Now, as John walked through downtown Seattle, as white people walked wide circles around him, as they crossed busy streets to avoid him, as they pointed at him and whispered behind their hands, he began to see them as they truly were. White flames. A family of white flames, mother, father, daughter, son. A flame riding a bicycle. Flames crowding onto the Bainbridge Island ferry. A flame playing a battered guitar. Flames sitting in the cars passing by. One flame leaning out a pickup window, shouting obscenities at John. He wondered if Father Duncan, before he disappeared in the desert, had begun to see people as they truly were. Had Father Duncan, in his beautiful black robe, looked into the mirror and seen the white flame dancing at his neck? There were flames everywhere in downtown Seattle. Three large white flames surrounding a tiny, old Indian woman beneath the Alaskan Way Viaduct.
“Hey, Indian Killer,” the brightest flame taunted the old woman, who wore dark sunglasses and carried a white cane. “Come on, Indian Killer, come on. Show me how tough you are. Kill me, kill me.”
The old woman had no escape. Painfully skinny, her elbows and knees larger than her arm and leg muscles, her head and feet large and out of proportion, she looked more manufactured than human. She raised her fists to the three white flames surrounding her.
“Get away from me!” shouted the old woman. “I ain’t done nothing to you!”
John easily pushed aside the three flames and stood beside the old woman. John faced the three flames. John, feeling as strong as water. The flames wavered in his presence. A small crowd had gathered to watch. Other flames. A few of them shouting protests.
The flame that burned brightest had to smile, raise his empty hands and clap them together. The old woman was startled, but John didn’t react. The flame laughed. He pointed at John, and then all three flames piled into a pickup and drove away. The crowd of white flames that had gathered to watch soon dissipated.
“Hey, cousin,” the old woman said to John. “You showed up just in time. I was about ready to hurt somebody.”
“They’re gone,” John said.
“What tribe you are?” asked the old woman.
“Navajo.”
“Ah, Nah-vee-joe, huh? N-a-v-a-j-o,” the old woman spelled. She sniffed at John. “Yeah, you do smell like the desert. You a long ways from home, enit?”
John didn’t reply.
“You got some place to stay, Mr. Nah-vee-joe? Me, I’ve got lots of places to stay around here. All these white people think I’m homeless. But I ain’t homeless. I’m Duwamish Indian. You see all this land around here.” The old woman waved her arms around. “All of this, the city, the water, the mountains, it’s all Duwamish land. Has been for thousands of years. I belong here, cousin. I’m the landlady. And all these white people, even the rich ones living up in those penthouses, they’re the homeless ones. Those white people are a long way from home, don’t you think? Long way from E-u-r-o-p-e.”
John looked at the white flames around them. Just a few now. It was getting late. He saw flames crossing an ocean of gasoline.
“Hey, cousin, what’s your name?”
“John. John Smith.”
“Well, John-John, you want a drink?”
John looked at the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He was disappointed in the old woman.
“I don’t drink,” John said.
“Heck, John-John, it ain’t a-l-c-o-h-o-l. It’s water. Bottled water at that. You can’t tell anymore what they put in the tap water, you know?”
John knew they could put poison in bottled as well as tap water, but he didn’t want to scare the old woman.
“What’s your name?” John asked.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she whispered. “My Christian name is Carlotta Lott, but my real name, my Indian name is…” The old woman sniffed the air to make sure nobody was close enough to hear. “My Indian name is…are you sure you can keep a secret?”
John nodded.
“Okay. My real name is Carlotta Lott.”
John was confused. The old woman was laughing loudly. She clapped her hands, slapped her belly with unmitigated glee. John reached out and touched Carlotta’s shoulder.
“John-John,” said Carlotta, suddenly serious. “There’s a big difference between what those white people think about Indians and what we know about us. A big d-i-f-f-e-r-e-n-c-e. And there’s even a bigger difference between what Indians think about each other, and what you and I know about ourselves.”
John released Carlotta’s shoulder. She took off her sunglasses and John stared at her dead eyes that were as white as salt.
“You see, John-John, I think I know a little about you. I think I know a little of what you want. I can feel it in here.” Carlotta touched her chest. “You got something special about you, enit?” Then lower and deeper, as if her voice were coming from a different place inside of her. “Real special.”
John nodded. Carlotta reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, rusty knife. Just a small paring knife rescued from a restaurant Dumpster. The old woman found John’s hand and folded his fingers around the knife handle.
“This is my magic,” said Carlotta. “And I think you know about magic. There’s good magic and there’s bad magic. This knife is both.”
John held the knife. It was small and pitiful.
“I think you know about the knife, don’t you? K-n-i-f-e. Silent K, John-John, silent K.”
John tried to give the knife back to the old woman. He didn’t think he needed it.
