Dead Silence (30 page)

Hours ago, Will had quit fighting his insistent bladder and decided to piss his jeans whenever he needed. For a time, pissing became his primary recreation, counting in his head to see how long he could keep the stream going. Now his jeans were sodden, but his body was empty of fluids.

Because he was thirsty, it was pleasurable—for a while anyway—to imagine himself diving into a glacial lake and drinking his fill of water that was crystalline blue like a Minnesota sky.

But Will had stopped doing that because it made him even thirstier, and also because it was so damn cold inside the box. Freezing, in fact. And Will began to suspect that Buffalo-head had carried out his threat.

Now, mumbling through the tape on his mouth, Will barked a reply, “I wouldn’t like it worth a damn, you creep.”

My God, he was cold! No wind. No light. Maybe the bastards really had buried him!

As he pondered that, Will became aware of a red-tinted darkness blooming behind his eyes, but he stopped it, thinking,
Don’t . . . Don’t,
terrified of the insanity that threatened from just beyond the limits of his own anger.

It was safer to focus on how cold he was rather than the heat attempting to fire his temper, so Will moved his thoughts there.

Bull Guttersen’s line. The man claimed to be seriously thinking of putting it on his tombstone—if no one had used it first, of course. He was a stickler about originality.
Intellectual property,
he called it, and he had confided to Will that the wrestling characters he’d invented, Outlaw Bull Gutter or Sheriff Bull Gutter, might one day make them all wealthy.

“Just you watch,” the man had said. “When Hollywood finally gets hold of its senses and stops making them candy-ass, cartoon-robot shoot-’em-ups, they’ll snoop around for a new hero until they sniff gold. Never been two finer intellectual properties created than Outlaw Bull and Sheriff Bull, so I expect we’ll cash in before I die.”

We’ll cash in,
talking like Will was an actual member of the family instead of just temporary, although Bull had demanded a second-year extension to the Lutherans’ usual one-year guardianship.

It was weird for Will to think of himself dead and buried before the old man beat him to it. Especially considering how they’d met that first day when Guttersen had said something flippant about the garbage bag Will had been carrying, miffed that his suicide had been interrupted.

Guttersen’s revolver had been loaded with .38 caliber Hydra-Shoks. Will could picture them in the cylinder now, as he retreated into a safer venue of thought. The bullets had looked as symmetrical as spider eggs when Guttersen lowered the gun from his own temple and pointed it at Will’s chest.

The bullets had ugly, puckered golden tips. They were called
Man Stoppers
at Minneapolis gun shows and marketed exactly for such an occasion: home alone, enjoying the comforts of a remodeled basement—a little bar and a flat-screen TV—only to be interrupted by a robber whose dark skin indicated that he probably was a crack addict and also unpredictable, unlike teenagers of Norwegian descent.

Instead, Will had heard
click
as the gun’s cylinder rotated and the hammer locked back, Guttersen making his smart-assed remark about him being disinclined to offer Will a beer while waiting for the ambulance.

What happened next, though, was the strangest part of what had already been a strange, strange day. Guttersen had flipped the revolver around and caught it by the barrel. The move had spooked Will so badly that he threw his hands up and closed his eyes, expecting to be shot. A second later, though, when he peeked, Will was surprised to see the man extending his arm, wanting Will to take the gun.

Guttersen had said to him, patiently, “You gotta pull the hammer back before you fire. It’s single-action. And don’t close your damn eyes! If you miss, I swear to God I’ll testify against you in court.”

Will had said, “Do what?,” even though he knew what the man wanted.

“Take the damn gun!”

Will had curled his fingers around the gun’s weight, his thumb automatically finding the hammer, as Guttersen told him, “My coin collection’s in the pantry, what looks like a candy box. There’s a Mercury dime worth five hundred bucks, I shit thee not. And a hundred seven Liberty-head silver dollars—you can figure that one out for yourself.”

Will understood more about that than the old man realized. He liked coins and had kept a few from the pawnbroker. “The dime—must be the 1940-S, huh?” he offered.

