Eagle, Kathleen (29 page)

"What
do you mean,
no, no, no?
I'm not a kid, Mom!" His hot scowl wounded
the mother in her as the budding man in him pointed out, "I'm not messing
stuff up or talking dirty."

"I
know. I just don't want you to make any hasty—"

"I
don't care what you want." He pushed his chair back and reached for his
plate. "I don't care about any of this, and I don't wanna hear it. I don't
need a father."

"Most
of what he said was about—"

"I
don't care, Mom." His voice was far less troubled than the look in his
eyes. "I guess surprises aren't always the best, huh? But I don't have to
stay the whole four days. Matter of fact, I think I'll go back tomorrow. I
don't even wanna stay the whole four days."

"Sidney..."
She followed him to the sink. She knew she ought to leave him alone now, but
she couldn't help herself. She couldn't shut up, not even with the red flags
waving wildly in her head.

"I
didn't want to share you. It sounds selfish, I know, but my parents were
divorced, and my sister and I had to—"

"I
don't care!" He tossed the plate, shattering it in the stainless-steel
sink as he whirled to face her. "I don't care, Mom. There's nothing to be
confused about. My father was killed in the war, okay? I like that better than
just, he died." He mocked her with a theatrical frown. "What war was
it?"

"Please
don't."

"Don't
what? I'm not doin' anything." He shrugged. "Except I'm going back
tomorrow. Will they change my ticket?"

"I
don't know. It might cost a lot of money."

"I'll
take it out of my savings."

"Not
without my signature."

"You're
gonna try to keep me here?"

"Now
that you're here, and now that the truth is out, I think we should try to deal
with it in a—in a good way."

"In
a
good way?
What's that about?" he quipped as he turned back to the
sink. He started to pick up the broken pieces of pottery, and when she reached
in to take over, he pushed her hand away. "I'll do it myself, goddamn
it!"

Oh,
God, she thought, fighting hard against the tears. She couldn't permit herself
to cry. Her son wasn't crying.

Hands
full of shards, he looked up, allowing her to see a hint of his needs, one
small hint couched in the need for her to show him where to go next. She
pointed to the door beneath the sink, and he stepped aside. She opened, he
tossed.

"In
a thousand years someone might find these," she said, "and say that
we must have been at least somewhat civilized."

He
stared, needs growing.

She
tried to smile. "Practical, if not very artistic."

He
nodded once, but no smile would come. No smile, no tears. But he did touch her
arm. "Listen, Mom, let's just put the truth back where it was. Okay?
Wherever you were keeping it before."

She
bit her lower lip.

He
moved away before she could return his touch, grabbed a plastic lid off the
counter, and snapped it on the Cool Whip container. "This is my favorite
dessert, and you're the only one who can make it right." He handed her the
container. "And I'm really tired right now."

She
nodded. "Unpack your pj's and I'll get some fresh towels."

"I
don't wear
pj's,"
he told her, putting a hostile spin on the word
he clearly considered childish. "I want more boxers, by the way. That's
all anybody wears anymore."

"Right."
Another tight nod. "I knew that."

Sidney's
plane ticket could not be changed. He asked Helen to call the next morning, and
she did. All the flights were booked. He was stuck with her for four days, and
he seemed determined to say as little as possible. He said he didn't care about
seeing the sights in the Black Hills, didn't care about getting out of the
apartment, did not—
did not
—care to meet any kids his age. But he
wouldn't mind getting a new pair of Nikes.

They
came to a truce with a tacit agreement to avoid any mention of his father. She
expected Reese to call, but she didn't want Sidney reading her mind. If he was
expecting anything besides new Nikes, he wasn't letting it show. She suggested
a visit to Wall Drug, which, coincidentally, required them to drive past the
Blue Sky place. Roy's name was still on the mailbox. Sidney noticed it, looked
at the house, said nothing. Helen saw Reese's car, but all she said was,
"All roads lead to Wall Drug. Have you heard of it?"

