walked back into the kitchen and washed it in hot, soapy water. The sugar would jangle her nerves, she thought, but it didn’t. It slowed her heart. A dopey, fuzzy wash of pleasure covered her and she nearly blanked out before she made it to the couch.
Maggie and LaRose came inside an hour later, hungry, wondering why she hadn’t checked on them, and found her lying on her back, looking severe, like she was dead. Her mouth was slightly open. Maggie put her fingers near to check for breath.
Maggie made a funny skulking gesture, and LaRose ducked his head and tiptoed away. They removed two spoons from the cutlery drawer. Then Maggie pulled the door of the freezer open andsilently removed a carton of strawberry Blue Bunny. They eased out the door and ran to their hideout in the barn—a warm corner where they could flick on Peter’s space heater. There they ate the ice cream. Afterward, they buried the box, the spoons too, out back in the fresh snow. They were passionate about ice cream.
ROMEO PUYAT ENTERED the Dead Custer and saw the priest sitting on a barstool. Father Travis was the only priest in reservation history who actively went out and trawled the dive bars. He seemed to enjoy performing as an actual fisher of men. He’d sit next to a gasping walleye and even buy him or her a beer to set the hook. He liked to catch real fish, too. His tactics there were the same. You got to catch them in the weeds, he said. To the weak I became weak, that I might gain the weak. I became all things to all men, that I might save all. If Father Travis had a tattoo it would be the words of the apostle Paul. He had nearly become a drunk to catch the drunks, too, but that was over. He now ran fierce AA meetings in the church basement.
Although Father Travis had never quite submerged into heavy drinking, ten years ago he’d seen where things were going—that lonely beer turning to a six-pack and soon the addition of whiskey shots to render him unconscious. He was surprised at how hard it was to quit, so he had some sympathy, but he hid it and was ruthless with his drunks. Even ruthlessly prayerful. If someone fell off the wagon or got unruly in the Dead Custer, he would take that person outside to pray. Romeo Puyat had prayed twice, hard, face against the wall where Father Travis had slammed him, before they’d become friends. Father Travis had already spotted him and said hello.
There was coffee. Virgil served in the morning, but besides the coffee no hard liquor, only beer. Romeo sourly accepted a sour cup of the weak, lukewarm stuff.
MAKADE MASHKIKI WAABOO , a scrawled sign on the pump carafe.
Black medicine water, said Romeo. Howah. So you watch the news last night? He and Father Travis were both CNN junkies.Father Travis was stirring into his own cup a long stream of hazelnut cream powder from a cardboard carton.
What brings you down here? Father Travis took a careful sip as if the coffee were actually hot.
I heard McCain on Leap Day, said Romeo. He told the televangelists to fuck a dead sheep, uh, not in so many words. Then what he said about pandering to the agents of intolerance? Falwell? Robertson? My man, said Romeo, punching air.
Romeo had a caved, tubercular-looking chest, scrawny arms, a vulturine head, and perpetually stoked-up eyes. His hair had started falling out and his ponytail was a limp string. He flipped the string behind him with the flat of his hand, as though it were a lush rope. The day was bright. He had hoped to start the morning with beer to dim the sunshine, but of course he couldn’t do that in front of his sponsor.
I’ve been following that story, said Father Travis.
Waiting for our maverick to make his move.
So what are you up to?
I’m on my way to work, said Romeo.
That’s a new one, said Father Travis.
Romeo glanced over at Virgil, who was wiping down the other end of the bar, not watching. Another customer, on the other side of Father Travis, asked the priest a question. While his
Maggie and LaRose came inside an hour later, hungry, wondering why she hadn’t checked on them, and found her lying on her back, looking severe, like she was dead. Her mouth was slightly open. Maggie put her fingers near to check for breath.
Maggie made a funny skulking gesture, and LaRose ducked his head and tiptoed away. They removed two spoons from the cutlery drawer. Then Maggie pulled the door of the freezer open andsilently removed a carton of strawberry Blue Bunny. They eased out the door and ran to their hideout in the barn—a warm corner where they could flick on Peter’s space heater. There they ate the ice cream. Afterward, they buried the box, the spoons too, out back in the fresh snow. They were passionate about ice cream.
ROMEO PUYAT ENTERED the Dead Custer and saw the priest sitting on a barstool. Father Travis was the only priest in reservation history who actively went out and trawled the dive bars. He seemed to enjoy performing as an actual fisher of men. He’d sit next to a gasping walleye and even buy him or her a beer to set the hook. He liked to catch real fish, too. His tactics there were the same. You got to catch them in the weeds, he said. To the weak I became weak, that I might gain the weak. I became all things to all men, that I might save all. If Father Travis had a tattoo it would be the words of the apostle Paul. He had nearly become a drunk to catch the drunks, too, but that was over. He now ran fierce AA meetings in the church basement.
Although Father Travis had never quite submerged into heavy drinking, ten years ago he’d seen where things were going—that lonely beer turning to a six-pack and soon the addition of whiskey shots to render him unconscious. He was surprised at how hard it was to quit, so he had some sympathy, but he hid it and was ruthless with his drunks. Even ruthlessly prayerful. If someone fell off the wagon or got unruly in the Dead Custer, he would take that person outside to pray. Romeo Puyat had prayed twice, hard, face against the wall where Father Travis had slammed him, before they’d become friends. Father Travis had already spotted him and said hello.
There was coffee. Virgil served in the morning, but besides the coffee no hard liquor, only beer. Romeo sourly accepted a sour cup of the weak, lukewarm stuff.
MAKADE MASHKIKI WAABOO , a scrawled sign on the pump carafe.
Black medicine water, said Romeo. Howah. So you watch the news last night? He and Father Travis were both CNN junkies.Father Travis was stirring into his own cup a long stream of hazelnut cream powder from a cardboard carton.
What brings you down here? Father Travis took a careful sip as if the coffee were actually hot.
I heard McCain on Leap Day, said Romeo. He told the televangelists to fuck a dead sheep, uh, not in so many words. Then what he said about pandering to the agents of intolerance? Falwell? Robertson? My man, said Romeo, punching air.
Romeo had a caved, tubercular-looking chest, scrawny arms, a vulturine head, and perpetually stoked-up eyes. His hair had started falling out and his ponytail was a limp string. He flipped the string behind him with the flat of his hand, as though it were a lush rope. The day was bright. He had hoped to start the morning with beer to dim the sunshine, but of course he couldn’t do that in front of his sponsor.
I’ve been following that story, said Father Travis.
Waiting for our maverick to make his move.
So what are you up to?
I’m on my way to work, said Romeo.
That’s a new one, said Father Travis.
Romeo glanced over at Virgil, who was wiping down the other end of the bar, not watching. Another customer, on the other side of Father Travis, asked the priest a question. While his
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