"Cute," Mary said, noncommittal. She scuffed my hair with her nails.
"No," I said, irritated. "Look at them."
She gave them a second cursory glance. "What about?"
"They're all different shapes," I said.
She laughed. "Well, duh."
She didn't get it. Because if you sat one of us down and asked us to name all the geometric shapes, we'd eventually run out of names. The sky never ran out of brand new shapes to give the snow. There was magic at our fingertips. The world was deliberate, and careful, and planned. And she and I still wound up as brother and sister; and she and I loved each other anyway.
And I loved Sky. I loved him so much I couldn't remember not loving him; which made me think that maybe I'd always loved him. Maybe I was born in love with him. Maybe I wasn't a Rafael unless I loved a Sky. You know what else I couldn't remember? The first thought I'd ever had. The first time I was aware of my own awareness. You can't remember that yourself, can you? That's how you know there's no beginning. There is no beginning to us, and there is no beginning to the people we love. And you can't have an end unless you have a beginning.
Sky came out on the porch and sprinkled salt on the snow. He swept up crow droppings with a twined broom, his nose shiny and pink. I thought: Once you've loved somebody, you'll always love them. I don't mean that couples who break up should get back together, or that kids who were abused by their parents should crawl home and make nice. I just mean that none of us has the ability to erase our past, let alone the feelings that go with it. Would you be the exact person you are right now if you'd loved somebody else back then, or nobody at all? If you want to get rid of love, you'll have to pick yourself apart first. You'll have to reduce yourself to nothing. You can't do that. You'll never be nothing. If you are without end, then so is love. You are love itself.
I must have stared at Sky longer than I thought. He laid the broom against the banister and stared back at me, his eyebrows wrinkling up, but his eyes relaxed. I hated it when his eyes were relaxed, because that was when I couldn't read his face. Usually his eyes were doing something; crinkling at the corners, or gleaming, or disappearing in laugh lines, foxlike and small. I wiped my hands on my pants. I climbed partway up the porch, but stopped on the middle step. It was the only time in his life Sky was taller than me. I decided to give him his moment.
"Sky," I said. Moment's over. "I'm sorry."
Sky's eyebrows twitched. The gold dots around his pupils went denser with understanding. I climbed the rest of the way up the porch to stand in front of him.
He scooped snow off the railing and balled it in his hand. He threw it at me.
I was so shocked I could only sputter, my mouth smarting with cold. I caught a flash of Sky's unrepentant smile before he reached for a second snowball. Laughter cracked out of me. I grabbed him by the waist and hauled him off the porch. He shoved the snow in my face and it went in my mouth and my eyes and my nose. I tripped. We both went flying, falling in the bushy winter rye.
I loved the snow. I loved it so much I didn't mind coughing and swallowing and sneezing it. I propped myself up on stinging elbows and watched Sky pick cereal grain out of his hair. He caught my eye and smiled, his face rosy with cold. Yeah, like I was letting him off the hook that easy. I lunged off the ground, grabbed him by the arms, and threw him into the closest snowbank. Chunks of snow rocketed everywhere before his head surfaced, his arms flailing. I doubled over with laughter, wheezing. I laughed so hard my gut hurt and I clutched it just to catch my breath.
Poor Sky had the worst of both worlds. His thin skin didn't like the heat any, burning and flaking during summertime, but apparently he wasn't built for winter, either. His bones rattled and his teeth chattered and his flushed cheeks took on a blue tint. He was always the first to laugh at himself. He laughed now. I had to get him indoors. I took his icy hands and hauled him to his feet. His sneakers slid on the ice. He was a city kid, my city kid, and didn't know enough to invest in hiking boots. I marched up the staircase and into the house and into the kitchenette, where I planted him in front of the blazing chimney.
The both of our clothes were soaked through. I went upstairs and changed into warm flannel and brought back a lumpy sweatshirt of mine, Buffy Sainte-Marie emblazoned on the chest. It was Sky's favorite shirt, I thought, because sometimes when he visited my house he stole it from my closet and used it for a pillow. I gave it to him to wear and left the kitchenette while he changed. When I came back he was drowning in the too-big collar, the too-big sleeves, but I swear he looked as happy as a freaking clam. That's a weird idiom. I knelt in front of him and took his pink, pruned hands, rubbing 'em between mine. He kissed my nose while I was warming him. His Eminence must've approved.
