The Toughest Indian in the World (14 page)

“Twelve years old, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re very big for your age, Mr. Lot.”

“My family, we’re all big.”

“We don’t need the local,” the British or Australian man said to the other person in the room.

“No anesthetic?” asked the other person, a woman, a deep voice, no accent at all. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said the British or Australian man as he flipped through a book. I could hear the turning of pages and wondered if he was reading the Bible.

“Are you priests?” I asked them.

Both of them laughed.

“No, Jonah,” said the man. “We’re doctors.”

“Don’t hurt me,” I said again. I begged. The male doctor placed his hand on my head. It was not a tender touch. His hand was heavy.

“Son,” he said, though he was not my father. “We’re going to do what we have to do, and we’ll do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible. That’s all I can promise. Now, you need to hush while we work.”

I could hear the rattle of metal against metal. I did not know if I heard tools scraping against a metal tray or surgical instruments being sharpened. In my mind, I could see the needles and knives, the saws and hammers. I could see the cruel eyes of the doctors, the rest of their faces hidden by white surgical masks. Behind those masks, I knew there must be scars, open wounds, and jagged teeth. Behind those masks, I knew there must be more metal: aluminum staples holding the skin together, iron sockets containing the eyes, and steel blades substituting for teeth.

“This is going to be a little cold,” said the female doctor.

I felt an icy liquid roll over my left hip, then my right hip. I was so frightened and cold that it could easily have been my own blood.

“What was that?” I asked, crying now.

“Disinfectant,” said the male doctor. “Now, please, be quiet. I’ve told you once.”

“What are you doing to me?” I asked. I lifted my head. I struggled against the restraining belts.

“Stop moving,” said the woman doctor.

I felt a strong hand on the back of my neck as it pressed my head against the table. I could not move. The male doctor leaned down close to my ear.

“Jonah,” he whispered. “That is your name, is it not? Jonah?”

“Yes,” I said. The pressure on my neck was painful.

“Jonah,” he said. “You’re irritating me. And I am sure you’re also irritating Dr. Clancy. Is he not, Dr. Clancy?”

“He certainly is,” she said.

“Jonah,” he said. “I know this is all very frightening for you. I wish there was something I could do about that. But there is simply nothing that can be done. Now, if you refuse to be quiet, we’ll have to gag you. And you don’t want that, do you now?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“Then I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said. I heard the anger in his voice and something beyond that, a kind of resignation, a weary acceptance of his role in that prison.

“The ten-gauge?” asked Dr. Clancy, the female doctor.

“Yes,” said the male doctor.

I wondered what kind of weapon the doctors were talking about. I felt two sets of hands on my body.

“You’re going to feel some pressure here,” said Dr. Clancy.

I felt a hot pain as a needle slid into my left hip, through the skin, through the muscle and into the hip socket, into the center of the bone. But more than that, I felt the pain deep in my stomach, and beyond that, in the very spirit of my stomach. I felt the needle bite into me, heard the impossibly loud hiss of the hypodermic syringe as it sucked out pieces of my body, sucked out the blood, sucked out fluid ounces of my soul, sucked out antibodies, sucked out pieces of all of my stories, sucked out marrow, and sucked out pieces of my vocabulary. I knew that certain words were being taken from me.

I cried out in surprise and pain, and my cries sounded like tiny prayers.

“Hush, hush, Jonah,” said the male doctor as he pushed the needle deeper into my body, as Dr. Clancy pushed another needle deep into my other hip. “You’re doing a brave thing. You’re saving the world.”

I woke naked and alone in a bright room. I stood with much difficulty and stared into a wall of mirrors that were really windows. Beyond the glass, doctors and soldiers watched me. I was afraid. I was without words. I was small and would not grow again. Arrested. The door opened. Two soldiers pushed a naked Indian woman into the room. The door closed.

She stood there, tall and proud. Perfect brown skin. Large breasts. Shaved head. She threw obscene gestures against the mirrors that were really windows. Then she looked at me. She saw me.