"Why
would I?"

"It's
famous," she said. "They have signs everywhere."

But
the next billboard they passed advertised Pair-a-Dice City: COLLECT
COMMEMORATIVE WILDLIFE COINS. PLAY TOURNAMENT SLOTS.

"There's
no skill involved in playing the slots, right?" he asked.

"Right."

"So
what's the point of holding a tournament?"

"Profit,"
she said, pleased to be asked, to be his answer machine again. "Profit is
the whole point."

He
watched another billboard fly by, this one declaring the distance to Wall Drug.

"How
many miles did it say?"

"I
didn't notice," he told her. "Billboards are insulting to the
environment
and
to our intelligence. We know where we want to go."
He slid her a glance. "At least I do."

***

They
couldn't find the right-style sneakers at Wall Drug, even though the sprawling
tourist stop on the edge of the Badlands carried a sampling of everything else
imaginable. Helen wanted to buy her son every toy and souvenir in sight to make
up for all her failings. She knew the folly of such thinking, and so did
Sidney. But he'd lost his Barlow knife, and he thought a rubber snake might
come in handy at camp. Not the cheap kind, but the pricey one that looked and
felt like the real thing. He decided he needed a cap when he saw a green one
bearing the Seattle SuperSonics emblem. Helen mentioned that Rick Marino was a
friend of Reese's, that she'd met the former Seattle player recently.

Sidney
traded the green cap for Denver's dark blue.

On
the way home they saw another advertisement for the casino, and Helen offered
to show him where she worked. "Sure," he said with a shrug.
"Casinos always have good restaurants."

The
lunch buffet didn't interest him. He wanted barbecued ribs. "We have a
chow line at camp, and it's all plain stuff. I've had enough macaroni and
cheese to last me—" He nodded, and Helen turned to find Carter approaching
their table.

Sidney
greeted his newfound friend cheerfully enough, and Carter offered a handshake.
There was a little chitchat about Wall Drug and what Sidney had in mind for his
new snake. Then Sidney said he wanted to use the rest room before the food
came.

As
soon as he left the table, Carter asked the burning question. "Have you
seen him at all?"

"You
mean Reese? No, we haven't."

"Damn,
I was hoping you were ail together and everything was hunky-dory." He
paused to thank the server for the iced tea he'd ordered. Then he leaned
closer. "Because I've been calling out to the place and getting no
answer."

"The
car's still there. Well, we did drive past on our way to—" The look in
Carter's eyes said no explanation was necessary.

"Do
you think he's okay?" she asked.

"What
I think is that he shouldn't be running in this heat, and that's what he does.
He's like this hot thoroughbred who can't race anymore, you know? He gets
stressed, he's gotta get out and run it off."

"What
about his heart?"

"Well,
that's what I'm saying. His doctors have told him, yeah, you can run, you can
play ball, but take it easy, don't do it when it's hot, and don't do it
alone." He glanced at Sidney's empty chair. "They haven't talked to
each other, then."

"Sidney
wanted to go back to Colorado, but I couldn't change his ticket." Carter
was giving her a sympathetic look, and she jumped on it. "Carter,
you
understand,
don't you? That thing about taking custody of Indian children. I couldn't risk
losing my son."

"So
why are you here?"

She
glanced away. "Curiosity, maybe."

"What
about this plan to get a teaching job here?"

"I
didn't really think..." Well, yes, she had. She had a plan, and she
thought looking for a teaching job fit very well into the plan. She still had a
job to do. "I was thinking about sending Sidney to a private school or
something. I wouldn't have—"

"You
weren't serious about coming back here to teach. You were just testing the
waters."

"Something
like that."

"You've
gotta go out there and talk to Reese. You two have to work this out
somehow," he said, and she quickly warned him away from her personal life
with a look. He lifted a hand in surrender. "All right, I'm sorry I butted
in and caused this mess, but now I'm worried about my brother. And there's
nothing I can say or do right now. It's up to you."

