BASIL’S GROWTH SPURT ENDS just as September begins. He’s about fifty pounds now, most of it muscle. He has short legs, thick arms, shoulders, and withers. His face is wide, squarish like a pug’s, but with a long muzzle. Once big and floppy, his ears are now small points on a fat face, as if they’ve been the same size since his birth.
My tiny house and yard are no longer enough for him. Now he wants the world. I bring him to the Geshig Elementary School park. Right away, he takes an interest in the soil underneath the spot where the merry-go-round sat. His eyes grow big and focused as he paws at the dark circle.
“Think you can find it for me?” He pants and jumps on my leg. “Do your best.”
He begins to walk and pull on his leash. Basil isn’t a trained hunting hound. It’s unlikely that he’s leading me anywhere intentionally. But stranger things have happened in this park.
First he brings me through the park gates and to the foot of the biggest slide. On top it’s a faded, metallic red with hundreds of scuff marks and a faint pattern of a brick chimney. On the other side it’s covered in graffiti, mostly permanent marker that has been either scribbled over by more marker or scratched out with a file or knife.
A piece of graffiti etched into the eagle pillar catches my eyes, and brings back memories. It’s an upside-down crucifix with the initials NN in the top corners. Neo-Nazi. Or Native Nazi. I don’t remember what they called themselves but I was standing in the same place I am now when it was carved into the wood.
The summer right before eighth grade, me and Amos were walking around town trying to escape the heat and decided on the park. We went underneath the wooden walkway that was attached to the eagle pillar. The pebbles were cool on our skin and left behind a chalky residue.
Amos pulled out a small blue plastic pipe and began to light it. “You want a hit?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Amos smiled and took the hit. “It’s cheap shit anyway. When you do smoke you should get some good grass.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I wouldn’t even smoke this stuff but I can’t live without it like every day.”
“Mmmhmm . . .”
“Where does your mom get hers?”
“I don’t know.” That was a lie. I knew where my mother bought her drugs, but it wasn’t a place I wanted Amos to ever try to find. Though I never really thought of him as a guy that needed to be protected, I didn’t want to have any part in letting Geshig claim him.
Before we left the park, Amos took out a pocketknife and began to carve the symbol of the gang that he claimed he and his older brother, Isaac, were a part of. I don’t think they espoused any ideals close to those of the Nazis, I think they were just too young and naive to really consider how that name would come across. Then again, teenage gangs don’t exactly have logic working in their favor.
Basil pulls me forward, away from the eagle pillar and toward the edge of the park and the highway.
Geshig’s public high school was always more Indian than white, but even the white children were like a special kind of Reservation White. They knew the town. They knew powwows. They knew the culture. Some went to church, some didn’t. If they had bad things to say about Indians, it was usually a joke, and even if it wasn’t, the same things could easily be said back to them. But Amos, his family was not that kind of white.
They had moved to Geshig from southern Minnesota only three years before. At lunch, I saw a pale, blond kid with crooked teeth and tired eyes. He was sitting alone but didn’t seem concerned about it at all.
I’d like to think that befriending him was the kind act of a fifth grader who saw the new kid sitting alone, but the only reason I sat down was because he happened to be at the table where I usually sat alone. I don’t like breaking routines.
Basil takes me across the highway toward the north side of town. I’m not scared to go through there, but I prefer to avoid it if I can. Ghetto, project, slum, any word you can use to disparage a whole neighborhood is used to describe the north side. It’s a place of cracker-box houses with few bedrooms and many people in each. The older members of the community sometimes call it the NeighborHUD.
Relief. When we reach the other side of the highway, Basil walks past the main road into the north side and toward the eastern exit of the town. Here the woods grow thicker and the air smells fishy from the lake wind.
“Why is there a cop here?”
It was not the response I expected when I had sat down and asked Amos his name. “Um. To protect us?”
“From what?”
“Bombs?”
“Who brought a bomb?”
My face turned red and I hoped no one had heard him. “There was some bomb threats or something. I wasn’t in school when they happened but everyone was scared.”
The bomb threat was like a mini-9/11 that I had slept through. My mother, Hazel, had made me stay home because of a fever and when I returned the teachers were tense, the kids quieter, and multiple cops were patrolling.
Amos glared in the direction of the school cop. “I don’t like cops.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re part of the government. And I don’t like the government.”
You and everyone else, my old friend.
“My mom doesn’t either.”
“Do you?”
My answer was honest back then and today. “I’m scared of them.” Amos laughed at me and then told me his name.
My arm jerks forward and the leash almost slips out of my hand. Basil pulls hard enough to make the tug of the collar choke himself. He is staring down a paved trail that leads into the forest. The leaves are fading but still thick, and they hide everything behind them in green shadows.
