smile, with its
hint of sadness, was just between them. And her lie was so small it didn't have
to count right now. Her suspicions didn't point to anyone in particular, so
they meant nothing, little more than a squeak. For the moment.
He
took her hand, sat down on the bottom step, and drew her down beside him.
"I hear him, loud and clear. Always have. No matter where I am, I can hear
him. Even now."
"Your
father?"
"You
know what you have to do after somebody dies?" His eyes challenged her, as
though he expected her to doubt the obligation or ridicule it before she even
knew what it was.
She
shook her head. His eyes reminded her of his father's and of her son's. She
doubted nothing.
"You
have to feed the spirits," he told her quietly as he stared off into the
silent hills behind the pole barn. "You actually have to put food out for
them so they'll leave you alone. Even without a recent death, there's al- ways
that spirit world that crosses ours in ways you don't have to see or touch or
explain. At least he didn't."
"Do
you?"
Without
looking at her, he shook his head. "I guess I don't. I haven't thought
about these things in a while. I've been busy with... with this life,
the busy life. The elusive good life, which I can't see or touch or
explain, either. I just know..." Absently he rubbed his long thighs, and
she thought how soft his well-worn jeans looked beneath his swarthy hands.
"When I was a kid, we used to hunt a lot, the old man and me. We'd kill a
deer, he'd always cut off a piece of meat and leave it for the wanagi. You
have to feed the spirits. It might look superstitious to do a thing like that,
but what it really is..." He was turning it over in his mind, recollecting
and rediscovering. "It's a show of respect, an acknowledgment." He
looked at her now, surprised, maybe even glad to see her interest. "I did
that today."
"Killed
a deer?"
He
shook his head. "I fed him chicken. I went to the graveyard early this
morning. It should have been wasna. You know, pemmican. But I didn't
have any, so I took what I had. Chicken for two, marinated in some kind of
mustard sauce, which is what I cooked last night." His face brightened
with a slow smile. "Guess I must be a twentieth-century Indian, huh? I fed
the spirits with chicken from the grocery store. I told them it tasted like
rattlesnake."
She
smiled, too.
"I
don't know why I told you all that," he said. "Ten years ago I never
would have told anybody from your world that."
"It's
been—"
"Closer
to thirteen years. I know." He reached for her hand again.
She
let him take it, but she gave his a quick squeeze as she slid off the step,
still holding her clothes to her chest. A friendly but dismissive squeeze.
He
laughed. "Are you afraid of me, Helen?"
"Of
course not," she said too quickly. Then she laughed, too. "Even
though I am sort of underdressed at the moment, which makes me feel a little
insecure. It's a woman thing, you know."
He
nodded, amused, unconvinced.
"So
I'd better put my clothes on."
"Probably
a good idea."
She
mounted the steps, stopped on the top and stood directly behind him. She wanted
him to do something. She wasn't sure what, but something.
"If
you don't want to hear any voices, you probably should turn down that
appointment."
"Is
that a dare?" He looked up at her, studied her until she feared what he
might be reading in her eyes. "You think I'm afraid of him now? You think
just because I toss a piece of meat on the ground that I'm..." He shook
his head, and the sharp glint in his jet-black eyes softened. "Just in
case, you know? What can it hurt?"
"Did
it help?"
"Didn't
change anything." He shrugged. "It's all a bunch of nothing, right?
Nothing to do with you, nothing to do with ghosts, nothing to be afraid
of." He gave a quick, humorless laugh as he stood. "Nothing but a
random hit-and-run, nothing but a body and a box and a hole in the ground.
Nothing but a friend. That's a hell of a lot of nothing, when you think about
it." Their
hint of sadness, was just between them. And her lie was so small it didn't have
to count right now. Her suspicions didn't point to anyone in particular, so
they meant nothing, little more than a squeak. For the moment.
He
took her hand, sat down on the bottom step, and drew her down beside him.
"I hear him, loud and clear. Always have. No matter where I am, I can hear
him. Even now."
"Your
father?"
"You
know what you have to do after somebody dies?" His eyes challenged her, as
though he expected her to doubt the obligation or ridicule it before she even
knew what it was.
She
shook her head. His eyes reminded her of his father's and of her son's. She
doubted nothing.
"You
have to feed the spirits," he told her quietly as he stared off into the
silent hills behind the pole barn. "You actually have to put food out for
them so they'll leave you alone. Even without a recent death, there's al- ways
that spirit world that crosses ours in ways you don't have to see or touch or
explain. At least he didn't."
"Do
you?"
Without
looking at her, he shook his head. "I guess I don't. I haven't thought
about these things in a while. I've been busy with... with this life,
the busy life. The elusive good life, which I can't see or touch or
explain, either. I just know..." Absently he rubbed his long thighs, and
she thought how soft his well-worn jeans looked beneath his swarthy hands.
"When I was a kid, we used to hunt a lot, the old man and me. We'd kill a
deer, he'd always cut off a piece of meat and leave it for the wanagi. You
have to feed the spirits. It might look superstitious to do a thing like that,
but what it really is..." He was turning it over in his mind, recollecting
and rediscovering. "It's a show of respect, an acknowledgment." He
looked at her now, surprised, maybe even glad to see her interest. "I did
that today."
"Killed
a deer?"
He
shook his head. "I fed him chicken. I went to the graveyard early this
morning. It should have been wasna. You know, pemmican. But I didn't
have any, so I took what I had. Chicken for two, marinated in some kind of
mustard sauce, which is what I cooked last night." His face brightened
with a slow smile. "Guess I must be a twentieth-century Indian, huh? I fed
the spirits with chicken from the grocery store. I told them it tasted like
rattlesnake."
She
smiled, too.
"I
don't know why I told you all that," he said. "Ten years ago I never
would have told anybody from your world that."
"It's
been—"
"Closer
to thirteen years. I know." He reached for her hand again.
She
let him take it, but she gave his a quick squeeze as she slid off the step,
still holding her clothes to her chest. A friendly but dismissive squeeze.
He
laughed. "Are you afraid of me, Helen?"
"Of
course not," she said too quickly. Then she laughed, too. "Even
though I am sort of underdressed at the moment, which makes me feel a little
insecure. It's a woman thing, you know."
He
nodded, amused, unconvinced.
"So
I'd better put my clothes on."
"Probably
a good idea."
She
mounted the steps, stopped on the top and stood directly behind him. She wanted
him to do something. She wasn't sure what, but something.
"If
you don't want to hear any voices, you probably should turn down that
appointment."
"Is
that a dare?" He looked up at her, studied her until she feared what he
might be reading in her eyes. "You think I'm afraid of him now? You think
just because I toss a piece of meat on the ground that I'm..." He shook
his head, and the sharp glint in his jet-black eyes softened. "Just in
case, you know? What can it hurt?"
"Did
it help?"
"Didn't
change anything." He shrugged. "It's all a bunch of nothing, right?
Nothing to do with you, nothing to do with ghosts, nothing to be afraid
of." He gave a quick, humorless laugh as he stood. "Nothing but a
random hit-and-run, nothing but a body and a box and a hole in the ground.
Nothing but a friend. That's a hell of a lot of nothing, when you think about
it." Their
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