Steal the North: A Novel (12 page)

“Around town, yes.”

“I’m surprised your uncle hasn’t taken you fishing.” The dude fishes a lot.

“They—that is, Aunt Beth
wants to wait until after—”

When she doesn’t finish her sentence, I ask, “After what? The ceremony?”

“Yeah.” She points. “Look, a stack of hay.”

“Now, that’s truly amazing,” I mock. “Shall we?” She looks confused. “Climb to the top? Come on.” I run ahead of her. I have so much energy.

“I can’t climb,” she admits when she makes it to the stack of staggered hay bales.

“Of course you can climb. You got arms and legs.”

“I can’t ride a bike.”

Is she serious? Isn’t her mom a professor? “Listen, if you passed precalculus with an A, then—”

“An A minus.”

“You can climb a stack of hay bales.” I worked my ass off in algebra II last year and only got a C+, which my counselor said was great. She meant great for a tribal kid. This school year I have to take trigonometry. “Come on, city girl. I’ll help you.” I go first, since she’s wearing a dress. She does just fine. We make it to the top, and she immediately sits down. “I wish there were more of a view,” I say. There’s views on the rez I’d like to show Emmy—views I haven’t wanted to share with anyone before, which must make her my best friend. What do you know?

“How are we going to get back down?” she frets.

“Don’t worry, Emmy.” I sit beside her on the same hay bale and take her hand. She lets me hold it for a minute until her pulse steadies. “You okay?”

She smiles widely. “That was fun.” Damn, I love her teeth. I don’t think she’s had a lot of fun in her life if cupcakes and hay bales excite her. She’s mentioned a few times how she wants to travel when she’s older to Europe and India. When white girls in Omak talk about traveling, if they talk about it at all, it’s always to Seattle or California. Emmy is like the quote on the back of the novel she lent me: a mix of “appetite and innocence.” It’s this mixture, not just her perfume, making me dizzy. To use football lingo, she’s juking me out of my cleats.

I won’t ask Emmy about the ceremony now because I don’t want her to quit smiling. She’ll tell me when she’s ready. We sit mostly in silence. I brush mosquitoes from her arms, her knee. Then we climb down.

“I’m not a virgin,” she announces when we’re almost to the trailer park.

Where did that come from? “So,” I say. “Neither am I.”

She stops walking. “Well, Aunt Beth thinks I am.”

“Why does she care?”

“The ceremony. I’m supposed to be a virgin.”

“They sacrificing you to the gods?” I picture the Aztecs. No, the lighter-skinned Greeks.

“No, but—”

I wait. You got to have a little patience with this girl.

“I’m supposed to lay my hands on Aunt Beth at some Baptist healing ceremony,” she finally says. “It’s why I’m here. So she won’t have another miscarriage. But I’m not a virgin
or
a Christian. I’m just—” She pauses. “I’m a liar.”

“Emmy.” I grab her arm as she starts to walk away. “Where are you going?”

“They’re going to be home in a minute. I need to hurry.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m scared. I’m scared of everything. Fucking hay bales even.”

“You were brave for coming here.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “My mom
made
me. She thinks I’m a virgin too.”

“It’s really none of her business. Or your aunt’s.”

“You don’t believe that, Reuben. You and your sister are close. You don’t believe—”

“I do.” I hug her to me, and not loosely. When I let go, she doesn’t, not for a few more seconds anyway. I keep standing there after she has walked away. I want to follow her, but my dad has placed his hand on my shoulder, gently but firmly, like an elder. Which he never was. Even if he’d lived long enough. He couldn’t feed his own fucking family, let alone worry about the tribe. Coyote brought salmon to the people, but in some tales he refused to hunt for his own hungry kids. Those tales used to give me a stomachache, despite the fact I knew, even as a toddler, that Coyote teaches us
not
how to act as much as how
to
act. Has Dad come to warn me about Emmy? What happened to “Give the boy some space”? Is his warning a joke? It’s hard to tell with him. If it’s not, he can go fuck himself. He’s good at that. Coyote bravely killed monsters for his people and in preparation for humankind, but then he’d go and get himself severely wounded being proud and foolish. My dad’s no longer my protector. He quit slaying monsters for me long ago and, in some ways, turned into one instead. I’d tell him as much if his hand didn’t feel so comforting suddenly on my shoulder.