“You’re just a boy,” she whispered. Then she shouted, “He’s just a boy. Look at his penis.”

She was right. I crouched low, trying to hide what I did not have.

“He’s been tested,” said a disembodied voice, filling the bright room. “He’s fertile.”

“I’m not going to do it,” she said. “It’s wrong. It’s wrong.”

There was no response.

She walked over to me, kneeled beside me. She lifted my face and looked into my eyes.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I don’t remember,” I said. I would never remember.

She wiped the tears from my face with her fingers. She touched them to her lips.

“Why are they doing this?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve heard stories. But you know how Indians are.”

“Yes, we just talk and talk.”

We smiled together. She took my hand.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“I’m Spokane,” I said. “From the reservation.”

“I’m Apache,” she said. “I live, I used to live, in Los Angeles.”

I closed my eyes and tried to see that city, with its large spaces between people.

“What is it like?” I asked. “That city?”

“It goes on forever,” she said. “And there are earthquakes that shake you out of bed in the morning. And there are more Indians living there than in any city in the whole world.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Yes, wow,” she confirmed.

“Please commence,” said the disembodied voice.

“Shut the hell up,” the Indian woman screamed at the walls. I startled, but she pulled me close, pressed my face against her naked breasts.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I hate them. I hate them.”

“Please commence,” said the disembodied voice again.

“No,” said the Indian woman. She whispered it, more to herself than to me, or to the doctors and soldiers on the other side of the glass.

She spoke softly.

“This is five times today,” she said.

“Five times what?” I asked.

She stood and took me with her. She marched up to the mirrors that were really windows.

“Look at him,” she said as she pushed me closer to the glass. “Look at him. He’s just a child.”

“Please commence,” said the disembodied voice.

“I’ve done it five times today,” she shouted. “Five times. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough?”

“Please commence. Or be punished.”

“Fuck you,” she shouted. “I’m not doing it, I’m not doing it.”

Two soldiers rushed into the room. I could not see their faces behind their helmets, but I imagined their eyes were ivory-colored and fragile, as fragmented as eggshells. They carried electrical sticks. They jabbed one of the sticks into the Indian woman’s belly and one into mine. The blue light rose from my belly, squeezed my heart, and stopped my brain for one breath.

The Indian woman screamed in pain as she fell to the floor. She kicked and punched at the soldiers. But I could only press my face against the cold floor and pray. I looked at my hands and remembered, briefly, so briefly, the feel of my father’s hands when he touched my face, when he whispered secrets to me. And then it was gone, all gone.

“Fuck you, fuck you,” shouted the Indian woman. She climbed to her feet and pushed against the soldiers.

“Please commence or punishment will continue,” said the disembodied voice.

“What are you doing to me?” asked the Indian woman. She pointed at the soldiers. “Take off your masks. Let me look at you.”

Like stained glass, the soldiers remained still and cold, all of their emotions created by the artificial light passing over their faces.

“Do you have mothers?” the Indian woman asked the stained-glass soldiers. “Do you have daughters? Look at me. I’m a woman. Would you do this to the women in your life? Would you?”

She pulled me to my feet. I retched, threw up what little food was in my stomach.

“Look at me,” she shouted. “He’s just a child. A boy. Look at him. Look at him.”

The soldiers didn’t move.

“Please commence or punishment will continue.”

The Indian woman lifted her face toward the ceiling and screamed. I imagined that all of the Indians in the world—all of those who had survived the blood parade—turned their heads when they heard the sound of her voice. I would never again see most of those Indians. For the rest of my life, I would see only rooms with white walls and the brown skin of naked Indian women. For the rest of my life, they would come to my room and lie down with me. Most of them would not speak; a few of them would die in my arms. They would surrender. I would survive and live on.

“He’s just a boy,” shouted the Indian woman and rushed the soldiers. The larger one swung his electric stick and bloodied her mouth.

“Do not draw blood,” said the disembodied voice. “Do not draw blood.”