"We never went to Pocatello's house," I said. "You wanna go?"
Before we left Grandma's house again I made Sky trade coats with me. I didn't doubt Mrs. Looks Over meant well, but to my knowledge she'd never lived outside the desert before, and that thin fleece get-up she'd bestowed him with wasn't gonna cut it. At least my coat was stuffed with down. Sky got dressed in my jacket very reluctantly, and then he immediately put up a fight, because when I pulled his jacket on over my arms the sleeves missed my wrists and the hem missed my waist. It's like he kept forgetting I enjoyed being cold. I told him I wasn't going anywhere with or without him unless he shut up. I tucked his scarf around his neck, careful when I touched his scars, because even though they'd long healed touching them was the same as touching him eleven years ago, that afternoon when I'd sneaked into his hospital room and watched him sleep.
We went into the stable next door. Grandma used to keep three horses, but she'd sold two when Grandpa passed away. The lone survivor was an Appaloosa called Tendoy. The poor bastard looked like an overgrown Dalmatian. I opened the stall gate and saw that his hay rack was full. I put my hands on his head and we talked without words, him telling me that he remembered me, me telling him that I'd missed him terribly. When Creator made horses he made them with man in mind. Maybe it was the other way around. Everybody should have had a horse, I thought, because without one, you only knew half of yourself.
I saddled up Tendoy and tightened his girth. I tied a feedbag to the girth ring and packed it with oats and sugar cubes. I helped Sky into the stirrup, and he swung his leg over the saddle; I mounted behind him. Tendoy could take about three hundred pounds in one sitting, and anyway, it wasn't that long of a trip. Sky looked a little afraid, but when I put my arms around him and pulled him back against me I felt his shoulders slouch with concession. I nudged Tendoy with my knees and he bolted out the stable doors. Sky jumped.
Riding a horse was like gliding on air currents, except that your thighs chaffed, and your lower back cramped, and sometimes small bugs got stuck in your mouth. Alright, so it wasn't much like gliding. It was fun, though, maybe the most fun I'd ever had outside of reading. I wished I could say the same for Sky. No matter how tightly I held him he grasped Tendoy's mane as if it were his lifeline. His face fell piteously when the wiry hairs slipped between his fingers. I kissed the back of his neck to calm him, but I don't think he even noticed. He breathed in a relieved gulp once we reached American Falls, Tendoy slowing to a trot. The Falls were the most scenic part of the reservation, noisy and blue-green, tumbling down walls of glistening gray rocks. Some jackass had built an iron diversion dam across the lowest waterfall's peak, a real eyesore, but it could have been worse. I vaulted off of Tendoy and helped Sky down from the saddle. His upper body had gone stiff, but his legs were like gelatin. He leaned against me uselessly, which I didn't mind in the least. I took Tendoy's halter and tethered him to the post beside the dam, making sure he could get in and out of his feedbag okay. A couple of horses were already staked at the dam: an Azteca and an Andalusian, the latter of which looked very angry.
"We used to use the Falls for religious ceremonies," I told Sky. We walked together, him stuffing his fingers in the sleeves of my jacket for warmth. "Kotto'enna--that'
s how you say waterfall. It really means 'bubbling water.' "
Sky took his fingers out of my sleeves and repeated the word in sign language. Or I thought that was what he was doing: He tapped his hand against his mouth and mimicked roving waves. For the next few minutes we traded words back and forth. I taught him how to say Horse, which was Bungu, and Buffalo, Bozheena. He made the sign for Blue Corn by flicking his hand and twisting his fingers around his ears. "Ha'niibe," I repeated in Shoshone. His eyes lightened with recognition. My gut twisted unpleasantly, but I didn't immediately remember why.
Your grandmother was talking about blue corn, Sky said. He didn't have to sign it, although I probably wouldn't have understood him if he had. He touched my elbow and I knew what he was thinking. That was always the way between us.
"You don't have to worry about that," I told Sky, wetting my dried lips. "Grandma and Mary and me have a weird relationship."
Weird how? Sky asked, his expression cautious.
My face was hot, and I knew it had nothing to do with the wind. I muttered, "Grandma only invites us here to get a good spring crop."
Sky didn't understand.
