Eagle, Kathleen (22 page)

"I
don't think we'll ever know. They could film
Unsolved Mysteries
in Indian
country every week."

"We'll
know," Reese said. "One way or another, we're going to get some
answers on this particular mystery. If I pick up where he left off, we'll know
soon enough who his friends and enemies were."

"Be
careful, Blue. Don't be letting your dad's tall tales and war stories go to
your head. You don't wanna be the bait for any—"

Reese
laughed. "Do I look like a worm to you? Even if somebody had it in for the
ol' man, they're not about to go after me. That'd be too good of a news story.
I'm still famous, right?"

"Right."

"Right.
That would be a spectacle, going after me." He tossed more sage into the
fire. Cleansing sage, purging smoke. "We'll know the truth, Uncle
Silo."

Gramma
Mary piped up. "The
wanagi
won't be satisfied until we do. Three
nights now they woke me up, makin' noise outside, scarin' the dogs."

Both
men turned, surprised by her contribution. She was looking at Reese, firelight
and shadow flickering over her face. "You, too?" she asked.

"It's
not like that with me, Gramma. Nothing that dramatic. It's just a..." He
glanced at Helen. "A feeling." • "That's what I said. You don't
have to see what it was that made that noise. You feel it when it isn't
natural." Gramma Mary settled back in her chair, deeper into the shadows.
"You get to be my age, you don't care what other people think. You know
what you know."

"Get
to be your age, you're already halfway there," Silo said. "Pretty
soon you'll be talking to them out loud. We'll be sayin', Don't mind her, she's
just trying to sweet-talk the gatekeeper."

"There's
no gate," Gramma Mary reported. "There's no gate and no big bird
wings. I know what I know."

"Did
he say anything to you about any particular worries he might be having?"
Helen asked, her voice coming as the surprise this time. They all looked at
her, wondering who was lost here. "Roy, I mean. Before he died."

"Was
he afraid of anybody?" Gramma Mary asked for clarification, then shook her
head. "Not so's you'd notice. Not lately. My brother used to be Mr. Nicey
Nice, you know, always doing people favors, but that was long time ago."

"When
he was drinking," Silo said. "Man, he could suck up the sauce.
Remember that, sonny?"

"Yeah,
I remember."

"But
that was years ago. He told me not too long ago he'd been sober nearly twenty
years. That's a long time."

Reese
nodded. The number was truly sobering to him. Hell of a long wagon ride, he had
to admit. The truth was...

Jesus,
the terrible truth was that he'd known his father better as a drunk. Maybe that
was the only way he'd really known him at all. Maybe he'd never really accepted
his father any other way, never believed his sobriety to be anything but
temporary. Never dared. He pushed the words "Long time" out on the
tail of a weary sigh.

Silo
laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed, rocked him a little, and launched into a
remembrance.

"Marvin
Grass put on a sweat not too long ago, and your dad and me went in, along with
a few other guys. Old friends, you know, and a couple of young guys. We try to
bring the young ones in, and they're coming. Slow but sure. This is a strange
road we're on. Some guys, guys like your dad, there comes a time in their lives
when they don't want to be Indian. So maybe they give up the old ways, or maybe
they just go off somewhere. Just
fer-get about it.
And then they seem to
lose their way. You know, they get to boozin', a lot of them, and they go
blind. That's how I see it. They just go blind. You see their eyes?" He
waved a hand in front of his own unwavering, unblinking gaze to demonstrate.
"Nothin' there."

"But
some recover their sight somehow, and they come back," Gramma Mary put in.

Silo
nodded. "Your dad came back. He started going to sweats with us again. It
was still hard for him to talk about how he felt."

"He
always had to be the
man,"
Gramma Mary said. "But, oh, could
that boy tell stories. When he was in school, he was so smart, that one. Smart
as a fox."

"Smart
as a damn bee bite on the ass," Silo said with a chuckle.

"But
he had to quit school," Mary recalled. "He got into it with the
priest at the mission school, and he said he wasn't going back."

