Chapter 3

Canada, Twenty-Eight Years Ago

They had walked no more than fifty yards from the truck when an explosion came from nowhere. The ground shook, pines toppled like Jenga pieces, and scattered screeching birds into the morning sky.

“Hurry, Sheshebens.” the boy said.

“Oh my God,” said Noshi.

Another rumble as through the Earth split in two, and the boy turned to see a wall of snow bury the family truck…

Northern California, Present Time

Maggie put on her best face, but participated in the Bear Dance weekend without energy or will. Her brother, Danny, however, was in his glory. He’d always said, “No one is invited, but everyone is welcome.” It was anyone’s guess who might show up. People trickled in throughout the weekend, and this year, it seemed as though the entire population of northern California responded to Danny’s welcome.

Sunday evening the bears were scheduled to dance. By late morning, tipis and tents were crammed so close together there was scant space to walk between them. In the afternoon, the property was a chaotic wall-to-wall mass of humanity. Danny greeted attendees as though holding court. “This is great,” he whispered to Maggie.

Yes, great. With this crowd, maybe I won’t have to talk to Jake at all.

“Something’s on your mind. What’s wrong?” Danny asked.

“Nothing, really. It’s fine.”

“Jake’s been looking for you.”

*

Jake had always been her rock even though he’d endured so much himself during his warped childhood that she marveled at his ability to be so steady, and so available to others. Doctors had diagnosed his mother with schizophrenia, and what then had been called “manic depression,” when she was only a kid herself. She’d been in and out of mental wards since her sixteenth birthday. Unable to hold a job or manage a long-term adult relationship, and with her acidic attitude and tenacious paranoia, she had driven her family away. She refused anti-psychotic drugs, making life for her and her only son a challenge. He never knew when he came home from school what to expect. She had a raging temper and would fly into screeching fits over minor infractions, sometimes beating Jake with a belt leaving bruises and welts on his legs and back. Other times, she’d be affectionate and motherly, all cuddles and sugar.

His alcoholic father couldn’t take it, and left when Jake was only eight, and afterward…a succession of step-fathers, each worse than the previous.

Later, after Maggie had completed her first university psychology course, she gave Jake a book about bi-polar disorder. “I think this might help you to better understand your mom,” she told him.

As a teenager, when he needed a reprieve from his mother, Jake ended up at the Sloans’. Maggie’s mother made fry bread with powdered sugar for Danny, Maggie and Jake to take to the garage where they’d hang out for hours listening to 1960s and 70s rock and roll on Danny’s tape deck. The Rolling Stones were the boys’ favorite. Maggie favored Janis Joplin. Whenever, “Piece of My Heart” came on, Jake asked Maggie to slow dance. She was a willing partner until that one time she felt his erection against her, and then she stopped accepting his invitations to dance.

After his father left, although just a child, Jake assumed the role of caretaker for his mother between her marriages, massaging her neck and shoulders when she had one of her many “sick headaches,” doing her laundry, seeing that her bills were paid, and cooking for her. Even as a small boy, he looked out after himself, making his own breakfasts, and packing his own school lunches. Jake told Maggie that he loved his mother and resented her in equal measure.

He was in his thirties when she died of heart failure. He told Maggie, “My mom is the only biological family I have, and I know she did her best.” Maggie held him as he cried. The Sloans had long before become his de facto family, a fixture in Maggie’s life. And, right now, she was avoiding him…

*

“I don’t want to talk to Jake.”

“What’s up? You two have a fight?”

“No, not that. I’d prefer not to discuss it right now. Let’s enjoy the weekend, okay?”

Another group of attendees made their way through the crowd toward Danny.

“Hey, Bear,” a Hoopa man in full regalia called out.

Maggie exhaled in relief when Danny turned his attention to his guests.

*

She liked Danny’s wife, Catharine Two Tails, a full-blooded Wintu, born and reared on The Chester Valley Reservation. She’d been only seventeen and Danny not quite nineteen when their son, Jimmy, forced himself into the world butt first. The breech birth nearly killed the diminutive Cathy, and she was unable to conceive again.

During weekends of the Bear Dance, Maggie didn’t see much of Cathy who spent the majority of her time working in the outdoor kitchen Danny had built and christened “The Longhouse.” This year, Maggie spent as much time as she could with her sister-in-law, grateful for the mountain of unpeeled potatoes on the prep table.

“Too bad about them twin girls,” Cathy said. “I hear Sheriff Jake is gonna try to get some local help to find that bad killer. Them little girls was barely older than Flower and Bird.”

Maggie snatched up a potato and began peeling with such fury that she nicked her thumb.

“Ouch. Oh, dammit.” She dropped the peeler and stuck her wounded thumb into her mouth.

Cathy handed her a damp paper towel. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, thanks. It’s a tiny cut.”

