The Plague of Doves - Louise Erdrich [31]
Holy Track ate with gravity, devotion, and lust. He spoke with his cheeks bulging.
“They were all dead but the baby.”
By the time he swallowed, there were men outside. The priest got up. His eyes were swimming.
“Nothing, we did nothing…we never,” said the boy, but his tongue was weighed down with honey and his mouth too dry to swallow the food.
“They led you to it,” said Father Severine, his eyes spilling over, the tears running down the furrows beside his beaky nose, splashing down inside his collar. “Stay hidden, I will talk.”
The Sisters
THE DOOR SLAMMED with a deliberate whack. Mooshum spat. Joseph started. I jumped up. Mama had Geraldine with her now and as they passed I heard my aunt say, “Who told you?” Then they were halfway down the yard, past the tangled brushy trees and the hanging clothes, which Mama didn’t bother to touch for dryness this time. They were lost in a conversation. Mama’s shoulders were hunched and her head was turned just a bit toward Geraldine. They looked a lot like each other from behind—their permanented black hair bobbed prettily just over their collars. Mama wore a green blouse and Geraldine’s was yellow. Their dark skirts were long and full, belted tight with elastic cinch belts. Their feet were dainty in Keds shoes and anklets. Mama painted her canvas shoes with white polish to keep them spotless. Their clothing was always secondhand but they still looked dashing. People thought they went to Fargo to shop when their clothes really came from the mission.
They walked to the end of the yard where the old outhouse stood, now cluttered inside with hoes and shovels. There, they folded their arms and faced each other, mouths moving, skirts whipping in the hot rain-smelling breeze. Mooshum began to talk again, knowing that Mama’s attention was absorbed. It wasn’t like he was talking to us, though, or even using his usual storytelling voice. He wasn’t drawing us in, or gesturing. This was different. Now it was like he was stuck in some way, on some track, like he couldn’t stop the story from forcing its way out. This was the one time he told the story whole.
The Party
OUTSIDE THE CHURCH, the men’s voices were a tumble. First the priest’s choked pleas, then a rolling barrel full of words. Mooshum made no sense of it, but dreamily shoved in the food Holy Track pushed over. He caught the back and forth of the talk. The words jammed together until the men and the horses made one sound, a heavy confusion of breath and stomping blood. Then a brief quiet in which the wind came up whining in the eaves. Suddenly Holy Track leapt up, stuffing bits of the boiled meat into his pockets, and rolled underneath the darkest bench with Mooshum.
The white men knocked Father Severine aside and banged into the church. They strode down the church aisle in their heavy boots and each genuflected. Some crossed themselves. Then they looked behind the altar and into the confessional.
“He run again,” said a bright, clear voice.
“We got one anyhow, let’s hang the one we got,” sang a man from outside. It was a lovely, melodious voice with a German buzz.
As the men outside dragged Asiginak past Father Severine, the priest went rigid. He opened and shut his mouth like he was choking, and tried jerkily to bless the old man. Asiginak slapped his hands away.
“Don’t be useless,” he cried. “Get them off me!”
From under the bench, Holy Track heard his uncle cry out. Asiginak gave a wail of penetrating fear and shouted in Ojibwe, “I don’t want to die alone!”
Father Severine swayed and propped himself against a tree in the yard. Suddenly everyone stopped. They sensed that someone had come to stand in the doorway of the church. They all turned as one.
“Uncle, I will go with you,” said the boy.
Mooshum crawled from under the pew and jumped up to pull Holy Track inside. He struggled to bar the door against the men,