Reese
hadn't heard this story. "They didn't make him go back?"

"He
got through the eighth grade," Mary said. "That was pretty good back
then, to get that far. And my dad said it was up to him, so he went to work for
some white ranchers. He always worked, you know."

Reese
was having trouble fitting these new pieces into the puzzle of his father's
past. "I thought he played high school basketball."

"He
did, but he wasn't exactly enrolled in school." The firelight was dancing
in Gramma Mary's eyes as she smiled. "Oh, he could wangle his way in and
out so easy. He was a fox, that one."

"He
was a fox, all right," Reese agreed.

"This
last time we were passing the pipe, and he was praying for you boys, like he always
did—" Silo caught the surprise in Reese's eyes. "Oh, yes, my boy. He
always prayed for you. Anyway, he got real emotional. It was like he knew
something was up. Not like he was scared, but like there were some things he
wanted to say or try to make right or something. He was never one for talking
about his feelings. Instead, he told stories." He nodded toward Reese as
he spoke to Helen. "He was always tellin' stories about this one
here."

Helen
smiled. "He told me a few."

"He
was proud of you, my boy. He said he never had to worry about you because
you're a real fighter."

"I
guess he can take some credit there. But this council thing, it's my last duty
to him." Reese looked intently at his uncle. "I want to do it
right."

"Whatever
you do, you're still the big man from Bad River."

"Damn,
you sure know how to lay it on thick, Uncle."

"Are
you camping?" Silo asked.

Reese
and Helen gave simultaneous noes. "Just came for the—"

"Dancing,"
she finished, and he pointed at her and said, "Food," and they shared
a warm look, a small laugh.

Silo
elbowed his nephew, leaned over, and whispered, "We got an extra
tent."

***

Family
dinner at a powwow meant that the elders were served first, followed by small
children, and then everyone else lined up. There was always soup—tripe for the
traditional palate, jerked or boiled meat, maybe some buffalo with wild turnip,
parched corn, sandwiches, and frybread with
wojapi,
a thickened fruit
soup. Reese and Helen helped Auntie Lil get situated, served their elders, then
waited in line for their supper. Waiting was part of the tradition, as was
sharing news and jokes along with the food.

But
Reese's new status as a councilman brought him a new round of attention, a new
level of respect, wordless handshakes from people he didn't really know.
"Your father's path," they said. "Your ol' man's
footsteps," words both pleasing and troubling for Reese, but he kept
telling people he'd do his best and that he was open to their suggestions.
"Just don't sell us out," one old man said, and Reese promised not
to.

Now
all he had to do was figure out what that meant.

"I'm
having such a good time that I hate to look at my watch," Helen said later
as they strolled back from the rodeo grounds, where they'd cheered for Titus
Hawk, who had entered the wild-horse race and gotten dumped on his ass.

"Didn't
you check your watch at the gate? Watches aren't allowed. We're on Indian
time." He hooked his arm around her and drew her to his side. "Which
is amazing to me, because you know what? It feels right."

"As
though you'd never left?"

"If
I'd never left, I might not feel the rightness of it." He pulled her off
the well-worn path between rodeo and powwow grounds to let three coltish kids
race past them in the dark. They hit the wooden footbridge over the creek and
clattered across. Helen moved to start up again, but Reese held her in front of
him. "Let's stay here tonight in Uncle Silo's extra tent." Another
kid galloped past them, and Reese lowered his head close to her ear. "I
want to make love to you while the drums are playing."

She
leaned back against him. "I love the drums. I love the way they do funny
little things to your heartbeat."

"How
funny?"

"I
don't know. Speed it up, slow it down. Like the original pacemaker."

"That
is
funny. You're a funny lady. Stay here with me tonight, and I'll tell
you just how funny you are." He took her hand and drew her around,
pressing her palm over his heart. "I'll even show you my own funny side,
and we'll see what funny things the drums do to us."

"I
should get back," she said with a sigh.

