Cold Dish (20 page)

“Sure, there are no fingerprints.”

He smiled again. “You are not going to use this against me later, are you?”

“Nah, I was going to get your prints off the beer bottle.”

He opened the cellophane by loosening the Scotch tape at one side. He was one of those guys who saved Christmas wrapping. He held the feather by the stem and ran his fingers up the side, the delicate quills tracing the movement between his index finger and thumb. He was looking at something, but I didn’t know what it was. “Some artisans use Minwax to get the right color. It is a much richer tint than the turkey’s. Mahogany furniture stain, with a sponge. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?”

“Cody Pritchard.”

His eyes stayed with mine. “On the body?”

“Yep, we thought it was just a leftover from one of the local critters, but . . .”

“Yes.” He reconsidered the feather. “Yes . . .”

“He didn’t have anything like this on him at the bar, did he?”

“No.” He turned the feather in his fingers, much like I had all day. “This is a good one. There are only a few individuals who could have made this.”

I nodded. “Can you get me a list?”

“I can check them myself.” He sighed and sat the feather down between us.

“You think someone is counting coup?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure if you understand the spirit of the thing. When we used to fight battles against other tribes and the army, no deed was more honored than counting coup. It means to touch an armed enemy who is still in full possession of his powers. The touch is not a blow and only serves to show the enemy your prowess—an act considered greater than any other, a display of absolute courage, conveying a sense of playfulness.”

“Well, that lets this out.” I watched him. He studied the feather again, his eyes running the length, back and forth. “For many reasons, this does not make sense.”

I took the last swig of my beer and sat the bottle aside. “Like?”

“It is the owl feathers that are the sign of death, the messengers from the other world. The eagle feather is a sign of life, attached to all the activities of the living: making rain, planting and harvesting crops, success in fishing, protecting homes, and curing illness. The feather is considered the breath of life, processing the power and spirit of the bird of which it was once a living part.”

I sometimes forgot about how spiritual Henry was. I had been raised as a Methodist where the highest sacrament was the bake sale. “The eagle is big medicine. It symbolizes life, boldness, freedom, and the unity of all. In the Nations, the eagle feather must be blessed. The eagle feather must be pure, so that the recipient does not catch the evil that might be in the unblessed feather. A medicine man must bless the feather, and then it can be passed on to someone else.”

It didn’t seem like we were getting anywhere. “That doesn’t make sense in our particular situation.”

He took the plates away and sat them in the sink, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “That is not a real eagle feather.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“I am not sure. It could be an Indian sending mixed signals, or . . . ?”

“Or what?”

“A white attempting to make it look like an Indian.” I thought of that. “Or back to square one; not all Indians would be able to tell the difference between this feather and a real one.” He shrugged.

“You’re a lot of help.”

“This is going to be tougher than the wine. It means we have to go ask some questions.” He looked around at the makings of dinner. “Do you want me to clean up?”

“I think I can handle it. You’re leaving?”

“I have an early morning tomorrow.”

A slow but steady panic was starting to set in, and the pain in my legs began to grow. “We’re not going running again, are we?”

He didn’t say anything, just turned and walked out the door.

I went over to the window and watched him start up the Thunderbird and carefully back it around my truck. The two taillights bobbed and weaved down the gravel driveway and faded into the night like red turbines. It still looked nice out, so I took the remainder of his beer onto the new porch and leaned against one of the supporting timbers. They were rough-cuts, and the splinters felt like fur being brushed the wrong way. I lifted up the bottle and took a swig. It was almost full, and I smiled. Small gifts.

I looked up at all the little pinpricks in the heavens and thought about Vic’s handwriting, the tiny holes in the paper. I thought about my daughter for a while and Vonnie, but then my mind settled on Melissa Little Bird. I was going to have to see Melissa again. I hadn’t really had any interaction with the young woman since the trial, only seeing her once at the reenactment at Little Big Horn and that was more than a year ago.

