Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light Series) (5 page)

"Oh," Zeke said.  "Annie said you stopped by.  I thought he was with you."  He waved the manila envelope at me.  "Want it?"

Aubrey squawked and jabbered like an excited prairie chicken.  "Is that your kid?"

"No, dumbass!" Zeke said.  "That's an envelope."

Isaac shot him a dark look.  I couldn't really blame him at the moment.

"Let's see it!" Aubrey said, eager and kindhearted.

"Without Rafael?" I reminded him.

"Oh.  Right..."  Aubrey slouched, but straightened his shoulders in the very same breath.  "Show us at dinner, then!  Ah, just think, there could be a little Gives Light-St. Clair baby in there...  Erm, wait a minute, did Rafael ever change his name?"

Southern Shoshone are matrilineal; the kid always takes the mother's surname, and generally the father does, too.  "Wait," I said, catching on.  "Are you calling me a woman?"

"--Anyway, we're done here, so let's head back inside!"

I shook my head and pretended to take a swing at him.  We dropped our tools off at the shed and went inside the house for a quick drink.

"You'll give them a baby, but not me?" Holly At Dawn said sourly.  She was Daisy's twin sister--there was no mistaking their curved falcon noses and their wavy ringlets--and Zeke's fiancee.  In Nettlebush, we only get married during autumn, part of an old superstition we borrowed from the Paiute.  These two had four long months ahead of them.

I rolled up my sleeve and glanced at my wristwatch.  "I think I'm going to check on Dad," I said.

Reuben nodded politely.  "Tell him hello from me," Serafine said, and "Fine, I didn't want you around here anyway," Holly said.  Holly's definitely a pleasant girl.

Racine and Dad lived on the other side of the lake, in a low, two-story house with a nice view of the shore.  I can still remember when Dad built the house years ago, his shy, roundabout way of asking Racine to stay with him.

I knocked on their door--I probably should have showered first, I thought--and two seconds later, Dad faced me in the doorway.

He looked haggard.  He looked far away.  His eyes were out of focus.  He barely seemed aware that I was facing him.  At least until he rubbed his eyes.

"Cubby?"

"Hi, Dad," I said quietly.  I made sure to smile.

He shook his head with disbelief.  "I still can't believe you're talking again.  After all these years...  You don't know how much I missed your voice."

I knew.  I knew because I had missed it, too.  Just the simplest things--exchanging pleasantries with a friend, telling a family member how much I loved them--the simplest things were a Heavensend.

"I just wish Granny had been around for it," I admitted.

A small silence passed between us, carried on the summer breeze.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for her passing," Dad said, closing his eyes.

"Don't be," I said gently.  "Granny understood.  She always defended what you've done.  And she didn't die alone.  She knew she was loved."

Dad sat down on the parched lawn outside his front door.  I sat with him.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice very quiet.  "Not about that.  I mean...  I don't know that she felt loved by me."

I was somewhat surprised at the turn this conversation was taking.  Was Dad talking about his feelings for once?  I didn't want to discourage him, so I didn't interrupt.

"We never quite got along," Dad mumbled.  "Ever since Julius died..."

Julius was Dad's little brother.  Uncle Julius had died as a five-year-old, more than forty years ago.

And I still didn't know how Uncle Julius had died.  There had been an unspoken rule, growing up, that we didn't talk about him.  Or about my mother.

I placed my hand on Dad's arm, carefully.

"We were playing," Dad said.  "Julius and I.  There's a grotto out in the woods; I don't know if you've ever seen it...  And the most beautiful willow tree."

His profile betrayed none of his heartache; his hands were folded, but his fingers were shaking.  His fingers had been shaking ever since we brought him home.

"I thought he was annoying," Dad said.  "You know how kids are...  He loved me, and he tagged around after me like he was my shadow.  I thought he was a pain.  I wanted him to leave me alone.  So I gave him a dare.  I told him, 'I bet you can't climb that willow tree.' "

My heart felt cold in my chest.

Dad bowed his head over his hands.  But he didn't cry.  He never cried in front of me.

"She blamed me," Dad said.  "And I blamed myself.  And I still do."

"Dad," I said, afraid to raise my voice--afraid to deter him.  "You were a child."

"There's no excuse for it," he said.  "He was my little brother--my responsibility--and I failed him.  I failed my wife, I failed my son...even failed my best friend..."

"No," I said.  "You didn't."  I can't tell you how glad I was to have a voice.  All the things I'd wanted to say to him since I was a child--I could finally say them.  "You raised me.  We're not even related, and you raised me like I was your own."

"You
are
my own," Dad said.

"My mom cheated on you--lied about it--and you still did what you could do avenge her memory."

"I don't want you holding that against her..."

"A man swept through this reservation, completely terrorizing everyone--he killed seven women--and when you found out he was your friend, you still put his victims first."

"I had to.  That's blood law."

"Dad," I said.

He looked at me.

"Your mother loved you," I said.  "
I
love you.  More than anything."

He bowed his head again.  I thought his lips were trembling.  I tried not to look too closely.  I didn't want to embarrass him.

He lifted his head at last.  His eyes reached into mine.

"I hope this works out for you," he said.  "Your foster child.  I hope you love her, and I hope you adopt her.  You can't possibly understand how much I love you until you have a child of your own."

I was the one who felt a little embarrassed.  "You're sure you want to be a grandfather?" I joked.

"Very sure.  I'll teach her all about topography.  I'll teach her the Apache fiddle."

Eventually Racine came outside and insisted we join her for a cup of spicewood tea.  Dad accepted, but I declined; I still had files to send to Carole, wherever the heck she had gone.  I waved goodbye for the remainder of the afternoon and headed home.

