Looks Over(Gives Light Series) (14 page)

"Everything," Mary said simply.

"He doesn't wanna hear this," Rafael said.

Mary grinned at him, all her teeth visible at once.  "Who doesn't?" she said.  "Him?  Or you?"

I put my hand on Mary's shoulder and squeezed lightly.  She looked at me.  Unexpectedly, her gaze softened.  Her eyes weren't blue like her brother's.  They were hazel.

"Raffy told me you were a good kid," she said.  "I thought he was exaggerating, you know, had his head up his ass.  I mean, you don't talk.  How great can you really be?"

I wiggled my eyebrows and smiled impishly.

"Oops, I gotta take a leak.  Rosie!  Pull over!"

"Mary!" Rafael said, teeth gritted.

It was evening when we arrived at the Pleasance Reserve.  The clouds were a gray-violet where they hung above the last of the sun's scattered, gilded rays.  Granny and I got out of the car and unloaded our baskets and duffel bags from the trunk.  Rafael tapped me on the arm, a folded pendleton blanket thrown over his shoulder.

"Look over there," he said, and pointed west.

Out west was a broad and winding mountain range, tameless and grand, dark and ominous by sunset.  Small wonder there was so little light in the ambient sky:  The mountains were blocking the sun.

I felt Rafael's chin on my shoulder, his voice in my ear; his arms around my waist.  "That's where we come from," he said.  "That's the Sierra Nevada."

My heart rushed.  Maybe it was foolish of me.  But imagine you're standing in front of the very place where your oldest ancestors once lived.  What do you think you would feel?  I can only tell you what I felt: a sense of overwhelming homecoming.  I thought I could hear the ghostly pounding of the double-skin drums rolling off of the mountain range; and if I strained my eyes, I could see them, the ghosts of our ancestors, traveling down the mountainside with their folded tipis and travois, leaving for the Plains; like a child who leaves his parents, stubborn and resolute, but always knows he can come home again.

"It's owned by the government now," Rafael said.  "It's a tourist attraction."

A sickly cold spell brought my heart back down to size.

Granny linked her arm through mine, and we walked up to the open reservation gate.  I'd noticed something peculiar already in the lot outside:  Ours was the only tribe that had come for the pauwau.  Where were the Hopi and the Kiowa?  What about the Navajo?

I placed our baskets with the mounds of goods already heaped together by the gate.  Men and women knelt and left packets of rose tea and sagebrush tea on the ground.  Aubrey's family left bags of basil, mustard, lettuce, and chives.  Dad had said that the Paiute were "in a bad way."  I'd thought he meant a mild grain shortage, or something along those lines.  This didn't look like a grain shortage.  This looked like poverty.

Granny and I walked onto the reserve.  This
was
poverty.  The ground was barren and brown, unsuitable for agriculture.  I saw big patches of black soil, dug up for farming, and the dead, wilted stalks of crops that had tried their hardest to grow.  The houses shocked me as they loomed into view.  Back in Nettlebush, we lived in the sturdy log cabins our fathers and grandfathers had built for us.  Here there were only dilapidated cob houses and mobile homes.

This may have been the Pleasance Reserve, I thought, but there was nothing pleasant about it.

I changed my mind when we came upon the town center, big and round.  A spitting, crackling bonfire towered amid camping tents.  And the Paiute, when they saw us, leapt out of their seats and shouted and waved.

The Paiute wore thin brown buckskins decorated with colored grasses and cliffrose bark.  The children wore basket hats on their heads.  To look at their smiles, no one would have guessed that they were destitute.  For a moment, I forgot it, too.  The crowds mingled; I lost sight of Rafael.  Granny plucked my elbow and tugged me over to a hunched old woman.

"Skylar," Granny said severely.  "This is Cora Tonnu, my sister."

I couldn't be certain that Granny meant "sister" in the traditional sense, because Shoshone also consider their cousins to be their brothers and sisters.  I'm serious.  A Shoshone will invariably introduce his fifth cousin twice removed as his brother.  If I'd known whether Paiute were matrilineal or patrilineal, I could have made a more accurate guess as to the real relationship between Granny and her "sister."  The woman looked a lot like Granny, I'll say that.  But her hair was shorter--only chest-length--and tied in two braids instead of one.  Her eyes, too, were a walnut brown.