"Sidney
won't—"

"No,
don't take him with you. This might be the kind of conversation you don't want
a kid to hear. He can spend the rest of the day with his uncle."

"You'd
do well to stay away from that topic."

"Would
you mind if he met his cousin? Sarah's coming over anyway. I'll call and have
her bring Derek." He touched her arm. "Kids have their ways, Helen.
No matter how badly we screw up their world, kids have their ways."

Reese
didn't wear a watch when he
ran, so he didn't know how long he'd been
out. He gauged everything by the way he felt. He wasn't pushing too hard, and
he was drinking plenty of water. The sun had been hidden beneath blustery
gray-white clouds more than it had been out, but it didn't feel like rain. Good
day for a run.

Once
the endorphins had kicked in, his mind had stopped spinning around the love
he'd declared for Helen and the bomb she'd dropped on him as a follow-up. He
felt good now, like he could set his sights on the horizon and keep going until
he reached it. But when he saw that crazy black shepherd waiting for him up
ahead, he figured it was time to head for home. He slowed to a trot, then a
walk, sipped some water, gave a nod to his father's horses grazing near the
fence as he approached Roy's Last Stand Hill. His heart responded with a
reminder of his own vulnerability.

PAY-at-TEN-tion,
PAY-at-TEN-tion.

Pay
attention? Usually it said, Slow DOWN, slow DOWN, slow DOWN. Was the old man
messing with his mind again? Pay attention to what?

"Hey.
What do you think of the air-conditioning? Cool, huh?"

Thump
THUMP thump THUMP.
What do you think of
the air you're breathing now?
Fresh, huh?

It
was the old man, all right.

"Did
you know I had a son?"

He
looked back at Crybaby, tagging along at his heels. Trotting with his mouth
open, the dog looked like he was smiling, giving him the lovin'est look. Reese
didn't have the heart to say
Not you.

"I
don't think she would have told you, either," he told whatever he was
talking to. "She'd be crazy if she trusted you and not me. You're the one
to worry about, you and all your history."

Do
it, then. Worry about me.
Watch OUT watch OUT.

"I'm
talking about
her
worrying, not me. I ain't worried about you. Hell,
your worries are over."

They're
yours now.
Watch
OUT watch OUT.

"Watch
out for what?"

Mind
how you go. Watch where you go. Go easy.
EA-sy EA-sy EA-sy.

"Do
you haunt Carter like this, or is it just me? Just my wild imagination."
He shortened his stride a little, slowed his pace, watched his step. "All
right, I'm easy. See? I'm minding, I'm—"

It
might have been his imagination, but the spiky blue grama and buffalo grasses
seemed greener on the side of the road where his father's body had been found.
And it was in that strip of greener grass that a glint of metal caught his
minding-where-he-was-going eye.

***

Helen
knocked on the back door. Crybaby answered first, one cavorting bark, then his
characteristic whimper before the door swung open. Dressed only in jeans, Reese
was clearly fresh from the shower, but that was all that was clear. No inkling of
welcome or go-to-hell crossed his face. She wasn't even sure he recognized her.

"Do
you mind if I come in?"

He
pushed the door open for her, stepped back, and gestured casually. She
exchanged affectionate greetings with the dog, noticed his fresh bandage, his
silky coat. "Somebody cleaned you up and combed your hair," she
cooed. She looked up. And up. Folded arms, stony face. Chiseled brown stone.
"He gets to be in the house now?"

"Call
it a change of heart. Cooling off helps, plus I've got a bigger bed."

"So
you're more—"

"Did
you tell him yet?"

"Yes,
I did." She gave Crybaby one last good head-scratching before she faced
his master. "I told him that you knew nothing about him, and I tried to
explain why I never told you."

"And
now you're going to explain that to me," Reese inferred as he opened the
cupboard for a drinking glass and a bottle with a pharmacy label.

