“That’s horrible. I hate it when I can’t sleep. And I’ll tell you, this graveyard shift messes with my sleeping. I never know what time it is. Never. Ain’t that right, Paul Too?”
Paul Too sighed deeply and nodded his head in agreement, never lifting his eyes from the paper.
“How’s your health been?” asked Paul. “Been quiet?”
John shrugged his shoulders.
“Yeah, I know how that goes. I hate it when things get loud. I need peace and quiet myself. Time to paint well, to let the colors in my head be the colors on the canvas, you know what I’m saying? A man doesn’t need much in this world, does he, John? Just a little food, a little house, and a little peace and quiet. I once heard that a man needs a full stomach and a warm house before he’ll listen to anybody’s sermon.”
Paul Too cleared his throat.
“I know, I know,” said Paul. “I was going to give you credit, you grumpy old man.”
John looked from Paul to Paul Too.
“You see, John,” said Paul. “Old Paul Too told me that. He said every man needs a good meal, a big blanket, and some peace and quiet. He said it. I’m just paraphrasing.”
Paul Too loudly turned a page, newsprint crinkling like a little bit of thunder.
“Okay, okay,” Paul said. “So it was Bessie Smith who said it first. I was just paraphrasing Paul Too’s paraphrase of Ms. Smith. Are you happy now, old man?”
John finished his donut, drank the last of his coffee. Paul swept them away and wiped the counter clean, leaving the rag for John to inspect. It was blue. John knew the blue rags were sterilized.
“So,” said Paul. “How’s your folks?”
John felt a little heat in his belly. Olivia and Daniel often came to the donut shop searching for John. Sometimes, they found him there. Other times, they just ate donuts and waited for John to arrive. John did not know if the donuts here were the best in Seattle, but his parents thought they were.
“I haven’t seen them for a bit,” Paul said. “I was just wondering.” Then to change the subject: “Do you know who Bessie Smith was?”
John shook his head.
“She was a singer, a fine black woman, back in the twenties and thirties, sang like nobody can sing. Sang good enough to make you crazy, John. Just like what you hear in your head, except everybody could hear it. How’s that for crazy? Drove the whole world insane and then she bled to death because they wouldn’t let her in a white hospital.”
Paul Too looked up at Paul.
“Yeah,” said Paul to Paul Too, “I know you think it was murder. But you think everything is a conspiracy.” Then to John. “Paul Too here thinks that Richard Nixon killed both Kennedys, Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X.”
Paul Too wagged a finger at Paul.
“And,” added Paul, “he thinks Mr. Nixon designed Pintos. You know what I’m saying? Those ugly little cars that looked like insects? You remember how they used to blow up? One little tap on the bumper and boom!”
Paul slapped his hands together loudly. John jumped up from his seat.
“Hey,” Paul said. “I’m sorry there, John. Please, have a seat.”
John sat down. Paul Too smoothed his pants and shirt, smoothed his hair with his left hand, picked up the local news section, and exhaled slowly.
“They found a white man’s body,” said Paul Too, reading from his newspaper.
“What man?” asked Paul.
“A dead man. They found his body in some empty house near Fremont. Houses all around there and nobody saw nothing. He was all messed up. What do they say here? Multiple stab wounds.”
Paul whistled.
“How many is multiple?” asked Paul Too. “How do they say things like that? What do they do? Count them up and measure them? Well, this is a bunch of stab wounds, and this is a lot. But Jesus, this is multiple. I don’t much care for it, you hear?”
“I hear,” Paul said.
“What was his name?” John asked, surprising both Pauls. He rarely talked in the donut shop.
“Well,” Paul said. “Tell the man what his name was.”
“It says here his name was Justin Summers. Now, if that ain’t the whitest white-guy name of all time, then I don’t know what. It’s just a damn shame.”
John started to cry.
“What is it?” asked both Pauls, bracing for the worst. Olivia and Daniel’s phone number was on a list near the telephone.
John covered his face with his hands.
“Did you know him?” asked Paul Too.
John shook his head furiously.
“Are you okay?” Paul asked. “Do you need anything?”