"No need to be so formal, Cat."  Aunt Cora chuckled at me.  "You're Paul's boy, eh?  Well, give me a hug."

I put my arms around Aunt Cora and she patted the back of my head with her bony hand.  I was all too eager to hug her.  I'm sure that sounds kind of pathetic, but I'd spent most of my life not really knowing who my extended family were.  I was starved for family, in a way.

The Paiute pauwau wasn't at all like the Hopi pauwau, or even our own.  There was very little music and even less dancing.  We sat around the bonfire sharing stories and jokes instead. 

" 'Paiute,' " said a large Paiute woman, "means 'Water People.'  And 'Shoshone' means 'Valley People.'  So--in a fight, we win.  All we have to do is flood your valley."

Everyone laughed at that. 

"Not that we've ever fought!" Mr. At Dawn boomed.  "Allies to the end!"

A ten-year-old girl in round eyeglasses came and sat next to me, legs folded on the ground.  Her hair was thick and black, her nose as small as a button.

"I saw you hugging Grandma," she whispered.  "I think we're cousins.  I'm Marilu."

I felt more awake than I had all day.  I'd never had a cousin before.  Marilu smiled at me and I smiled back broadly.

"What's your name?"

I pointed at the sky.

" 'Up'?"

This is the only part about meeting new people that I don't like.  I pointed again.

" 'Finger'?"

I dug around in my duffel bag and tried to find my post-it pad.

"No.  Sky!" she finally said.  "I win.  What do I win?"

I offered her the fresh cornbread from my bag.

"But here's why we're really called Water People," the Paiute storyteller continued.  "Before the world began, there was a great big flood.  Then the Earth emerged from the water.  Then us."

"That's not the whole story," a young man accused.  "Tell it like it really is."

"Well, alright," said the woman.  "Before us, there was the Old Woman from the Sea.  She emerged from the ocean carrying a cloth bag over her shoulder.  She walked and walked, but stopped when she became tired.  Two brothers offered to carry the bag for her.  'Fine,' she said, 'but don't open it until you reach the middle of America.'  The younger brother was a fool and opened the bag right then and there.  Suddenly...the Paiute came charging out of the bag!  And we all ran west!  'You idiots!' the old woman screamed.  'I meant for the Paiute to live in the very best part of the world.  Not the desert!' "

I laughed until my eyes blurred and my sides hurt.  I really liked that about the Native spirit, the ability to find humor in adversity.

The Paiute men handed out dinner plates of hominy and honey biscuits when the stars came out.  I was deeply embarrassed--they shouldn't have to feed us when they were having problems feeding themselves--but I thought refusing would look rude.

"Where's your mom?" Marilu asked.

She couldn't make it
, I wrote on my post-it pad.  I was really glad I'd brought it along.

"Mine, too," Marilu said.  "Mom works in the city.  She's going to get enough money to build us a new house.  Do you want to come back and see it when it's finished?"

I smiled, touched.  I ruffled Marilu's hair.  Marilu crossed her eyes at me, her tongue poking out of her mouth.

By the time the pauwau had ended, it was much too late to drive on to Idaho.  Some of us went and spent the night in our Paiute friends' houses while others slept in the camping tents.  Aunt Cora invited Granny and me to stay with her and Marilu.  I could see why Marilu's mom wanted to build them a new home.  The linoleum floor was cracked and collapsing, the paint on the walls worn away.  The lights flickered unsteadily; and Aunt Cora needed to stuff the windows and doors with towels to keep the howling winds at bay.

Marilu set up a sleeping bag on her bedroom floor.  I thanked her with a pat on the head and went into the bathroom to change.  When I came back, I found Marilu sitting on her bed, a photograph in hand.

"This is my best friend," Marilu said, and showed me the photograph.  "Every night I say good night to Danny."

