She felt my forehead again and looked down in my face.
"I don't think you take very good care of yourself," she said.
"I don't think you're a wise man, either."
"Why have you come here?"
"Leave Sally Dee and his father alone. It's bad for you, it's bad for Clete."
"Clete got in bed with that bunch on his own." I blew out my breath and opened and closed my eyes. I could feel the room spinning, the same way it used to spin when I would try to go to sleep drunk and I'd have to hang my head off the side of the mattress or couch to put the blood back in my brain.
"He's done some bad things, but he's not a bad man," she said.
"He looks up to you. He still wants you to be his friend."
"He betrayed me when I needed him."
"Maybe he's paid for it, too. You sleep. I'll stay here and fix lunch for you when you wake up."
She spread the blanket on top of me and pulled it up to my chin. Her hand touched mine, and involuntarily I cupped her palm in my fingers. Her hand was wide across the back and callused on the edges, and her knuckles were as hard as dimes under the skin. I could not remember when I had last touched a woman's hand. I closed her fingers in my palm, felt the grainy coarseness of her skin with my thumb, let both our hands rest on my chest as though the moment had given me a right that was in reality not mine. But she didn't take her hand away. Her face was kind, and she wiped the wetness out of my hair with the towel and remained on the edge of the bed while the rain swept across the yard and the roof and I felt myself slipping down to the bottom of my own vertigo, down inside a cool, clean, and safe place where no fires burned, where the gray morning was as harmless as the touch of my forehead against her thigh.
It was early afternoon when I woke again, and the sun was out, the sky blue, the yard a deeper green. I felt weak all over, but whatever had invaded my metabolism had gone away like a bored visitor. I opened the front door in my bare feet, and the air was cool and full of sunlight, and in the south the ragged peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains were white with new snow. Out on the river the rooted end of an enormous tree bounced wet and shining through the current. I heard her in the kitchen behind me, then remembered my earlier behavior the way a shard of memory comes back from a drunken dream.
She saw it in my face, too.
"I called Clete. He knows where I am. He doesn't mind," she said.
"I want to thank you for your kindness."
Her eyes softened and moved over my face. I felt uncomfortable.
"I have strange moments in my life. I can't explain them," I said.
"So I tell people it's malaria. Maybe it's true, but I don't know that. Maybe it's something else, too. Sometimes people at AA call it a dry drunk. It's nothing to wear on your chest."
I took a bottle of milk out of the icebox and sat down at the kitchen table. Through the back screen I could see an elderly woman hoeing in her vegetable garden. Next door somebody was cutting his grass with a hand mower. Darlene's eyes had never left my face.
"Clete said you lost your wife," she said.
"Yes."
"He said two men murdered her."
"That's right."
"How did it happen?" Her hand turned off the burner under a soup pot.
"I messed with some people I should have let alone."
"I see." She took two soup bowls out of the cabinet and set them on the table with spoons.
"It bothers you a lot?"
"Sometimes."
"I blamed myself when my husband got killed. I'd locked him out of the house the night before. I'd found out he was cheating with a white girl who worked in the truck stop. He had to stay all night in the car in zero weather. He went to work like that in the morning and a bulldozer backed over him. He was like a little boy. Always in the wrong place. He always got caught. He spent a year in Deer Lodge for stealing game meat out of some rental lockers at a grocery. He used to lie about it and tell people he went to jail for armed robbery."
"Why do you tell me this?"
"You shouldn't hurt yourself because of what happened to your wife. You don't realize what you did yesterday. Sally Dee's crazy."
"No, he's not. He just likes people to think he is. His kind come by the box carload."
She filled our bowls and sat down across from me.
"You don't know Sal. Clete said you made Sal look bad in front of his friends. He came down to the house after you left and they went out on the veranda. I could hear Sal yelling through the glass. I didn't think Clete would let anyone talk to him like that."
"It's expensive to work for a guy like Sally Dio."
"He degraded him."
"Listen, there's an expression in the oil field "I was looking for a job when I found this one." You tell Clete that."
"Sal said something else, too. About you."
"What?"
"Don't bring him around here again, don't let him be talking to Dixie Lee, either. He does, I'm gonna cut off his dick."
"I looked out the door again at the woman hoeing in her garden across the alley. Her face was pink, her hair white, and her arms were as thick as a man's.
"That's what our man had to say?"
"Clete and Dixie Lee pretend he's all right because they have to. But he's cruel. He frightens me."
"You should get away from him."
She put her spoon in her soup and lowered her eyes.
"You're an intelligent woman," I said.
"You're a good person, too. You don't belong among those people."
"I'm with Clete."
"Clete's going to take a big fall with that guy. Or he'll take a fall for him, one or the other. Down inside, he knows it, too. Until he started screwing up his life, he was the best partner I ever had. He carried me down a fire escape once while a kid put two.22 rounds in his back. He used to put the fear of God in the wiseguys. They'd cross the street when they saw him on the sidewalk."
"He's been good to me. Inside he's a good man. One day, he'll see that."
Her attitude toward him struck me as strange. It seemed more protective than affectionate. But maybe she was that kind of woman. Or maybe it was what I wanted to believe.
"I wonder if you can help me with something," I said.
"What?"
"Did Clete tell you about some trouble I've had in Louisiana?"
"Yes."
"Harry Mapes is my way out of it. I think he killed two people up here. Maybe they were Indians, members of AIM."
She looked down at her food again, but I saw her eyes narrow, the light in them sharpen.
"Why do you think that? About the Indians?" she said.
"Mapes killed these people because they were in the way of his oil deals. Dixie Lee said these AIM guys can tie the oil companies up in court over a nineteenth-century treaty."
"It's a big fight over on the Rocky Mountain Front."
"The what?"
"It's the eastern face of the Continental Divide. The Blackfeet called it the backbone of the world. The oil companies want into the road less areas by Glacier Park. That was Blackfeet land. The government took it or got it for nothing."
"Did you ever hear about any AIM people disappearing?"
"Why don't you ask up at the reservation?"
"I plan to. Why are you angry?"
"It has nothing to do with you."
"It seems to."
"You don't understand the reservation."
She stopped, and it was obvious that she regretted her abruptness. She wet her lips and began again, but her voice had the quiet, tense quality of someone who had bought seriously into a private piece of discontent.
"Whites have always taken from the Blackfeet. They massacred them on the Marias River, then they starved them and gave them a rural slum to live in. Now they've given us their missile sites. The government admits that in a war everybody on the eastern slope will be killed. But what whites don't understand is that Indians believe spirits live in the earth. That all the treaties and deeds that took our land don't mean anything. Sometimes people hear the crying of children and women in the wind on the Marias. An Indian woman in a white doeskin dress appears at missile silos. Air Force people have seen her. You can talk to them."