Chapter 4

It was a chilly, but beautiful spring Saturday morning when Martin decided he would use a rare free day to finally begin fixing up his apartment. It was the day before Palm Sunday, and in the predominantly Catholic Burnett County, Martin was pleased to have a weekend, and all seven days of Holy Week, really, to make the most of the local residents need for penitence. There wasn’t a single event scheduled for the entire weekend, and most of the week (with the exception of worship service schedules at the local churches, of course), was similarly dead. But, as Clark Grayson said, “things resurrect after Easter.”
As Martin sat down for his poached eggs and toast, he decided to ask Don Wardle for a little advice he didn’t plan to take. But he wanted to prep him for the pending improvements upstairs.
“Don, where is the best place to buy home improvement items?”
Don Wardle looked at Martin with an amused look on his face. “Home improvement
items, Jimmy Olson? What the hell are you talking about? The closest Home Depot is in Forest Lake,” Don responded with his usual mock disdain.
“I know where Home Depot is, Don. I just want to know who in town stocks paint and brushes and spackle and stuff,” replied Martin.
“Well, Jimmy, you know as well as I do, that you can get paint at the hardware store in Siren, but you will pay a premium…”
Martin paused a moment and pretended to think. “What about Wild Bill’s?”
Don looked at Martin and almost laughed out loud. “About the only thing you can find at
Wild Bill’s is ammo, bait, beer. And,” he added with a smile, “Sharla Whitefeather. But something tells me you already knew that.”
Martin did know Sharla, but chose to act dumb. “Sharla Whitefeather?” he asked, very unconvincingly. Sharla Whitefeather was the niece of Wild Bill Whitefeather, the owner of the Wild Bill’s and the closest thing Martin had to a girlfriend. “Oh, yeah, Sharla. She works there, doesn’t she?”
Don gave a snort and shot Martin a look. “You, my friend, are a very bad liar. Yes, Sharla works there, and if you weren’t such a dumbass, you would have noticed those cute pins coming out from those short, short, short cut-offs.”
Martin shivered in disgust, but Don didn’t notice. It wasn’t that Martin hadn’t noticed Sharla’s legs, it was that he was disgusted knowing that Don had. “Does she have nice legs?” Martin asked. “I hadn’t noticed….”
Don snorted again. “There isn’t a man in Burnett County who hasn’t noticed, and you have, too!”
“Well…whatever. I’ll go over there and see what they have. Maybe Sharla will help me paint the apartment.”

Sharla Whitefeather was not beautiful or even pretty, but everyone in Burnett County agreed, she was the cutest girl around. She would have graduated from Siren High School with Martin if she hadn’t dropped out in her sophomore year due to some shady, unsavory, but uninvestigated situation involving a minor sexual assault by someone in authority. Sharla’s departure from the Siren educational system didn’t cause concern or alarm. She was of age and a native. Anyone from the Minnwahton Tribe who made it past the 8th grade was considered a Rhodes Scholar in Burnett County, so at 16 and almost through the 10th grade, Sharla was over-educated and on the edge of being “uppity”.
Her cuteness had more to do with her personality than her looks. She didn’t take anything from anyone, and knew more about fishing and hunting than just about everyone, including all the men who came in to Wild Bill for bait, ammo, beer or gas. She won every game of gin rummy she ever played, and knew when enough snow would fall to rev up the sleds.
And then, there were those legs that were never covered, winter, spring, summer or fall. She wore a variation of extremely short cut-offs each and every day, or at least whenever she worked the register at Wild Bill’s, which was every day of the year, it seemed. She topped off the ensemble with one of a dozen logo’d hooded sweatshirts. Her favorite was a bright red one from UW-Madison which she purchased on her only trip out of Burnett County to see the Badgers play the Gophers. She completed her look with scrunched white socks and white Adidas, which made her look athletic and ready for…anything. Her thick black hair was blunt cut to the shoulders, and her sharp brown eyes peaked out under bangs cut straight across and brushing her eyelashes.
In the eyes of half the men in Burnett County, Sharla was perfect, though they’d never admit it to each other. To Martin, she was perfect because she was the one and only person he could honestly call a friend, though no one knew of their friendship. They were in the same class in Siren Schools for 11 years, but never went to each other’s home. Sharla didn’t invite Martin over to play because she was, well, an Indian and knew better than to befriend a white person. And Martin didn’t invite Sharla over to play because his mother would have thrown a fit. “A girl?” she’d shrill. “An Indian girl!?”
So Martin and Sharla spent their entire childhood liking each other and feeling comfortable talking on the playground or the cafeteria at school, but their friendship never made it beyond that. And when Sharla dropped out in 10th grade, Martin did what everyone did – ignored her absence and prepared for college. When he returned from Milwaukee after college graduation, they reconnected one day when Martin stopped for gas at Wild Bill’s and stopped in his tracks at the door when he saw Sharla at the register. He made a point of filling his tank at Wild Bill’s every week from that point on, even though Bill Whitefeather made a point of charging exactly 10 cents more per gallon than any other gas station in Burnett County.

