Set Me Free (30 page)

“Thank you,” said Amelia, barely audible. She felt so clumsy in Lydia’s world sometimes.

Suzanne leaned down and pecked both Amelia’s cheeks. She smelled like cinnamon and talcum powder. “What would you do without
me?”

Amelia had hoped they would run into Victor on this trip to the reservation. But she hadn’t said anything to Lydia. And she
couldn’t believe that Suzanne could see right through her. What Amelia hadn’t gotten around to telling Lydia was that Victor
Littlefoot had made it clear his grandmother was off limits. More than once Amelia had suggested they hang out at his place;
she wanted to meet his family. His answer? “There’s just my grandma.” When she said, “Well, I’d like to meet her,” he responded,
“No, you wouldn’t.” She got the distinct impression that it was more like
he
didn’t want Amelia to meet her. Case closed. But now Suzanne had made such a big deal about visiting and gifts and how those
presents were coming from the Cinqchevauxs’ own pockets, that there was no way to go back and explain.

Suzanne had summoned Louie Cinqchevaux, Lydia’s father, from his spot on the couch and informed him that tonight he’d tell
Amelia about Adele Littlefoot’s husband, Gavin Littlefoot, the fastest wild-horse rider ever to appear from the shadow of
the Cascades.

“They say there’s only been three men ever rode that good, and Gavin Littlefoot was the best. He also died the youngest. Out
at a rodeo in the Wallowas. He was
the
rider. You know what I mean by that, girl?” Louie Cinqchevaux sank into the easy chair in the corner of the kitchen, watching
as his women cooked and ladled, set the table, counted out forks.

“Sure she does, Daddy. You calling my friend ignorant?” When Lydia spoke to her father like this, no one considered it sassing
because Lydia spoke to everyone the same way.

Amelia felt at home enough to chime in, “Shut up, Lydia. Can’t you see he’s telling a story?” Everyone laughed at that.

“Well, you know the three jobs: mugger takes the neck, anchor controls the lead-line, rider throws on the saddle, then throws
on his own self. He gets bucked. Meantime, nine other teams are
doing the same dang fool thing. Most say you can’t win this event.” Louie sighed. He knew about horses; he made his money
helping Chester Marron break his wild stock in order to breed with the Indian ponies. He went on, “What you girls got to remember
is a good horse becomes a man. He’s never quite broke in spirit. But he’s full of respect. When you ask him to do a thing
for you, if you ask nice, he’ll consider the request.” He chuckled.

“Get on with the story, then,” Suzanne urged.

“So this Gavin Littlefoot was real young. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. He’s the best. His wife’s real young, maybe
seventeen, they have their little girl, Victor’s mother’s mother”—Amelia realized the grandmother they’d been talking about
was technically a great-grandmother, although no one else seemed to note this distinction—“and she’s mad. Mad at the horses
who flow like flash floods over the desert. Mad at them for taking her husband from her. She yells at him. He promises he’ll
go out one last time. He’ll win the biggest purse ever.” He shakes his head. “Wanna guess what happens?”

Suzanne clucked. “What always happens when a good woman tries to keep her husband from his own foolishness.”

“Now, Suzy, who’s telling this story?”

“You asked.”

Louie waved his wife off. “Sure, he goes and wins. But just as he’s winning, he’s bucked off. Hoof right in the skull. Head
crushed in. Gavin still wins the purse, though. His friends take the money to Adele. But not the horse. They don’t dare take
the horse back.” Louie paused. Reflected.

“This is way too sad,” Lydia said, fishing in a cabinet for a serving dish. “I hate stories that end like that. What’s the
point?”

“The point is to tell you about how come Adele Littlefoot is the way she is. Ever since that wild horse crushed Gavin’s skull,
that woman became an expert in all the old Neige Courante ways. Believed Gavin died because he didn’t take the proper precautions.
She became fierce in those matters. An expert. Thing is, lots of people
thought she made them up. Pulled them right out of thin air. Even so, people from all over take her their problems. Believe
her solutions. Burn some of this. Sprinkle some of that. Do it naked before daylight, you’ll be safe. Put on buckskin, you’ll
change your luck. Lots of crazy stuff no one ever heard before. Until now. Now she’s so old, everyone thinks she must know
the old ways.”

