Purgatory Ridge

Cork cut across Knudsen Park, heading for the lake. He turned and followed Center Street to the edge of town. He jogged along the Burlington Northern tracks to the access to Sam’s Place and headed in to shower.

He kept a change of clothes at the Quonset hut, kept the refrigerator plugged in and defrosted, kept fresh linen for the bunk. He’d done these things without thinking about them, but as he showered that morning and put on clean clothes, he wondered if unconsciously he’d been keeping himself prepared in case things on Gooseberry Lane didn’t work out. He was angry when he thought this. He stared at his face in the bathroom mirror.

“What is it you want, O’Connor? Make up your damn mind.”

He called home, told Rose to have the girls drive the Bronco out when they came to work. Rose reminded him that she was helping the women’s guild at St. Agnes most of the day and wouldn’t be able to watch Stevie.

“Have the girls bring him,” he said. “Tell him we’ll catch another mess of sunnies.”

By the time the children arrived, Cork had the grill fired up, the ice milk machine filled, and the oil in the deep fryer hot.

“There’s plenty of change in the register,” he told them.

“You sound like you’re leaving,” Jenny said.

“I am. Sorry.”

“Don’t forget,” she cautioned him. “Mom and I are going to the library tonight.”

“The library?”

“To hear Grace Fitzgerald read from Superior Blue. I won’t be able to close.”

Annie jumped in. “Me either. I’ve got softball practice.”

“Stevie and I will close up.” He ran his hand through his son’s hair. “We’ll have a guy’s night out. What do you say, buddy?”

Stevie shrugged. “Okay. When can I fish?”

Cork looked to his daughters.

“Go on, Dad,” Jenny said. “We’ll take care of everything here.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Cork drove to the Iron Lake Reservation. He tried not to think. There was only one reason he wanted to go, and he knew if he thought about it too much, he’d have hated himself. Not enough time had passed since the days when Jo had lied to him about the places she was going and who she would be with and what they would do. He’d believed her then. Against all evidence. Now he had to see. He had to see her on the reservation. He hoped she was following up on Charlie

Warren. But God help him, he had to know absolutely.

He pulled into Alouette a little before noon and stopped at LeDuc’s store. Inside, he found George LeDuc standing beside the magazine rack at the broad front window, staring down the street.

“Anin, George,” Cork said, using the traditional Anishinaabe greeting.

“Anin, Cork.” The darkness in LeDuc’s face came from more than just the genetic coloring of his skin. “You’re the first person to walk through that door today who wasn’t a reporter.”

“Bad, huh?”

LeDuc shook his head. “I don’t have any answers for them, except that Charlie Warren wasn’t the kind of man to make bombs.”

“What was he doing out there?”

“Got me.” LeDuc walked to the counter where the cash register sat, reached into a tall glass jar, and drew out a stick of beef jerky. He offered it to Cork, who waved it off. LeDuc tore off a bit and worked the tough meat around in his mouth. “It was always Charlie Warren’s voice advising us to be patient, be reasonable, be strong. This just doesn’t make sense.”

“Have you talked to your guests?”

Cork was speaking of the scores of tents that had been erected in the new park just north of town. The tribal council had voted to open the site to those who’d come to Aurora to join them in the battle to save Our Grandfathers. They represented a variety of interests and were almost entirely white.

“They didn’t know Charlie Warren. When I speak with them, they nod, but I see distrust in their eyes.” He swallowed jerky and took a deep breath.

Cork saw something in LeDuc’s own dark almond eyes. “You don’t trust them, either.”

“We fight a different cause, Cork. They want all logging halted. We’re just interested in protecting Our Grandfathers. They don’t seem to care that if all logging is prohibited, we suffer, too.”

Cork knew he was speaking of the mill in Brandywine, the other community on the rez. The mill was operated by the Iron Lake Ojibwe and was supplied with timber cut by Ojibwe loggers.

“Like always, they have their own agenda. It’s not really about helping us Shinnobs.” He stepped back to the front window again and stared down the street. “Another thing. They don’t often shower.”

“George,” Cork asked finally, “have you seen Jo?”

“Not today. I called her office and left a message. She out here?”

His stomach gave a little twist. “I thought so.”

“Tell her we need to talk. If you see her.”

“I’ll do that.”