Looking for Smoke, page 23
Someone from the Bureau of Indian Affairs came to the high school career fair last year, drumming up interest in their summer internships. I took a ball even though I had no interest. Not an ounce. I’ll be set on this ranch. Just like Jason and everyone before us. I toss the ball again. I don’t know who thought stress balls would be a good idea. They’re good for nothing. Least of all stress.
I squish it in my palm. It’s done nothing in the last week to calm me. I toss it again.
I went from one problem to the next. A brother to a brother.
Why First Kill?
I sit up and chuck the ball at the wall. A dull thump sounds, and the ball plops onto the floor, back into its perfect sphere. Pathetic.
It can’t even give me the satisfaction of a good impact. Screw that.
I grab the PlayStation controller and raise my arm, ready to hurl it into the wall, when tires crunch through the gravel driveway.
I toss the controller into the chair and stride down the hall to the front door. It’s not Jason. He’s working in the cattle fields.
I shove open the door as a gray truck sinks to a halt behind Jason’s Ram.
First Kill glares at me over the steering wheel.
My aching jaw yanks open.
They released him? I can’t deny the relief snaking out of my chest. He wouldn’t be out if they thought he was guilty. Right?
He shoves open his door with a creak and stomps through the rocks toward the porch.
“Who’d you have to bribe to get out?” I start, but the scowl on his face sucks the humor out of me. “I mean, I’m glad to see you, man. I was sick about it when I heard.”
He stops in front of the steps below me, fists tight at his sides. “Yeah? Couldn’t have been that sick.”
I wet my lips.
“Not effing sick enough to turn in the guest book.”
Oh. “I—”
“You had a whole day. I kept hoping you’d finally turn it in to give them someone to look at besides me. But you didn’t.”
What is everyone’s deal with that guest book? “I didn’t think it would help. I heard . . . I heard they had something big on you.”
“You could’ve tried, dog face.”
Ouch. “Don’t imiitāisskii me, man.”
He points a shaking finger at me. “You could’ve tried. But you didn’t, so I had to lay down all my cards. I had to admit that my deadbeat dad is gone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My dad split in April, left us high and dry.”
“I—I had no idea.”
“Exactly. Nobody did. That’s the point. It was my secret, but now it’s out, and Cherie has to go into foster care. So screw you.”
I open and close my mouth like a trout out of water. “It wouldn’t have helped you.”
He mounts the first stair, coming almost eye level to me. He’s an inch lower, but his anger more than makes up the difference. “You would’ve done anything to clear Jason’s name, but you didn’t give a piss about mine.”
I thought he was done for. I thought we’d never be friends again because he’d be locked up for the rest of his life. Now we’ll never be friends because he thinks I left him in the lurch. Turned my back on him.
He’s not gone. He’s here in the flesh. I have to give him something, keep him with me. “I couldn’t give it to them.”
He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t.”
“Listen, First Kill. I messed up.”
He takes the final step, looking down at me now. “Yeah. You did. They took Cherie from me, and I’ll never forgive you for it. You and the dirty bastard who—”
“No.” I flail my arms out. “I mean, I really shit in my medicine bag, man.”
“What are you talking about?”
I run my clammy hand along my arm. He and Loren, so obsessed with that guest book. “I did something stupid. I . . . I was so worried about Jason, I messed with the guest book.”
He steps back, head cocked. “How?”
I pause, listening for any sign of Jason. “I found a random entry for that week in April that was written in pencil. I erased it and faked Andrew Stern’s signature in pen. I knew what it looked like from his real entry last week.”
“You what?” His look is enough to have me regretting saying anything, but it’s too late. It’s done.
“Stupid, I know. I just wanted you to help me follow him so maybe we could really find something. I regret it, and I’ll get in trouble if I get caught. That’s why I never gave it to Staccona. Why I never can.”
He rests his hand on the porch railing and squeezes his eyes shut. “That’s insane, even for you.”
“I know.”
