St. Clair (Gives Light Series) (37 page)

He patted my waist and my hips, each arm, each

leg. He patted between my legs. I had this crazy

idea that I was six years old and about to bite him,

but then an even crazier idea told me he'd smack

me if I tried. At least he didn't make me undress.

"Go right in," he said, nodding at the door.

I practically bolted through.

On the other side of the door was the most dismal

and drab room I had ever seen. The walls were

heavy blocks of cement packed on on top of the

other. The floor was scratchy concrete. A table

stood between two doors, thin plastic, neon green,

reminding me of Racine's car. The surface of the

table was chipped and dented where countless

handcuffs had rested in the past.

Dad sat at the table in an orange jumpsuit, his

hands shackled on the table.

He wasn't surprised to see me. I hadn't expected

him to be. What unnerved me was that he didn't

look upset, either. He looked the way he always

looked. Melancholy. A portrait. A snapshot in

time. You can look at the snapshot and wonder

what was going on at the time when it was taken.

But you'll never be able to ask the subject himself.

I ran to Dad. I tried to hug him. The guard

overseeing us must not have liked that, because he

grabbed my upper-arm and wrenched me away, his

hand tight enough to bruise.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that I sat at

the table. I couldn't interact with Dad; now I

couldn't even touch him.

The clock ticked loudly on the wall.

"I'm so very sorry," Dad said, his face crumpling.

I reached across the table for his hand, but froze.

The guard probably wouldn't like that, either.

Don't say anything incriminating
, I wanted

desperately to advise.

"I honored our traditions. I honored my wife and

child. I did what our ancestors told us to do."

Dad looked at me through his winter-water eyes

like they were the veil that hung between us. "I

don't regret that."

The horror finally settled in. This wasn't

hypothetical. This was happening. Dad was going

to prison. Premeditated murder was a life

sentence. No more pauwaus for Dad. No more

boys' night in with Mr. Little Hawk and Mr. Red

Clay. No more fishing on the lake with Mr. At

Dawn. I was never going to see my father marry a

woman who really loved him. He was never going

to see me have children of my own.

I was never going to hug him again.

It's funny. It's really, really funny. I felt like a pair

of floodgates; I felt like I could open up and start

crying and never stop. But I didn't cry. I don't

know why that is. I remember when I was eight

years old and I fell off my bicycle. The spoke

went right through my leg. The scar's still there;

it's sitting on the back of my calf. But I didn't cry

that day. I was eight years old and I didn't cry. I

was eighteen years old and I didn't cry.

I love you
, I signed, my fingers shaking. It's the

easiest sign in the world. Everybody knows that

sign.

"I know, Skylar," Dad said. "I love you, too. I

always will."

I sat on the edge of my bed. My window was

open, cold air blowing into the room, wolves

baying at the moon beyond the pine trees.

I stared blankly at the photos on my closet door.

Photos of my friends in regalia, Zeke in that

ridiculous coyote costume. A photograph of Dad

and me at the summer pauwau, my fingers forked

behind his head.

My eyes felt tight, like I had a cold.

I slid my window closed and dug through my

backpack. I'd really overdone it, I thought. I

hadn't needed anywhere near as much money as I'd

packed. Nor the spark plug. Nor the change of

clothes. I turned my backpack upside-down. I

shook it out over the mattress.

My copybook tumbled out.

Or Rafael's copybook, really. It wasn't like I'd

ever written in it before. Rafael had made more

use out of it in one afternoon than I had all year.

I wondered what he had drawn in there. Curious, I

opened the cover.

There weren't any drawings. Puzzled, I flipped

through the blank pages. Had he ripped the

drawings out without my noticing? But it didn't

look like there was any frayed paper sticking out

of the spine.

I saw it. It wasn't a drawing. It was a list. My

face burned with a strange mix of humiliation and

fondness.

"Top Reasons Why I Love You," the list read, in

Rafael's cramped handwriting.

With a heading like that, of course I had to read it.

You can spit really far
, the first bullet read.

I laughed. I remembered sitting in the kitchen with

Dad and Rafael, spitting chokecherry pits across

the room. That felt like ages ago.

Your nose is pointy (it pokes me when we kiss)
.

Hey, I thought, frowning. That wasn't true. I

rubbed my nose unconsciously. Ow. Okay, maybe

it was a little true.

You talk with your eyes
, the list went on.

Sometimes I had to. It's tough when you speak a

different language from everyone else.

You joke with your eyes.

I was glad someone had noticed.

You're funny.

I guess that part's debatable.

You never get mad at anyone.

I still wasn't sure whether that one was true.

Your hair's curly. You smell like lavender oil.

Also the saxophone sucks.

Those were fighting words, I thought, succumbing

to a second laugh.

You feel good in my arms.

I swallowed. That was something we agreed on.

You love me back.

And really, there was nothing as true as that.

I closed my notebook and set it atop the bedside

table. I turned off the low-burning oil lamp, the

moon shining through my window.

