He felt guilty for having left Marie alone with Wilson and the cab driver, but John had been frightened by his anger. He stood over those two white men and wanted to kill them both. He wanted to smash their faces, break their bones, and crush their blue eyes. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Marie, who would have witnessed it. She should not be subjected to such things. She was special and deserved something better. John had wanted to trust her, the woman who gave sandwiches away, but her thick glasses were frightening. Her crooked front teeth were absolutely terrifying. John could feel the heat spreading in his belly when he thought of her, the Indian woman with small breasts and thick hips. He wanted to tell of his plan, his need to kill the white man who was responsible for everything that had gone wrong. But she might misunderstand. John could not risk that. He had not meant to leave her behind, but he had to protect himself. He could have crushed the writer and cab driver, but that would ruin everything. There were too many eyes watching. John had to sacrifice his time with Marie so that he could live. He had to have priorities, make schedules, budget his time and energy. He had found his way to Big Heart’s because he knew he would be safe there. So many Indians. Though he knew he wasn’t a real Indian, John knew he looked like one. His face was his mask. John knew all of this to be true.
If John had happened to look at the Big Heart’s dance floor right then, he would have seen two Indian women, tired of waiting to be asked, dancing all by themselves. He would have seen dozens of other dancing couples, and large groups of single Indian men. Too shy to dance, they sat in large groups, whispering about their romantic intentions.
“Hey, you see that one?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to ask her to dance.”
“When?”
“Pretty soon. I’m taking my time.”
Those discussions went on for hours while the women waited, or danced with each other, or left the bar. When an Indian man finally found the courage to dance, he usually stood in place, shuffled his feet back and forth, snapped his fingers in time with the music. The only Indian men who danced with abandon were the same ones who danced traditionally during the powwows. Whenever a fancydancer or a grassdancer took the floor at Big Heart’s, he was the object of much curiosity.
John never danced. He barely talked. Indian women often approached him because he was a big, handsome buck with long, black hair. The women sat in dark corners and watched John.
“You see that big one over there? He looks like he just got off a horse.”
“Oh, yeah, enit? I think he’s Navajo. You know I’d comb his hair every night.”
The Indian women would laugh. They were always laughing. John wanted to laugh. He knew his laughter would make him feel more like a real Indian. He listened closely to the laughter, tried to memorize it. A booming belly laugh from a fat Lummi Indian. A low chuckle from Jim the Colville. A poke-to-the-rib-cage giggle from Lillian, a Makah. All kinds of laughter. All kinds of Indians. John would practice at home, stretch his mouth into those strange shapes called smiles, and laugh loudly enough to make his neighbors nervous.
John sat at the bar and laughed. Nobody paid much attention. It was not unusual for an Indian to sit alone at a bar and laugh.
“Hey.” A woman’s voice. John ignored it.
“Hey.” The woman again. John closed his eyes.
“Hey,” said the woman as she touched John’s shoulder. Frightened, he whirled in his seat. The Indian woman stepped back. John studied her for any signs of danger. She was tall and dark, her black hair cut into a stylish bob. Beautiful and confident. She wore a red shirt and blue jeans.
“You want to dance?” she asked.
John shook his head, turned back to his soda.
“Come on,” she said. “Shock me.”
She took John’s hand and led him onto the dance floor. He did not recognize the song, but it was too fast.
“My name is Fawn. I’m Crow,” she said, dancing a circle around John. She spun, shook her hips and hair. She put her hands around John’s waist and danced in closer.
“Who do you love?” she asked. It was more a step in her dance than a question or invitation. John raised his fist in the air the way that Marie had taught him. Fawn looked at his fist, at the ceiling. She laughed, raised her fist to the ceiling. Other dancers watched this happening. They raised their fists to the ceiling. Nobody knew why they were doing this. It just happened. One song blended smoothly into another, then another. John raised both fists. He pumped them into the air. One white guy was singing on the jukebox, then another, and a third. Song after song. Indians dropped quarters into the jukebox, punched the buttons, and waited for their songs to play. There were so many quarters in the machine, so many songs requested, that the jukebox would still be playing a few hours after closing time.
Fawn and John danced. Jealous Indian men watched closely. Fawn was a beautiful woman who never went home with anyone, but most of the men liked to assume they would be the first. John was taking that opportunity away from them. Ty, the Coeur d’Alene, Reggie, the blue-eyed Spokane, and Harley, the deaf Colville, watched and simmered.
“Who’s he think he is?” signed Harley.
“Sitting Bull,” signed Ty.
“No,” said Reggie. “He’s just bullshit.”
Reggie had been pursuing Fawn, without success, for a couple years.
“Hey,” Fawn shouted to John over the music. “I seen you in here before, enit?”
John nodded his head. He wondered if she was listening to the same music he heard.
“Yeah, I thought so,” she said. “You’re that shy one. What’s your name?”
“John.”
“What tribe you are?”
“Navajo,” said John.
“Hey, hey, a sheep eater!” Fawn laughed and slapped John playfully on the cheek. He touched his face. “Kind of tall for a Navajo, ain’t you?”
