she had never learned. And then to return to the reservation, to suffer frostbite in shacks heated with oil-barrel stoves, maybe die from huffing gas to get high.
His mother never talked about her childhood, never acknowledged that her son’s best friend lived on and off at the Klukwan reservation. One night in high school when Simon and Tom shared a stolen bottle of Old Crow behind a gravestone at the Slide Cemetery outside the Dyea ghost town, Tom had referred to Simon’s mother as “high yellow. Uppity.” That started their only fistfight, which Simon had lost.
His mother said of his broken nose, “Your face has a new story. You won’t be able to pretend anymore that it’s something separate from your blood.” In dreary winter months, white school-mates taunted him for having “done a rain dance” and made the sky gray. He had not told his mother about the Indian kids who had beaten him up: “Paleface half-shit thinks he’s white!” Singing, Eva gave him a venison steak to put on his black eye, and he accused her of being happy about his condition. “You and your brother can’t wait to forget, can you?”
He had not said, “Neither side of my blood is knocking any doors down to claim me,” or “Métis isn’t a tribe.” It would not have been worth the fight. But from then on Tom’s presence in his life shielded him. No one beat up Kazaan—or his friends.
“Hey,” said Simon as Tom went down the stairs. “Good luck in Frisco.”
Simon stared for a moment at the video, paused on a closeup of Nadia.
Nothing was going to interfere with his film. He rummaged through boxes, tossed anything unnecessary into a garbage bag. Random and futile, but at least he could work up a sweat. Maybe inactivity was his problem. It took months to get back into top shape after shooting. It was the weekend tomorrow; maybe he could get in a run or two before Monday.
He pulled out his wallet and extracted the dog-eared photograph. Kim’s face and his own smiled up at him as he tore the photo and let the pieces flutter into the trash. Simon printed a screenshot of Nadia, then dialed her hotel. As he waited for her to pick up, he typed “Detective Agencies” into a search engine.
Chapter 9
Friday, June 2, 10:00 p.m. Day 10 of shooting.
At the knock on his trailer door, Simon levered the blinds apart. Nadia.
“Good evening,” she said when he emerged on the threshold.
Backlit by a parking lot streetlamp that buzzed and hummed, she held a green velvet bag in the crook of one arm. A breeze lifted strands of her hair over the crown of her head, where they glowed orange. She wore dark velvet too, a dress that flared at the knee and brushed the ground. The light from his open door did not reach her face, but he caught a glint of famine in her eyes, like a moth at a candle. It took him aback, made him doubt his eyes.
“Thanks for coming. I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.” He stepped aside and held the door open, but she did not move.
“May I?” she asked. A car turned in to the lot, sent a band of illumination from its headlights skating across her mouth. Gravel popped and skittered. Her mouth was made up with crimson lipstick.
“Yes, come in,” he said, too gruffly. If she wanted to split hairs over etiquette, that did not bode well for the rest of their meeting.
Simon folded his laptop shut on the kitchen table and transferred the pile of papers and books from one seat to the other to clear a chair. He sat on his bed amid the laundry and notebooks. The overhead cupboards, crammed with costume samples and props, cast shadows that soaked up the yellow glow from the over-head light fixtures. Starting in preproduction, he did not allow the cleaning service in, so no one would throw away something im-portant, but tonight as he shoved a pile of clothes out of his way, he noticed the hamperish smell of his clutter mixed with undercur-rents of new linoleum and carpeting. Nadia’s expression was
His mother never talked about her childhood, never acknowledged that her son’s best friend lived on and off at the Klukwan reservation. One night in high school when Simon and Tom shared a stolen bottle of Old Crow behind a gravestone at the Slide Cemetery outside the Dyea ghost town, Tom had referred to Simon’s mother as “high yellow. Uppity.” That started their only fistfight, which Simon had lost.
His mother said of his broken nose, “Your face has a new story. You won’t be able to pretend anymore that it’s something separate from your blood.” In dreary winter months, white school-mates taunted him for having “done a rain dance” and made the sky gray. He had not told his mother about the Indian kids who had beaten him up: “Paleface half-shit thinks he’s white!” Singing, Eva gave him a venison steak to put on his black eye, and he accused her of being happy about his condition. “You and your brother can’t wait to forget, can you?”
He had not said, “Neither side of my blood is knocking any doors down to claim me,” or “Métis isn’t a tribe.” It would not have been worth the fight. But from then on Tom’s presence in his life shielded him. No one beat up Kazaan—or his friends.
“Hey,” said Simon as Tom went down the stairs. “Good luck in Frisco.”
Simon stared for a moment at the video, paused on a closeup of Nadia.
Nothing was going to interfere with his film. He rummaged through boxes, tossed anything unnecessary into a garbage bag. Random and futile, but at least he could work up a sweat. Maybe inactivity was his problem. It took months to get back into top shape after shooting. It was the weekend tomorrow; maybe he could get in a run or two before Monday.
He pulled out his wallet and extracted the dog-eared photograph. Kim’s face and his own smiled up at him as he tore the photo and let the pieces flutter into the trash. Simon printed a screenshot of Nadia, then dialed her hotel. As he waited for her to pick up, he typed “Detective Agencies” into a search engine.
Chapter 9
Friday, June 2, 10:00 p.m. Day 10 of shooting.
At the knock on his trailer door, Simon levered the blinds apart. Nadia.
“Good evening,” she said when he emerged on the threshold.
Backlit by a parking lot streetlamp that buzzed and hummed, she held a green velvet bag in the crook of one arm. A breeze lifted strands of her hair over the crown of her head, where they glowed orange. She wore dark velvet too, a dress that flared at the knee and brushed the ground. The light from his open door did not reach her face, but he caught a glint of famine in her eyes, like a moth at a candle. It took him aback, made him doubt his eyes.
“Thanks for coming. I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.” He stepped aside and held the door open, but she did not move.
“May I?” she asked. A car turned in to the lot, sent a band of illumination from its headlights skating across her mouth. Gravel popped and skittered. Her mouth was made up with crimson lipstick.
“Yes, come in,” he said, too gruffly. If she wanted to split hairs over etiquette, that did not bode well for the rest of their meeting.
Simon folded his laptop shut on the kitchen table and transferred the pile of papers and books from one seat to the other to clear a chair. He sat on his bed amid the laundry and notebooks. The overhead cupboards, crammed with costume samples and props, cast shadows that soaked up the yellow glow from the over-head light fixtures. Starting in preproduction, he did not allow the cleaning service in, so no one would throw away something im-portant, but tonight as he shoved a pile of clothes out of his way, he noticed the hamperish smell of his clutter mixed with undercur-rents of new linoleum and carpeting. Nadia’s expression was
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