Indian Killer (32 page)

Paul was looking down at the mop in his hands.

“Shit,” said Paul Too. “What were you going to do? Disinfect him?”

M
ARIE SAT IN AN
uncomfortable chair in the office of Dr. Faulkner, the department chair. Faulkner and Dr. Clarence Mather sat opposite her, while Bernice Zamora, the department secretary, was busy taking notes. A replay of Reggie’s meeting, except this time Marie was the hostile Indian.

“Well, since it is your class, Dr. Mather,” said Faulkner, “and since you did file the complaint against Ms. Polatkin, we’d like you to start.”

Mather sat up straight, adjusted his bolo tie, and cleared his throat.

“Well, first of all, I’d like to point out that I have the highest respect for Ms. Polatkin. She is an extremely intelligent girl. And certainly ambitious. But I think her ambitions outweigh her intellect. She is very much like a relative of hers, Reggie Polatkin, who we have some experience with.”

“I don’t know Reggie Polatkin,” said Marie. “I mean, he’s my cousin, but I’ve only met him once or twice. I don’t know anything about him.”

“As you know,” continued Mather, “I am teaching the evening course of the Introduction to Native American Literature class this semester. As a tenured full professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching an evening class, and as an anthropology professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching a literature class. But I felt there was a need the University simply wasn’t meeting. I took it upon myself to fill that need. Ms. Polatkin obviously had a need for such a class, and enrolled in my section.”

“Excuse me,” said Marie.

“Yes,” said Faulkner.

“Why isn’t an Indian teaching the class?”

“Why would you ask that?” asked Faulkner.

“Well, when I take a chemistry course, I certainly hope the teacher is a chemist. Women teach women’s lit at this university, don’t they? And I hope that African-Americans teach African-American lit.”

“Do you understand why I have problems with her?” Mather said. “She is incapable of reasoned discussion. I simply will not have her questioning my authority in my class. She must be forced to drop it.”

“Ms. Polatkin,” said Faulkner. “Dr. Mather is an expert in Native American studies. He has published many books and countless articles. He has worked with dozens of Indian tribes. He has been teaching for twenty years.”

“I have been involved with Native Americans longer than you’ve been alive,” Mather said to Marie.

“Listen,” said Marie. “As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been an Indian.”

“I hardly think this is appropriate,” said Mather with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Why should I have to prove myself to a student, and an undergraduate at that?”

“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you? You’re such an arrogant jerk.”

“Ms. Polatkin, I fail to see where this is getting us,” said Faulkner. “I mean, in light of the tension this Indian Killer situation is causing, I think we should reschedule this meeting for a more appropriate time.”

“I’ve been adopted into a Lakota Sioux family,” protested Mather.

“That just proves some Indians have no taste.”

“Ms. Polatkin, please!” said Faulkner.

“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you?” Marie asked Mather. “You think you know about the Indian Killer, huh? Well, do you know about the Ghost Dance?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, and you know that Wovoka said if all Indians Ghost Danced, then all the Europeans would disappear, right?”

“Yes, it was a beautiful, and ultimately desperate, act.”

“Yeah, you don’t believe in the Ghost Dance, do you? Oh, you like its symbolism. You admire its metaphorical beauty, enit? You just love Indians so much. You love Indians so much you think you’re excluded from our hatred. Don’t you see? If the Ghost Dance had worked, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be dust.”

“Dr. Faulkner,” Mather said. “Please put an end to this ridiculous digression.”

But Faulkner, fascinated by Marie now, was silent.

“So maybe this Indian Killer is a product of the Ghost Dance. Maybe ten Indians are Ghost Dancing. Maybe a hundred. It’s just a theory. How many Indians would have to dance to create the Indian Killer? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe this is how the Ghost Dance works.”

“Ms. Polatkin, the Ghost Dance was not about violence or murder. It was about peace and beauty.”