John put his face down on the counter, his shoulders and back heaving, loud sobs. No. Now he was laughing, deep belly laughs, his eyes still wet with tears. He laughed until he felt sick. Paul and Paul Too watched him. He might have laughed until he passed out, he had done it before, but another customer walked in the door and broke the spell.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Ruffatto,” Paul said to the regular.
Paul Too placed a hand on John’s shoulder. John stared at the hand, black skin, long fingers, wrinkled knuckles, a huge hand, callused and old. John eased out from under that hand, backed out of the shop, and started walking. He walked downtown and sat outside the building site. He stared up at the last skyscraper in Seattle. It was small, even by Seattle standards, and pointless. Why were they finishing this tall building when most of the skyscrapers in downtown Seattle were already in financial trouble? So many vacant spaces, so many failed businesses. None of the buildings in downtown Seattle were owned by the people who had originally financed their construction. Nothing was original. John watched his building. A few night people passed by, but John ignored them. He sat alone and quiet, wondering what would happen to him after the construction was complete.
13
Indian Gambling
DAVID ROGERS HAD NEVER been to an Indian gambling casino before that night. He’d never been on an Indian reservation for that matter, despite the fact that there were at least a dozen in and around the Seattle area, and five within a few hours’ drive from his family’s farm. In fact, the city of Spokane was named after a local tribe, but David had never visited their reservation. He knew that Marie Polatkin was Spokane, but she had refused his offer to accompany him to the Tulalip Casino. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to go to the casino. He wanted to see Indians, he knew, but he didn’t know what he would do after that.
His brother, Aaron, and his other housemates, Barry Church and Sean Ward, hadn’t wanted to come with him.
“I’m not going on some reservation,” Aaron had said. “You don’t know what those Indians might do. Hell, they already killed one white guy. And you better not go either. What would Dad say if he knew you were going up there?”
So, with neither his brother’s help nor his father’s permission, David found himself alone and more than a little jumpy as he walked into the Tulalip Tribal Casino, just forty miles north of Seattle. David had expected to find something more illicit and foreign inside. From all the newspaper editorials, the public outcry, and his father’s rantings, David had assumed the casino would be filled with drunk Indian men, half-naked Indian women, and Italian mobsters. Instead, on this weeknight, David saw a couple dozen white farmers losing money at the poker and blackjack tables while the farmers’ wives dropped buckets of quarters into the slot machines. He was probably the youngest man in the casino, but he certainly wasn’t the only white one. He looked like most of the other gamblers. All of the Indians, dressed formally in tuxedos and evening gowns, were working as dealers, cashiers, and waiters. David was vaguely disappointed. He’d come for some cheap, rebellious thrills, a white boy slumming it among the Indians, but he soon discovered that the most dangerous thing in the casino was the thick cloud of cigarette smoke.
Still, once he realized he was safe, David proceeded to have a great time. He’d brought only forty dollars with him and he intended to ga
mble until he was broke. He lost twenty bucks at blackjack, five at poker, spent five on a hamburger and french fries, and was down to his last ten when he decided to have a spin on the slot machines. There must have been a hundred machines lined up in a far corner of the casino. Most machines took quarters, but a few took silver dollars. Bright lights, flashing bulbs, sirens announcing wins. The whirr-whirr-whirr of the slots spinning, the thuk-thuk-thuk of the jackpot-jackpot-apple, a loser, falling into place. The housewives, with white buckets of quarters balanced in their laps, pumped money into the slots. It was all so loud, irritating, and irresistible. A few minutes before midnight, David sat at a one-dollar baseball-themed slot machine, beside a housewife who briefly glanced at him before turning back, with a loud sigh, to her own efforts. Her luck had been bad that night. With his no better, David soon lost nine dollars with nine spins of the slots.
“It’s been that kind of night,” the housewife announced.
“Yeah,” David said, holding his last silver dollar. “This is it. Wish me luck.”
“Luck.”
David dropped the silver dollar into the machine, pulled the handle, and watched the Single-Single-Single drop into place. The housewife screamed as one hundred dollars’ worth of silver dollars spilled onto the floor. A few other women jealously peered around corners as David scooped up his money. He’d won his money back! And then some.