“I don’t eat sheep,” said John.
“I was kidding,” said Fawn, amused by John’s seriousness.
“I don’t eat sheep,” John said again.
Fawn laughed, hugged him close for a brief moment, then danced a little further away. He could not understand why this woman thought he ate sheep.
“I don’t eat sheep,” John said for the third time. The sheep were singing in his ear. The voices, which had descended to whispers for a while, began to grow in volume again. Greg Allman was singing somewhere in the distance. But he sounded more and more like Father Duncan. He was singing to John, trying to convince him that Fawn was the devil.
John turned away from Fawn, from the noise and music. She reached for him, but John shrugged her off. He walked off the dance floor and pushed past Reggie, spilling Reggie’s Pepsi. Reggie cussed and wiped at his suddenly wet and sticky shirt, but John just stormed out of the bar. Reggie, Ty, and Harley followed him. John staggered into the parking lot, hands pressed against his ears, trying to quiet the noise. There were a dozen cars parked under the dim lights. A steady stream of cars flowing up and down Aurora Avenue. A few Indians in the parking lot. Inside, most danced to Deep Purple and “Smoke on the Water.” John fell against a blue van.
“Hey!” shouted Reggie. “That’s my rig!”
Reggie did not own a car, but he was looking for a reason to fight. John looked at Reggie, Ty, and Harley. He recognized Harley, the deaf one. He’d seen him in the bar many times before. John had always been fascinated by Harley’s signing, his fingers forming words and sentences almost without effort. John stepped away from the van and stared at Harley’s hands. Harley gave him the finger.
“You were dancing with my woman,” said Reggie.
“Fawn?” asked John.
“Yeah, she’s my woman.”
Reggie stepped closer. He was much shorter than John and sixty pounds lighter, but Reggie was a veteran bar fighter backed by two friends.
“I don’t want you near my woman,” said Reggie. He poked a finger into John’s chest. John re
coiled at the touch. Reggie assumed he was afraid. He shoved John back into the van.
“Oh, man,” said Reggie, pretending that John had dented the door panel of the van he did not own. “Look what you did to my van. Can you believe that, Ty?”
Ty shook his head.
“Can you believe what he did to my van, Harley?” signed Reggie.
Harley shook his head.
“I’ve seen you around, you know,” Reggie said to John. Reggie pointed a finger at him. “You’re Navajo, enit?”
John could barely hear Reggie now. The noise in his head was deafening. He wanted to tell these Indians everything. Maybe they could help him. He wanted to tell them he was not Navajo. He had no idea what kind of Indian he was. These Indian men, these warriors, would know how to be Indian. John was lost, trying to sign, twisting his hands into shapes that approximated words.
“Look at that,” said Reggie. “Now he’s making fun of Harley.”
Harley closed his hands into fists.
“Man, you Navajos think you own the world, don’t you?” asked Reggie. “Well, this ain’t Navajo land, cousin. Ain’t no sheep around here. You’re in the land of the salmon people.” Reggie slapped his chest. “I’m a salmon man. Ty and Harley here are salmon men. What do you think of that?”
John covered his ears with his hands and fell to his knees. Tears, whimpers, head bobbing in time with the music in his head.
“Look at you,” said Reggie. “You Navajos are supposed to be the toughest Indians in the world and look at you now. You ain’t tough. You ain’t nothing. Your people would be ashamed of you.”
John whimpered. Reggie, Ty, and Harley laughed, confident, though somewhat surprised by their easy victory. Reggie leaned down beside John to whisper in his ear.
“Hey, Sheep Boy,” whispered Reggie. “You don’t belong here. You ain’t Indian. If you don’t eat salmon, you ain’t shit.”
Reggie was feeling very tough.
“You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” whispered Reggie. “I eat Navajos for lunch. Then I eat white men for dessert.”
John looked up at Reggie.
“You don’t believe me?”
John kept shaking his head, sure that Reggie was lying.
“Thing is,” said Reggie, “I’m not Chief Joseph, man. None of that ‘I will fight no more forever’ crap. I’m going to keep fighting, Sheep Boy. I’m going to fight forever.”
“You’re the devil,” John said to Reggie.
“No, I’m not. I’m God.”
Reggie stood and kicked John in the ribs. John grunted with pain, closed his eyes, and searched his mind for a better place to be. Ty and Harley stared at Reggie.
“What the hell you doing?” signed Harley, genuinely afraid.
“Just giving him shit,” signed Reggie and winked.
John opened his eyes and slowly stood. He towered over his tormentors. He raised a fist in the air. Ty, Harley, and Reggie, laughing loudly, all did the same. They were still laughing as John staggered out of the parking lot. He stepped onto Aurora Avenue, turned south, and walked away from Big Heart’s. With the police patrols increased, two black-and-whites slowly cruised by John. He walked past the Oak Tree Cinemas, the World’s Greatest Sushi, Chubby & Tubby’s sporting goods and home supply store. Green Lake to the east, the ocean to the west. Water everywhere. So many places to drown.
23
A Conversation
“AARON, SON, WHAT’S HAPPENING over there?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Things are getting pretty crazy.”
