CHAPTER NINE

There was the bonfire, of course, just as she’d expected. But near it were a half dozen or so tree limbs stuck into the shore, canted at angles where the sand wasn’t deep enough to keep them straight.

Sherry Ann Awiakta wondered why they remained unlit, a strange play of shadow and light passing over them. The bonfire roared from a spray of lighter fluid, the onlookers stepping back to avoid the heat that reached for them in momentary greed. Then the flames settled down, went back to the work they were meant for, burrowing deeply into the pile of driftwood.

It wasn’t the usual crowd. She’d expected a few high school friends she hadn’t seen in a long time, maybe some rez friends she’d grown up with, but instead she saw townies with girls who wore too much perfume and who flipped long hair over their shoulders when they laughed. Time had moved on without her.

She’d caught a ride back to the rez from a trucker, who had let her off at the highway so she could walk the rest of the way in. She’d meant to go home but had stopped at the Trading Post and spent the last of her money on a dry sandwich and an iced coffee, a final splurge to keep her head clear. Clear. That’s what she was now, and she planned to stay that way. Make it right with her pops, maybe even stay awhile this time.

Sherry Ann walked by the keg, and a hand moved out of the shadows to offer a plastic cup with a foamy head that she carried toward the light and set down without taking a drink. She’d always loved a fire, the way it kept the cold at bay. She weaved through the limbs, pulled one up, heavier than she’d expected, and wrapped both hands around the rough surface like it was a throat. There was wadding bound around one end, and she could smell the bite of fuel that soaked it.

She touched the unlit torch to the bonfire. The blaze blossomed close and warm and spread a bright circle around her, and when she waved the torch through the air it whooshed playfully.

This was the moment she realized something good was happening. She looked past the edge of flame. Around her, men in denim jackets clapped one another on the back while a group of high school girls jumped up and squealed at some comment. A couple with their arms around each other shared a long, slow kiss.

Her mother had died the previous year, and Sherry Ann, without being sure exactly why, left. And then, with certainty, she’d known it was time to return. She was a bird on a migratory route, looping back to a homeland mapped in some hidden memory. This time would be different. Better. She smiled and sank onto a tree stump. She held the torch as it burst and crackled. Then she tossed it into the bonfire, where it sank into bright, hot flame.

When the man sat down next to her, Sherry Ann smiled. She’d seen him moving from group to group, searching faces. He’d stopped a few people as they were leaving, the evening air growing too cold to be fun. Or maybe their curfews were calling them home.

“Didn’t find who you were looking for?” she said, watching the fire.

“No luck.” He shifted his body toward her. She could feel his eyes on her profile. “That’s probably a good thing, though. I was looking for somebody who didn’t need to be here.”

Sherry Ann nodded. “Sounds familiar. The reverse, I mean. I don’t really need to be here either. It’s all so different now.”

They watched as a big man walked out of the tall grass and closer to the fire, where he patrolled the sand, shuffling his feet. When his shoes hit a discarded beer bottle, he bent unsteadily and grasped the bottle so that it glinted in the light of the bonfire. Then he took a few steps and stumbled to his knees.

A couple of girls holding White Claws giggled and Sherry Ann heard one say, “Who is that?”

“No idea,” said the other.

Sherry Ann knew it was Junior. He was still a bear of a man, and she wondered if he was still running beer for high schoolers.

Junior got to his feet, sniffled into the sleeve of his coat and then stopped to retrieve another bottle. He added it to the sack he carried and made his way along the thin stretch of sand and out of the light as a spattering of raindrops hissed on the sand, sending people on the long walk back to the shelter of their unseen cars. The party was breaking up.

The stranger next to Sherry Ann didn’t seem to notice the White Claw girls or the rain, or anything but the fire. He snapped a twig into smaller and smaller lengths and tossed them into the flames. When his hands were empty, he brushed them on his thighs and turned to her.

“Minkey,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m not from around here. You?”