“I’ll get you some peroxide if you want.” She reached for Maggie’s hand. “Here, let me see that thumb.”

Maggie jerked her hand away. “I said it’s fine, Cathy. Let’s focus on getting these potatoes peeled, if you don’t mind.”

Cathy stepped back. “I think it’s best you leave The Longhouse for a bit. Your mind ain’t on potatoes, and I don’t want nobody snapping at me when I’m tryin’ to help.”

“I’m sorry. I just…”

“Why don’t you go out and see them Yurok womens? They’re talkin’ about acorns. I hear them white oaks were plenty good this year. Besides, that peeler you’re usin’ is dull and you’re gonna cut yourself again. I’ll take care of them potatoes faster with a knife anyway.” Cathy waved to a group of women busy cubing venison and carrots. “Or, one of them can do it. Go on out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Cathy, really. I didn’t mean to be surly. I guess I’m testy because of those little girls. I’m happy to be in here with you. Let me help,” but Maggie had been drinking iced tea all day and her bladder felt like a cheap overfilled balloon ready to explode. She put aside the potato peeler, pulled off her apron, wadded it into a ball and tossed it on the counter. “Cathy, I have to pee. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The moment she stepped out of The Longhouse, she encountered Jake sitting with a group of men, some brown, some white. She halted, turned on her heels, and took a few brisk steps in the opposite direction before he called to her. “Hey, girl. Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you. Come on over and take a seat with us.”

“Shit,” she said under her breath, and spun around to face him, “No, thanks. Lots of people this year. Cathy needs my help in the kitchen.”

“Aw, c’mon. Take a break. It’s the last day and I haven’t seen you at all.”

“Gimme a second. I’ll be right back.” Maggie used the bathroom, washed her hands, and took her time returning to the circle. The men shifted their seats to make room. She plopped on a folding chair next to Jake. “Glad it’s not raining like it did last year. I scraped mud off my boots for a week.”

“Clouds moving in. We might still get wet,” Jake leaned closer to her, slung his arm around the back of her chair, and lowered his voice. “We’ve got to find some place to talk, or maybe you can meet me at the station tomorrow?”

She didn’t hear him because she was distracted by a stranger headed toward them. He was indigenous, tall, maybe 6-foot-4, well-built but thin, with a beautiful face. He looked to be in his late 30s. “Who’s that?” she asked Jake.

“Some Algonquin guy, Mingan Metchitehew. Moved here last year from up north. He’s a banker.”

“Yeah? Never seen him.”

“That’s because you hardly ever come to town. Everybody knows Mingan. You wouldn’t know this, but he hangs around with Bear sometimes.”

“He’s tall for an Indian, and really good looking.”

“Stand in line, girl. The women at the Wicklow Christian Church fall all over themselves baking him cookies.”

“Christian? I wouldn’t have figured that. Not many of those show up at the Bear Dance.”

“I’m a Christian, and I’m here.”

“Yeah, but you’re different.”

“How so?” He shifted in his seat.

“You never push it. I think in thirty years, you invited me to your church once maybe. But, this Mingan? He’s religious?”

“Oh, yeah. Church goin’ full-blown Christian. I hear he’s a deacon. Maybe he’s here to save you.”

Maggie checked out the newcomer as he passed. “Nice ass,” she whispered.

Jake looked at Maggie, at Mingan, then back to Maggie. “Forget about it. Not your type. He’s not blonde and blue-eyed, and he doesn’t drink much.” He spit on the ground.

“I think I could make him my type....” She paused. “Well, it depends, I suppose.” She watched Mingan’s receding figure. “Naw, never mind. Too young for me anyway.”

Jake’s expression relaxed, and he leaned back in his chair.

Maggie was grateful to have Mingan to think about, and something to talk about other than child murders, although it seemed that’s the only topic anyone wanted to discuss. If I hear one more person say, “Isn’t it awful about those kids? I hope Sheriff Jake catches that killer soon,” I’ll pull out my own hair by the roots. This good looking newcomer gave her a respite, a mental diversion, a solid reason to change the course of Jake’s conversation. Besides, really, Mingan does have a great ass.

Nearby, Wintu women gathered in their own circle. “Hi, Mingan,” one said as he approached.

“Hello, ladies.” He waived, then continued toward the river.

Another said, “Hell, I wouldn’t kick that one out of my bedroll for eatin’ crackers.” The women laughed. “I’ll cook up fry bread for him any time, but he’ll have to earn it.” She stood up and made lewd bumps and grinds with her hips. The women guffawed.

“He likes them prissy white Christian girls,” said another.

“I’ll believe in Jesus for a night, and with the lights off, he won’t know I’m Indian,” said the hip bumper.

*

For the event, Danny always built a traditional Yurok sweat house half buried in the soil, and covered with redwood strips.

