SWELL by Ericson Corwin

Author:Ericson, Corwin [Ericson, Corwin]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780984428885
Publisher: Ingram Distribution
Published: 2011-10-24T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Indian Boys Reformatory, a True Story

“Did you know that part of Bismuth is missing?” I asked Lettie.

“No, we know where it is. Mostly. It’s somewhere near the Fens and the Leif Ericson statue in Boston. The Bismuthians sold everything from Mount Bis along Bismuth Downs, up through the swamp to the city of Boston to use it as fill. There’s supposed to be a plaque on the street there thanking the residents of Bismuth for their dirt.”

“Where was it?”

We were passing out of the harbor and beyond the breakwater. I pointed out Wreck Rock. “Right there, that’s the mountain’s stub.”

“Are there pictures of Mount Bis from before?”

“No, and if you weren’t a stranger, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it. Bismuthians don’t like to talk about the mountain; they’re still too superstitious.”

Ill John, AKA Ronco, pointed with his chin: “You see yonder mountain?”

Lettie scanned the horizon with her hand shading her eyes.

“Yonder?”

“Yes. It is new.”

“A volcano?”

“No, it is Ted Williams’ sludge,” he said.

“What?”

“It is dredged from the bottom of Boston Harbor to make a tunnel. And then put here to make a mountain.”

“Why?” asked Lettie.

“The people of that island were paid to take that dirt and keep it on their island forever.”

“Why didn’t Boston just leave the sludge underwater?”

“It is poisoned by Boston Harbor water. The city wanted the harbor to be cleaner.”

“What happened to the people on the island?”

“They are members of our tribe,” said the newly coined native. “They have moved to Florida.”

“A lot of my tribe did too,” said Lettie.

“You are Indian?” asked Ronco.

“No, Jewish.”

“The Jewish are a tribe?” asked Franklin, née Chosen.

“Twelve different tribes—God’s chosen people,” she said.

“And the Jewish North American Indian tribe are the Mormons, yes?” asked Ronco.

“No? I’m not sure. I think the Mormons are like the Celtics— all white until a few decades ago,” I said.

“No. I am sure,” said Ronco. “They migrated from Palestine across the Arctic Circle and down into North America. Guided by angels. It says so in their book.”

Before either of my Indian friends could ask about the religion of the ancient Celtics, or the Yankees or the Knickerbockers, or the Redskins and Red Sox, I changed the subject and asked Ronco if some of his ancestors hadn’t lived on Mount Bis.

Franklin answered before Ronco could. “Ted Williams is buried there.”

“Not on Mount Bis,” I said.

“No, of course. He is buried in Ted Williams Island Mountain.”

“That’s not entirely the case,” said Lettie. “His head is cryogenically frozen in Florida.” Was she on to us?

“But I think Roosevelt’s tomb is on Campobello Island, Isn’t it?” she continued.

“No, I have been there,” said Ronco, “It is just his monocle, cigarette holder, and the skeleton of his dog.”

“He was just a summer person,” I added.

“So your ancestors lived on the mountain?” Lettie asked. “Was it a reservation?”

“No, there were no white people yet,” said Franklin. “The mountainous people warred instead with the lowlanders and the mainlanders. They were miners instead of fishermen.”

“Miners? What did they mine?”

“Bismuth.”

“Oh yeah. Why?”

“They traded it for mussel shells.

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