The Indian woman screamed through the red glow in her mouth.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “What is wrong with you?”

“Please commence or you will be eliminated.”

She pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. I could hear the blood fall from her lips and felt it land on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But we have to do this. We have to do this.”

She pushed me back to the floor. We lay there together as the two soldiers stood above us.

“What are we supposed to do?” I asked.

“We’re supposed to make love, have sex,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yes,” I said. I’d walked in on my mother and father when they were in bed. They’d explained it to me.

“They want me to get pregnant,” she said. “I’m in my fertile time. I’ve already had sex with five men today. I don’t know when they’ll let me stop. I don’t know when.”

She cried then and pressed her face against me.

I touched her belly. I wondered if we would have a child together. I wondered if I would ever see my son or my daughter.

“Please commence or you will be eliminated.”

She kissed my forehead.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” she said. “This shouldn’t be happening to you.”

“I’ve never done it before,” I said.

She smiled then—sadness—and kissed my lips—more sadness.

“Do you have children?” I asked. “I mean, did you have them before this?”

“Three,” she said. “I’ll never see them again.”

She took my hand in hers and placed it on her breast.

“Rescue me,” she said.

We made love.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Pretend we’re alone. Pretend I’m not me. Pretend you’re somebody else. Don’t let them touch you. Don’t let me touch you.”

We made love.

I closed my eyes and saw my mother. I saw her bring a cup of water to my lips.

“Drink,” my mother said. “Drink.”

I touched my mother’s hands. I held my face against her dark hair and breathed in all of her smells.

She smelled like smoke.

We made love.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she said.

On the other side of the glass, they watched us. They were always watching us.

“Don’t let them hurt you,” she said.

My mother kissed my forehead. Her breath smelled of coffee and peppermint—the scent of forgiveness, of safety and warmth. She chased my nightmares out of the house with her mother’s broom.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she said. “And they can’t see you.”

We made love.

The two soldiers stood above us and prayed. They took deep breaths and smelled coffee and peppermint.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “We’re alone, we’re alone.”

I kept my eyes closed as I found my way inside of her, as I walked through the rooms of her, as I opened one door after another, as I found a bed where I could lie down and cover myself with thick quilts.

They wanted our blood. They would always want our blood.

“Hide,” she said. “Don’t let them see you.”

Inside of her, I breathed in the dark. I was warm; I was safe.

“Are you my mother?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. She said, “Yes.”

“Mother,” I whispered. “Mother, mother, mother.”

L
OW MAN SMITH STEPPED
off the airplane in Missoula, Montana, walked up the humid jetway, and entered the air-conditioned terminal. He was excited that he was about to see her, Carlotta, the Navajo woman who lived on the Flathead Indian Reservation. All during the flight from Seattle, he’d been wondering what he would first say to her, this poet who taught English at the Flathead Indian College, and had carried on a fierce and exhausting internal debate on the matter. He’d finally decided, just as the plane touched down, to begin his new life with a simple declaration: “Thank you for inviting me.”

He practiced those five words in his head—
thank you for inviting me
—and chastised himself for not learning to say them in her language, in Navajo, in Dine.

He was a Coeur d’Alene Indian, even though his mother was white. He’d been born and raised in Seattle, didn’t speak his own tribal language, and had visited his home reservation only six times in his life. His mother had often tried to push Low Man toward the reservation, toward his cousins, aunts, and uncles—all of those who had survived one war or another—but Low Man just wasn’t interested, especially after his Coeur d’Alene father died of a heart attack while welding together one of the last great ships in Elliott Bay. More accurately, Low Man’s father had drowned after his heart attack had knocked him unconscious and then off the boat into the water.

Low Man believed the Coeur d’Alene Reservation to be a monotonous place—a wet kind of monotony that white tourists saw as spiritual and magic. Tourists snapped off dozens of photographs and tried to capture it—the wet, spiritual monotony—before they climbed back into their rental cars and drove away to the next reservation on their itineraries.