“For luck,” he said to the housewife as he handed her one of his silver dollars.
“You’re not quitting, are you?” she asked.
“Well, maybe not. Maybe just one more.”
He dropped one more dollar into the machine and pulled the handle, realizing this was exactly how casinos made their money. The slots spun, dropped. Home Run–Home Run–Home Run. The housewife was shrieking now and hugging David, who hugged her back. The sirens were deafening. Flashing red lights. The sudden appearance of two beefy Indian security guards. A crowd of white farm folk. Two thousand dollars! Two thousand dollars! Two thousand dollars!
After turning down management’s attempts to give him a check, David walked out of the casino with two thousand dollars in small bills. He knew it was foolish, but he felt like a character in a Hemingway novel. Daring, masculine, without the slightest hint of fear. Or reveling in his fear, staring into the eyes of the charging beast. He wondered what Marie would say. What if she thought he was stealing from the Indians?
David, feeling wealthy and untouchable, walked past the Indian security guards, who were busy calming down a drunken farmer. David couldn’t believe his luck. Aaron would go crazy. They’d party all night, skip class tomorrow, and drink through the weekend. Hell, they could go rent a hotel room and drink it up in style, paper the walls with twenty-dollar bills. David was laughing to himself, lost in fantasy, when he bumped into an Indian man standing near an advertising kiosk outside the casino.
“Excuse me,” David said. He barely looked at the Indian, but noticed a funny sign on the kiosk. WELCOME TO THE SIXTH ANNUAL TULALIP INDIAN NATION ALL-INDIAN BASKETBALL TOURNAMENT.
“Hey,” David said, pointing at the sign. “Gets pretty specific, doesn’t it?”
The Indian didn’t respond, which made David a little tense. He placed his hand on the large envelope of money in his coat pocket. He suddenly felt very white. The Indian, with a curious, canine twist of his head, looked at David. The Indian could smell the white boy’s fear.
“Well,” David said. “See you later.”
David could see his pickup in the parking lot. About a hundred feet away. Twenty seconds to get there. Remain calm, he thought. As he walked toward the pickup, David dug through his pockets. He found the right key, and readied it for quick use. Then he glanced back toward the casino and saw that the Indian was gone. The parking lot was dark. No people. The hum of the freeway a few hundred feet to the east. Increasingly nervous now, David began to hurry. He reached his pickup and tried to insert the key, but his hands were shaking and he dropped it. Jesus, David asked himself, what are you so scared of? He bent down to pick up the keys, felt a sudden, sharp pain at the back of his head, and then felt nothing at all.
14
Testimony
“MRS. JOHNSON, DID YOU see anything or anybody suspicious in the casino?”
“No.”
“Are you okay, Mrs. Johnson? Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. It’s just. I mean, he seemed like such a sweet boy. What was his name?”
“David. David Rogers.”
“Yes, that’s it. He give me a silver dollar. I have it right here. He said it was for luck and then he hit the jackpot. I guess he wasn’t so lucky, was he?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you know what happened to him? Do you know anything at all?”
“We’re working on it, ma’am. Right now, we just know he left his pickup in the parking lot. That’s all we know.”
“It’s like he just disappeared, isn’t it?”
“Something like that.”
“And all that’s left of him is this silver dollar, isn’t it?”
“Right now, it looks that way.”
“But it’s so small.”
“Very small, ma’am.”
“Does this have anything to do with that boy who was scalped down in Seattle?”
“We don’t know, ma’am.”
15
Variations
AFTER OLIVIA HEARD THE news about the young man who had disappeared from the Indian casino, she called Daniel at work.
“Daniel, have you heard about that boy who disappeared? From the reservation?”
“Yes,” said Daniel impatiently.
“What do you think happened to him?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like a robbery.”
“I bet his family is worried sick,” said Olivia, thinking about how John had often disappeared from her life, only to reappear at unexpected times. She wondered how she would feel if John disappeared forever. She thought about the white man who had been scalped and murdered. She wondered how his family felt about his death.
“Are you okay?” Daniel asked, hearing the worry in his wife’s voice.