“No, no, Mr. Nah-vee-joe, it’s my gift to you. From a Duwamish Indian to a guest, a visitor.” Carlotta bowed deeply. “You honor me with your presence. H-o-n-o-r.”
“I have nothing for you,” said John.
“Yes, yes, you do, your ears, John-John, your ears.”
John touched both of his ears, one and then the other.
“Listen to me, John-John. I used to see. I have seen many things. Things that were good. Things that were bad. Things I wasn’t supposed to see. We’ve been good to white people, enit? When they first came here, we was good to them, wasn’t we? We taught them how to grow food. We taught them to keep warm. We was good hosts, enit? And then what did they do? They killed us.
“But we’ll get back at them, John-John. I’ve got me a time machine. And I can show you how to use it. You can go back to that beach where Columbus first landed, you know? You can wait there for him, hidden in the sand or something. C-a-m-o-u-f-l-a-g-e. And when he gets on the sand, you can jump out of hiding and show him some magic, enit? Good magic, bad magic, it’s all the same.”
The old woman pointed in the general direction of the puny knife in John’s hand.
“Magic, magic, magic,” chanted the old woman. “You want to go back? You want to know how to use the time machine?”
“Yes.”
The old woman stuck her right hand in her pocket. She wiggled it around as if searching for something.
“You want to see the time machine?” asked the old woman. “I got it in my pocket.”
“Yes.”
“You sure you want to see it? It’s powerful. And once you see it, there ain’t no going back. N-o.”
“Yes.”
The old woman whipped her hand out of her pocket and held it out to John. It was empty. John could see the dirty, brown skin, the four fingers and opposable thumb. John stared at Carlotta’s empty hand, and then at the knife in his own hand, and understood.
19
The Aurora Avenue Massacre
“WHAT’S MY NAME?” ASKED Reggie. He held a tape recorder in front of the white man.
“I don’t know,” sobbed the white man. He was on his knees while Ty and Harley held his arms at painful angles behind his back. They were all on the Indian Heritage High School football field, just a few blocks from Big Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. It was late. Loud traffic on Aurora Avenue to the west and Interstate 5 to the east. Reggie was recording all of it.
&n
bsp; The white man had been camping on the football field, after having hitchhiked into town. He’d dropped out of college a few months earlier and had been exploring the country ever since. He had one hundred dollars in cash, two hundred in traveler’s checks, three ripe bananas, a Jim Harrison novel, and various articles of clothing. Also, a sleeping bag, small one-man tent, first-aid kit, flashlight, portable radio, and an Eddie Bauer backpack.
“What’s my name?” Reggie asked again.
“I don’t know.”
Reggie kicked the white man in the stomach. Hard enough to bruise, but not enough to cause permanent damage. Reggie was good at this. He looked down at the kneeling white man.
“Hurt him,” Reggie signed to Harley.
Harley nodded and twisted the white man’s arm. Howls of pain that Harley could not hear. Howls of pain that Reggie recorded and would listen to later.
“Now,” Reggie said. “What the fuck is my name?”
“Please. Please stop. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“My name is Ira Hayes,” Reggie said.
“Okay, okay,” said the white man. “Your name is Ira Hayes.”
“Yeah, you know I was one of those guys who raised the flag at Iwo Jima?”
“Iwo what?”
Reggie kicked the white man.
“Iwo Jima, asshole. An island in the Pacific. During World War Two. One of the bloodiest military exercises of all time. Thousands and thousands died. But I survived, man. I climbed to the top of Iwo Jima and helped plant that flag. I was a hero. And now I’m dead. You know how I died?”
“No.”
Reggie kicked the white man again.
“You know how I died?”
“How?”
“Exposure. I fucking froze to death in a snowbank.”
The white man looked up at Reggie, who then slapped him hard across the face. Reggie held the recorder close to the sobbing man.
“Why’d you let me freeze?” Reggie asked.
“I…I didn’t.”
Reggie slapped him again.
“Why’d you let me freeze?”
The white man shook his head. Reggie grabbed him by the hair.
“What’s my name?”
“Ira Hayes.”
Another slap.
“Wrong. What’s my name?”
“Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes.” The white man pleading now. Reggie slapped him twice.
“What’s my name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do it,” Reggie said to Ty, and he twisted the white man’s arm until something popped. The white man screamed into the tape recorder.
“Somebody’s going to hear us,” Ty said to Reggie, who then took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and shoved it into the white man’s mouth.
“What’s my name?” Reggie asked the white man, who could not respond intelligibly. Reggie slapped him.
“Shit, when you going to learn,” Reggie spoke directly into the tape recorder. “My name is Black Kettle. And I’m alive right?”
The white man nodded agreement.
“Wrong,” Reggie said and kicked him. “I’m dead.”
The white man wept.
“Because you white bastards murdered me. You killed me on the Washita River in Oklahoma. You and that fucker Custer, remember?”
No response.