Ahead is a long, winding trail called the Tamarack Walk. For nature lovers. Bikers. Kids playing hooky. And something that has captured Basil’s full attention.
The first few yards of the trail are in flat land with the occasional mossy mound and felled log. After a while the ground begins to turn into small swamps filled with green beads and lily pads all over the surface. For the next few miles, the trail skirts the lake and most of the land will be wet and muddy.
Basil’s intense focus lets up when he discovers the wilderness on the sides of the pavement. Every weed, fern, or rock that tumbles because of his own kick captures his short attention span. After he satisfies his curiosity, his focus shifts back to the distance of the trail and he pulls against the leash again.
The wind brings the scent of rotting fish from the lake and the branches of the tamaracks shake and chatter.
When me and Amos walked on this trail, he offered a joint but when I declined he didn’t keep asking.
“No, that’s totally legit, bro,” he said. “My brother forced me to when I was like ten and now I can’t stop.”
“What an ass.”
“Yeah he is. Lucky it wasn’t meth or pills.”
“Did you tell your mom?”
“Ha. No. She thinks Isaac is too much of an angel. Probably woulda just blamed me.”
I still remember his voice having the hint of a drawl, as if his family was from much farther south than Faribault, Minnesota. When he moved up here the difference in accents was noticeable right off the bat and some of the other kids took to calling him hillbilly.
On that day, or one of the many times we walked that trail, we came across a golf cart with a full set of clubs. It was parked on the side of the pavement. No one was around.
“Hey man . . .” Amos giggled. “You want a club?”
“I don’t think I need one.”
His hands shook and he kind of bobbed from one foot to the other. “You want one anyway? Think about it. They’re just sitting here. We found them. I think I’m supposed to take them.”
“Okay,” I said. “Do it.”
He grabbed the handle of one of the clubs and a woman’s voice shouted from somewhere behind us. “What the hell are you kids doing?”
“Book it, Marion!” We ran away from the voice and deeper into the trail where there was nothing on either side but swamp and cattails. Neither of us was very fit but with the right motivation we managed to make a good distance before we stopped and caught our breath.
Amos couldn’t stop smiling through his labored breaths. “I knew we were being watched. I could feel it!”
“Shut the hell up. No, you didn’t.” My legs collapsed and I tumbled to my back. “Why did you even try to grab it then?”
“For the rush. I love doing shit like this. Running from the cops and shit.”
“You don’t know if she was a cop.”
“She was probably gonna call the cops though. Same thing.”
I don’t think there was any one moment when me and Amos drifted apart as friends. We just talked and hung out less and less until we just nodded to each other when we passed through the hallways. He didn’t graduate. I didn’t say goodbye when I moved out of Geshig.
A foul smell hits my nose. Basil is barking and whining. I look around for the source and find a tattered and rotting corpse of an animal. I can’t tell what kind because few traces of it are left. Nothing but brownish fur, scattered bones, and globs of browning flesh. The collection would attract most dogs but Basil won’t go near it.
We walk past the fetid mess only to find it’s not the only one. Carrion litters this part of the trail like bread crumbs. And in the distance, I see what laid it.
The dog from under the merry-go-round.
With a red maw and wide eyes staring into mine. Basil barks and with a reinvigorated energy he pulls the leash right out of my hand and gives chase. The other dog turns and speeds off into the woods.
What else can I do but follow?
I don’t have the speed or grace to follow two dogs. One is not quite fully grown and the other has been dead for almost two decades, but still they leave me far behind. The land isn’t quite as swampy as before, and it gets drier the farther I run, but my boots and pant legs get covered in mud.
Unlike most people my age, I think I’m more fit in my mid-twenties than when I was a young teen. I can follow the distant noise of the dogs barking for what I guess to be about two miles.
I find Basil at the edge of a clearing in the trees, hunched and snarling. Inside the clearing are rows of tombstones and graves, some old, some new. The other dog stares at me, but now with sad eyes. It’s standing over a grave.
Basil stays in place as I walk to the tombstone. I don’t see where the other dog runs to because I can’t stop staring at the name on the tombstone.
Kayden Kelliher.
Before I met Gerly last summer, his was a name I hadn’t thought about in years. Maybe a whole decade. I never actually met him myself, but he was the kind of guy who knew everyone in the community.
Basil approaches with caution and doesn’t lower his shoulders until I sit down at the foot of the grave.
“Hi, Kayden.”
The gravestone is black marble with Kayden’s face etched into the center. A blue ribbon with a faded gold medallion hangs around a small crystal cross with no markings.
“How’s that basketball thing working out?” Silence, except for a few whimpers from Basil. He paces around the cemetery in circles and lets out pathetic barks at nothing.
“Basil, you got us here,” I say. “You know what any of this is about?”
Basil barks into the distance, runs to the edge of the graveyard, and pisses on a fence.