I know I sound petulant--but it's really not fair. Eli

Gives Light killed seven women, one after

another. The reservation begged and begged for

help and the FBI never came. But the minute Dad

took matters into his own hands, the FBI came

swarming out of every sewer and every mousehole

and crushed him as fast as they could. What kind

of crappy version of justice is that? What kind of

country is this? I guess it looks nice on the

surface. But people know how to show you what

they want you to see. You don't hear politicians

talking about how they'll stop white adoption

agencies from kidnapping Native kids. You don't

hear them talking about the thousands and

thousands of broken treaties that have most tribes

living like third world countries. We're lucky in

Nettlebush. We didn't get shoved onto the worst,

cheapest land available. We didn't have our

property rights ripped out of our hands. We don't

have factories contaminating our water. You think

I'm joking? There's a uranium factory sitting right

outside the Pine Ridge Reservation. That factory

still dumps its toxic waste in the reservation's

drinking water. Little babies are being born over

there with seizures and collapsed lungs. I wish I

were making this up. It's too sick to belong

anywhere but fiction.

Once, during a pauwau, I met a young woman from

the Standing Rock Sioux tribe. I don't think I

should mention her name. But she told me

something, something really haunting; something

I've never been able to get out of my head. Her

eyes filled with tears. She had been drinking--and

although that's not allowed at a pauwau, I couldn't

entirely blame her. Not when I heard what she had

to say.

"When I was twelve," she told me, "my mother

took me to Planned Parenthood. I didn't know

what was going on. We sat down with the

clinician, all three of us very silent. Finally, my

mother said, 'I need to learn more about birth

control for when my daughter gets raped.' "

I don't want to raise my kids in a country where

that's the status quo.

The reservation was lined with tables and stalls.

May was crafts month, when we invited outsiders

onto the reservation and sold them jewelry, quilts,

and cornhusk dolls. It was a good way to boost the

reservation's revenue. This year we were

particularly looking forward to the visitors; most

of them were the same people who had helped us

fight the government in winter.

I didn't really feel like being around so many

people at once. I hid at the grotto with my friends.

"How's your father?" Aubrey said quietly.

I nodded. I smiled faintly and looked away. Mrs.

Red Clay had whittled down his sentence. Life in

prison, but at least he was getting parole in twenty

years.

Twenty years without Dad. My throat felt

constricted.

"How about school?" Annie piped up.

"Ah, man," Zeke said. "My grades were lousy.

Dad's gonna see if I can get into a community

college. But--"

He trailed off and gave me a funny look. I waved

it away. I was glad he was talking to his father

again. He didn't have to watch himself around me.

"I barely just got in," Rafael grumbled.

"I think I'm going to hold off," Annie said. "I'm not

comfortable leaving Lila and Joseph just yet."

She peered meaningfully at me. I waved my hand

again. I hadn't opened my letter. I didn't feel like

doing much of anything lately.

"I'll miss you when you're all away. You won't

forget me, will you?" Aubrey said seriously.

"Oh, who could forget you?" Annie said, in a way

that made Aubrey's face light up.

"We should throw a party for Mr. Red Clay!" Zeke

said frantically. "The bastard put up with us long

enough--"

"What if we made him a cake?" Annie chimed in.

Usually there's nothing I enjoy more than my

friends' company. But I guess I wasn't feeling up

to it right now. I slipped away while they were

talking. I went for a walk in the woods.

The beeches were at their best during the spring,

full and thick, like canopies. The cicadas sang

lazy sonnets. It was hard not to feel at peace out

there. Somehow I managed it anyway.

There had to be a way. There had to be a way to

get Dad out of prison...

I must have been deeper in thought even than I

realized. I started out of my reverie when I heard

the indignant yipping of a coywolf pack.

Had I accidentally wandered into their territory? I

looked around. I sucked at directions, but this part

of the forest was pretty close to the lake. I had

never seen coywolves by the lake.

The creosote bushes rustled, and the coywolf pack

came charging at me. And I realized it wasn't a

pack, but a family. A coywolf, his mate, and their

four pups.

I broke into a smile and went to my knees. Balto

batted my nose and I rubbed his muzzle. I hugged

him around the neck. His pups yipped with

curiosity, faint and infantile; his mate inched

forward, suspicious. I let go of Balto and his wife

put her nose to my nose, staring me down. I didn't

look away. Placated, she licked my mouth.

Later, as I sat on the forest floor, as I watched them

traipse off to their hidden home, I thought about

how perfect the world looked when humans didn't

interfere with it. Sometimes I wondered whether

behavioral modernity was really such a good

thing. Sometimes it just seemed to create more

problems than it solved.

I went back to the grotto before long; I didn't want

my friends thinking I'd wandered off and gotten

eaten by a bear. Afterward we all decided to head

home.

I found Granny and Racine on the lawn outside our

house, Granny's pendleton blankets stacked high on

the sales table. Jessica chased DeShawn in circles

around the sundial while he yelped, begging for

mercy.

"--own our homes?" Granny was saying.