The operation to remove the bullet had been so simple. The surgeons had made a tiny cut in his shoulder and picked the bullet out with something that looked like giant tweezers. It was as if the whole experience of being shot, of feeling – no, knowing – that he was going to die wasn’t any worse than getting a splinter. He was home in a couple of days, his arm in a sling, his tiny wound covered with an overgrown Band-Aid that had to be changed every so often.
For the first few days, his mother had just cried.
Later, during the second week, she started to talk, and, for Jonah, that was worse. When she was just crying, he didn’t have to do anything, just pat her on the shoulder occasionally, or give her a hug, let her cling onto him for a few minutes like he was some kind of life raft. But once she started talking again, he was expected to answer.
‘Why did you run away?’ she’d bawl.
When he tried to tell her that he didn’t run away, but towards something else, towards a part of himself that he still needed to find, it was as if she couldn’t hear him.
‘Was I such a bad mom?’
He’d sigh and try again. ‘I just needed to be by myself for a while. Find a place of my own, live the way I was meant to.’
‘But why?’ Her face would crumple and turn red. ‘Was being shot by drug dealers better than being stuck here with me?’
Sometimes, when he couldn’t take any more, he’d stomp out of the apartment, and slip down the back stairs to the alley that cut through to Lake Street.
Lake Street was like a battle zone – torn-up sidewalks, jackhammers blasting like heavy artillery, everybody on foot being shunted past barricades, like refugees. Most of them were Latinos who’d traded poverty in Mexico for hard work and long hours up north. Some were Somalis, driven out of their home country by war and starvation. All of them – Jonah and his mom, too, most likely – would soon be on the move again. Once the roads were rebuilt, once the derelict buildings were turned into expensive condos for rich hipsters, the whole community would be scattered again, forced to scramble around looking for cheaper places to live.
On one of these walks, Jonah passed a trendy coffee place that had just opened up on the corner where there used to be a dry-cleaners and a shoe repairer. There weren’t any Latinos or Somalis inside, drinking skinny decaf lattes, though. And the people at the serving counters were all whiter than he was.
How funny was that? All the time he’d wanted to escape the white man’s world. He’d never realised that the Lake Street he grew up in – with the little grocery stores, the Mexican cafés, the cheap hardware stores selling bags of nails for fifty cents – wasn’t part of the white world either. Pretty soon, though, it would be, and now it was too late to change it.
It got cold after a few minutes. The air felt sharp and tingly in his nostrils – it would snow pretty soon. On his way back home he bought a $1.59 box of Hot Tamales candy for his mother. Then he stopped at the cheap hardware store and bought a red self-stick gift bow for a quarter.
It was nearly dark when he climbed back up the stairs. The smell of spaghetti sauce in the kitchen – tomatoes and garlic, basil and onions – made him realise that he was starving, and reminded him of how hungry he’d been, living on his own in the wigwam. He put his arms around his mom’s slender shoulders. She took his present, laughed for a second before crying again.
Later, when they’d finished eating, she talked about her father. The anniversary of his death had occurred while Jonah was at Yellow Lake. She’d gone to the veterans’ cemetery at Fort Snelling and laid a wreath on his grave for the first time in years. Something about Jonah being gone made her feel lonesome – even the dead could be company, she guessed. And at the cemetery, something weird came over her. Maybe it was all the waving flags, all the patriotic slogans, but when she read her dad’s name – PFC Norman Grove, US Army, 1969-70, 4th Battalion, Light Infantry – she felt proud. Her dad had fought for his country. Whatever he did later, however he messed up the rest of his life, he was a hero, he was buried in a hero’s grave.
And while she was driving back home over the Mendota bridge, a really freaky thing had happened – a bald eagle flew across the river. It soared upstream then swooped down under the bridge. She’d never seen an eagle before, not in the Cities. She got so excited she nearly crashed the car.
‘S’pose you think that’s some kind of sign,’ she said, smiling. ‘Some kind of big Indian deal.’
Jonah shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
She smiled again, tears filling her eyes. ‘It was, wasn’t it? Some Ojibwe deal.’
After he had cleared their plates away, she talked about how much she’d missed him while he was gone, how she’d almost gone crazy with worry. He was the only family she had left – that was the important thing – and she never wanted to lose him.
‘This other stuff,’ she said, waving her hands, ‘the running away, the getting hurt, that little girl – pretty soon you won’t even remember. You’ll forget all about what happened one of these days.’
His mother leaned over the table and held his face in her trembling hands.
He closed his eyes. ‘You’re probably right, Mom.’
But under his sweater and T-shirt, the star-shaped scar on his shoulder itched – a sign, Jonah knew it. He wasn’t going to forget about what happened at Yellow Lake. Not today. Not tomorrow.
His mother kissed his forehead and sat back down.
Jonah opened his eyes and smiled at her.
Never.