"There's
not much to it, really. What's that?" Okay, it was rude, but she had to
ask. She wanted details, just as he did.

"This?
A pill. I'm popping a pill. Sort of an antidote to bullshit." He scooped
the white caplet off his palm with his bottom lip, then washed it down with a
full glass of water. She was still watching when he set the glass on the
counter, so he offered the bottle. "You want one? Have a seat, have a
pill, and let's exchange bullshit."

"I'm
not going to do that anymore. I was just wondering what... kind of drugs you
have to use."

"I
use
aaall
kinds of drugs, honey. You name it, I've got it. What's your
pleasure? You want a little Valium?" He set the bottle back on the shelf,
slid others back and forth with a long forefinger. "Everybody knows jocks
know their drugs. Ask my new best friend. He ain't got nothin' to cry about
now. He is feelin' no pain." More bottles pushed aside. She recognized the
aspirin. "Maybe you need some speed," Reese said, turning to her with
a sardonic smile. "Fast or slow, how do you wanna get through this?"

"Speed?
But you have a heart—"

"I
have a heart, yes. I have a heart. Do you?"

She
allowed herself to look into his eyes briefly, yet even briefly was a mistake,
for the hurt was there now, in those two words and in the dark sheen in his
eyes. But emotion spurred emotion, and she wanted to hold onto hers, too. She
bit her lip, shut her eyes, and her tears came.

She
hated it, not because she didn't deserve to cry, but because he didn't deserve
to see it. She had no right to play on his sympathy, and she didn't intend to.
But she couldn't stop the tears except by taking a quick swipe at them with
unsteady hands, breathing deeply, talking through it.

"I
had to protect my son," she said, sinking slowly, perching on a kitchen
chair. "You could have taken him. I didn't know whether you would, but I
knew you could, and you wouldn't have to do it when he was a baby. You could
have decided any time... if you knew... and so I couldn't take that...
gamble."

"But
gambling is your profession."

"Dealing
blackjack is my profession. Gambling is my weakness. I'm a terrible,
terrible..." Deep breath, nearly dry eyes, shoulders square. She looked up
at him. He was so tall that when he leaned against the edge of the sink, he was
actually sitting on it. "But I gambled with money, not with my son's
security."

He
didn't move. He was, it seemed, unmoved.

"That's
good, most of it. The part about being concerned for the boy's security—I
understand that. You know all about the laws where Indian children are
concerned, and you know what happened with my brother, and you didn't want
anything like that to happen with... Sidney." He said the name carefully,
as though it was hard to pronounce and he wanted to say it perfectly. "I
can almost understand that part. I mean, if you didn't want..."

There
was a question in his eyes. Her lips parted for an answer, but her throat
wouldn't give it up.

"Or
if you weren't sure, or whatever," he finished, directing his gaze above
her head now, a considerate reprieve. "And you must have figured that I
had some money. But even when you were having all those financial problems with
your gambling that you told me about, you never came to me. No way would you
ever stoop to a shakedown of any kind. Sometimes people will use a kid that
way, but not you, and I gotta respect that, Helen."

"I
didn't want—"

He
held up a halting hand. "Don't tell me what you didn't want, not yet. I'm
not ready for that yet."

"It
had nothing to do with—"

The
hand was still up. "Just bear with me now, because I've been thinking, you
know? Like I said I was gonna do? I've been thinking about nothing else, and
I'd almost believe you wouldn't risk his—security, was it? Except for one
thing." His eyes met hers again, and he spoke as though he'd discovered a
marvel. "You came back here. You took a job in the casino my brother
manages and started hanging around my father. What kind of sense does that
make, Helen?"

"M-my
son has begun to feel—t-to ask about his Indian heritage."

"Just
lately?" He drew his head back in disbelief. "You have no mirrors in
your house?"