"Grandma's traditional," I said. My mouth barely moved. "In traditional way, when you wanted a good harvest, you had to get a Napaka's blessing. So--so, uh, she thinks having gay folks in her house is fertilizing her grain garden."
Sky's mouth spasmed with shocked laughter. When he saw how flustered I was he hastened to touch my elbow again. I think that's nice, he told me, his face very sincere.
"You would," I groaned. "You don't even get it, do you? Why she asked me about blue corn?"
Sky shook his head.
"Every winter," I said, "Tommo--that's the Winter Spirit--he kidnaps the Corn Maiden and doesn't release her until summer. Tommo is barren. Corn Maiden can't give birth to maize while she's stuck with him. To bring back blue corn, the Napaka--"
I couldn't believe I had to explain any of this. Imagine having to explain the ABC's to a sixteen-year-old.
Oh, Sky said, eyes widening.
I wanted to die on the spot. Good things like that never happen to me, though. "My grandma thinks I brought you to Idaho to have sex with you."
Sky nervously whistled the first few verses to Heavy Fog. I shook my head and dropped it in my hands and walked in distressed circles. Sky whistled the chorus to Rabbit Guts. Sky grabbed my arm and stopped me from walking into the American Falls.
Did you, though? Sky asked, his eyebrows quirking stoically.
"No!" I said, indignant. "I wouldn't--I don't--no!"
Why not? Sky had the nerve to ask.
I seized his hand with a grunt of impatience. I tore off down the prairie, Sky running to keep up with me. I was seventeen years old. I thought about sex every five seconds. That didn't mean I had to be gross about it, for crying out loud. My freaking uncle raised me better than that.
After slowing down we came up on one of the taller waterfalls, but I can't remember its name just now, so don't ask me. Next to the peak stood a reddish stone house that better resembled a crumbling English abbey: The siding was worn thin, and the roof rafters were exposed. Dozens of tourists had gathered outside the house's boarded up entrance. Some chick who definitely didn't look Native stood next to an old signpost, lecturing the audience on trade routes. The sky had gone lavender-gray, pregnant with fat, opalescent snow clouds. The falling snow formed a solid white sheet on the soil, hard and compact, sturdy against the whistling wind. Sky pulled up the fur hood on my down coat. He tucked his head into it. I couldn't help noticing he looked bothered again; or maybe pensive was the better word. I hoped to Christ he didn't believe I'd dragged him a thousand miles from home just to proposition him. He had to know me better than that, right? He saw me looking at me and he smiled at me, all kindness, all kaleidoscopic light. His smile did nothing to quell my anxiety.
Who is this man, anyway? Sky asked. He read Pocatello's name off the faded signpost.
"Middle Road Maker," I said. "Or Buffalo Robe. Or Uriewici. The guy had a lot of names. He was chief of the Northern band during the Civil War. Come on, Mr. Red Clay's mentioned him like, twenty times this term."
Sky crossed his eyes and flashed me a silly smile. I snorted. "Yeah, well," I said. "Some of us try an' pay attention in school."
"Northern band?" asked a tourist in a black fur coat. She edged closer to us, ignoring the docent.
"Oh, yeah," I said. I liked talking to people; I just wasn't very good at it. "Okay, the Shoshone Nation has four different bands, right? The culture's the same, it's just the geography that's different. Northern Shoshone come from Idaho and Montana. Eastern Shoshone come from Wyoming and Colorado. Them two bands put together are called the Plains Shoshone. Western Shoshone come from Utah and Nevada and live on plateaus. Timbisha Shoshone are sedentary vegetarian weirdos who never left Death Valley. Some of us Eastern guys got kicked all the way down to Arizona, so sometimes you'll hear people call us Southern Shoshone. But that ain't a proper term."
"What a vast tribe," said the woman's husband.
"Uh-huh. And we had even more bands in the old days. Like, the Eastern guys were divided up into Kutsinduka and Tukudeka--Buffalo Hunters and Sheep Hunters. But some Tukudeka went and joined the Northern Shoshone, so that gets real confusing. Usually you can tell who's who by listening to the accent when they speak our language. Eastern sounds soft, Northern sounds nasal, Western requires you to stow marbles in your mouth. Timbisha's grating as shit."
"Are you allowed to say that word?" asked the woman's husband.
