He paid attention to Louise. Last month I saw Harvey Stoner crane his neck as Louise passed him. Aida and I were seated a few rows behind him in church. Every Sunday I had been distracted by Harvey Stoner’s inattention to mass, recognizing in him my own discomfort. I had even tried to avoid him by sitting in opposing pews but it always seemed I would look over to see Stoner staring up at the ceiling murals, Stoner blowing his nose too many times and folding his linen handkerchief into a little square he slipped in and out of his pocket. I had watched Harvey Stoner as he watched slow sunlight flood the stained-glass windows. Sometimes he pinched the bridge of his nose, almost wincing, as if he wished mass would end for good. We were both caught. But I hadn’t been fooled by Stoner. Stoner wasn’t like the other men in church who came for their wives or their own salvation. Harvey Stoner had come to show himself off as part of the community. He wanted to fool people into thinking he was interested in more than just their money.

That Sunday, Stoner sat up front with his tight-faced wife, in the third pew. He slumped against her and she kept shrugging against his weight, trying to make him sit up. I saw the glint of his big ring when he rubbed the back of his head. He wore a buttery suede jacket. He appraised his square, buffed nails. He clenched his fist against his knee as if he were knocking softly on a door. That day nothing interested Harvey Stoner. Then Louise walked by him, slim hipped and green eyed, and Stoner sat up to watch her pass. Harvey Stoner was the big cat at the gopher hole. He stared at Louise without shame, like the church itself blessed his action. Mrs. Stoner’s face pulled tight, then tighter. Her cheeks looked sharp. It was clear. Stoner had hooked onto Louise.

On the rare Sundays Louise accompanied her grandmother and sister to church, I had never gotten sleepy. Louise was the girl we had all stood taller for, the girl we had ignored our wives for, a chain of men straining to see her. Watching Harvey Stoner eye Louise had made me feel important. I felt my chest tighten; my heart pumped hard as if Louise was a flag and all that she was was somehow part of me too.

Stoner could have married Louise and taken her away. But Louise would always be Indian. Louise was our own. White women may have been good-looking to me, some better-looking than Louise, but Louise had something they didn’t have. She seemed fixed on something else, something better than the likes of all of us, or so I thought. But out of all the men she had gone and married Baptiste Yellow Knife and now she was seeing Stoner on the sly.