"When
they're little, they're satisfied with..." She helped herself to a
steadying breath. She was about to play her face card. "With a mother's
love, I guess. You explain in the simplest terms you can get away with. One
time, one of his friends asked him if he was Mexican or Hispanic. Apparently
there had been some kind of discussion around his friend's dinner table, either
about those specific words or about Sidney. I told him that he was half
American Indian, and we began to read and talk and see movies and..."

"Study
up on where he came from?"

"I
tried to approach it almost academically, I guess. I'm most comfortable with a
kind of intellectual approach. Because it's really not—I mean, it doesn't make
any difference to me what color his skin is. He's my son, my child, my baby. He
came from my body."

"But
it makes a difference to him."

"It's
beginning to. People say things that he's beginning to hear and to take
personally. Things like, I don't know..."

"I
do."

She
nodded, avoiding his eyes, feeling the same pain she felt when she talked about
these hurtful incidents with Sidney. "Most of the time I don't think it's
meant to be, to sound..."

"Racist?"

She
nodded again.

"You
wouldn't think so, Helen."

"But
I'm not prejudiced."

"Maybe
not, but you're white."

"I'm
not excusing anyone," she assured him, bristling now as though he'd called
her something abominable. "I'm the mother of an Indian child. I know what
it feels like to have people see him and think,
brown skin,
and then
make some stupid judgment about him that affects him, his choices, his
opportunities, his
feelings."
Nothing worse than tears clotting her
throat at a time when she wanted to be most eloquent, but this theme did it to
her whenever her son was at the heart of it. "To have them... hurt
him..."

"Here."
He snatched two tissues from a box on the counter and handed them to her, his
reach so long that the gesture brought them no closer. "You're still
white, Helen. You'll always be white. He's half white, but he looks like
me." Brown arm still extended, he turned it, palm up, palm down.
"He's walking around in skin like mine."

"I
know." She wiped her nose. "I know. That's why I came here. That's
why."

"You
had to scout it out for him, huh? We've got white scouts now?"

She
glanced up from drying her embarrassing tears.

He
shrugged. "Thanks to the casinos, the times sure are a-changin'."

"The
casino job has nothing—"

"That
was a joke. A little Indian humor. It comes out at odd times."

"I've
noticed. It's good, though, because... maybe it means you're not so angry with
me."

"Oh,
I wouldn't count on that," he warned. "But a little humor helps. And
the tears do a number on me, too."

"I'm
sorry." Deep breaths would stop them. Firm wiping. One more breath.
"I hate it when I lose control."

"I
know you do. So the question is, are these controlled?"

She
closed her eyes, but the damn tears kept rolling because she'd made such a
mess, and a mess was what she was.

She
heard him move, denim brushing denim, his hand on the back of her chair. Her
eyes flew open, chest quivering as they met his.

Swish.
Nothing
but love.

He
knelt beside her, caught a tear on the side of his finger, and touched it to
his lower lip, which he quickly tucked in and sucked, then told her, "It
wouldn't matter. They'd work just as well either way."

He
gave a small nod, and she hugged his neck and buried her face against his shoulder
and wept for joy and loss. He held her. The harder she cried, the closer he
held her. He was a human scaffold, the support she had sworn many times she did
not need. It was wrong to cry all over him now, but she did. Not for long—a
torrent like hers ran dry quickly—but for real, and when it was over and the
tissues came out again, she felt cleansed.

"So
much for control," he said with a wry smile. "Truth is, I don't seem
to have much either these days, which is why I had to get away from you for a while
and sort things out in my head. Now, here's what I've come up with." He
rubbed her thigh, covered by cotton slacks, the way he'd been rubbing her back
a moment ago. "I'm not going to take him away from you. I've thought about
it, and that's not something I'd do unless... unless I was unsure of you.
Unless I thought you..." He searched her eyes, more for her understanding
of him than for something harmful in her. "But that's a terrible judgment
to make without cause."

"It
is."

"And
you made that judgment about me. You keep calling him
your
child, and he
is your child, because that's the way you raised him. You judged me unfit. You
were determined to protect him from me."