Bad News

This was the drastic measure the uncles had come up with, and that Be

There was one thing Uncle Roger had insisted Be

The drive to New York City was very long and boring, but at least it was all on good roads. They took the Northway for the first 150 miles, as far as Albany, where they stopped for a lot of hamburgers and french fries and beer, which made them fill the interior of the van with less than sweet airs during the second stage of the trip, the 150 miles down the thruway to New York City. Despite the cold, they spent a lot of that travel segment with the van windows open.

Be

The whole trip down, while Geerome and Herbie squabbled and sniped beside him, blaming each other for the aromas in the van, Be

He knew he liked to be in her presence. He liked to sit in the living room of the motor home and watch her walk or sit, watch her smile, listen to her voice, smell the wonderful musks that flowed out from her; a zillion times better than these little polecats beside him.

Would she one day let him kiss her? She seemed so open and inviting, and yet there was something about her that told him not to rush things, not to take chances, not to spoil what he already had. So maybe someday she would let him know he could come closer, but until then, he’d just sit there and watch her and listen to her and smell her and think how much better she was in every way than those posters on his walls.

Or maybe someday she’d find out what he was doing tonight, and how he was responsible for her losing her only chance to prove she was really Pottaknobbee, and then she’d never speak to him again, or let him see her or come anywhere near her. But what could he do? What else could he do?

He couldn’t refuse Uncle Roger. And he couldn’t just pretend to switch these coffins, even if he could get Geerome and Herbie to go along with the idea, because then the DNA would prove Little Feather was Pottaknobbee and Uncle Roger would know that Be

At the same time, he couldn’t warn Little Feather what he was doing, because she’d naturally try to find some way to stop it, maybe even tell that judge she’d been describing to Be

He was sorry her idea of asking the Tribal Council for help hadn’t worked out. He’d never thought much about the Tribal Council before, just knew it was there and people sometimes went to it to ask questions and get permits and things, but he’d always assumed it was something important, like the United States government or something. But when he saw Mr. Dog there, in the Town Hall, and saw what the meeting was like, he knew even before he talked to Mr. Dog that there wasn’t much chance Little Feather would find any help there. So that was another avenue closed.

Driving south, his fantasy was that, when this was all over, Uncle Roger would really give Be

And after all, she was a licensed blackjack dealer in Nevada; she could surely get a job at Silver Chasm casino, and Be

Phew. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.

Uncle Frank Oglanda had flown in a chartered plane from Plattsburgh yesterday to La Guardia Airport in New York City, and had taken a taxi to the graveyard where Joseph Redcorn was buried, where he had found the grave and marked it on a little map he made. He had also learned that the graveyard was locked at night, but he’d wandered around and come across a broken part of the fence where people could get through, and he’d marked that on his map as well. Then he’d taxied back to La Guardia and flown back to Plattsburgh and BMW’d back to Silver Chasm, and this morning he’d described it all to Be

It wasn’t easy. They found the right graveyard, no trouble, and down a long, dark, deserted, silent street surrounded by cemeteries, they found the small opening in the fence and parked the yellow van right next to it. When they got out of the van, there was a cold, nasty little wind that nipped at them and picked at them like ghosts, ice-cold invisible spirits coming at them out of the graveyard. Even though, naturally, they didn’t believe in all that stuff.

Now they had to wrestle this big heavy box out of the van and across the grass and through the narrow opening. The box was kind of slimy and dirty and kept wanting to slip out of everybody’s hands and crash onto the ground, which would be very bad if it happened. Also, it was hard for more than two people to carry the box, even when they weren’t trying to ootch it sideways through the opening in the fence, but the box was certainly too heavy to be carried by any fewer than three people, so the whole trip was difficult and exhausting and more than a little scary.

Also, though all three had brought along flashlights, it proved to be impossible to hold a flashlight and carry a coffin at the same time, so they did most of the carrying in the dark. Above them stretched a partly cloudy winter sky, with a very high half-moon sometimes laying its platinum wash over everything and sometimes hiding behind a cloud as though a light had been switched off. That was when the icy fingers of the wind plucked at them the worst.

When they finally reached the Redcorn grave and could put the coffin down, they were all completely worn-out, and the real work hadn’t even started yet. Panting, gasping, plodding through the last of the fallen leaves, shining their flashlights around at last, they trudged back to the van and got the shovels and the plastic tarp they would use to pile the dirt on, and brought it all to the grave. And then, with a communal sigh, they got to it.