Read Online The Round House by Louise Erdrich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Erdrich
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children involved, and as, moreover, Linda Lark Wishkob, in the opinion of the court, was not only mentally competent but more sane than many who have come before this court, including her biological mother, this case was dismissed with prejudice.
Strange, I said.
It gets stranger, said my father.
How can it?
What you see is only the tip of a psychodrama that for some years consumed both the Larks, who gave their child up, and the Wishkobs, who in their kindness rescued and raised Linda. When the Wishkob children caught wind of the action, a clumsy, greedy, mean-minded attempt to raid and profit from an inheritance that never was, and land that never could be passed out of tribal ownership, they were furious. Lindaâs older sister by adoption, Sheryl, took direct action and organized a boycott of Larkâs gas station. Not only that, she helped Whitey apply for a business grant. Everybody goes to Whiteyâs now. Whitey and Sonja have put the Larks out of business. During this time, Mrs. Larkâs son, Linden, lost his job in South Dakota and returned to help his mother run the failing enterprise. She died of a sudden aneurysm. He blames the Wishkobs, his sister, Linda, Whitey and Sonja, and the judge in this case, me, for her death and his near bankruptcy, which seems now inevitable.
My father frowned at the files, passed his hand over his face.
I saw him in the courtroom. People say heâs quite a talker, a real charmer. But he didnât say a word during the trial.
Could he be the . . . ? I asked.
Attacker, I donât know. Heâs troubling for sure. After his mother died, he got into politics for a while. During the trial, he probably became unpleasantly aware of the jurisdiction issues on and surrounding the reservation. He wrote a crank letter to the Fargo Forum . Opichi clipped it. I remember it was full of the usualâletâs dissolve reservations; he used that old redneck line, âWe beat them fair and square.â They never get that reservations exist because our ancestors signed legal transactions. But something must have sunk in because, next I heard, Linden was raising money for Curtis Yeltow, who was running for governor of South Dakota and shared his views. Iâve also heardâthrough Opichi, of courseâthat Linden is involved in a local chapter of Posse Comitatus. That group believes the powers of the highest elected official of government should reside with the local sheriff. Lark lives in his motherâs house, last I heard. He lives very quietly and goes away a lot. Down to South Dakota, itâs supposed. Heâs become secretive. Opichi says a woman is involved, but sheâs only been seen a few times. He comes and goes at odd hours, but so far, no sign heâs dealing drugs or in any way breaking the law. I do know that the mother had a way of inciting emotional violence. Other people absorbed her anger. She was a frail-looking little old white lady. But her sense of entitlement was compelling. She was venomous. Maybe Lark moved on, or maybe he absorbed her poison.
My father went out to the kitchen to fill his mug. I stared at the files. Perhaps it was then that I noticed that every one of my fatherâs actual published opinions was signed with a fountain pen, the ink a lyric shade of indigo. His handwriting was meticulous, almost Victorian, that spidery style of another age. Iâve learned since that there are two things about judges. They all have dogs, and they all have some special quirk to make them memorable. Thus, I think, the fountain pen, even though at home my father used a ballpoint. I opened the last file on the desk and began reading it.
September 1, 1974
Francis Whiteboy, Plaintiff
v.
Asiginak, Tribal Police, and Vince Madwesin, Defendants
William Sterne, Attorney for the appellant, and Johanna Coeur de Bois, Attorney for the respondents.
On August 13, 1973, a Shaking Tent ceremony was conducted at the old round
Strange, I said.
It gets stranger, said my father.
How can it?
What you see is only the tip of a psychodrama that for some years consumed both the Larks, who gave their child up, and the Wishkobs, who in their kindness rescued and raised Linda. When the Wishkob children caught wind of the action, a clumsy, greedy, mean-minded attempt to raid and profit from an inheritance that never was, and land that never could be passed out of tribal ownership, they were furious. Lindaâs older sister by adoption, Sheryl, took direct action and organized a boycott of Larkâs gas station. Not only that, she helped Whitey apply for a business grant. Everybody goes to Whiteyâs now. Whitey and Sonja have put the Larks out of business. During this time, Mrs. Larkâs son, Linden, lost his job in South Dakota and returned to help his mother run the failing enterprise. She died of a sudden aneurysm. He blames the Wishkobs, his sister, Linda, Whitey and Sonja, and the judge in this case, me, for her death and his near bankruptcy, which seems now inevitable.
My father frowned at the files, passed his hand over his face.
I saw him in the courtroom. People say heâs quite a talker, a real charmer. But he didnât say a word during the trial.
Could he be the . . . ? I asked.
Attacker, I donât know. Heâs troubling for sure. After his mother died, he got into politics for a while. During the trial, he probably became unpleasantly aware of the jurisdiction issues on and surrounding the reservation. He wrote a crank letter to the Fargo Forum . Opichi clipped it. I remember it was full of the usualâletâs dissolve reservations; he used that old redneck line, âWe beat them fair and square.â They never get that reservations exist because our ancestors signed legal transactions. But something must have sunk in because, next I heard, Linden was raising money for Curtis Yeltow, who was running for governor of South Dakota and shared his views. Iâve also heardâthrough Opichi, of courseâthat Linden is involved in a local chapter of Posse Comitatus. That group believes the powers of the highest elected official of government should reside with the local sheriff. Lark lives in his motherâs house, last I heard. He lives very quietly and goes away a lot. Down to South Dakota, itâs supposed. Heâs become secretive. Opichi says a woman is involved, but sheâs only been seen a few times. He comes and goes at odd hours, but so far, no sign heâs dealing drugs or in any way breaking the law. I do know that the mother had a way of inciting emotional violence. Other people absorbed her anger. She was a frail-looking little old white lady. But her sense of entitlement was compelling. She was venomous. Maybe Lark moved on, or maybe he absorbed her poison.
My father went out to the kitchen to fill his mug. I stared at the files. Perhaps it was then that I noticed that every one of my fatherâs actual published opinions was signed with a fountain pen, the ink a lyric shade of indigo. His handwriting was meticulous, almost Victorian, that spidery style of another age. Iâve learned since that there are two things about judges. They all have dogs, and they all have some special quirk to make them memorable. Thus, I think, the fountain pen, even though at home my father used a ballpoint. I opened the last file on the desk and began reading it.
September 1, 1974
Francis Whiteboy, Plaintiff
v.
Asiginak, Tribal Police, and Vince Madwesin, Defendants
William Sterne, Attorney for the appellant, and Johanna Coeur de Bois, Attorney for the respondents.
On August 13, 1973, a Shaking Tent ceremony was conducted at the old round
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