“Peace and beauty? You think Indians are worried about peace and beauty? You really think that? You’re so full of shit. If Wovoka came back to life, he’d be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she’d be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they’d see what you white people have done to Indians, and they would start a war. They’d see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They’d see the fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They’d see the sorry-ass reservations. They’d learn about Indian suicide and infant-mortality rates. They’d listen to some dumb-shit Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They’d read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians, too.

“Dr. Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life, they wouldn’t crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn’t smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn’t go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They’d kill you. They’d gut you and eat your heart.”

O
LIVIA WATCHED HER SILENT
husband eat his food so quickly he could not have said what he had eaten. Then, without a word, he left the table and continued his isolation in his study. He pulled an atlas from a shelf. A map of Korea, of Vietnam. Wars, wars, wars. One inch equals one hundred miles. One inch equals ten miles. The scales were always different. Nothing was ever the same as it was before. He fixed himself a vodka Collins, sat down at the desk with his atlas, and switched on the radio. For reasons he could never explain to himself or anyone else, Daniel had been a fan of Truck Schultz’s since the early days. Daniel listened.

In the study, a leather couch, an oak desk and chair, maple bookcases filled with unread books and dog-eared atlases. Daniel loved maps. He would study them for hours, dreaming of places he had never been. Daniel replaced the Southeast Asia atlas on the shelf and pulled down a Montana state map. He studied Montana as he listened to Truck talk about the Indian Killer. For a brief moment, Daniel wondered if John could be capable of such violence. Then he dismissed the thought and worried about John’s safety. If people thought some crazy Indian was committing the crimes, then John would be a likely target for revenge. Daniel, unaware that Olivia was eavesdropping outside the study, sipped at his vodka.

Olivia Smith hated Truck. Right now, she hated her husband for listening to Truck. And her hatred for Truck was growing rapidly. He was talking about Indians as if they were animals. It had been weeks since John had quit his job and disappeared.

“Daniel!” said Olivia and walked into his study. “Did you hear that? Nobody knows if an Indian is doing this killing. This is just evil.”

“Calm down,” said Daniel. “I’m just listening. Besides, he isn’t serious.”

“I’m tired of you apologizing for that man. He’s going to get somebody hurt. Maybe John.”

“Look, it’s just Truck.”

“But what about John?”

“He’ll be all right,” Daniel said and turned off the radio.

He leaned over his map of Montana. Billings, Bozeman, Butte. Poplar, Wolf Point, Glendive. There were so many places to go. Olivia watched her husband ignore her and immerse himself in the Montana map. He silently read his way across the whole state. Missoula, Harlem, Crow Agency. Little Bighorn, Yellowstone, Glacier Park. He tried not to think of his son, who could be dead, or lost, without a map, a legend.

“Daniel,” Olivia said softly, knowing he would pretend not to hear. If she said his name louder, he would look up with feigned surprise. If she touched his shoulder, he would jump in his seat, turn on her with anger. He hated to be scared. She thought of her options and left the room.

Olivia walked into John’s old bedroom. It was decorated with photographs of brightly lit fancydancers. R. C. Gorman’s and T. C. Cannon’s prints. A Laguna pot, a miniature totem pole, a Navajo rug stapled to the wall. A gigantic dreamcatcher, which was supposed to entrap nightmares, was suspended over the bed.

Olivia thought back to John’s nightmares. How the child often screamed himself awake. Night terrors, the doctor said, he’ll grow out of them. Olivia became an insomniac, unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because she constantly waited for those screams. When she rushed to John’s bedside, he would be sitting upright, eyes and mouth open wide. John, she would say, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s Mom. But he could not be comforted. Some nights he did not even recognize Olivia. His eyes would be locked on some distant, invisible object: a monster, a raging river, flames. He would punch and kick Olivia when she tried to hug him. This happened a few times a week from the time John was a toddler until he was twelve years old.

Still, during waking hours, John was a bright and happy boy, if somewhat quiet. He was affectionate, laughed easily, smiled more often than not. The doctor who measured the spaces between his bones said that John had so much room to grow. He was going to be tall and handsome.

