St. Clair (Gives Light Series) (29 page)

said one afternoon, dazed, when he and Jessica

stepped off the bus on the turnpike, their

schoolbags on their backs.

I walked them to their house on the other side of

the lake. Even on that side, the reservation was

crowded. I saw Grandpa Little Hawk with one of

the visitors, a little old man in a bucket hat, the

both of them casting their fishing tackles into the

water.

The craziness didn't end there. The very next day

there were news vans parked outside the

reservation hospital, the parking lot already

bursting at the seams.

"This is creepy," Rafael said, when I went to his

house in the afternoon. Mr. Red Clay had

conceded defeat and postponed school until the

insanity was over. "Nettlebush never got this much

attention before. It's like we were detached from

the rest of the world."

We went outside to sit under the southern oak tree.

But even that didn't last.

"Yo, quiet kid!"

Rafael and I looked up just as a chubby girl came

walking toward us, tugging a tall, lean guy by his

hand.

I recognized her right away. She had a pierced

nose, a pierced tongue, and hair so curly, it put

mine to shame. Noel Rumez. We were in foster

care together the year before.

I stood up with a wave. It was kind of a relief to

see Noel again. I'd always wondered what

happened to her when she stopped going to school

with me.

"I didn't know you were an Indian," Noel said.

"You know her?" Rafael muttered--presumably to

me. He hadn't stood up. He wasn't very good with

new people.

"Duh," Noel said. "He's my foster brother. And

this is my boyfriend, Bubbles."

Bubbles? I tried very hard not to stare. He didn't

look like a Bubbles. His hair was wrapped in a

bandana, his neck inked in overlapping tattoos.

"Bubbles likes a good protest," Noel said.

This really is a small world, I thought, mystified.

Noel and her boyfriend went on to another part of

the reservation. I really hoped none of our guests

were trekking out to the dangerous badlands.

Shortly after, Rafael and I went back inside the

house to visit Charity in her nursery.

The nursery was cute, an airy room toward the

back of the house with colorful animals on the

walls, a cradleboard sitting on the carpeted floor.

I took a second look at the animals and realized

Rafael had drawn them himself. Charity lay awake

in her bassinet, gazing around the room with big,

dark eyes. It amazed me that she was so quiet, so

well-behaved.

"She bawled like a champion when they brought

her home," Rafael said. "Had to get it out of her

system. If you cover a baby's nose with a cloth,

she uses her mouth to breathe, and she stops

crying. After that, she learns to cry only when she

needs something."

I shot him a horrified look.

"What?" he demanded. "It doesn't hurt. Every

Shoshone baby's raised that way. Your dad

probably did it to you, too."

Rafael lifted Charity out of the bassinet. He sat on

the pine chair, Charity on his lap. Just the sight of

it--that tiny little girl clutched softly in his big

arms, vulnerable, but safe--I can't even describe

it. I wish I were an artist like him. I would have

committed that sight to paper so it would never be

lost.

Charity started crying. Reluctantly, Rafael

checked her diaper. He breathed a sigh of relief

that sent laughter trilling through my body. "Thank

God," he said. "Shut up, Sky. She's probably

hungry."

Sure enough, Rosa came skittering into the room.

The baby changed hands. Rafael and I left before

we saw something we weren't meant to see.

"We've got a projector in the basement," Rafael

said. "Wanna see?"

He took me down to the basement, a dark, concrete

room with a single, low-watt light bulb. "The

concrete's reinforcement," he said. "If something

happened, like a tornado, or a hydrogen bomb, we

could stay in the basement and we'd be safe."

There were carpeted wooden joists spread across

the basement floor, probably to make it look less

like a dungeon. An entire wall carried nothing but

canned, shelved food.

Rafael knelt and dug through the cardboard boxes.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched him,

my chin propped on my hand, a smile on my face.

"Here it is," Rafael announced. He took out a little

black box with a round lens. He sat next to me on

the floor and flipped it over, inspecting the back

latch. "Dunno if it's got batteries, hang on..."

It did have batteries. I jostled Rafael's arm and

pointed to the bare wall opposite us. I didn't know

about him, but I wanted to watch something.

"Okay," he said. "Let me see if I can find a tape."

Rafael pulled aside boxes until he found the one

labeled "Home Movies." He dug around inside,

frowning over each title. I wondered what was

taking him so long. I got up and bent over the box,

slapping his hand away. I pulled out the tape

labeled "Christmas Pageant."

"Not that one," Rafael groaned. "We haven't

watched that in years. It's embarrassing as hell."

"Embarrassing as hell" sure sounded promising to

me. I popped open the projector and slid the tape

inside.

"You're a dumbass," Rafael swore. He pulled the

drawstring next to the lightbulb, casting the

basement in darkness. He sat at my side, his hand

on my knee. I hit "Play" on the projector, picked

up his arm, and tucked it around me. I saw a flash

of a smile on his face.

Light spilled across the bare concrete wall. The

light formed a grainy image: A wooden stage in

the middle of a grassy field. I hadn't realized the

projector had speakers until I heard rustling chatter

fill the basement.

"How much longer, Caias?" said the man behind

the camcorder.