“It’s not like that, Teresa,” I protest. “Come on. I’m here, aren’t I?”

We’ve been arguing at the table, ever since I mentioned wanting to find a part-time summer job. She’s in one of her moods this morning, which, thankfully, she doesn’t get in that often: once a month on her period or if she happens to weigh herself at the hospital—and she’d kill me for saying so. Emilio has another ear infection and won’t quit fussing. Kevin and Audrey are fighting over who gets to wear the stethoscope Teresa brings home occasionally so the kids can play doctor. Grace, in a surgical mask, stands calmly behind her mom, braiding her hair, despite my telling her twice to go hold her brother, go check his diaper, go do beadwork. Something. She doesn’t need to hear this.

“All I’m saying is she’ll break your heart like any other white girl.”

“I’ve dated plenty of white girls. Not one—let me assure you, again, sis—has broken my heart. Not even close. And, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Yet,” Grace mumbles through her paper mask.

“Go,” I tell her, and point. “Now.”

“If she’s not your girlfriend,” Teresa says, “why do you need a job to buy her things?”

“I’m not going to buy her things. She has enough things.” I think of her necklace. It must be from her Sacramento boyfriend because she touches it whenever I ask a question about him.

“Then what?”

“Gas money, for starters. A new shirt for me so I don’t look like a slob. Cold pops on occasion. You know what I mean.”

“You’re too handsome, brother, to ever look like a slob.” She reaches for her purse. “I can spot you a ten.”

“I’m too old to be taking money from your purse or Mom’s.”

“You’re not a man yet. Slow down.”

“Just start asking around tomorrow at work. I’ll do anything. Lawn work. Take care of horses. Construction.” I point toward the farm fields. “Even fertilize fucking potatoes.” She doesn’t respond. “I’ll check the want ads. I can still watch your kids.” I squeeze her hand. “We’ll figure out a schedule.” I’d never leave her high and dry.

“Damn white girl—wanting to ride bareback.”

“Don’t, Teresa.” That pisses me off. “Not okay.” I stand up. “I don’t need this shit from you or from Dad.”

“Did you just say
from
Dad
?”

Oh, fuck. Her face lights up. I’ve never told Teresa or Mom about seeing Dad. They think he’s just been showing himself randomly to other wayward sorts and to elders, as he did in life.

“Mom’s been waiting years—”

I stop her. “I said—what do you need at the store besides bread, Top Ramen, and more medicine for Emilio?” I lay on the accent good and thick.

The only girl, until now, who ever came close to my heart was Teresa’s younger friend Audrey, whom my niece is named after. I was as much in love with her as any junior high boy could be. Audrey was traditional, or tried to be. She spoke the Salish language fluently and would try to teach it to anyone she could. It was amazing listening to her—not just watching her mouth and tongue, which, in and of itself, was a rush, but feeling the words, knowing what they meant even when I couldn’t quite form them. Audrey went to the longhouse to sing and dance. She wove baskets and bags, dug bulbs and roots. But she also had a thing for white rodeo guys with names like Cody and Bubba. I hated all her boyfriends, even the occasional Indian ones. At the annual Omak Stampede and Suicide Race—the largest event of the year, both on and off the rez—the white guys rope and wrestle bulls and the Indians ride horses down a sheer cliff and across the Okanogan River. I wouldn’t miss it. The last time I ever saw Audrey was at the Indian Encampment at the Omak Stampede. Teresa already had Grace and Kevin by then. Audrey, nineteen that summer, competed in the Indian dance competition. She held a feathered fan, and I swear she kept staring straight at me. She moved so slowly. The truck that hit her car later that night did not. She was killed instantly, and by an Indian, not a white guy. Her death made the front page of the
Omak Chronicle
. But so does every weekly wreck that kills another cowboy or Indian: teenage parents with their babies, in-the-middle-of-messy-divorces-so-driving-drunk millworkers, tired-looking moms, relatives visiting from Spokane, drunk rodeo folk, elders, schoolteachers, sober-but-in-debt millworkers, stoned women, hunters, yuppies from Seattle who cross the mountains for a change of scenery, an Indian father who lost his way, an Indian fancy dancer who stared at a boy.

I worried there might be awkwardness between me and Emmy after our Sunday evening hug. But first thing Tuesday she puts her arms around my neck. This time I hold on.

“Can I show you something?” she asks. On second thought, she does seem a little upset.

