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When Richard Fundy, the non-hero of Michael Fedo’s Indians In the Arborvitae, walks out of the American Studies highschool class, he writes “Heartsick—lack of succor” as the reason for his absence. It’s a bit of devil-may-care malaise he feels justified in, having, after a divorce and failure at his job as an insurance claims adjuster, to move back in with his father in his small hometown near Cloquet. Okay, that’s on page 1. By page 100, Richard might be looking back fondly on his tepid midlife crisis, because in the meantime his life has been invaded by all manner of eccentric people and circumstances. We have concrete artists and mall hypnotists, apple stealing and funeral reception crashing, old women who want to write blues songs about their petunias, ferrets in bars, and a school principal whose quest is to redeem the name of Button Gwinnet, obscure signer of the Declaration of Independence.
The chief architect of the mayhem is Richard’s father, Elwood. Elwood believes, among other things, that Indians from the nearby Fond du Lac reservation are hiding in his arborvitae, waiting for a chance to raid the house. Crude and outspoken, Elwood nonetheless has a flair for free thinking and adventure that make him a much stronger character than his mealy-mouthed son. Even mild-mannered Luther, Richard’s childhood friend, outshines him. The two happen to meet when Luther, who is part Indian, is discovered fishing around in the above-mentioned arborvitae for his dog’s misthrown ball. Richard invites him inside, where he arouses Elwood’s suspicions:
“Where’d you find this guy, Dickie?”
“You’ll never believe this, Dad.” Richard chuckled. “He was in the arborvitae.”
“It’s in their blood, Dickie,” Elwood said, scowling. “And now he’s inside, he’ll case the joint. They’d love to get their hands on a lot of this stuff.”
“Look, I’m going to grab a couple of beers. You come on and join us if you want.”
“I suppose I better,” Elwood said. “Somebody’s got to look out for my property.”
“Dad,” Richard started, opening the refrigerator. “Be careful now. Luther is a well-educated, professional person who’s not in the least bit interested in stealing anything from this house. He’s not a crook, Dad.” Richard grabbed three bottles of beer and carried them into the living room.
Luther was sitting in Elwood’s recliner with his feet propped. “Neat chair,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of getting one of these myself.”
“I bet you have,” said Elwood, eyeing Richard.
Fedo is better known for his non-fiction (The Lynchings in Duluth, One Shining Season), but he also has a sharp eye for humor and parody (see “I’m Dead, Now What?” in this issue). With Indians in the Arborvitae he gives us a number of comical debacles, and some wonderful Dickensian caricature. It’s the older folks who are the most eccentric, and perhaps there’s some truth here: if men like Richard Fundy, given all the advantages of education and at the height of their powers, feel lost, then how out of touch must the rest of us be? Unfortunately Richard is a colorless and indecisive main man, haplessly being blown about by the neurotic behavior around him. The pain of his divorce is never dealt with, nor is his "lack of succor" addressed. Rather, Fedo seems to view him almost with contempt—as a foil for his mischief, and a reminder that the crazed, unbalanced, and wayward are, if nothing else, always the most interesting folks around.
- Joel Van Valin
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