"To
what? An empty place? I've got one of those, too. Hot and quiet and
empty." Probably emptier than hers. She was torn because she had thoughts
of her son. He could see what those thoughts did to her when she watched other
children and heard their voices, and she thought she should go and be alone and
be a proper mother.

But
there was nothing improper in what he felt for her. "Stay here with me
tonight," he implored, still pressing her hand to his chest, risking his
secret. "That drumbeat's really working on me. My heart's racing."
She shivered, and he wondered whether she sensed something unnatural, like
Gramma Mary's
wanagi,
or like his heart skipping a beat.
"Cold?"

"South
Dakota nights," she said, and he could feel another shiver shimmy through
her.

"There's
a place I want to show you, Helen, if I can still find it. I'll show you the
night like you've never seen it before." He kissed her temple and
whispered, "The Lakota night."

He
drove her out one gate and back through another one, into community pasture. He
was counting on the tire-track road still trailing through the pasture where
tribal members were allowed to run a mare or a gelding if they had no place
else to keep a horse. If they'd started running bulls there or buffalo, he'd be
in big trouble.

But
the fence hadn't been built up any, and the gates were the same post-and-wire
ones he remembered. He'd never come out here except on horseback, and every
clay rut that scraped the undercarriage of the Lincoln told him there was a
good reason God made horses and Ford made pickups. He was driving the right
vehicle for impressing a pretty woman in a pretty dress, but he was headed the
wrong way. He ought to be taking her to a show at the Ordway in Minneapolis
instead of to the top of a hill in the middle of the South Dakota prairie.

But
the Ordway had no spotlights to compare with a full August moon. He'd been to
the top of this hill during powwow before, and if memory served, it was the
best seat on the planet.
Someday I'll bring a girl up here,
he'd
promised himself. He'd been feeling sorry for himself that night for some
reason or other—probably for being a lonely teenager—and he'd vowed to find
himself a girl who didn't care if a guy didn't have his own car.

"Would
you have come with me if I didn't have a car?"

Helen
turned, laughing, adjusting her skirt as she cocked one knee toward him. "I
was just thinking we probably needed a pickup for this excursion."

"Or
a horse," he said.

"Oh,
yes, a horse."

"One
horse between us," he said as he arced the steering wheel, gunning the
Lincoln off the track and into uncharted territory. "What if that was all
we had?"

She
peered at the grass ahead. The headlights exposed the mist gathering in the
draws. "One horse sounds good."

"One
old gray nag, what if that was all I had?"

"Maybe
we'd have to walk," she said, "but if there's good grass up there,
we'd take her on a lead."

Grinning
in the dark, he parked the car at the foot of the hill. This was as far as his
buggy would take them. "What about your dress?"

She
fussed with the skirt again. "One old blue dress, what if that was all I
had to wear? Would you still take me to your special place?"

"On
my back, pretty lady." He got out of the car, grabbed the blankets he'd
thrown into the backseat, and came around to her door just as she was emerging.
"I'm not kidding. I can carry you from here."

"I
believe you," she said, and she drew his head down to her lips for a kiss
to thank him for the offer. "But I can also walk." She reached down,
pulled the back of her skirt between her legs by the hem, and clutched it to
her tummy, improvising pants. "Lead on."

Just
looking at her in the moonlight, her hair wispy around her luminous face and
tumbling around her shoulders, the look in her eyes that said she'd follow him
anywhere tonight—just looking at her made his heart double in size. Which
couldn't hurt him, not tonight. He was with Helen, and Helen was magic.

The
drumbeat set the pace as they hiked up the hillside, leaving the car and the
mist and the chirping insects below. She was a little winded when they reached
the windswept tabletop, and he renewed his offer to give her a lift because he
fully believed he could carry her to the top of the world tonight. "Aren't
we there yet?" she puffed, and he laughed, took her by the hand, and led
her to the promontory, where she dragged back on him when she first glimpsed
the view of the powwow grounds below. "Oh, yes, we are," she
whispered. "Oh, Reese."