SHANNON’S TRUCK IS QUIET as it comes into view. Basil and I are about a mile down the road from the cemetery. The other dog is nowhere to be found, and Basil can’t or won’t pick up the scent, if there really was one.
“Hey,” Shannon says when he stops. Basil jumps into the back of the cab and I sit in the passenger seat.
“Thanks.”
Shannon looks at my mud-caked boots and legs. “Um. Do you need to tell me something?”
“Never chase a dog through a swamp.”
He looks back at Basil and sees the mud and detritus lining his fur.
“I see . . . But why were you over here in the first place?”
For a moment I consider telling him about the other dog, but remembering its bloody maw and eyes makes me want to forget about it entirely. “I was on the Tamarack Walk with the pup. He got loose and I had to chase him down.”
“You sure?” His voice is low and monotone.
“Why wouldn’t I be sure about that?”
“My job is a mile from here. Were you trying to see me?”
I sigh. “What if I said yes? Would you be okay with that?” He doesn’t answer. “I was just out for a walk with Basil. He got loose and I had to chase him through the swamp.”
“But why were you walking in Geshig instead of home?”
“Same reason as usual. I like it here.”
His laugh is bitter as he pounds the steering wheel with his right hand. “I don’t think anyone from here would believe that.”
“Well, that’s my only answer. But since we’re apparently talking again, why haven’t you been answering me?”
Only the sound of Basil panting passes between us. The truck pulls into town and he asks me where I want him to drop me off.
“The rest area.” The silence becomes even more uncomfortable as he pulls into the parking lot and brings me to my car.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Marion. I just don’t.”
I glance around the parking lot. No one is nearby, so I take the risk of scaring him further away and put my hand on his thigh. I can feel his body tighten, but he doesn’t push my hand away. “I get it. I’ve done this before with other men. I get it.”
Without another word I open the door, step outside, and don’t look back in. Basil jumps out and tries to run off, but I make sure to wrap the leash around my hand this time.
“I can train him for you sometime,” Shannon says. “You may be enrolled here but I know the rezdogs more than you.”
One last smile between us. I shut the door and he leaves us behind.
I WOULD SAVE A lot of gas money if I stopped driving into Geshig, but I don’t really worry about that. My job pays well enough and my car is good on gas mileage. Still, what a waste of money, right? What is in this town for me?
Right now, I’m walking past the corner of Fifth and Douglas to see a friend who has invited me over. It’s a cream-colored house with colorful decorations all around the roof, walls, and yard. Wind chimes with small stained-glass panels. Paper lanterns with rainbow-colored ribbons. Various statues of Americana on the dried lawn.
A hand-painted sign by the mailbox that reads TWO SISTERS DAYCARE.
Gerly answers the door with an infant in her arms. “Hey, Marion! Just a minute.”
She walks back inside for a moment and returns without the child. “Don’t worry, he’s my nephew. I don’t have any other kids here right now.” I follow her into the kitchen. The table and counters are cluttered but not unclean, and the air is filled with the smell of burned sage and sandalwood.
Her sister, Angie, walks in just as we sit down. She is a stout woman with mahogany skin, a tight ponytail, and long earrings made of purple and yellow beads. In her arms is the young boy, who stares around the room aimlessly. “This your new man?”
“Ish, shut up.”
“Well, is he?”
“No. But he ain’t yours either.”
“So selfish . . .”
Gerly rolls her eyes and ignores her sister’s presence. “So how you been, guy? How’s the pup?”
“Getting too big. But he’s not as bad as you said he’d be.”
“Just wait. He’ll destroy your house if you let him.”
“No, he’s too cute.”
“Mmmhmm. Sure. How are things with that guy?”
Life is always strange, but beyond high school and college there is a bit of a polarity switch. To young eyes, the adult world is a mystery to be tackled but eventually most settle into how ordinary it all is. Something simple to children like making friends then becomes a daunting task. For me that’s the opposite. It’s not daunting now. I’ve told Gerly all about Shannon even though we’ve not hung out much.
“Oh, not great. Maybe sometimes,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
“It’s nightmare and bliss depending on the day.”
Angie catches on and can’t hide her wide eyes and smile of realization. “Oh.”
“I’m afraid I’d disappoint as you or your sister’s ‘new man.’”
Most don’t know a proper reaction to learning my sexuality, at least in a casual manner. Some will insist how “cool they are with it” or say something like “good for you.” Others, the ones who do it best, have no reaction and carry on the conversation. Angie’s face has already passed the chance for the latter but she doesn’t drift into the former much.
“That’s why Gerly likes you. If a guy hits on her she bitches him out like he called her fat.” She laughs and sets the toddler down on the floor, and immediately the child crawls about. “I’m probably too much for you anyway.” Angie shimmies and shakes her breasts and stomach. Gerly laughs and pushes her sister on the shoulder.