“I was just thinking about John. Have you heard from him?”
“No.”
“Well, I was just thinking, you know, that maybe we could go see if he’s at his apartment. I mean, he’s not answering his phone. But maybe he’s just ignoring it. Maybe he’s hurt.”
“If you want,” Daniel said, not wanting to admit how much he wanted to go searching for John.
After work, Daniel drove from downtown Seattle east across the 520 bridge to Bellevue, picked up Olivia from her part-time job at the Bellevue Art Museum, and then headed back across the bridge. Heavy traffic. Daniel hated the two bridges, 520 to the north and I-90 to the south, that connected the eastern and western halves of the Seattle metropolitan area. Like most American cities, Seattle was a city of distinct and divided neighborhoods, and though it had a reputation for cultural diversity, there was actually a very small minority population, consisting primarily of Asian-and African-Americans. And the minority populations mostly lived, by choice and by economic circumstance, in the Central, International, and University Districts. The middle-class whites generally lived on the twin hills of Queen Anne and Magnolia, overlooking the rest of the city, while the rich white people mostly lived in Bellevue or on Mercer Island, a financial and geographical enclave that sat in the waters of Lake Washington, halfway between Bellevue and Seattle. Where water had once been a natural boundary, it now existed as an economic barrier. And in those places where natural boundaries between neighborhoods didn’t exist, the engineers had quickly built waterways. So much water separating people.
Daniel knew that all the bridges and water were beautiful, but it was so hard to get from one place to another. Daniel hated traffic and constantly cursed other drivers. He took delays personally, as if each car were specifically placed to impede his progress. When John was young, Daniel
had learned to control his tongue. But now that John was no longer a passenger, Daniel would fully vent his anger. He honked his horn, yelled, and mumbled by turns, wanting to talk to his son, John, the boy who, despite all the water so close to home, had never learned to swim.
Olivia did not mind sitting in the car. The Lexus had a great stereo system. She could play a compact disc and compose herself in preparation for their visit with John. She loved classical music, especially Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations. For reasons she could not verbalize, Olivia had been immediately touched by his music. She was not a musical expert, had no scholarly vocabulary, but felt that she needed Gould’s piano playing in order to feel more substantial. Each series of notes, played straight, inverted, repeated, became the reason she could get out of the bed some mornings. The music came to mean even more to her after she read about Gould’s life, how he had quit performing publicly without the slightest warning. On that evening, he had signed an autograph for a backstage technician, told him that he was never going to perform again, and then played for the last time for an audience. It was wildly eccentric, Olivia thought, and impossibly romantic. It was the sort of rebellion that only a genius could have pulled off. Olivia wondered what Gould had felt that evening, how a weight must have lifted from his shoulders and drifted up into the rafters. As she and Daniel drove into Ballard in search of John, Olivia felt only sadness. While Gould had been very eccentric, quite probably mentally ill, he also managed to produce some of the greatest music of the twentieth century. Olivia wondered if her son, John, would ever be able to create anything of value.
John had left Olivia and Daniel’s home shortly after high school graduation. Daniel had encouraged the move and preferred to view it as some sort of initiation into manhood. Secretly, though, Daniel hoped that the move would be good for John, who had become increasingly withdrawn and distant. Most teenagers were temperamental, but John’s mood swings seemed to be too dramatic. Sometime during high school, he began to go immediately to his room after coming home. He would play one of the powwow music tapes he had bought, and not come out until morning. When Olivia brought John dinner in his room, Daniel felt that was being far too accommodating. But he knew he had been fairly lenient himself, due in large part, he thought, to John’s status as an adopted child. Oh, there were lots of times when John was simply their son, with no need for any qualifiers, but the stark difference in their physical appearances was a nagging reminder of the truth. If Olivia and Daniel could not forget that John was adopted, then John must have carried that knowledge even closer to his skin. Daniel wondered if his worries about John were normal parental worries, or unfounded obsessions that somehow changed John’s little teenage rebellions into full-scale wars. Maybe that was why John played his music so loudly, so he could not hear himself thinking about his mysterious origins. Sometimes, John would play his powwow music deep into the night.