It was a rash decision, one of the dumbest things I’ve done. I guess I panic when it feels like things are falling apart. I’ve lost too much, had too many things toss me into a tumble dryer. My family has betrayed me. They’ve been ripped away. I’ve been left behind. Broken. I’m sick of it. Sick of losing everything I care about.
Now my instinct is to dig my heels in and fight to keep the few things I have left.
Even if it hurts me.
Air hisses through his teeth.
“Sorry you were expecting something from it. And sorry about Cherie.”
He smacks the porch railing, making me wince. “I came over here ready to beat you, ay. Somebody should.”
I shift my weight. “Skoden. Just lemme round up all my rez dogs first so it’s a fair fight.”
He cracks a smile, running his fingers over his right knuckles. They’re flatter than they should be after his squirrelly years of fighting.
He’s whacked me a few times over the years, but never all-out. Dad used to watch us scrapping in the yard and bestow another piece of his self-proclaimed Indigenous wisdom to keep us in check: You can butt heads, just don’t lock antlers.
I’d hate to be on the receiving end of Eli’s fist at full strength.
“Where are they taking her?”
“A family in town. You know, the social worker asked your mom. She said no.” He pauses for a beat, watching me. “Said she didn’t have enough to give right now.”
“I coulda told you that.” Mom couldn’t step it up for her own son. Why would she for a little cousin?
“Yeah. Should’ve guessed.”
“Cherie will be okay,” I say. “They’ll make sure of it. What about you? You don’t have to go somewhere too?”
“Nah. The family taking Cherie only takes kids under nine. The social worker and Youngbull argued about what to do with me for a while. They knew I’d never stay anywhere they take me. And I’m eighteen in less than three months anyway, so I get to stay in my house. The social worker will check in now and then.”
“Good.”
“I can’t get Cherie back until I’m eighteen and prove I’m holding down a job, though.”
“Sucks, man.”
“Yup. Now I have to go say bye.” He steps back down the steps and gives a sarcastic smile. “But at least I’m not in jail for murder anymore.”
His violent steps in the gravel shoot pain through my head. “Hey. When did you say your dad left?”
He pauses with his hand on his truck door. “April. Sometime before Rayanne.”
“Huh. Suspicious timing, enit?”
He pulls it open. “He’s a good-for-nothing meth addict, not a killer. ’Sides, he was long gone before everything went down.” He dips into the truck and flips around without a backward glance.
I don’t know if the feds will see it that way.
Loren Arnoux
Friday, July 19, 6:00 p.m.
Sam’s small house is too crowded. Every square foot of the open living area is taken up by people here to support her family. They shift along the kitchen table with a spread of food across it, perch on the arms of the couch with paper plates balanced on one hand, huddle in tight groups in the corners of the room. The air is heavy with the spice of chili and sweat. It’s sour, like it’s been passed through too many people before it gets to me.
The White Tails can’t have a funeral for Sam yet because of the continuing investigation, but they wanted to put on a feed. They need the support. The community.
Grandma and Sam’s mom are in the kitchen, surrounded by other women whispering and wiping tearstained cheeks as they prep more food. Sam’s dad stands in a group of men behind the couch, including some of Grandpa’s old friends. They swap fishing stories between bites, doing their best to distract him from the pain.
Even Jeremy Youngbull, dressed in a T-shirt and baseball hat, takes a turn, claiming he once reeled in a nine-pound kokanee.
I can’t believe it’s only been a week since Sam’s murder. It feels like it’s been a month. And these three months without Ray Bear feel like a year. Why is it that time flows slower when you’re drowning?
And why is it that when Youngbull told us they had released Eli, all I felt was relief?
Maybe the selfish part of me didn’t want to lose someone else close to me. Or maybe I just knew deep down he couldn’t be the one.
But the relief is coupled with a sick worry. I don’t know if we’re ever going to find peace. Youngbull didn’t sound too confident. The way he twisted his meaty hands together told me he’s just as worried as we are.