“Ignore this old man.” Suzanne’s voice cut through the kitchen. “Adele Littlefoot takes care of a lot of people on this reservation.
She’s a good soul.” She glared at Louie. “What he’s not telling you is women run the show. Women like Adele Littlefoot. They
have for generations. It’s our job to carry the traditions. Besides, that father of yours can’t imagine what grief might do
to a person.”

“True enough.” Louie chuckled. “She can be one tough old woman, though. Be sure to take some good tobacco.”

“Oh, they will,” Suzanne said, satisfaction creeping into her voice. “Haven’t you noticed? They’re taking yours.”

A
LL THE WAY
on the winding gravel road the following morning, Amelia couldn’t tell whether she was more afraid of seeing Victor or his
grandmother. She couldn’t tell whether she was more afraid of telling Lydia that Victor would definitely
not
be glad to see them, or of waiting to let Lydia see for herself how Victor felt. Instead of saying anything, Amelia pressed
her cheek against the car window as they passed trailers and ranch houses, rusted-out tractors, scrawny dogs. Yellow traffic
signs designated wild-horse crossings, and the girls both laughed at that; how were the horses expected to read where they
should cross? Who would ticket them if they crossed at the wrong place? What neither of the girls wanted to say as they drove
through the poorest land on the reservation was that Lydia lived an entire tribal life about which Amelia knew relatively
little. As they were sheltered in the warmth of the Cinqchevaux house, that difference seemed insignificant, but out here
with the old washing machines, abandoned cars, and unmarked roads, Amelia felt lost.

Out in the middle of nowhere, Lydia turned left and the car
crawled up a dirt path, dust spewing behind them. They approached a neat little trailer surrounded by a few wooden outbuildings,
a couple of lean-tos made out of corrugated tin. Victor’s truck wasn’t there, and Amelia felt a sense of relief overwhelm
her. “He’s not here. We can go.”

“Are you crazy?” asked Lydia. “My ass is definitely on the line here. We’ve gotta say hi or I might as well never go home
again.”

Both girls climbed out of the car, and Lydia said, “Don’t slam the door,” just as Amelia slammed the door. A tiny, ancient
woman with two neat braids and a flowered housecoat stepped down from the trailer into the light. She squinted at the girls
and said something Amelia couldn’t understand. Lydia answered in a strange language—not Sahaptin, Amelia knew what Sahaptin
sounded like—and gathered the salmon, cloth, and tobacco leaves from Amelia’s hands, offering them to the grandmother. Lydia
placed the gifts on a ledge by the trailer steps as Amelia held back shyly. She watched as Lydia pointed at her and the old
woman gestured and answered. Finally, Lydia called her over with a commanding “Don’t be rude, Amelia. Come say hello to Mrs.
Littlefoot.”

Much to Amelia’s surprise, Mrs. Littlefoot said, “She’s not so much rude as scared of me. Look at her. Like a little rabbit,
and I’m the hawk.” When Amelia came near, the old woman took the girl’s hands in her own and stared her in the eyes. Amelia
blushed. Victor’s grandmother’s irises were bright and clear, nearly the deep purple hue of blackberries. Amelia would have
expected the eyes of someone so ancient to have broken blood vessels, cloudy film. But it was as if the old woman could see
into all the places Amelia didn’t want her to see.

For a minute it felt as if everything was going to be fine; this was a proper thing, the kind of thing teenagers ought to
do more often. Take treats to the elderly, keep them company, smile and chat. Had Lydia gone alone, the visit would have become
just that.

But Mrs. Littlefoot held tight to Amelia’s hands and said, “I know about you. You’re Victor’s white girl. Victor’s little
white girl with the fairy games. You took my Victor into the wild. You pretended
you were kings and queens. During all that play, the world shattered. You’re the careless girl who cracked the world open.
You made a baby leap out. It fooled with you. That’s why Victor had to go to Chicago. To get the trouble in his mind out.
But even in Chicago the world cracked. Because of what you did to him. The drugs were what you did to him. You put those drugs
in his hands.” The old lady said this almost without expression, but fast, as if she had been waiting to give this speech
for a long, long time. Amelia tried to pull away, but the old woman continued. She was surprisingly strong. “Your life is
bad now. I know that. Now that Victor’s clean, I told him, ‘If you can’t stay away from her, just bring that broken white
girl to me. I’ll try to fix you both, the Neige Courante Way, the Old Way.’ But he said you’d never come.”