I sat next to her and examined the photo.  The photograph might have been aged a couple of years; it was crinkled around the edges, and Danny looked a lot younger than ten--and deathly frightened of the camera.  His eyes were exotic, an olive green.  He was wearing a tan blazer and a tie.  A school function, I thought.

Marilu's face crumpled.  "I wish he'd come back," she said.  "I miss him.  A lady came to the bus stop after school and took him away.  She won't give him back.  Danny's father keeps asking her to, but she won't.  I miss him."

I felt frozen from the inside out.  I remembered what Dad had told me back in September, how social services got away with kidnapping Indian children when white families felt like adopting them. 

It struck me, suddenly, that not a whole lot had changed since the 1800s. 

I didn't sleep much that night.  Granny crept into Marilu's room early the next morning and shook me awake.  It was an eight hour drive to Franklin, she said.  I
really
felt sorry for Gabriel and Rosa.  I'd never been very interested in cars, but I was starting to think I should learn how to drive one, if only to help them with the commute. 

Granny and I ate breakfast with Aunt Cora and Marilu in the kitchen, the refrigerator humming noisily, robins singing outside the window above the sink.  Aunt Cora kicked her legs cheerfully under the table and Marilu looked at me plaintively.  I wondered whether she was thinking about her friend.  I ripped a note off of my sticky pad, wrote down my address, and handed it to her.  Just because we lived miles away didn't mean we weren't family.  Marilu caught on and did the same.

Quietly, Granny left the rest of her sagebread and cornbread with her sister.  We said our goodbyes, and Marilu ran out of the house after us, waving until I couldn't see her anymore.

I wanted to ask Granny why Aunt Cora's family couldn't just come live with us.  If I'd had a voice, I would have.  As it was, she climbed into the back of Gabriel's SUV without a second glance.

My mood lightened considerably when Rafael boarded the car after me.  I hadn't seen him at all during the pauwau, which had proven to be a strangely taxing affair.  He grunted and squeezed in at my side.  There was a tear in his jeans above the right knee, and his sleeveless blue shirt made prominent the chain tattoo coiling up and down his arm.

"You boys are nutty if you think you'll get away with that," Gabriel said from the driver's seat.  "It's freezing where we're going.  Put your jackets on."

Rafael and I exchanged a look.  Well, alright.  Rafael's was more of a scowl.

We dove into our duffel bags and pulled on a couple of winter jackets.  I probably should have known better to begin with:  I'm always at risk for pneumonia, especially when it's chilly out, because my vocal folds can't close and block foreign pathogens.  Rafael wrapped his pendleton blanket around his shoulders and shot the back of Gabriel's head a sullen look.  Mrs. Threefold sat next to Granny and they argued about the proper way to cure ham.  I didn't know the ham was sick.  Ms. Bright snored in the back seat, Rosa sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup, and Mary stumbled into the SUV in clunky black boots.  We were on the road again in seconds.

I twisted in my seat and gazed out the back window at the Sierra Nevada.  I felt like I was saying goodbye to a long-lost friend.

Rafael prodded me with his knuckles.  I turned around and smiled at him.

"I had to sleep in a damn tent with Autumn Rose and Prairie Rose," he said.  "Don't know why they weren't with their mom.  Or their brother.  Or Siobhan.  Do you know they asked me if I could paint their nails?  The hell makes them think I wanna paint their nails?"

I gave him a simpering look, but it wasn't enough to stave off my grin.

"Be serious," he chastised.

Anyone could see that this was a very serious discussion.

"Anyway, I didn't mean to, but I smudged the stuff all over their fingers while I was painting 'em.  So there's that.  They both hate me now.  Do you still have your candy bar?"

Something told me that this trip was going to feel a lot longer than the last one.

9

Taken Alive

The cold air was biting and bleak.  It was the kind of cold that pierced right through your skin and bones: sharp, and oddly wet.

The plains beneath our feet were vast and flat.  I thought of the grass dance, how Plains People used to trample over the tall and hindersome stalks to pave the way for unencumbered roaming.  I saw low hills in the distance; I heard the gurgling of Bear River and Bear Creek as they merged together behind me.