 

She had been sitting in her aunt Arbutus’s car and was waiting to leave one of the roped-off grass parking lots that caught the overflow of the yearly event. It was the end of June, and the waves of heat and the reflection of the afternoon sun made it hard to see, but I saw her. I had raised my head and laughed at something Henry had said, trudging along in the late-afternoon sun, thinking about the individuals who had died there, wondering if their ghosts hovered near. They must have because, when we came up over the rise, my eyes came to rest on Melissa Little Bird, and everything happened in slow motion.

She was wearing the Cheyenne jingle-bob dance headgear, with a band of beaded sunbursts and feathers. It was different than any I had ever seen before; it had three loops of beads that draped below Melissa’s eyes. Trade beads flowed down past her ears to the mussel-shell choker at her throat and onto the elk-bone breastplate. There was also a cardboard number, printed in red, hanging from around her neck, and it read 383. Instantly, I wondered at the number of hours that her family must have taken to prepare her for the dance competitions. I hoped she had won. Her head turned from the direction in which the car was then slowly traveling. Her eyes were soft, yet animated, but they froze when they saw me. Her hand crept up against the glass, flattening against the surface with the pressure she applied. Her lips parted, just enough for me to glimpse the perfect white of her teeth, and she was gone.

 

Somewhere in all this musing, I noticed a fat little snowflake drift across my field of vision and settle against one of the concrete blocks and disappear. There were others, now that I noticed, gently floating through the cooling night air. Scientists say there is a noise that snowflakes make when they land on water, like the wail of a coyote; the sound reaches a climax and then fades away, all in about one ten-thousandth of a second. They noticed it when they were using sonar to track migrating salmon in Alaska. The snowflakes made so much noise that it masked the signals of the fish, and the experiment had to be aborted. The flake floats on the water, and there is little sound below; but, as soon as it starts to melt, water is sucked up by capillary action. They figure that air bubbles are released from the snowflake or are trapped by the rising water. Each of these bubbles vibrates as it struggles to reach equilibrium with its surroundings and sends out sound waves, a cry so small and so high that it’s undetectable by the human ear.

I looked up at the few remaining stars. It seemed that an awful lot of the voices in my life were so small and high as to be undetectable by the human ear.

I pulled out my pocket watch and read, 12:01.

We all have a list of the vehicles we forever despise. Mine began with the dull yellow ’50 Studebaker in which I learned to drive. It had the finely honed suspension and thrilling acceleration of a large rock. Another on the list was the M-151A1 Willys Jeep that the Corps made me drive in Vietnam, which flipped over a lot and which had the torturous habit of kneecapping me every time I went for third. But the one that has been the continual thorn in my vehicular side has always been Henry’s ’63 three-quarter-ton pickup truck. I was with him the day he bought it. We were in Denver for Game Day, sitting in a small Mexican restaurant behind old Mile High, the football stadium that didn’t look like a shopping mall. I read the
Post
’s sports section, and he read the classifieds.

Three-quarter ton, V-8, four-speed, Warn lock-in/lock-out hubs, grill guard, headache rack, saddle tanks, and the heaviest suspension ever forged by man. The thousand-dollar price tag seemed too good to believe, and it was. They said it had been used to get Christmas trees from a farm they had over in Grand Junction; they didn’t say it had also been used to harvest them. It looked like it had come out of the ugly forest and had hit every one of the ugly trees. If there was a straight piece of metal on it, I was unaware of where it might be. It looked like it had been painted with crayons and poorly. The truck was mostly green, while the grill guard and headache bar were phosphorescent orange. He called it Rezdawg, and I called it misery. We had never taken a trip in it where it had not either broken down, run out, gone flat, overheated, or spontaneously burst into flames. “Get in.”

“No.” Henry had made me run, in the snow.

“Get in.”

“No.” He wanted to go to the Rez early, so I had to get a continuance on court day and cancel lunch with the judge.

“Get in.”

“No.” He had made me change my clothes, twice.

