tub of their own filth.”
He went into the cabin for cups and came back out to the porch, where he set
them on the table. There was that sinewy forearm again. His hands were delicate,
the nails white and neatly trimmed. He moved gracefully, at ease with himself.
How different life would be if Jeremy wanted to share it with her. If he chose to
make her feel good about herself. All the drudgery would serve a purpose. They
could build something together.
Jeremy went back inside and returned with a bowl filled with lumps of brown
sugar.
“Where’d you get the maple sugar?” she asked, struggling to hide the strain in
her voice.
“An Indian gave it to me. Kitchi Sucsee.” He spoke the name as if he
expected her to recognize it.
“Who’s that?”
“The Indian who works for the banks.”
“An Indian works for the banks?”
“Someone must have told you about him – the one who brings the reserve
money down the river.” He looked as if he expected her to say, “Oh yes, I know
about him,” but her face remained blank.
“I don’t see how you’ve managed to live here for more than ten minutes
without hearing that story.”
She shrugged.
“Well, can I assume that you do know that the banks out here print their own
wildcat bills?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of that.”
“But the law requires them to keep a reserve of federal money.” He paused to
sip his coffee. “And a bank examiner comes around every so often to make sure
they have enough of it. But these arsewise banks around here hardly ever have
any real money. What they do is, they pool all their federal money into one kitty of reserve cash to show to the examiner. He always visits the same bank first, so
that’s where they keep the money. After he finishes counting it at the first bank
Kitchi Sucsee – that’s Indian for Great Deer – takes the bags of scrip to the next
bank down the line. Since he goes by river in his canoe, he gets there before the examiner, who then counts the same money all over again.”
“You’re fooling me.”
“No, it’s true. Everyone who lives here knows they do it. That’s one of the reasons they all hate the banks. But that’s not the story. The story is that one time
Kitchi Sucsee got to the first bank a little late and had to hurry – or, if you ask
me, he was probably drunk as a sow, the way these bloody Indians are with
whiskey – but for whatever reason, he tipped his canoe over. Lucky for him, he
managed to fish the bags of money out, but obviously the notes were soaking wet when he got to the next stop. So the bank manager gave that examiner all the
whiskey he could tipple, taught him how to dance a horn, and then fed him a five-course meal and pie. Kept him busy long enough for those bills to dry out
by the fire.”