The change in John happened quickly. Or perhaps the change was happening all along and Olivia had simply failed to notice. Perhaps it was so subtle as to create an illusion of speed. However it happened, John had changed.

Olivia stood in John’s old bedroom and prayed. She had watched her son, a stranger when he was first put into her arms, become a stranger again. Now, she listened for the sounds of her husband in his study. It was quiet. She could hear cars passing by their house. One, then two close together, then a long pause before another, and a fourth not long after. She could hear the dull hum of the refrigerator and the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. Neither worked well. She left the bedroom and quietly walked into Daniel’s study. He was asleep at the desk, his face pressed against a map of Alaska, the last frontier. She wondered how many vodkas he had finished. His face was damp. She touched his cheek, briefly wondered if he had been crying. Perhaps. Probably. Daniel Smith was a decent man. He worked hard for his family, brought home more than enough money, and loved his wife and son.

Olivia stared at her husband as he slept at his desk. She thought about waking him and taking him to their bed. But she did not want to talk to him. She thought about John, all alone in the world. Then she made a decision. Olivia slipped on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes, found her car keys, locked the front door behind her, and stepped away from the house.

R
EGGIE’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL
but surprisingly clean, with a huge stereo and television, a small bookcase holding college textbooks and a few novels, including both of Jack Wilson’s. Reggie, Ty, and Harley were watching John Ford’s classic western,
The Searchers
, starring John Wayne and Natalie Wood. Both Reggie and Ty tried to translate for Harley, who couldn’t read John Wayne’s lips all that well. Still, with his friends’ help, Harley understood the plot of the movie. Natalie Wood had been kidnapped by Indians, and her uncle John Wayne had spent years searching for her. He planned on killing her if he ever found her, because she’d been soiled by the Indians.

“What would you do if some Indians took your niece or your child?” Harley signed the question to Ty.

“I’d wonder which powwow they were going to,” signed Ty.

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, I don’t have a child. I don’t know.”

“I’d kill her,” signed Reggie. “I understand what John Wayne is feeling. How would you feel if some white people kidnapped an Indian kid? I’d cut them all into pieces.”

Reggie slashed the air with his empty hand. He thought of Bird, that brutal stranger who pretended to be Reggie’s father. Reggie wondered if he’d been stolen away from his real family. Maybe there was an Indian family out there who was missing a son. Maybe Reggie belonged to them.

“Hey, Reggie, you got to calm down,” Ty said.

Reggie glared at him.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” asked Reggie.

“Now, listen,” said Ty. “Me and Harley talked it over, man. I mean, you’re just taking it too far. Beating up that white guy was one thing. Fucking up his eyes was something else. We got to stop this. People are going to think we scalped that guy. And then you recorded it, man. That’s just sick.”

Reggie, thinking of Dr. Mather’s precious tapes of traditional stories, had listened to the recording a number of times. Who can say which story is more traditional than any other?

“And now we’re beating up Indians. We ain’t supposed to be hurting our own kind, are we?”

“And how do you feel about this?” Reggie signed the question to Harley.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” signed Harley.

Reggie leaned close to Harley’s face.

“Hey, Reggie, leave him alone,” said Ty.

“There you go,” Reggie signed to Harley. “Are you afraid?”

Harley shook his head.

“Yeah, you’re scared,” Reggie spoke now. “Read my lips, chickenshit. You know the name of the Cavalry soldier who killed Crazy Horse?”

Harley shook his head.

“Well, I don’t know either, but I know the name of the Indian who was holding Crazy Horse’s arms behind his back when that soldier bayoneted him. You know his name?”

Harley shook his head.

“His name was Little Big Man. You understand what I’m getting at?”

Reggie touched Harley’s nose with the tip of his finger. A single drop of blood rolled from Harley’s nostril. Ty jumped to his feet in shock. Harley pushed Reggie away and stood, signing so furiously that neither Reggie nor Ty knew what he was saying.

“Slow down,” Ty said.