“I read some Indians got jumped by three guys with baseball bats. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you telling me the truth? You know how much I hate liars.”
“Dad.”
“Tell me the truth, son.”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“And Barry and Sean?”
“Yeah.”
“Why, Aaron?”
“For David. It’s all for David.”
“You’ve got to stop this, son. You’re going to get caught. Or hurt. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“Dad, I miss him.”
“I miss him, too. But those Indians aren’t worth it. They’re not worth anything.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember that night when we shot at those Indians in the camas field?”
“Of course. We scared the crap out of them.”
“Remember how you told us to shoot above their heads?”
“Yeah.”
“I aimed for that Indian guy. I aimed right for him. And when he fell down, I thought I got him. And I was happy.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“What if I caused all of this? What if David is dead because I tried to shoot that Indian?”
“That’s nonsense, Aaron. You were just a kid. You didn’t know any better.”
24
Mark Jones
THE KILLER WATCHED MARK sleeping in the dark place. The little boy had been sleeping constantly. It was getting harder and harder to wake him, and then he wouldn’t eat or drink much when he was awake.
The killer knew that a decision had to be made. The world now knew of the killer’s power and beauty. The newspapers were filled with interviews with the mother and father of Justin Summers, the first murder victim. Justin’s parents wept, and the killer loved their pain. Mark’s parents were subdued, in shock, too numb to show much emotion.
I just want the person who kidnapped Mark to know this, said Mrs. Jones in the largest article. Mark is a very special boy. He’s got a mother and a father who love him very much. He’s got a grandmother and two aunts. His nanny, Sarah, loves him like a son. He’s just a little boy. Please give Mark back to us.
The killer looked at the sleeping boy, dirty, smudged with dust from the dark room. His face was stained with juice and food. The killer sat in the dark and thought about the future, the ceremony. The killer left the dark place, filled a bucket with warm, soapy water, grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom, and went back inside to clean Mark. The killer was gentle. Mark didn’t wake as the killer carefully undressed him, removing the filthy Daredevil pajamas. Mark didn’t wake as the killer washed his face and body, his arms and genitals, his legs and feet. Mark didn’t wake as the killer dressed him in a large T-shirt.
The killer took the special knife down from the wall, slid it into the handmade sheath, and looked down at the sleeping boy. The killer picked up Mark Jones and, holding the boy as a parent would hold a child, left that dark place, and went out to finish the ceremony.
25
How He Imagines His Life on the Reservation
JOHN SEES THE SADNESS in his mother’s eyes as he prepares to leave the reservation for college. She wears a simple dress, something she sewed herself late at night. Lately, she has not slept well because she constantly worries about her son. She had given birth to him when she was very young, fourteen years old, and had greeted his arrival with a combination of fear, love, and ignorance. Her own mother had died while giving birth to her, and her father had been killed in Korea. Raised by a series of cousins and near-relatives, an orphan, she was not sure she knew how to be somebody’s daughter, let alone somebody’s mother. When John was born, the result of a random powwow encounter, he might as well have been an alien. Brown-skinned and bloody, twisted with the shock of birth, John screamed. But was he screaming out of rage, hunger, terror, or something more? She held him to her chest and prayed. Please, she whispered to him, stop. Ever since his birth, she has expected those screams, even now as she stands on the porch and watches John pack the car with his last piece of luggage. He is leaving her, leaving for college, and she is terrified of the life that awaits him in the white world.
“Are you sure about the car?” he asks.
“Yes, yes,” she says. “I don’t need it. I can use the tribal van. Or I can walk if I need to go to
town. It’s not far.”
“But what about winter?”
“I’ll walk faster,” she says, and they both laugh.
She looks at her son. He has grown into a handsome man, tall and strong. But more than that, he is smart and generous, good to children and the tribal elders. For ten years, she has driven the tribal lunch van, which delivers meals to the elders, and John has often helped her. That was the way they both learned to speak the tribal language.
“Etigsgren,” said the elders upon their arrival.
“Etigsgren,” said John, perfectly mimicking the elder’s guttural stops and singsong accent.
“Ua soor loe neay. Reliw yerr uo hove?” asked the elders.
John smiled and shook his head. He did not have a girlfriend. He spent most of his free time with the elders. He vacuumed their carpets. He chased down rogue spiders in their bathtubs. He never killed the spiders; the elders had taught him that was bad luck. But the elders didn’t want little monsters slinking around their houses either. So John would gently scoop the spiders into his hands and carry them outside. He could feel the spiders’ legs wildly kicking and tickling his palm. He had always felt guilty about taking the spiders from their familiar surroundings and abandoning them in the wilds of a reservation backyard. John was not sure what spiders had to fear, but he was sure it was out there somewhere, waiting and watching. While the elders watched from their kitchen windows, John would kneel in the grass, set his hand close to the ground, open his fingers, and let the spiders loose. In their panic, the spiders would blindly scramble away, somehow convinced that they had broken free of their prisons and needed to quickly hide. John studied the grass as the spiders climbed over leaves and twigs, small stones and broken glass, until they disappeared into the small shadows.