Jules turned to Harvey. “What are we going to do?” he said, his voice quavering. “What the hell are we going to do?” He wasn’t looking at Louise. He was leaning toward Harvey Stoner. He was slapping the back of his fingers in the palm of his hand but he wasn’t looking her way. She leaped for the door handle and before Jules could grab her she had his side door open. “Shit,” Jules said. She could hear the hollow loud wind as she shoved at Jules. He grabbed the dashboard to hold on. The car weaved on the road and she could feel the pull of the open door. The wind woke her. Harvey slammed his elbow deep into her throat and she coughed. She grabbed the steering wheel and tried to punch the brakes. She was slapping at Harvey’s head. She was gouging his eyes with her nails. Jules was trying to grab her hands to hold her, but she was determined to get out of the car. The deep fog curled around the hood then lifted again to night. Harvey yelled. Jules threw his hands over his face. Ice so slick they seemed to be flying, and then the car was. They were flying. Wind sailed past blinking stars for one moment forever.

Charlie Kicking Woman BAD ROADS MILEPOST MARKER 104

I did what I felt a good man would do. I took Baptiste Yellow Knife home to his mother. He wouldn’t let me help him into the house even though he needed my help. He yanked his arm away from me and I thought about the young boy he had been, stubborn, pigheaded, and knew that part of his nature would always be dependable. Beaten to hell and still refusing any assistance, my assistance. I tapped the horn and waited for Dirty Swallow to help her son into the house. After all I had done, I wanted to do more. An old woman’s help was all I had to offer him.

I thought about what Louise had said, that I didn’t know Yellow Knife. I learned that night she’d been right. I didn’t know the man and I figured I never would but I found something out about myself. I had been wrong about many things. Seeing Yellow Knife as a beaten man and hanging onto life changed the way I saw the world that night.

It was closing in on Christmas. The days after Christmas were always my worst times working. The dream of Christmas was over. People found the last push of winter burying them. Hope wasn’t even a word they lisped. People drank too much. People fought. Men shot their wives and called it suicide. Too many men had gone to war and returned broken in some way, or were just sick of being married, or trying to swat women away.