“Look . . .” His hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, and the majority of his face was hidden behind the hair. “We are undercover here.” I looked longingly at my comparatively brand-new truck, with a motor, suspension, and heater that worked; but my truck also had very large golden stars on the doors. They were handsome stars with the snow-capped Bighorn Mountains rising from an open book in their center, but incognito they weren’t.

He had opened the passenger-side door, and I was looking through the holes in the floorboards at the melting snow. Part of the dashboard was turquoise, part of it was white, and the large mic of an antiquated citizens’ band radio was bolted to the front edge over the shift lever. There was a shifter; a transfer-case lever; a worn, white steering wheel; and an unending number of chrome handles and knobs guaranteed to dislocate, jab, or stove anything that might come in contact. Most of the windows were cracked, and there were no seat belts. At the top of the antenna, even though there was no radio, perched a little, dirty-white Styrofoam ball that read CAPTAIN AMERICA. “It’s gonna break down.”

“It is not going to break down. Get in, I am getting cold.”

His breath was clouding the inside of the glass, and I looked down at the heater box, which was taped together with duct tape. “As I recall, the heater in this thing, among other things, doesn’t work.”

“I fixed it.” He really was undercover, dressed in a gray hooded sweatshirt, army field jacket, and a khaki ball cap that read FORT SMITH, MONTANA, BIG LIP INVITATIONAL CARP TOURNAMENT. “Come on, get in.” I gave up and crawled onto the multilayered seat, repaired most recently with small bungee cords and a used Pamida shower curtain.

The truck had always been an enigma in Henry’s carefully ordered life, but it was something primal and important to him. He could have had it fixed, I mean really fixed, but he didn’t. Somehow, in all its ugly glory, it signified something about the thin-chested kid whose glittering eyes knew something I didn’t and never would. No matter how far he went, no matter what he did, he would always be from what we were going to today.

The truck wasn’t turning over. I saw his hand in his fingerless gloves holding the key to the right and two urgent red lights in the instrument panel that said GEN and OIL. He nodded knowingly like he knew what it was saying. “Do you have any jumper cables?”

After we pulled my truck over and got the Rezdawg started, we headed out slowly, because that was as fast as Rezdawg would go. We rolled like a Conestoga wagon across the bridge that divided the county from the reservation, and in a blink of an eye we were in a foreign country, a sovereign nation unto itself. The topography didn’t change all that much. The sun was up, and the light glowed from right angles highlighting the ridges and peaks in greeting-card warmth. The sharp edges of the turned pastureland pointed out the work ethic of the passing owners, some prepared for the arriving winter, some not.

Numbers always come to mind when I’m on the Rez, social numbers, government numbers, and life expectancy numbers: The average Indian dies eleven years before his white brother. I spent a lot of time ignoring these numbers when I was with Henry; they got in the way of seeing the people, and I had learned a long time ago that seeing these people was important.

“Are you armed?”

I felt a little guilt along with the pressure of the pancake holster at the small of my back. “Yep, why?”

He shrugged. “I just like to know.” We drove on for a while. “Do not shoot anybody, okay?”

“Okay.”

I watched the passing cottonwoods and scrub sage. “Where to first?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“Oh, no. I am just the scout on this expedition.”

“I thought you guys left that stuff to the Crow.” He hunched over the wheel a little more and grunted. This was the response to the Crow in general; most of the Cheyenne I knew still hadn’t forgiven Kick in the Belly for scouting for Custer; most of the Indian Nations I knew about hadn’t forgiven each other much of anything. This had not been lost on the federal government, since they had put reservations of warring tribes alongside each other with regularity. “Where can we get some coffee?”

“White Buffalo.”

I nodded and listened to the heater motor begin to squeal as a few drops of antifreeze dripped from the core onto the brittle, rubber floor mat and trickled a sickly green toward my boot. “Is the heat on?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t want to start with the Little Birds. You wanna try and dig up Artie Small Song first?”