"Sorry," I said, bashful. "Guttural as shit."
The tourists were starting to ignore the docent. When I realized they were listening to me instead I felt embarrassed as all hell. I tried to hide behind Sky. He looked around, confused; maybe because my hiding had the same effect as shoving an elephant behind a dormouse.
"You can look around," said the docent, "but please don't touch anything."
Sky took my hand, consoling me. He towed me after him into the run-down house and we looked at the old, crusted furnace, the bare and blackened bathtub, the chandelier fitted for candles, now empty. The chipped paint on the walls was so dingy I couldn't tell what color it used to be. Sky pointed at a dirty sepia photograph on the mantel. Underneath years of dust I saw a young man with solemn eyes, his hair squared off around his shoulders.
"That's not Pocatello," I said. "That's his husband."
When three of the tourists turned around and walked out I was naive enough to think they just didn't like the musty smell off the house's ancient foundation. It was, after all, overpowering.
Where should we go next? Sky asked, tapping my shoulder with a cheeky smile. We left the house and walked back to the dam, Tendoy's head buried in his feedbag.
"Probably back to Grandma's," I grumbled. "You look like you're burnin' up."
He was burning up. I got him back to the house and put Tendoy in the stable. He sat in the sun parlor, and I felt his forehead with my hand, and his skin scalded me. I jumped up in a panic. I didn't know it at the time, but your vocal cords are what prevent you from getting infections. Sky's vocal cords didn't work.
"Calm down, will ya?" Caleb complained. He went into the kitchenette and made Sky a tea out of dried willow leaves. I spent the rest of the afternoon thanking Caleb profusely. He told me if I didn't shut up he'd stuff his fist down my throat.
I hated sitting indoors when a million acres of untamed wilderness were calling for me. I hated it; but I hated being without Sky even more, so I could tolerate it. I pulled our chairs up beside the big window in the sun parlor. Sky tried to share his tea with me, not because I was sick or anything, but because he didn't know how not to share. I pointed through the window at the sprawling terrain. Two prairie dogs poked their heads out of the snow, peeked around with confusion, then kissed each other on the mouth, their standard greeting. They ducked back under the snow when a gray wolf pup ambled by, but the pup meant no harm. Heck, he wasn't ev
en old enough to hunt. One of Grandma's crows flew out of the aviary, nestled himself on the wolf's back, and groomed the wolf with his beak. Sky looked at me in surprise. "That's so the pup won't grow up and kill him," I said. "Crows are smarter than you think."
A couple hours later we watched a deer canter by with red silks hanging from his antlers, something that happens in the wintertime when the new horns are growing in. The buck bent his head and lapped up a drink of snow. I thought about Grandma's Delgeth warning and jostled Sky. He smiled questioningly.
"D'you think I'm a man-eating antelope?" I asked.
Sky gave me a bug-eyed look. So probably not.
"White man in my house," Grandma murmured, tromping into the room. "White man steal my warbonnet, white man steal my teeth..."
"Grandma," I said moodily. "Stop."
"My teeth are not my own!"
Is she okay? Sky asked, disoriented.
Grandma stopped her ranting and resumed her blank visage. She stared through Sky like she didn't see him. She must've, though, 'cause she said to me:
"What's his ceremonial name?"
"Uh," I said. I repeated the question in English. Sky shook his head, at a loss.
"Then he is not an Indian," Grandma said, and went into the aviary.
Sky frowned, not with his mouth, but with his eyes. He couldn't have known what Grandma had said. All the same, when someone doesn't like you, you tend to know it. I nudged Sky's knee with mine, wishing he would smile again. Mary strolled into the room, yawning, scratching her back.
"I just met the hottest chick," Mary announced. "Got some boobie action in there."
"Mary," I said. "Do you know anything about naming ceremonies?"
"What, you mean the Nihya?" Mary said.
The Nihya was how modern Shoshone folks got their ceremonial names. I'd had mine done when I was two or three. In my family I was known for having a freakishly strong memory, but the most I could remember about my naming ceremony was water rattles. I thought it served the same purpose as pauwaus and regalia. We walked around day-to-day wearing taipo'o clothes, calling each other by taipo'o names, but there was a little part of us they could never colonize. America was always going to be Indian Country, no matter how many disguises it wore.