“Mint condition,” Guttersen told him. “But pay attention, damn it, I’m trying to talk. My wife keeps her jewelry in the commercial freezer. One of those Tupperware-thingee containers. Most of it’s fake, but, Jesus Christ, don’t let word get back to her—especially the diamond necklace, which is zirconium. She’ll pretend it don’t bother her, but she’ll do it in a way that drives everybody nuts. Not that you won’t find plenty of other valuables,” the man had added quickly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

Guttersen began moving his wheelchair as he gave instructions, positioning himself near the bar where there was Mexican tile, not carpet: less mess, and a clear shot for Will.

The old man said, “My wife left for the hairdresser’s only ’bout half an hour ago, but sometimes she forgets stuff and comes back unannounced. And some of those—what do you call ’em?—
technicians
color roots faster than others, so you never know. Catch my meaning? We don’t have time to waste.”

The man had paused and looked at the boy for a moment before warning, “About my wife . . . don’t you lay a damn hand on her. Hear me? You touch my wife, I’ll come back from the grave and tear you a new asshole. Savvy?”

Jesus, talking like they were in a TV western, Will being the dumb Indian, but a fire spark glowed in the old man’s eyes so Will didn’t comment, even after the spark faded.

Guttersen had turned the chair so he was looking at photos that hung over the bar. He straightened his T-shirt, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Then he said, “Okay. I’m ready. Go.”

Will had looked at the gun but didn’t answer.

“Hear me? I said, ‘Ready.’ ”

Will was still staring at the revolver, seeing the fake-pearl handle, the chrome flaking on the cylinder—a piece of junk.

“Jesus-frogs, you deaf, too?”

“I heard what you said: You’re ready.”

“Goddamn right I’m ready. I’m
overdue
ready!” Guttersen squared his shoulders and tilted his left temple toward Will. “All righty . . .” He took another deep, slow breath. “Here we go—and keep your damn eyes open! You owe me that. You’re about to come into some money.”

Standing in the basement of what the Lutheran Grandparents Program had assigned as his foster home, Will had then experienced an abrupt change of aspect, a camera-on-the-ceiling view that often occurred when something unusually shitty or dangerous happened in his life—a phenomenon he had experienced too many times.

Will stood there, a head taller than the big Norwegian in his wheelchair, seeing the room from above. A darkness tinted the space, a hopelessness that smelled of brittle paper and ironing.

Through the tinted air, he could see the old man, sitting with his head bowed, waiting to die, and the pool table, a SCHMIDT BEER neon sign over the bar, a jar of pickled eggs, bottles of booze in a row, a MINNESOTA TWINS pennant, photos on the wall of what looked like wrestlers, a JOE FOR EMPEROR sticker and two cowboy hats on a deer-horn rack—big, felt bullshit hats no wrangler would ever wear. One hat black, the other white.

Will had zoomed in and was examining himself, standing like a dope, holding the stainless-steel revolver, which was brighter, bigger than everything else in the room except for an old floor-model radio that Will’s ears had stopped hearing until that moment, possibly because a commercial break had just ended and the announcer now was on the subject of guns. He was saying, “. . . scientists have built a giant electromagnet in the Rocky Mountains. When they hit the switch, all the handguns in America will be sucked from holsters, bedrooms, locked closets—you name it. Guns’ll bust through walls, knock holes in roofs, that’s how strong the magnet is . . .”

Will’s eyes descended from the ceiling as he listened. After a minute or two, he was on the floor again, right back beside the wheelchair, when the old man said, “Jesus Christ, you waiting for me to die of old age? Pull the freakin’ trigger!”

Will said, “I was listening to the guy on the radio.”

“Well, stop listening and start shooting, goddamn it. I’m starting to lose the mood.”

“That thing about the giant magnet, is it bullshit?”

“Huh?”

“What the guy said about pulling guns through walls.”

The man looked up, irritated. “It’s a radio show, for chrissake! What’s a matter? You afraid that magnet’s gonna rip your damn arm off when that gun flies out the window?”

When Will asked, “Could it?,” the man snorted, getting mad now, and saying, “How stupid are they making kids these days? Damn half-breed, you must have the IQ of a Twinkie.”