The
lights from the little traveling carnival glittered off to the side. The bowery
was a bright circle filled with the dancers' flouncing colors, and its
outskirts were dotted with campfires. "The best seat is over here,"
he told her, and she hesitated, because from where they stood, it looked like
the edge of a cliff. But he coaxed her, and she trusted him; and sure enough,
there was a natural observation deck, a grassy place at the base of a tall
rock, a place carved into a hilltop to accommodate two lovers and their
blankets.

"I
could live here," he said as he put down the thicker one, made of dense
wool, and spread it close to the guardian rock. He dropped the folded star
quilt on top of it, took his boots off, and sat down with his back to the rock.
Then he drew her down between his thighs, positioning himself as her backrest,
her cloak, and her shelter.

"If
you were a bird," she said as she settled into him.

"Maybe
I am. Or maybe my spirit guide is a bird. I never went out and searched for
one, so I can't say for sure, but I'm pretty light on my feet for a man my size."
He draped his arms loosely around her. "At least, that's what they
say."

"The
storytellers and the balladeers?"

"Those
who know me well." He seriously wanted her to be one of them. He rubbed
his cheek against hers, relishing the view below and the moon above, the smell
of her hair and way she filled his substantial hollow.

"I'm
getting to know you pretty well," she said, and he sensed wonder in her,
as though she hadn't expected this or hadn't intended it. Probably because
she'd left him so far behind, too. "And I think you're looking for more
than just a place to light." She hooked her hands over his forearm, as
though she were chinning herself. "What do you think of these
lights?"

"I've
seen brighter."

"Have
you seen better?" She pointed toward the north end. "Would that be
your uncle's fire, somewhere in that vicinity? And I'll bet Titus's is over
there. And who else? That darling little boy who won the fancy-dance contest?
I'll bet he's sleeping near one of those fires right there," she said,
sliding her outstretched finger southward.

"You're
right, these are fine and friendly lights, and they warm my heart."

"As
if your heart needed warming," she said, turning in his arms to lay her
hand on his chest. "I thought guys who made it big in sports were supposed
to get unbearably self-centered, but not you."

"What's
your definition of making it big? I've known guys to get permanently bent out
of shape over a hole in one."

She
lifted her head. "You play golf?"

"Try
to. I'm sure your dad's a lot better than I am. Since it's not my game, I don't
have to prove much." He rubbed her shoulder. "Just good exercise.
Good for the heart."

Her
fingers patted him gently.
"Ta-tum, ta-tum,
it's keeping time with
the drum."

"Can
you hear it?" he asked, and she slid down, put her ear to his chest.
"I meant from where you were. But don't move again. Stay where you
are." He rested his head against the rock, looked up at the stars, stroked
her hair. "Sometimes you can hear the thing a mile off."

"A
strong man needs a strong heart," she said simply, easily.

"Like
I said, you're a funny lady." Funny and sweet and smart, and he wanted
nothing more than to be strong for her. "The truth is, Helen, I have a
weak heart."

It
took her a moment, but just as he expected, she did draw back, straighten up,
give him that look. He couldn't see it—he was looking at stars—but he could
feel it. He'd used the wrong word. "Strong" was what she wanted, too,
and it was what she expected when she looked at him, what anyone would expect.

"What
do you mean?" she asked finally.

He
shrugged. "That's why I had to quit playing pro basketball. It wasn't my
back or any of the other stuff you heard about. Those injuries were a nuisance,
but the doctors have pretty much repaired them. They can't really fix the heart
problem."

"What
heart problem? What's going on with—"

"Funny
little things. It's built a little weird, thicker than it should be in places,
so it doesn't always beat strong and clear, like the drum. You know how you've
got your four chambers that work perfectly together, valves opening and
closing,
ta-tum, ta-tum,
blood moving along through the chambers in an
orderly way?" She nodded. "Mine are messed up because I've got this
thickness that can be what they call obstructive. And it's sneaky. Latent, they
say. But my heart does make these funny noises, which helped the doctors to
diagnose the problem."