“Yeah, we were flying a U.S. flag above our village, remember? We saw you coming, your Seventh Cavalry, and my wife and I rode out to meet you, to ask for peace. And you shot us before we even spoke. Do you remember?
“And do you remember my camp on Sand Creek in Colorado four years earlier? Do you remember when you and Colonel John Chivington rode on our camp? Once again, we were flying a U.S. flag, and a white flag. We had no weapons, none, not one rifle. We were mostly women, children, and old people. And you rode in on us and killed three hundred. Do you remember? What’s my name?”
The white man wearily shook his head.
“It’s Black Kettle, you fucker,” said Reggie and punched the white man in the face, knocking him unconscious.
“Oh, shit,” Reggie said into the tape recorder. “He’s out.”
“That’s enough,” signed Harley. “Let’s get out of here.”
Ty agreed.
“Listen,” signed Reggie. “It’s over when I say it’s over.”
Reggie shook the white man until he came to.
“What’s your name?” Reggie asked him and he grunted something through his gag.
“No, that ain’t it,” said Reggie. “Your name is Truck Schultz.”
The white man was skinny, with an unkempt goatee. He was extremely near-sighted but had lost his glasses somewhere during the struggle with Reggie, Ty, and Harley.
“Aren’t you a white-trash asshole named Truck Schultz?” Reggie asked. “What do you think? You like that name?”
The white man shook his head.
“Really? You don’t like that name? You are positive that’s not your name? You sure?”
The white man nodded.
“Damn, you white guys look alike.” He signed to Ty and Harley. “Don’t they look alike?”
Ty and Harley nodded. Reggie kneeled down beside the white man.
“You ain’t Truck Schultz, huh?” said Reggie. “Well, you look like one of those professor types. Are you a professor? I mean, with that fucking goatee, you look like a professor. Are you sure you’re not? Speak into the mike, man.”
The white man grunted and nodded his head.
“I’m really sorry,” Reggie whispered. “I guess I confused you with someone else. Can you ever forgive me?”
The white man nodded.
“Really? That’s so kind of you,” said Reggie. “I mean, we’re all human, right? And we make mistakes, don’t we? I mean, we were looking for a white-trash asshole named Truck Schultz, and it looks like we got ourselves a whole different white-trash asshole, right?”
The white man vigorously nodded his head.
“Well, then,” said Reggie. “Let’s say we make a deal. How about I promise to let you go if you promise to keep all this between us. Does that sound okay?”
“Hm-huh, hmn-huh,” the white man agreed through the handkerchief in his mouth.
“You promise?” Reggie asked as he dropped the tape recorder into a pocket. He then placed his hands on either side of the white man’s face, leaned in close as if he was going to kiss him, and forced his thumbs into the white man’s eyes. The white man screamed as Reggie dug into his eyes, searching for whatever existed behind them. The white man fainted from shock and pain. Stunned, Harley and Ty let go of the white man’s arms and stepped back. The white man flopped facedown into the grass and did not move.
“What did you do?” Ty asked.
“I took his eyes,” Reggie said, genuinely surprised by Ty’s question.
Harley looked down at the white man’s body, then at Ty and Reggie, and ran away. Ty soon followed, and Reggie kicked the white man once more before chasing after his friends.
20
The Elliott Bay Book Company
WILSON WAS EXCITED ABOUT his reading, and worried that news of the Indian Killer would make the bookstore cancel. But Ray Simmons, the readings coordinator, who somehow found the time and energy to schedule over three hundred readings a year, had assured Wilson that it was going to happen. The Elliott Bay Book Company was a beautiful store in the heart of Pioneer Square, just a few blocks from the Alaskan Way Viaduct and the waters of Elliott Bay itself.
There was another side to the coin, though. Because of the proximity of the water, and because the Elliott Bay’s basement was actually below sea level, rats had often been seen darting through the store. Wilson had never laid eyes on the rats but had heard rumors that they were often mistaken for small dogs. It was said that Elliott Bay’s owners had once bought a small battalion of cats to take care of the rats. One night, after closing, they had released the cats into the store. When the store had opened early the next morning,
the cats had disappeared. It was a wonderful rumor and, if true, more proof that Elliott Bay was a great bookstore. Wilson certainly would have hated it if rats lived in his building. Yet he believed the rats, or the rumors of rats, belonged at Elliott Bay, and gave the place mystery as well as beauty.
Wilson decided to take a taxi to the bookstore for his reading. It would save time and energy, he told himself, an excuse for arriving in as formal a manner as he could afford. Wilson, waiting outside his building when the cab pulled up, immediately recognized the driver, Eric. As an ex-cop, Wilson knew a lot of cab drivers, all kinds of emergency room doctors, and many bar owners.
“Hey, Wilson!” shouted Eric, who apparently had no control over the volume of his voice or any idea that he always yelled.
“Hey, Eric,” said Wilson as he climbed into the cab.
“Where to?”