time Michael’s gaze focused on her face for a long, dark moment before he turned away. For some reason she could not fathom, Renata knew she’d disappointed him.
Hugging herself for warmth, she stood beside Brick and stared at Michael as he crossed the lawn to join his grandfather. They couldn’t have looked more different: young, old; business suit, Indian clothes; utterly contemporary, locked in another space and time. Still, there was a family resemblance, or at least a tribal one, in the coppery skin and straight, masculine nose. The old man’s hair was very long and braided, already thin and gray. Michael’s black hair was longer than average—thick and straight as it flowed over his broad shoulders—but it was such a magnificent mane that a proud display of it didn’t strike Renata as peculiar. In her arty crowd, lots of people cherished eccentricities in their appearance. None of her Milwaukee friends would have looked twice at Michael’s hair even if he’d worn it in feathered braids.
“I met Michael when Edward Wocheck came back to town and started talking about expanding Timberlake Lodge,” Brick explained sotto voce. “Old man Youngthunder’s got some idea that there’s a sacred burial ground around here. We drove through your property before but the ‘spirits’ didn’t speak to him.”
Renata was astounded. People were right when they said truth was sometimes stranger than fiction! The only burial ground nearby was the family plot out toward the barn, and nobody had been buried there in seventy or eighty years.
“So why do you think he came back here this morning?” she asked Brick.
“Edward’s having a ground-breaking ceremony for the new wing of Timberlake Lodge tomorrow. Last night Mr. Youngthunder heard it on the news.”
Michael was squatting in front of his grandfather now, meeting his eyes, but Renata found it odd that he still had not spoken. The old man was chanting again, and for some reason Michael’s head was nodding ever so slightly as though in time to the distinctive rhythm.
“Why doesn’t he say something to his grandfather?” Renata asked. “Aren’t they on good terms?”
“Very good terms. Winnebago terms. Don’t let the suit throw you. Michael still knows how to be an Indian when he has to, and I think he’s going to have to act Winnebago to get through to the old guy.”
Brick was right. A moment later the handsome man in the rumpled suit—a suit that looked as though it had fit him magnificently before his night in the police car—folded his long legs and sat down on the mud-soaked blanket in front of his grandfather. Then he held up both hands the way the old man was and started to chant right along with him.
Renata stared disbelievingly at Brick, then back at Michael again. She knew Michael loved the old man, so she wasn’t surprised that he was willing to do anything to get him to come inside. She might have been willing to sit in the mud herself, especially in her jeans. But Michael was wearing a suit! And he wasn’t just sitting there pleading with the old man. He was joining in the ritual, raising his hands, chanting the same syllables.
It took Renata a moment to realize the symbolism of that simple act. He wasn’t feigning understanding. He knew the chant. He knew the sounds, the words, the gestures! He knew why his grandfather had come to this place, knew what he was doing, knew why he wouldn’t just get up and leave. And he clearly shared some part of his grandfather’s way of thinking, something that Renata guessed he couldn’t put into English words.
She battled the weird feeling that she was sinking into quicksand. Right before her eyes, this terribly attractive businessman had turned into an Indian! All he was missing was the buckskin and braids.
Suddenly there was a crackle from the cruiser. Brick quickly strode back, picked up the mike, barked a quick response and waved a hand. “Got an emergency,” he called to Renata. “Tell Michael I’ll be back for him as soon as I can.”
In an instant the black-and-white car had pulled away, leaving Renata feeling like an interloper on her own property. It had been strange enough starting the day with one rain-soaked Indian doing eerie chants on her front lawn.
Now there were two of them.
FOR NEARLY fifteen minutes, Renata stood on the porch, grateful for the overhang, while Michael and his grandfather chanted in the mud. She had no idea what was going through their minds, though she was reasonably certain it wasn’t the same thing. The old man was totally absorbed in his ritual, but Michael’s eyes were open and his neck muscles rippled with tension. Every now and then he made a mistake in the chanting and had to take a moment to pick up a clue from his grandfather. It was obvious that the ceremony, whatever it was, did not come easily to him.
At last the old man stopped and lowered his arms. It didn’t seem to Renata that he was tired or resigned. He just seemed to be finished. At first he did not speak, but at last he opened his eyes and looked at Michael.
A good two minutes of silence passed before Michael began to speak, and even then Renata could not understand him. To her he’d spoken clear, unaccented Midwestern English. To his grandfather he was speaking an unintelligible tongue that she took to be Winnebago. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound; it simply surprised her to hear a man in a suit use a language that seemed to belong to another world...another century.
When Michael was done, the old man spoke, his own voice weak and quavery. He sounded calm but stubborn. Michael spoke again, gesturing to himself and then Renata. He sounded angry and embarrassed. She didn’t need to speak Winnebago to understand the look on his face.
Whatever he said seemed to impress his grandfather, because for the first time the old one’s watery gaze drifted toward Renata. Then he looked down, as though he, too, were ashamed. By this time Renata was shivering with cold and so was the old man. Michael still looked tense. And incredibly handsome.
At last he stood. Muddy water dripped down the legs of his ruined suit. He held out a hand to his grandfather, who ignored it but painfully struggled to rise on his own. The old man had to roll sideways to his knees and use both hands to push away from the ground, and even then he almost fell over. Michael kept his hand outstretched, leaning close to him, but he did not reach out to catch him. Renata was touched by his obvious effort to save the old man’s dignity.
When Michael’s grandfather stood up and started toward the house, Renata could see that the night in the rain had taken its toll. He looked shaky and cold and exhausted. At once she said to Michael, “Why don’t you take him upstairs and warm him up with a hot shower while I find you both some dry clothes.”
Michael’s eyes met hers with embarrassed gratitude as he nodded just once. Then Renata quickly slipped down to the basement while Michael and his grandfather moved slowly into the house.
It wasn’t hard to find clothes for two men; the basement was full of Renata’s parents’ and grandparents’ clothes and keepsakes. She even had a trunk of her great-grandparents’ things. Sometimes, when she was feeling lonely, Renata spent hours down here, perusing old photos and letters or rearranging her grandpa’s box of artifacts. She had never regretted being raised without brothers and sisters because she’d had so much love from the grown-ups in her life. But one by one, death had claimed them all—tractor accident, cancer, kidney disease. Her grandfather had lived longer than his son; he’d been the last to go. But for four years now, Renata had been the last of her branch of the Meyers in Wisconsin. Until recently she’d been too busy trying to launch a