Will said, “Hey!,” and pulled the hammer back. “Don’t talk to me that way. I’ve got a damn gun in my hand.”

The old man snapped, “Well, you sure could’ve fooled the hell out of me. Maybe you’d do better with a bow and arrow.”

“Knock it off. I mean it.”

“Let’s hope you do. My wife’s probably under the dryer by now.”

The old man had looked at Will, seeing the revolver, hammer back, and thought for a moment. He muttered something, then he squared his shoulders again, turned his temple toward Will and focused on the old photos of wrestlers on the wall.

“Do it!” he said. “Or I’m calling the cops.” Then tried to piss off Will, adding, “You being Ethiopian, maybe we should melt the freakin’ gun down and make a freakin’ spear out of it. A weapon not so complicated.”

Will ignored the comment because he knew what the man was doing. He looked at the radio instead. Now the radio guy was saying, “. . . So here’s how we use this giant magnet. We send fancy metal belts to every sportswriter who thinks Bert should
not
be in the Hall of Fame. Engraved belts, like presents, get it? When scientists hit the magnet’s switch—
Whammo!
—a hundred sportswriters are suddenly airborne, flying toward Denver without a plane.”

Will had noticed the old man’s chest moving like he was laughing. The joke was
kinda
funny. But then Will realized the man was crying again. Geezus, it was embarrassing. A grown man crying, Will had never seen it before. Well . . . that wasn’t true. On the Rez, some of the older Skins occasionally bawled when they got drunk, but it was mad-crying because they were walled in by their lives, dead broke, with snot-nosed kids who would never amount to nothing.

That wasn’t the sound Will was hearing now, this hopeless weeping without bottom, a despair that had the scent of crumbling paper.

Uncocking the gun, Will went to the radio and turned the volume louder. He wasn’t going to shoot the guy, so the only thing he could think of to say was, “Who the hell is Bert? Why don’t sportswriters like him?”

The old man pretended to cough into his hand. On the bar was a towel. He took his time getting the towel, then coughed a few more times and blew his nose, keeping his back to the boy.

“You ever get tired of asking questions? Jesus Christ, you oughta be stealing encyclopedias instead of hard-earned jewelry and stuff.”

Will repeated the question, feeling the air in the room changing, the invisible gray tint clearing, and he thought,
Good.

The old man said, “Bert Blyleven. Bert pitched for the Twins when they won the World Series.” Then he held up an index finger, as if there was something too important to miss, but it was really to give himself more time to stop bawling as he listened to the radio guy saying:

“. . . Blyleven’s got almost four thousand strikeouts, plus two World Series rings. As if that’s not enough to earn the Dutchman a place in Cooperstown, Bert had nearly three hundred career wins, too, despite playing for underpaid teams.” Being funny, the radio announcer added, “Take it easy, Twinkie lovers, I don’t want you to choke on your Grain Belts—I am not referring to our Twins, of course.”

It was another minute before Will said, “I never heard of the guy.”

The man who only later would introduce himself as Otto Guttersen spun his wheelchair, oblivious to the tinted air flowing through Will’s brain. Like smoke, it drifted upward, the space changing from gray-blue to pearl, as Guttersen said, “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

Will said, “ ’ Bout what?”

“You never heard of Bert Blyleven? He’s only one of the greatest pitchers of all time, which most sportswriters know. But there’re still a few dingleberries out there who won’t vote him into the Hall of Fame. Didn’t you just hear what Joe said?”

Joe, Will would also soon learn, was Joe Soucheray, the host of
Garage Logic,
a local guy who even Will had to admit was pretty funny for being an old Casper from Minnesota.

Will began to relax a little when Guttersen said, “You don’t follow baseball? Maybe Indian chiefs don’t allow TV on the reservation. Or is it because of the Great White Father?”

Usually, Rez jokes didn’t bother Will. The Skins said a lot worse than that, but they were Skins, not some racist old cripple from the Land of a Thousand Lakes.

Will told the old man, “Screw you, I ride rodeo,” and knew it was okay because the man didn’t say anything as he placed the gun on the counter.

“Screw me?” The man snorted and sniffed. “Screw you, kid.”