"Funny
noises?" She said "funny" like the word was becoming a touchy
thing.

And
it was, but he liked "funny" better than "sick." Easier to
say, so he liked to make it sound a little funny. That way he could keep right
on smiling.

"I
think of it like I've got these four brothers on my drum, and two of them could
keep up whatever pace I asked them to for another fifty, sixty years if the
other two would just lay off the sauce. But you can tell when somebody's been
nipping because he throws everybody's timing off."

"But
you don't drink."

"No,
but..." She was sitting there staring at him, as wide-eyed as a shock
victim. "You've gotta work with me now, woman. It's a good story, isn't
it?"

"Not
if it means you're going to have a heart attack. Reese?" Her hand closed
around a fistful of his shirt, then hammered on his chest three times,
punctuating her reprimand. "This is nothing to joke about, mister."

"Honey,
I'm dead serious."

"Don't!"
She pounded him again.

He
grabbed her fist and pressed it to his lips. "We're gonna save this for
emergency use only."

"What
do you mean, thicker than it should be?"

"The
wall down the middle, the septum, toward the bottom it's too thick, so it
interferes with the blood flow a little bit. Sometimes. It's not a big problem
most of the time for me. For some people it's really bad, but you notice I'm
still kickin'."

She
was still staring. She hadn't moved one damn bit, and it made him feel
wretched, pitiful. Obviously he hadn't been funny enough.

He
rubbed her arms, hoping to get her to let down some while he explained.
"The clinical term is hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, and what it means is
that life insurance companies don't particularly want to take my money."

The
little sound she made shook him inside, where he'd been carrying this condition
long enough so that it had its own place, and it rode with him quietly.

"Not
many people know this, Helen, because I don't want them to. I didn't want any
public discussion over it. I'm telling you because..." God, she was tense.
He slid his hands around to her back and rubbed up and down. "Because I'm
kinda gettin' attached to you again, and I just thought you oughta know. In
case you're getting at all attached to me."

"Attached?
How..." Her first try drained away. "How serious..."

"Pretty
serious. It can be a killer. It doesn't have to be, but it can. You hear about
it sometimes. Basketball players and runners, especially, dropping dead on
the—"

"Reese!
My God, you were running that day I came—"

"Mine
isn't the worst kind, Helen, so just calm down. They found mine because I was
in the right place at the right time with the right doctor, and they found
it." He took her face in his hands. "You see why I don't tell people?
They get all panicky around me and start asking me if I'm okay every time I
break a sweat. I have to run. I have to play ball. I'm an athlete. I can't live
without sports."

"But
they might
kill
you."

"A
lot of things might kill me. A truck might kill me, or a snakebite, or some
weird bacteria off a piece of fruit." She was making that little hurt
sound again, like this was all bullshit, like he still wasn't being serious
enough. But he was. Living, breathing, surviving serious when he looked at her
and said, "Inactivity might kill me, but you know what really kills
me?"

"What?"

"Being
treated like some kind of freak. I start thinking maybe I
am
a
freak.
Hell, I'm taller than most people, darker-skinned than most people, quieter,
clumsier, homelier..."

"What
are you talking about? You are
not—"

"Prouder,
meaner, more arrogant, hell, yeah! At the top of my game I am." He had her
shoulders in his hands now, trying to find the right way to hold her through
all this shit. "You know what happens when you find out you've got a
problem like this? You get all wrapped up in it, and if you're not careful, it
takes over your life. I've been there, and I don't want to live like that. I
could just possibly live to be a very old man, and the last thing I want to do
is spend all those years worrying about whether I'm gonna die tomorrow."

Yet
again there was that little sound. He wanted to shake her, but he shook his
head instead. "And I really don't want to see that in other people's eyes
when they look at me. Especially not yours. You know what I want to see in
yours?"

"What?"

He
made his hands relax, made his voice go softer for her. "I want to see,
'Kiss me, Reese.' "