A grin just like Victor’s spread across the old woman’s face, like a wildfire across the prairie. Amelia didn’t try to pull
away anymore. She stood transfixed as the smooth breezes washed over her, carrying the brisk sage scent and the calls of birds
whose names she didn’t know. The old woman released one of Amelia’s hands and pointed to a circle of embers. “I’ve been calling
you for many nights now. And see? Now here you are. I made you come.”

The old woman leaned in close and gestured the girl down to her, so Amelia could feel her hot radish breath against her cheek.
“It’s because of your mother. You think it’s your fault. But it’s because of her. The only Way you knew was to crack open
the world. That was the only Way your mother knew. That was the Way your mother left you. What you saw was another baby. But
don’t worry. I can help you with that.” The old woman made a cooing sound that brushed Amelia’s cheek. “Poor girl. You couldn’t
know any better. She left before she could fix her mistake. All this time you’ve been so lonely. But there are ways to fix
that.”

Lydia had grabbed Amelia’s free hand, but Amelia hardly noticed. Lydia pulled, but Amelia couldn’t move. She felt things she
had never felt before, things she had no words for, although, if pressed, she could have said that part of what she felt was
fear and
part was excitement and part was shame. She also felt something else; she felt
seen.
She felt
known.
She felt
identified.
Just as she registered that feeling of being known, and began to relish what it might mean to her, it was over. Victor appeared.
Amelia heard no engine, but here he was, slamming the door of his truck, a cloud of dust surrounding them. He was yelling.
“What are you doing here? Get off our land. Leave my grandmother alone.”

That broke the spell. The next thing Amelia knew, she and Lydia were in the car together, barreling fast down the dirt drive,
but instead of being friends the way they should have been—the way they always
had
been—Lydia and she sat far apart, as if old Mrs. Littlefoot’s assertions had created revelations that occupied the space
between the girls. Lydia loosed her anger into the air. She put it into words, questions: “What the hell was that about a
baby? And about giving Victor drugs?”

Amelia shook her head numbly.

“We weren’t even invited, were we? You lied to me. Apparently, you’ve been lying to me about other things too.”

“Like what?”

“Like drugs. Like a baby.”

“I didn’t lie. She just—”

“And what was that she said about your mom? What was she saying?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m taking you home.” When Amelia didn’t answer, Lydia fumed,“I’m your best friend, Amelia. And I didn’t even know what she
was talking about.” When Amelia kept silent, Lydia asked, “Did you?”

Amelia did and Amelia didn’t. She didn’t know how to explain. It was as if she’d been told a story about herself, one that
was mostly true but with parts she didn’t recognize or know how to understand.

“You can’t just do that, go up to a woman like that uninvited, and have her say something like that to you.” Lydia shook her
head. “We
messed with something really powerful back there.” Amelia stayed numb and unresponsive. “Well? Don’t you have anything to
say?”

“Not really.” Amelia finally spoke, but her voice sounded distant and distracting even to her. Her head was spinning. She
was trying to get her mind around what the old woman had said. About cracking the world open when they found that baby. About
how it was all her mother’s fault. And how vicious Victor had looked when he said those words: “Get off our land.”

“Amelia—”

“Can you give me a minute?”

Lydia looked at Amelia agape as she turned onto the highway. “No. No, I can’t. I don’t even recognize you. You’re acting crazy.”

“You mean like you?”

“No. I mean like you. Like the way you’ve been ever since you came back from Portland. So fucking cool. Wes and Sadie and
Viiiiiiic-tor.”

“I can’t talk about that right now.”

“You?”
Lydia mocked shock. “You don’t want to talk about something? What a surprise! What a goddamn surprise! Amelia Barrow avoiding
the subject of herself.”

“Just let me out, please.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m
not
kidding.” Amelia gripped the door handle. She didn’t know why she was so angry, but she couldn’t see through it. She needed
air. “Slow down and let me out.”

Without another word, Lydia pulled onto the shoulder and put on the brakes. Gravel spilled down over the side of the road
as the car careened to a halt. Amelia opened the car door and slammed it behind her. She started walking. She didn’t care
how long it would take her to get home.