And on the walk home I thought about Uncle Julius, chilled to my core.  Small wonder Dad and Granny had never discussed his parting in front of me.  This secret that Dad had carried for so many years--a burden all its own...  Why hadn't he told me sooner?  Maybe I could have helped him.  Maybe I could have comforted him.

In the front room I found Rafael on the hardwood floor with Charity, Charity showing him her summer book report.

"Hi, Skylar," Charity said warmly.  She's the sweetest kid there is.  Round-faced like her mother; tawny-haired like her father; cheeks dimpled like Rafael's.  Hard to believe she's already fifteen.  "I'm entering the raft race this season.  You'll root for me, right?"

"I wouldn't dare root for anybody else," I promised.

Rafael tucked his hair behind his ear and squinted at Charity's papers from behind his glasses.  Maybe he needed a stronger prescription.  "Mr. Red Clay's not gonna like this," he said.  "He wants everything double-spaced these days."

"Mr. Siomme, Rafael," Charity said patiently.

"Yeah, yeah," Rafael said.  "Go get a drink or something.  You're making me thirsty just sitting there."

Charity giggled and ran into the adjoining kitchen.

"What's that?" Rafael said.  He'd just now caught sight of the folder in my hand.

I sat next to Rafael, legs folded.  My legs looked oddly pudgy to me.  I wondered whether I was gaining weight.  "Zeke gave it to me," I said, barely capable of smothering my smile.  "He--"

Rafael didn't wait to hear what I had to say.  He snatched the envelope from me with unparalleled frenzy.  I laughed openly.  Rafael pulled out the papers inside.

He sucked in his breath.

"Well?" I said, and waited.

Rafael's eyes flitted back and forth across the paper.  "Her name's Michaela," he said.  "Michaela Morales."

I whistled.  "We've got ourselves a little Latina."

"Huh?"

"Keep reading."

He did.  "She's ten," he said.

"That's a good age," I said.

"Yeah.  Says her mom's in prison..."

Well, that was unpleasant.

"Says she comes from a pretty abusive home.  Court-ordered therapy a few years ago."

"I'd expected something like that," I admitted. 

"She's got heterozygous beta-thalassemia."

"Oh, what's that?"

"It's a blood thing, a kind of anemia.  Just means she needs to eat iron."  Rafael stopped reading for a second.  "This kid's been in eleven foster homes in three years."

I smiled ruefully.  "Zeke hinted at that."

Rafael lowered the file.  He looked across at me.

"What if she's, like...a terror?  And she murders us in our sleep?"

"Are you sure you're not exaggerating?" I said, trying to mollify him.  "If she were violent, it would say so in her file."

Rafael scanned it again, quickly.  "It doesn't say," he admitted.

"Then she's not violent."  I touched his arm briefly.  "She probably has emotional problems."

"Then what do we do?" he asked.

"Be patient with her," I said, "and think constantly about her needs.  That she's been through so many homes means a lot of people gave up on her.  It would be nice to show her we won't turn her backs on her.  Don't you think?"

For a moment, Rafael was so silent, I could hear Charity crunching on cornmeal cookies in the next room over.

"Damn," Rafael said.  "Am I glad you can finally talk."

3

Touchy Uncle Sal

It was a Sunday morning.  A day of rest, as far as Nettlebush was concerned, but I guess the law stops for nothing.

I tugged on the collar of my turtleneck and winced at the computer screen.

Oliphant v. Suquamish Indian Tribe
, I typed on the keyboard, and immediately felt my brain melting to slush.  An intellectual I am not.  Why did I choose law?  Why didn't I choose picketing, or goat herding, or paranormal investigation?  Why didn't I become an astronaut?

Do you know about the Mark David Oliphant case in 1978?  Mark David Oliphant was a non-Native living on a Native American reservation.  That happens sometimes; in my experience, most tribes are pretty open to people from different races.  But that's not the point.  This guy was a Grade A Jackass.  He walked around getting into fights, beating up women--he even beat up a tribal police officer.  So the tribal police arrested him on battery charges.  Makes sense to me.

Didn't make sense to the rest of the country.  The Supreme Court butted in and came up with this new law--or, well, a new interpretation of the old law.  But whatever you want to call it, it's disgusting, and it still baffles me that anybody agreed to it.

In 1978, the Supreme Court decided that the Suquamish tribe didn't have the power to charge Mr. Oliphant because he's white.

An axe murderer could show up in Nettlebush tomorrow, and as long as he's white, we're not allowed to stop him.  And if we stop him, we're the ones who go to prison.

Did I mention this happened in 1978?

There are about a thousand different reasons I hate this law.  The axe murderer scenario is only one of them.  Did you know 35% of all Native women are going to be assaulted if they leave their reservation?  It's like their attackers
know
they can get away with it.  And when I think about it, I guess they do.  It's a virtual free-for-all.

If I could just convince a judge to overturn that ridiculous ruling--

"Damn it!"

I turned off the computer monitor and spun around.

Rafael stormed into the front room looking frazzled and frustrated.  At once I felt very sorry for him.

"My grandmother's visiting the reserve this summer," Rafael told me.  He sat heavily on the rocking chair that stood next to the kitchen doorway.  "Uncle Gabe just said so."

I tilted my head.  "Is there a reason we're not happy about that?"

"Grandma Gives Light?  She's insane.  She's like a shrieking, two-headed harpy."

"The one who eats raw elk?"

"Yeah, that one.  Heads up, she only speaks Shoshone."

"Oh, that's okay."

Rafael groaned.  "It's
not
okay," he said.  "I was scared stiff of her when I was a kid.  Mary always said--"

I think his sister Mary has psychic powers.  I really do.  She walked in on us just then and whistled--followed closely by her longtime girlfriend, a Navajo woman named Kaya.