The Plague of Doves - Louise Erdrich [15]
“Did Our Lord make us?” Mooshum asked belligerently.
“Why, yes,” said Father Cassidy.
“As we are, in our bodies,” said Mooshum.
“Of course.”
“Down to the details? Down to the male parts?”
“What are you getting at?” asked Father Cassidy.
“If Our Lord made our bodies down to the male parts, then He also made the male part’s wishes. This week, I have respected these wishes, I will tell you that much.”
Before Father Cassidy could open his mouth, Shamengwa jumped in. “Respect,” said Shamengwa, “is a much larger subject than your male parts, my brother. You referred to political respect for our people. And in that you were correct, all too correct, for it is beyond a doubt. If Riel had carried through, we would have had respect.”
“To our nation! To our people!” Mooshum drained his glass.
“Land,” said Shamengwa, brooding.
“Women,” said Mooshum, dizzy.
“Not even the great Riel could have helped you there.”
“But our people would not have been hanged…”
“Ah, yes,” said Father Cassidy, eyeing the bottom of his glass. “The hangings! A local historian—”
“Don’t speak ill of her, Father. I am in love with her!”
“I wasn’t…”
“Let us not speak of the hanging,” said Shamengwa firmly. “Let us speak instead of requesting another glass of this stuff from Clemence. Oh niece, favorite niece!”
“Don’t favorite me.” Mama came back into the room and poured the men a round. She swept out with the bottle, again, so quickly that she didn’t see me. I had sunk down behind the couch because I didn’t feel like being stuck with weeding the beans right then. That she wasn’t more hospitable with the priest confirmed her low opinion of him, but then I realized he’d also come to see her.
“Could we have a little word?” Father Cassidy tried to loop his voice around her swift ankles, to drag her out of the kitchen, but she had passed through the back door out into the garden.
MOOSHUM WAS, INDEED, in love with Mrs. Neve Harp, an annoying aunt of ours, a Pluto lady who called herself the town historian. She often “popped in,” as she called it. We were never free of that threat. She was what people called “fixy,” always made-up and overdressed. She was rich and spoiled, but a little crazy, too—she sometimes gave a panicky laugh that went on too long and seemed out of her control. Mama said she felt sorry for her, but would not tell me why. Neve Harp seemed proud of having beaten down two husbands—one she had even put in prison. She was working on a third, bragging of stepchildren, but had already started using her maiden name in bylines to reduce confusion. As he was not allowed to visit Neve Harp often enough to suit his desires, Mooshum wrote letters to her. Some evenings, when the television worked, Joseph and I watched while Mooshum sat at the table composing letters in his flowing nun-taught script. He prodded our father for information.
“Is your sister fond of flowers? What is her favorite?”
“Stinging nettles.”
“Would you say she favors a certain color?”
“Fish-belly white.”
“What were her charming habits when she was young?”
“She could fart the national anthem.”
“The whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“Howah! Did she always have such pretty hair?”
“She dyes it.”
“How did she come to have so many husbands?”
“Obscene talents.”
“What does she think? What is her mind like?”
Our dad would just laugh wearily. “Mind?” he’d say. “Thoughts?”
“She’s got her teeth, no? All of them?”
“Except the ones she left in her husbands.”
“I wonder if she would be interested in memories of my horse-racing days here on the reservation. Those could be considered historical.”
“You only quit two years ago.”
“But they go way back…”
And so it would continue until Mooshum was satisfied with his letter. He folded the paper, setting each crease with his thumb, fit it into an envelope, and carefully tore a stamp from a sheet of commemoratives. He would keep the letter in his breast pocket until Mama went to the store, then he’d go along with her and put it directly into the hands of the post lady, Mrs. Bannock. He knew that his pursuit of