“Oh get outta here, you horny bitch!”
As Angie stops laughing she looks back to me. Now it’s my eyes that get caught reacting.
Without the child in her arms I can see the design clearly. It’s a memorial shirt. Gone but never forgotten. A young man’s image, smiling, next to his name and dates of birth and death.
Kayden Kelliher.
Angie and Gerly both stop their laughing. At first I worry that I soured the mood but Gerly smiles and talks about how she and Angie founded their day care. “It was kind of my idea, kind of our ma’s idea.”
“I was tricked into it,” Angie claims. “‘It’ll be a lot of money and working with kids will be fun!’”
Gerly also tells me more about her current project of remodeling the elementary school park.
As Gerly talks, I realize that Angie might know something about the dog. She’s closer to my age than her older sister is. We would’ve been in the same class, but she transferred to the reservation-run school when she was thirteen.
“Angie,” I say when a moment opens. “You went to Geshig Elementary, right?”
“Sure did.”
“Do you remember there being any rumors about a dog under the merry-go-round?”
“Uh, kind of? I never played on it because they said it was haunted.”
“Would you happen to remember who you first heard it from?”
“Fuck no! You crazy? That was like fifteen years ago!”
“I thought so.”
We do not talk about Kayden or the dog again. Instead, Gerly once again fills me in on the adult world of the local school and her day-care business. Despite the clear-as-day reminder of Kayden on her sister’s bosom, her voice is no different than when I met her. It has always been happy.
THE EAST END OF Geshig is not the same kind of eyesore that the northern slum is, but it’s only better in looks. No matter what neighborhood, this town can’t shed its skin.
Amos answers the door with a cigarette in his mouth. He is wearing a tattered and stained tank top and camo-patterned cargo shorts. “Come on in.”
I walk in, sit down on his couch, and he lights a joint. “Sorry for the mess. The old lady brought the girls to see their grandma.”
The apartment is no different than usual, just less crowded, but no matter how many times I tell him it’s not a big deal he always apologizes.
We don’t have a lot of deep conversations, only smoking and pricing. If it wasn’t for him I doubt I’d smoke unless I’m with my mother because I’d be too nervous or awkward to try to meet another dealer.
When I feel the high creep into my chest and shoulders, I have the urge to break our usual routine and ask him a few questions.
Back in eighth grade, after Kayden Kelliher died, Amos claimed to know the identity of the real murderer. His own brother, Isaac. But there was no mystery about what happened. Everyone knew. Everyone at school whispered about what they thought really happened, but there was never any real question to be explored.
Amos, why did you claim your brother murdered Kayden Kelliher when everyone knew the truth? Did you hate your brother or do you know something others don’t?
It would be that easy to speak the words but I know there’s nothing there. Nothing but a middle school whisper.
There was no mystery surrounding the murder of Kayden Kelliher. But why did the playground Revenant lead me right to his grave?
Amos and I finish the joint without another word. I pay him for a few ounces and then stuff the baggie into my jacket pocket.
The highway is nothing but a blur when I drive. Bad habit I picked up from Hazel. When I return home, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and Coke and slam it down. I pour another and sip it slowly. It’s Shannon’s favorite whiskey, but I will be lucky if he ever comes back here to enjoy it.
Basil is sleeping on the couch but perks up when I tickle the top of his nose. I let him outside to relieve himself, thankful he has not done it in the house. That was only a problem for the first few weeks but eventually he learned.
Another glass of whiskey down. Did I drink like this before I reunited with Shannon this summer? I know he has been a heavy drinker for a while, but have I been any more stable?
I let Basil back inside and he joins me on the couch. He falls asleep with his head on my lap and I try to relax.
I look at my phone. It’s beginning to blur and I need to squint my eyes hard to see the screen because somehow the depth of the glass has increased. Shannon hasn’t texted back and right now seems as good a time as any to apologize. Again.
This time he replies within seconds. I’m coming over. Nothing more.
Awful as it is to say, the memory of Kayden Kelliher should not be important to me. I didn’t really know him and he didn’t know me. Aside from Gerly and Maya, who I just met in June, I don’t know any of his relatives. All I really know of Kayden is the fact that he was killed.
For us kids, his death was just another source of rumors, something to tell each other when no one was listening. To the adults, he was their hero. He was the young man with potential, an Indian boy who would leave the reservation for bigger and better things. Even my mother had a place for him in her heart.
My eyes are still unfocused as I look at my phone but I manage to find my mother in my contacts list. I speak a few words out loud just to see if I can manage full sentences but my voice slops out like thick mustard so I send her a quick text.
Can I come see you soon?
Later, outside my window I see Shannon’s truck park behind my car. Shannon walks inside without knocking. I drop my phone onto the couch and follow him into the bedroom.