just for the moment, it surely does.”
There was something to Mr. Hawkins’s voice that Lionel had never heard before. Something foreign that didn’t sound like any of the Blackfeet or government people that occupied the outpost.
“Say, there, Corn Poe. You mind keepin’ an eye on them biscuits for a minute? I want to check on the corn.” Hawkins smiled. “I wanna check on the corn, Corn Poe.”
Mr. Hawkins reached barehanded into the fire and rotated the five ears of corn that lay in their blackened husks at the edge of the glowing ash. “I usually like to soak the corn for a day or so before roasting. Helps lock in some of that flavor.” Then Mr. Hawkins turned his attention to the brook trout that he’d instructed Junebug to pull from the stream earlier. There were five good-sized fish, stuffed with wild onions from the banks of the stream, skewered and hanging over the dancing flames. “That should be enough, well, with maybe some melon for dessert—that is, if you don’t mind gettin’ one from the garden there, Lionel.”
Lionel looked to Beatrice before leaving the circle of firelight. He wasn’t sure what to make of their new guests. Beatrice nodded, but did not take her eyes from the man and his son.
Lionel walked toward the garden. The cool grass was wet with the night and felt good on his bare feet. The smells from the Hawkinses’ cook fire urged him to move quickly.
“Joint guests is what we are.” Mr. Hawkins’s voice carried across the meadow. “We’re enjoying the fruits of your labor and what you done to the place, and y’all gettin’ ready to sample the culinary