“Anything.”

“You have to promise not to laugh.” I do. “Come inside.”

She escorts me into the bedroom where she sleeps. My pulse starts racing as Emmy’s had after she climbed the hay bales. Her night-light, which sets on the dresser by the window, is a pair of ceramic hands held together in prayer. That’s the faint glow I’ve seen from outside.

She points to the bed. “Look.”

I don’t notice anything unusual at first. Probably because I’m picturing Emmy stretched out there in just a T-shirt, or little pajama shorts and a tank top with no shirt overtop. I have to focus to see what exactly she’s pointing at. Draped on the bed is a dress like those her aunt wears.

“Beth made that for me,” Emmy says. “For the healing. She was so excited.”

I go over to the bed and touch the dress. It’s hokey as hell, no doubt. I pick it up. “You’d look good in anything.” I mean it. She’s stylish, even if I’m not sure what style it is. I try to hold the dress up to her.

“Oh, don’t,” she says. “I’d rather die.”

That seems a bit dramatic. “Than wear this dress?”

“No—than have
you
see me in it.”

Is that a compliment? Or a serious lack of trust?

“I’d go anywhere with you in this,” I say.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would.” She moves closer to me, or it’s my imagination. “I’m not saying the dress isn’t awful. It is.” So awful, in fact, I put it back on the bed. “But I’d go to the store with you in it. Or to the movies.”

“What about to school?”

“Sure.”

She is moving closer.

“The reservation?” she asks.

She’s testing me.

“In a heartbeat.” I grin.

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie. Put it on right now. We’ll go somewhere.” I’d love to help her change.

“I can’t wear that dress.” Her tears spill. It’s the first time I’ve seen her cry.

“You can. It’s just for one day.”

“I can’t.” Gray is now my favorite eye color for white girls.

“I’ve worn fringed buckskin and feathered headpieces,” I tell her. But never at Omak High, like the real traditional kids do in the cafeteria for one period each day. “We have healing ceremonies. Small ones. Ones that last for days. You can do it.”

“I can?”

I don’t wipe her tears before I kiss her on the cheek because I want to taste the salt.

She kisses me back on my cheek, as if we were in Czechoslovakia or something.

I kiss her back on her other cheek. She laughs. I need to sit down before I pass out.

“Let’s go back outside,” I suggest. I have yet to light up in front of Emmy, but I could use a smoke.

“Why?” She wipes her eyes. “Don’t you like it in here?”

I like it too much, except for maybe the crib, which seems strange—her aunt isn’t even showing yet—until I realize it was probably Emmy’s old crib. “Cute,” I say, pointing to the wooden letters on the wall that spell her name.

“Do they creep you out?” she asks. I sit on her bed, but not near the dress.

“Why would they creep me out? You’re weird.”

She doesn’t seem bothered by my sitting on her bed, although she remains standing.

“I have some gifts for your nieces,” she announces, and heads for the closet, where she pulls out a small suitcase. “I brought all this stuff with me.”

“They don’t need anything.” I get up. “They got everything they need.” I try not to sound pissed, but I am a little.

“Oh. I didn’t mean—” She already unrolled a few scarves that were protecting a set of little glass bowls and what looks like fancy chopsticks.

“I have to go check on them,” I say.

“Okay.” She blushes deep red. “I didn’t mean anything. I don’t think you’re poor.”

“We are
poor,” I say. “But not in need.” Or we won’t be after I go stand in line tomorrow at a USDA food distribution site. Tribal food commodities sometimes include frozen ground buffalo or canned salmon. No irony there. Off the rez, it’ll be oatmeal, rice, maybe cheese, canned vegetables. I need a fucking job.

“It’s just I liked these Asian bowls and stuff when I was a little girl.” She sounds so nervous. I head for the door. “I don’t have any younger sisters or nieces to give them to.”

Damn it.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Don’t be mad.”

I turn back. She doesn’t need to apologize. She’s on her knees, wrapping the bowls back into the scarves. Her hair is coming loose. It was pulled back in one of those elaborate white chick braids. “Emmy.” I go to her.

“I don’t know how to act in front of people,” she says. “I never have.”

I kneel down. “You don’t have to
act
in front of me.” I pick up one of the bowls. It’s decorated on the inside rather than the outside. “Grace would love these.”

“Do you think?”

I pick up a pair of the chopsticks. “Can you use these things?”