Thunder Bay Read Free Page A

his death—the result of a gun battle in the line of duty—my father was sheriff of Tamarack County. He’d come from Chicago, married my mother who was half Ojibwe, half Irish. Her mother, Grandma Dilsey to me, was a true-blood Iron Lake Ojibwe, though she preferred to call herself Anishinaabe—or Shinnob—as do many on the rez. That makes me one-quarter Ojibwe. Though the other three-quarters is Irish, Grandma Dilsey always swore it was the blood of The People that counted most.
    Until I was elected sheriff, my heritage was never much of an issue. After I put on the badge, whenever conflicts arose between the two cultures, red and white, I found that I was never Ojibwe enoughfor the Ojibwe or white enough for the whites. That wasn’t the reason I resigned my office. I turned in my badge when it became clear to me that my responsibility as a lawman was often at odds with my duty as a husband and father. I was lucky. I had Sam’s Place to fall back on. At least during the warm months, between May and November. The long winters were always a concern. The PI license I’d recently acquired would, I hoped, give me something to do in all those dark months.
    Stevie was playing by himself in the front yard. My son was eight, then, small for his age. With his straight black hair and hard almond eyes, he was, of all my children, the one who showed most clearly his Anishinaabe heritage. He’d recently discovered golf, and that afternoon he stood in the shade of our big elm, a driver in his hand, swinging at a big Wiffle ball that sailed twenty yards when he hit it. I spotted a number of divots in the grass. When he saw me pull into the driveway, he dropped the club and came running.
    “What are you doing home, Dad?” He looked hopeful. He was the youngest kid on the block, and with Jenny and Anne often working at Sam’s Place, I knew he was sometimes lonely.
    I ruffled his hair. “Work to do, buddy.”
    “Mom’s working, too,” he said, disappointed.
    “Where’s Dumbarton?” I asked, speaking of the neighbor’s dog. “They called him in.”
    I nodded toward the driver lying in the grass. “How’s that backswing coming?”
    He shrugged.
    “Maybe later we’ll play a few holes together,” I said.
    “Really?”
    “We’ll see what we can do. Mom’s inside?”
    “In her office.”
    “Remember, head down and keep your eye on the ball.”
    I went in the house. He turned back to his game.
    It was cool inside and quiet. I walked to the kitchen, ran some tap water into a glass, and took a long drink.
    “Stevie?” Jo called from her office.
    “No. Me.”
    A moment later she came in wearing her reading glasses, blueeyes big behind the lenses. She’s a beautiful woman, Jo. A few years younger than me, but looks even more. One of the smartest women I’ve ever known. Also one of the most courageous. For years, she’s represented the Ojibwe of the Iron Lake Reservation in litigation that has often put her on the unpopular side of a legal issue. She’s never flinched. We’ve had our problems. Show me a couple married twenty years who hasn’t. But we were in a good period that summer.
    “What are you doing home?” she asked.
    “Meloux’s in the hospital.”
    “Henry? Why?”
    “He collapsed this morning in Allouette. The doctor thinks it’s his heart. Meloux thinks so, too, but in a different way.”
    “What way?”
    “He has a son, Jo.”
    Surprise showed in her eyes. “He’s never said a word.”
    “He has now. But only to me, so you can’t say anything to anyone else.” I’d told her because she’s my wife and a lawyer and understands about client privilege. “He asked me to find this son of his.”
    “Did he tell you where to look?”
    “Ontario, Canada.”
    “That’s it?”
    “That’s it.”
    “Did he give you a name?”
    “The mother’s name.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yeah. He fathered the child over seventy years ago. And he’s only seen him in visions.”
    “Then how can he be