THEO
THE BOUVRE HOUSE hadn’t been lived in for a long time and, other than the couple of times Andréa appeared and disappeared, hadn’t even been visited since Mr. Bouvre’s last heart attack, from what Imogene said. I hadn’t seen him, them, since the night before I left for Korea. Hadn’t stood in the driveway since that night either.
I checked all the windows, the front and side doors; all locked up except the back door. I went inside. Everything was in boxes, the mirrors covered with black cloth, the furniture covered with white sheets, the many oil paintings gone from the walls. It was a ghost of the house it once was. It seemed so much smaller than I remembered.
Each of the three bedrooms was packed up; so was the small basement. Nobody hiding, nobody living, nobody returning. The only things that seemed out of place were the toy trucks and coloring books on the dining room floor.
***
It was dusk. Solomon rhythmically chafed his knife on a hide as I stood at my kitchen window mindlessly eating Imogene’s blackberry pie. I thought about Andréa and the summer we built the wall between our home and Solomon’s. That summer, when we were twelve years old, Mamaí said to build a three-foot stone wall between the two properties. She said it was to remind her of the mottled-grey limestone fencing that, like jagged zippers, crossed the valleys and climbed the hillsides of her war-torn Ireland. She said Solomon was a lot like Ireland: war-weary, scared, and more powerful for it. Andréa helped me get each of those stones into place, then we ran to the beach, striped down to our skivvies, and jumped into the ocean. How could she so easily forget those sun-drenched glory days?
Outside, Solomon sat on his stump next to his Raven totem; he was a tireless mentor with Tula May, who now sat cross-legged on a blanket at his feet. At the Raven totem’s base was the faded green Frog. Solomon pointed to Frog and said, “Frog’s task is to send souls to next world. Frog is a being, lives in two spheres—water and land. Respect him. He passes through two worlds, natural and supernatural. Frogs are spirit helpers of shamans.” Tula May’s eyes popped, then she wrote something down on her tablet as Mrs. B taught her to do. Solomon waited to go on with his lesson until she finished.
The wood-carved Frog clutched a small Soul Box with its frog arms. The tiny box had a removable lid and a deep drawer. Inside were three sharp arrowheads and a newspaper article. I only knew this because, to my great shame, I once snuck a peek. The newspaper article was about his wife, Ruby. It was to go with him when he crossed over. The article never mentioned her name. It said only that an “Indian woman” died, “accidental death.” The truth was, Ruby had been beaten and raped by a local recluse who had just returned from a drunken hunting trip. It took three days for her to die.
For this brutal murder that hunter served one year in prison then disappeared. Some say out of guilt, some say shame. Some believe otherwise. I’ve heard hundreds of confessions from guilty men—true remorse and shame were rare. I tend to believe Solomon had a hand in the rumored “otherwise.” There would have been no other way for him to find peace than to avenge.
Solomon continued his lesson, “Is only through trouble we learn strength of our spirits.”
He had overcome a world of pain, destruction, and utter hopelessness, but still smiled, still loved. His spirit glowed brighter than any of the gold sepulchers surrounding the bishop. There was nothing in my small stone church more divine than the hallowed ground where he worshipped, and no sermon ever spoken more sacred than the whispers he heard in the wind. He was busy right then saving a child. I was once that child.
Solomon’s voice hushed, his evening incantations completed. The back stairs to his hut creaked; the door closed. Tula May would soon be asleep on the small cot in his hut, and he in his outside hammock, the same as he and I had done many times when I ran away from home and got as far as the other side of that stone wall—fifteen feet away—with all my earthly belongings wrapped in a rag and tied to the end of a stick. I knew he’d sit in his chair next to the cot while she dozed off beneath the dream catcher. He’d whisper to her, “Follow the way of your heart. It is hard way, but good way.” Then he’d brush his rugged hand over her eyes, closing them; he’d say “Dream a good dream.” And she would.