Free A Quality of Light by Richard Wagamese Page A

secured the bike when Ben Gebhardt appeared on the porch. He was reeling slightly and he leaned on the porch column.
    “John! Is that you, you little bastard? Get in here!” he growled.
    “Evening, Ben. Everything okay?” my dad asked, handing the bike down to Johnny.
    Ben Gebhardt squinted through the haze of twilight. “Who’s that?”
    “It’s Ezra Kane, Ben. I’ve just driven John back from visiting us.”
    “Ezra? Well, thank you very much, Ezra Kane,” he said theatrically, with a sweep of his arm. “God’ll love ya for that. Now send the little prick in here and we can get to bed!”
    “You gonna be okay, John?” my dad asked, putting a hand on Johnny’s shoulder.
    “Yessir. He’s always like this. Good night, sir. Josh,” Johnny said and started to trot the bike towards the porch.
    “Good night,” I said.
    “Coulda phoned, ya little prick!” Ben said as Johnny passed him on his way into the house.
    “Good night, Ben,” my father called, and Ben Gebhardt offered a lazy flick of the hand as he followed Johnny into the dark house. A single light burned in an upstairs window and I saw a flicker there and then Mrs. Gebhardt’s gaunt face peering out at us. She held the gaze for a moment and then she was gone. The door slammed and we looked at each other before climbing back into the car.
    “What a grouch!” I said when we’d reached the edge of town.
    “He was drunk, son.”
    “Drunk?”
    “Yes. People get kind of ugly sometimes when they’ve had too much to drink.”
    “Like beer, you mean?”
    “Yes, like beer. Other kinds of alcohol too.”
    “You and grampa have beer at threshing.”
    “That’s true. But there’s a difference between having a beer or two and drinking too much.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Well, too much means you don’t care much what you say, who you say it to or even how you say it.”
    Like Johnny’s dad?”
    “Yes. Like Johnny’s dad.”
    “Will he be okay?”
    “Johnny?”
    “No, his dad. He looked kind of sick.”
    “I’m sure he’ll be fine, son. I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he said and reached over to rub my shoulder.
    We drove the rest of the way in silence. The kind of silence that good friends share when they’re busy with their thoughts. I don’t know where my dad was in his thoughts that night, but I know that I was in the branches of the willow tree, feeling the prick of pin on flesh and the weight of the words we’d spoken. Laughing Dog and Thunder Sky. Blood brothers. Guardians of a secret and of each other. Friends. As our headlights pierced the night and framed the highway ahead of us, I offered a silent prayer of thanks to the God of the universe for bringing me Johnny Gebhardt. I lay my head down upon my father’s lap as he drove and the hum of the tires eased me into sleep. I felt him pick me up, cradle me in his arms and carry me into the house and even though I could have made it on my own, I surrendered myself to the brawn of his arms, the warmth of his shirt, the gentle nuzzle of his lips on my cheek and the whispered words, “I love you, son,” that I whispered over and over to myself as Idrifted into sleep in the downy comfort of my bed, my new baseball glove tucked beneath my pillow. Such are the bonds of Indians and of boys.

    I
could have killed you when you came out with Laughing Dog that day. I mean, really. I wanted a warrior name to beat all warrior names. Something on a grander scale than Laughing Dog, though now, after all this time, I have to tell you that it fits me. Laughing Dog. Canus Satiricus. I’ve become far too cynical for the Lightning Hawk, Mountain Bear or Wolverine that I imagined myself to be. Funny, eh? I think we all dream sometimes of names other than out own. Like maybe if we live another name we could maybe live another life. That’s what I thought back then. That if I could have a fearless, independent name, then I could be fearless and independent too. That’s what I thought I wanted.