The view swiveled around to face Mr. Red Clay.

I almost keeled over laughing. It was stranger than

anything to see him looking so young, his face free

of its lines and grooves. Truth be told, I thought he

looked more handsome in his forties than he had in

his twenties.

"If I were up on that stage, I would tell you," Mr.

Red Clay replied.

"Mooooom," said a little girl's voice, "Mom, this

is stupid--"

The camcorder swiveled again. A woman was

sitting on the grass with a little girl at her side.

My throat tightened. I wanted to swallow, but

couldn't. I didn't need to be told that the little girl

was a six-year-old Mary. And the kind-faced

woman with the plaited hair and dimples, her eyes

dark blue, was Rafael's mom.

"My two ladies," said the smug voice behind the

camcorder.

I felt winded. Of course it was Rafael's father

doing the filming.

My fingers instinctually closed around my throat.

The curtains on the stage peeled slowly open. A

group of children stood on the stage in funny

animal costumes. The black bear and the gray bear

were front and center, the stars of the play.

Mr. Red Clay gestured to the children, then ducked

out of sight.

"It was very long ago," Reverend Silver Wolf's

voice started, "that the Black Bear and the Gray

Bear had their quarrel. The Black Bear was

feeding on his dinner when the Gray Bear rudely

stuck his paw on top of the prey. And it is

Shoshone law that no warrior must claim another's

kill."

The little Black Bear and the little Gray Bear

started shoving each other. A smile flooded my

face. Five-year-old Rafael had to be the cutest kid

I'd ever seen. His dimples were too big on his

face, his hair spilling out of the hood of his

costume.

"The Black Bear won the dispute," Reverend

Silver Wolf said. The little boy dressed as the

Gray Bear toppled backwards on cue. "By the

laws of the land, the defeated warrior had to leave

his tribe. But this wasn't a joyous occasion.

Everyone, even the Black Bear, was sad to see the

Gray Bear leave."

The rest of the play was pretty standard fare if

you're used to the Shoshone tales. The little boy

dressed as the Gray Bear wandered across the

stage while Wolf, Coyote, and Spider came and

went, encouraging him. Children against the

backdrop of the stage picked up a big barrel of

fake snow and threw it at the Gray Bear while the

little boy in the costume closed his eyes and

sneezed. I heard Rafael's mom laugh. I squeezed

Rafael's knee.

"And the Gray Bear wandered," Reverend Silver

Wolf went on. "He wandered and wandered,

covered in the first snowfall, and left a trail of

snow behind him. And that white trail is still in

the sky now, for us to follow to the Forever

Hunting Ground."

Everyone applauded politely at the end of the

play. "Yeah," I heard Mr. Gives Light say, his

voice kind of guttural. "You kill that son of a

bitch, Rafael!"

"Eli," Mrs. Gives Light rebuked, sounding

surprised.

"That's how Raf's picking up on these words, Sue.

You see?" said another voice. And I just about

lost my head when the camera settled on Gabriel,

because he was nothing more than a poky, weedy

teenager with a light voice and light brown hair.

The children went to the edge of the stage and

bowed. I spotted a much younger Aubrey in the

background, dressed as a prairie chicken, and

laughed all over again. A child dressed as a

pronghorn swung his arms at his sides and hopped

to the corner of the stage, where his mother leaned

up from below and offered him a sippy cup to

drink from. The kid's curly blond hair was poking

out of his hood. The kid's mom had hair like his

and a rabbit-like underbite. And I lost my breath

all over again, because I was looking at my mom

and me, a memory I didn't even remember.

And then--I didn't expect it; I still can't believe it--

little Rafael trudged over to little me. He put my

hood down and rubbed my head. I offered him my

sippy cup, but he didn't want any. He wiped my

messy face with his hand and I opened my mouth in

a wide yawn.

The tape drew to an end. Blank, pale light danced

across the empty wall.

Rafael was watching me. I didn't need to look at

him to know it.

I looked at him. It was dark in that room. I could

only just make out the curves of his face, the

whites of his eyes. I couldn't make out his

expression.

"I guess I've always loved you," he said.

I reached up to touch his cheek. At the same time,

his lips descended on mine. It was the most

natural thing in the world to tilt my head back for

him. It was just as natural to trail my hand down

his arm, to rest my palm against the crook of his

elbow. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to meld

together with him. He must have known it. He

scooped me into his arms, onto his lap. I sank my

fingers in his hair and kissed him fiercely. Our

tongues touched, his teeth scraping my lip, his

glasses digging into my cheek. I braced his

shoulders, hard--hard enough to send him

sprawling to his back.

"Ow," he said. A beautiful smile started at his lips

and spread to the rest of his face. We laughed

together, our faces close. I kissed him on the

nose. He raised his hands to meet mine, palm

sliding against palm, and wove our fingers

together. I felt the smile on his lips still when I

kissed him again; and again; and one more time,

his chest rising, my chest falling.

He slid his hand beneath my shirt. We both froze

when his hand glided over the stomach tube.

"Does it..." I saw him swallow. He wet his lips

nervously. "Does that hurt?"

I shook my head.

"If I--will it--"

I pressed my fingers against his lips. He took the