It opened a crack and he stepped on the running board to talk to her. In a minute he went over to the
phone booth, Abel walking in close order behind him. The pine trees on the opposite side of the row bent in
unison before a sudden blast of icy wind. The trees were black and shadowy, like a choir of specters, howling
a dirge. Here, Fox said. He wouldn’t look at me as he handed me some odd change—pennies, a quarter, and
several nickels. I gave the pennies back to him. He stood there looking at them in his hand. Abel took them
from him and put them in his own pocket. Thanks, I said, reaching to pat him on the shoulder, but something
stopped me. I could sense that he didn’t want me touching him for some reason. I looked at the other boy,
and his eyes locked onto mine, telling me that Fox was crying, too. I nodded to him and then tried to figure
out who to call. I paced around the phone booth. The boys stayed with their grandpa. More trucks rolled by.
Snow blew all over the place.
Inside the booth somebody had torn all the white pages out of the phone book that hung from a little
chain, but the yellow pages were still there. I skimmed them without luck. Then I thought of the IGA grocery
store in Watersmeet and dialed the number that was listed under their ad. One of the clerks, some kid, answered, but when I told him what was up, he was reluctant to get involved. I tried coaxing him, but he said
no, he wasn’t calling nobody. That caused me to get a little short with him. Just call the dang police at the
tribal headquarters, I snapped. You don’t have to leave your name. Look it up under the listing for Lac Vieux
Desert in Watersmeet. You have a phone book? Yeah, he mumbled. I spelled out the name for him. What if
they trace the call? It ain’t a crime to report somebody dead, I yelled. It’s a crime if you don’t. Now make that
goldanged call. He hung up. Shit. And there wasn’t enough change for another call. I walked back to the body.
The boys and I stood there not saying anything. Ten minutes later a cop car pulled up. A dark blue Crown
Vic from the Michigan State Police. The cop never got out of the car, as I told him what happened through a
cracked window. He looked at the two boys who stared back at him. The cop rolled up the window, and I saw
him use his radio. Then he tore out of there in a puff of dirty snow. About ten minutes after that an ambulance pulled up.
Charlie Pine Marten, said the ox-like ambulance driver when he saw the old man. He had a stroke a
while back. This one must have got him. Unless there’s a bullet hole, he laughed. Just kidding. Who was driving, he wanted to know? Him. Mr. Pine Marten, I said. I don’t really know anything. They were all in the car
here when I drove up. It wasn’t no accident. I’m just glad he didn’t crash, said the female EMT. Didn’t crash?
said the driver. Whatever you call it… I’d call it, he pulled into a permanent rest stop. Aii. Just kidding…The
woman EMT looked at me straight-faced for a second. Then the three of them laughed, not entirely irreverently or disrespectfully, I thought. Indian humor.
The other EMT, a tall, skinny guy with a long, braided pony tail and tinted glasses, retrieved the gurney from the ambulance, and he and the woman got into position to remove Mr. Charles Pine Marten out of
the back seat of the car and onto the white-sheeted cart. They struggled and strained, but finally succeeded. I
noticed they had on those back braces under their open, black rayon jackets. The woman said, how’d you get
him in the back seat, you use a crane? They all laughed again. Reminds me of that time we had to cut down
that ironwood tree. Gosh, that thing was heavy. Aii. Just kidding. The three of them laughed again. Mirthful
business, this. But then again it was better than crying.
The little boys watched as the woman and man fitted belts around their grandpa. The woman gently
tucked his long hair under him. Then they wheeled the gurney, rubber wheels spinning and bumping crazily in
the snowy gravel, to the cube-shaped ambulance. The old man’s hair came loose and flew like a curtain behind
an open window. The ambulance had a tribal decal on the doors front and back. Big lights were fitted to a
chrome rack on top. It was mostly white with orange stripes. Rez meat wagon, the local whites called it. The
doors slammed and the driver started the vehicle. The female EMT approached me. Well, that’s it. Here, sign
this, she said, handing me a clipboard with a form attached by a spring wire. Me sign? What for? I don’t even
know the gentleman. Just sign, will you? It’s just a form, she said, rather pleasantly,
What am I signing? You’re giving me your power of attorney, she said seriously. Aii. Just kidding… It
says that you called and we came and took him away. To where? Where are you taking him to? To the clinic. From there, it depends. On what? On where he wants to go. Aii. She snorted. Just kidding… She twisted
around and expertly lit a cigarette in the wind, blowing the delicious smelling smoke in a whorl. You should
ask the old lady what to do with him. Isn’t that his wife? She snorted again. Nah. His wife died a long time
ago. That’s his squeeze. She rolled her eyes suggestively.
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