Worried the killer’s already dispersed like smoke, leaving the black, mangled charcoal for us to clean up.
They don’t even know who could’ve put that jacket in the First Kills’ old truck. Maybe Eli’s dad knows more than we think.
I crumple my unused paper plate with shaking hands. Seeing everyone holding plates of food makes my gut feel hollow—but not because I’m hungry. Because this is all wrong. It makes me sick that this is even happening. That the living room my best friend and I laughed in has turned into a place to grieve her.
That dozens of people are in and around this house, and she’s not one of them.
I slump against the living room window. Even more people sit on folding chairs in the yard, cans of pop in the grass at their feet. Sam’s youngest brother sits alone on the Big Wheels swing behind them, gently swaying back and forth. His bare feet barely brush along the tips of the unkempt grass.
I bet he’s wishing Sam were here to push him.
The emptiness in my core cracks like glass, and anger and sadness seep through the fissures, swirling and bubbling together like acid. My fingers shake, begging to move—to break something. The walls close in around me. The heavy air gets thicker.
I push off the window, desperate to get out, and then I see it on the desk beside the couch.
The corner of Sam’s old laptop.
Chapter 34
Eli First Kill
Friday, July 19, 6:00 p.m.
The faded blue duffel bag is way too big for Cherie. Filled with all her clothes and a few favorite toys, it drags behind her in dramatic lurches, catching on the front rug and then on the dusty porch mat too. Her little arms tense and strain, but she insisted—she can do it herself. So I let her.
It thuds down each porch step in time with my thumping heart.
Every step she takes tears at the rope that’s always connected the two of us. The one I’ve been desperately hanging on to, ripping my palms to bloody shreds.
Cherie drops the strap once she’s hauled the bag into the gravel, and the woman from Blackfeet Child and Family Services carries it to the trunk of her car.
Cherie sits on the bottom step, eyes welling with tears. “I don’t wanna go.”
I squat in front of her, eye to eye. “I don’t want you to go either.” I slide my tongue along my teeth, forcing my breath to slow. “But you have to. I can’t—”
“You said Dad was coming back.” Her little fist pounds against her knobby knee. “You said he was working hard.”
She’s looking at me like I’m the one who betrayed her. Like I’m the one who failed her. And maybe I did. After all that, I’m losing her anyway.
“I know. I didn’t want you to be sad.”
She won’t look me in the eye.
I lied to her. I lied to everyone. And for what?
I don’t regret much. I’ve done what I had to. Pushed everyone away, put up walls, put my sister before myself every time. I’d do it all again—except lie to her.
I showed her she can’t always trust me, and that hurts almost as much as shipping her off to some other family.
She stares at her shoes, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Why did he leave me?”
I clench my teeth, fighting to keep my cool. I can’t lose it in front of her. How do I explain this to a seven-year-old? She deserves so much more than she’s ever gotten. I rest my elbows on my knees and pull her hands into mine. “He knew you’d be safe with me.”
Wisps of hair hang out of her braid around her face. It’s not as tight as the braids I do for her. Somebody else is going to do her braids, brush her hair. Will they make sure to hold it right so the tangles don’t hurt? Will they be patient when she wiggles too much?
Will they keep her safe?
The woman’s footsteps crunch through the gravel. My chest is splintering open, and time is spilling out of it.
It’s been me and her. Nobody is going to take care of her like I have.
Cherie looks over my shoulder at the approaching woman and leans in until our noses touch. “Maybe Dad will come back,” she whispers urgently. The drip of hope in her voice hits me like ice. “Maybe he’ll come get me and bring me back home.”
“No.” I drop her hands and hold her face, brushing the whisps of hair back. “Listen to me, Cherie. If Dad ever comes to see you, do not go with him.”
“Why?” The hope cracks.