“Hey, Bear! You gonna sweat?” a man who had joined the circle asked Danny, “I haven’t seen you at the lodge.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Gotta get Jimmy.”

James “Jimmy” Sloan worked with his father in “Bear and Son Construction,” and raised his twin daughters on his own. His wife, a buxom half-French, half-Modoc woman, ran away with a wealthy Los Angeles investor when the girls were barely old enough to crawl.

“Mag, would you mind keeping an eye on Bird and Flower while Jimmy and I sweat?” Danny asked.

“No problem.”

Tiny identical girls with bobbed hair ran to Maggie. “Hi Auntie!”

Maggie was available to babysit because she would not be sweating. Only men were allowed in the Yurok lodges. Maggie didn’t mind. Sometimes there were women sweats or co-ed lodges other natives hosted, but whenever one of the women invited Maggie to go, her response was always the same, “Hell, I sweat enough. You go. I’ll wait for you at The Silverado.” Right now, Maggie wanted to spend time with the children.

“When I’m old enough, I’m going to change my name to Maggie, like yours, Auntie,” said Bird.

The little girls told Maggie they hated their names and often talked about when they were of legal age what they would rename themselves.

“I wanna be Lucy,” said Flower.

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll see you at dinner. I’ve got some serious playing to do with my girls,” Maggie stood. “C’mon Lucy and Maggie, let’s go.” She stood, scooping one child into each arm. “Hide ‘n seek?”

“Maggie,” Jake called out. “Let’s catch up tonight. I need to talk to you about that thing we discussed at The Dandelion. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need your help.”

“Not this weekend.” She ran to the river, carrying the giggling girls bouncing against her hips.

Mingan sat alone on a flat rock on the river bank. With his shoes off, and his legs crossed, he tossed pebbles into the water.

“Hi,” Maggie said.

He turned to her. His grin warmed his otherwise serious face, and tiny crinkles appeared around his eyes. Charming. He wore his thick hair, so black it was almost blue in the sunlight, parted in the middle, loose, informal, and too long for a stuffy banker. Sexy as hell.

“Hi,” he said. He stood, and with both hands he brushed off his jeans. He leapt off the rock, and extended his hand to Maggie. “I’m Mingan Metchitehew.”

“Maggie Sloan.”

“These two cuties your daughters?”

“God, no. My grandnieces. Flower, Bird, meet Mr. Metchitehew.”

“You must be Bear’s sister, then? He’s mentioned you.” Mingan squatted on his heels, and put his hand out to each of the girls. “How do you do? And, you can call me Mingan, okay? I wouldn’t guess you to be old enough to have grand anything,” Mingan said as he raised to his feet.

“Thanks. I’m old enough; probably could be your mother.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Maggie couldn’t help but notice when he eyed her with appreciation. It felt good, like warm cream-and-berry-pie good. “You’re new to Wicklow?”

“Been here close to a year. I work at National Bank.”

“I bank there. I don’t recall seeing you.”

“I’m in the back offices. I don’t recall seeing you either. I would remember.” When he smiled at her again, she felt as though she could dissolve into a quivering mass of warm gelatin. His eyes roved for a split second to her breasts and settled back onto her face. “Next time you’re in, ask for me. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee at Mama’s.”

“That’d be great.”

“Auntie, can we play now, please?” said Flower.

“Yeah, I want to find pollywogs in the stream over there,” said Bird pointing to a shallow creek.

“Pollywogs?” said Mingan. “In my day, I was a premier pollywog hunter. Can I come?”

“Sure,” said Bird. “Let’s go.”

“Are you certain?” Maggie said to him. “They can be a handful.”

“I love kids. It’s fine.”

“All right girls, but stay where I can see you, listen to Mingan, and take off your shoes before wading.”

Maggie climbed on the rock where Mingan had been sitting to watch the little girls and the tall man play. Before long, all three were in the water. The kids giggled and splashed Mingan, who laughed along with them. He slipped on a lichen-covered boulder, and fell butt-down into the creek soaking the back of his jeans. The two little girls piled on top of him, all three in hysterics.

“Hey, I thought you were looking for pollywogs,” Maggie said.

“Sorry, I think we frightened them,” said Mingan.

“Yup, they all swam away,” said Flower. “They were scared we was gonna eat ‘em.”

“Ew.” Bird wrinkled her nose. “We don’t eat pollywogs. Gross.”

“What?” said Mingan. “You’ve never tasted delicious pollywog stew?”

“Yuck,” said Bird.

“Mingan eats pollywogs, Auntie Maggie,” Flower screwed her face and wrinkled her nose.

Maggie had dated plenty of men, but never had any of her romantic partners played with her grandnieces, or showed any interest in them at all. Maybe this one is a good guy.