Martin topped off his gas tank, and walked into Wild Bill’s to pay up and see if Sharla could spare a few hours to help him fix up his apartment. The place was empty – no customers, no Sharla. He went over to the counter to wait, and suddenly, Sharla popped up from behind.
“Hey, Martin!” she said, saying the T in his name with a sharp emphasis, just the way she always did. “What’s up?”
Martin jumped a little, and blushed at being surprised. “What were you doing back there?”
Sharla giggled. “Oh, Martin, I’m sorry. I was just straightening out the extra ciggie boxes. What can I do for you?”
Martin wanted to be careful. He didn’t want to be too pushy in asking for help. “I need to pay for my gas, and then, I need to know if you guys sell any paint and brushes. I’m working on my new apartment today.”
Sharla frowned a little underneath her bangs. “Paint? Brushes? Martin, we don’t sell any of that stuff.”
“Really? Not anything? Wow, I thought for sure you’d have some of the basics. You should talk to your uncle about this,” Martin said. “Hmmm…I suppose I should go back to Siren and go to the Ace Hardware then.”
Sharla scrunched her nose. “Well, wait a minute here. I think Uncle Bill has some left over paint from when we painted the storeroom last month. It’s probably just white, but might do the trick. How much do you think you need?”
Before he could answer, Sharla had jumped out from behind the counter and was moving toward the storeroom. “I don’t know, maybe a gallon? It’s not a very big apartment…” called Martin as he watched those legs take her past a small collection of soup and other canned goods that hunters and fisherman might pick up for a trip.
Sharla’s muffled voice came from the back, “Good news! I have a gallon and a half, it’s sky blue, and it’s all yours! And Uncle Bill remembered to clean up his roller and brushes. Woohoo!” Martin smiled – Sharla could get excited about the silliest things. She came out from the store room with a paint can in each hand, and the brushes and rollers under her arm. “Only one thing needed, Martin. You’ll have to go to Ace Hardware and get a roller pan.”
“Not a problem. Sharla, you are the best! Will your uncle mind you giving this to me?” Martin asked.
Sharla rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even remember it’s back there. And if he says anything, I’ll tell him I just took it to the recycling center to make some room for the new fishing rods that just came in last week.” Sharla bent over to get a bag from under the counter and started putting the brushes into one. “Martin, do you need some help? Little Bill is coming in today, and Uncle Bill said I could take off if I wanted to,” Sharla said.
Martin marveled at his good luck. Free supplies and an almost immediate offer of help from Sharla. “Well, that would be great! Why don’t you come over to Risky Dick’s when you get off from work, and come up to Apartment #2? In the meantime, I’ll go over to Ace.”
Martin was out the door and driving down Highway 35 before it hit him that he had just arranged for Sharla Whitefeather to come over to his apartment – his apartment! - and help him paint. In his 20 x 20 dark, crappy apartment. Alone. With the bed in the middle. Martin didn’t know what panicked him more – the totally depressed and dingy look of the place, or that he was thinking about being alone with Sharla in the apartment. Either way, he knew his sweaty hands would be dropping one of those paint brushes at least a dozen times before the project was finished.