The honest truth is—I don’t trust him. I stopped a long time ago. I never told a soul, but the last few months before Dad left, he was in a bad way. He’d yell around at night, threatening to kill somebody who wasn’t there, searching the house for something he could never find. The meth was making him paranoid.
Another honest truth—I was relieved when he left.
“Promise me, Cherie. If he comes, don’t go with him. Only me.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“And I promise you, I’ll bring you home. As soon as I can, I’ll bring you back here.” I pull her into my arms and stand up, digging my cheek into her loose braid. My chest is crumbling as our last seconds run out. I did everything I could. I tried my hardest.
But it seems like for me, no matter how hard I try, I still get the short stick.
We both do.
The woman opens the back door of the sedan with a click and holds it open expectantly. “It’s a good family, Eli. They’ve been doing this a long time.”
I try to believe her. We went back and forth, weighing all the options. Brody’s mom seemed best, but she said no. My auntie in Billings would’ve taken her, despite her mobility issues, but she’s so far. Too far to visit. Mom’s family across the state cut us off six years ago. Not a word since. And I couldn’t bring myself to suggest Loren’s grandma, with everything they’ve got going on.
This should be temporary, so in the end we went with a local Blackfeet family. One she trusts. One that’ll let me visit anytime.
“You be good, ay?” I squeeze Cherie one last time. “And you tell me if anything happens you don’t like.”
Cherie nods against my cheek, her tears smearing across my skin. I try to set her down, but she wraps her legs around my waist and clings to my neck.
“It’s time to go.” I can only whisper it, or my voice will crack and that’ll be the end of holding it together.
She squeezes tighter. “No,” she yells, disintegrating into sobs.
I try to pull her off, but her nails dig into my neck, breaking skin. Her wails ring in my ear. I’d take her and run if I could. But we have to do this the right way. It kills me, guts me like a field-dressed deer, but I have to peel her hands off me. “Please,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, as she fights against it. Tears spill out of my eyes, mixing with Cherie’s as she claws her fingers into my shirt and throws herself against me in sheer panic.
A sob escapes my tight throat as I heave her away from me, dodging her desperate reaching. Pushing her away from the only stable thing in her life.
This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt.
The woman wraps her arms around Cherie and pulls her toward the car. Away from me. Her eyes cling to me through the tears, and for a miserable second, I wonder if she’ll ever forgive me for this. If she’ll ever understand it.
I bite down on my tongue, still as the air between us. I blink away the blur of tears. “I’ll see you soon. Promise.”
My face is burning, my lungs seizing. It takes everything in me to stay upright and wave as the car makes a tight turn and rolls down the driveway.
The rope snaps. Cherie, the anchor who’s been holding me in place, rips away from me. But there’s no weight lifted. I’m loose and aimless. Alone and at the whims of the wind.
Loren Arnoux
Friday, July 19, 6:30 p.m.
The back of my neck itches, like everyone in the White Tails’ house is watching me. Like they know what I’m about to do. There’s a picture on the desk of Sam and her three younger brothers. I pick it up and run my fingers along the plastic frame, but the corner of the laptop presses into my stomach.
I shift the papers covering the laptop as I put the frame down to expose the charging light. It’s still plugged in under all this clutter. I glance at Grandma in the kitchen, still talking with Sam’s mom, then pluck the charging cord out of the port and slip the laptop under my arm.
Weaving around furniture and dodging new arrivals to the feed, I make my way to the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. The murmur of conversation fades as I slip into the bedroom Sam shared with her youngest brother and shut the door behind me.
It’s quiet. The air is stale, like the brother must not be sleeping in here anymore either, but there’s a hint of leather and something sweet. I flip on the light. A wool blanket hangs over the window on one wall. On another hangs a canvas painting of powwow dancers. Sam painted it last year, capturing the swing of the shawls and the bounce of the skirts perfectly in smooth neon colors. This painting is even more beautiful than the one her parents gave to the Two Feather Project to raffle off. I’m glad they kept this one. It’s bright and dynamic—just like Sam was.
