The Bones of Paradise (8 page)

“Hold on. I'm coming.” Drum sat and looked at his boot toe turned unnaturally inward. Then the pain swept up his leg and nearly flattened him.

“Damn it all to hell!” He began a long string of curses at the broken ankle. The cow started bellering again, drawing his attention to the calf choking to death on the end of the rope the horse pulled taut as it had been trained to do but wouldn't half the time. Now, of course, the damn jughead decided to do as it was told.

Drum searched for something to use as a crutch, but without trees in the hills, there weren't any fallen limbs or sticks. He considered the tall dried stems of the soapweed around him, but they wouldn't hold his weight, and he couldn't afford another fall.

The cow pawed the ground like she meant to charge the horse and man again. Drum struggled to drag his pistol from the holster he wore on rides into the hills. He'd shoot her if she tried to pull another stunt like that.

“Get away!” he shouted at her and waved his arms. The horse rolled its eye and tossed its head. “Not you, you damn fool,” he crooned to the horse. He wanted to put a bullet in him, too. “Ease
up, now, easy,” he coaxed. The horse miraculously obeyed, and stepped forward to slacken the rope.

Drum's next maneuver was the real test. He tucked the shooting pain from his foot in a corner of his jaw, like a plug of stale tobacco, and dragged himself to the horse with a steady stream of words so the animal kept its mind on business. As soon as he was under the stirrup, he pulled himself upright, almost falling down again when his foot accidentally swept the resistance of the grass and new pain roared up his leg and burst in his head. But he fought it, as his grandfather had trained him to do with repeated beatings. “Don't you show a thing,” he muttered.

“Whoa now, son, steady.” He talked his way around the horse, used the animal's body, tail, and saddle to stand upright until he was on the far side and could mount using his good foot. He swung the bad foot over the horse's rump, miscalculated, and grazed it, nearly knocking himself off the saddle. He had little control of the broken foot, and could only rest it near the stirrup, knowing the heavy wood would bang the broken bones with every stride.

Even though it was a mild day, his shirt was wet and sweat ran into his eyes. He removed his hat, which had miraculously stayed put, and wiped his face on his sleeve.

Lifting the reins, he backed the horse, tightening the rope and slowly dragging the calf out of the sand bog, but he couldn't jump down to remove the line. He felt on his belt for his knife. Fortunately, it hadn't slipped from its sheath. He nudged the horse as close to the calf as he could, and kept an eye on the cow, who again pawed the ground. He was half-inclined to shoot her and be done with it, but then he'd lose two animals instead of one—he was in no shape to carry a motherless calf back to the barn to put it on the bottle. The horse tilted its head and rolled its eyes at the cow and danced lightly in place, ready to launch if she moved.

“Hold still, damn it.” Drum gathered as much rope as he could into loops until the calf was just below his stirrup, then he slashed the line, leaving the calf with a collar of about three feet. With any
luck, it would fall off or he could send someone out to fix it. Now, the question was, could he make the three-hour ride to his place? The foot was starting to throb like a son of a bitch. He wished he'd cut his boot before he mounted but a man hated to ruin something still of use. He looked over his shoulder at the thin path he'd just trod between the two ranches. Maybe there was something he could salvage here, he thought, and turned his horse back toward J.B.'s place. He should be there when that damn woman showed up throwing all kinds of fit.

D
ulcinea Bennett closed
Grimm's Fairy Tales
and smiled at the boys and girls sitting stiffly at attention at the wooden desks before her. A few wore fearful expressions as the result of one story after another in which mothers and fathers betrayed their children, or acted foolishly and lost them. The animals weren't much better. She hated these stories. As she looked across the room, her eye caught on Lily, Rose's daughter, whose small round face was filled with enthusiasm as she raised her hand, something that almost never happened among the Indian children at the Rosebud Reservation school.

Lily burst out, unable to contain herself. “Our spider is smarter than the one living with the flea in your story, Mrs. Bennett. Iktomi is powerful. He does things backwards to fool you. He can trick you, too.”

The other children glanced nervously at each other. The use of Lakota language was forbidden, and they must never speak of their old ways. Willow, a tall, reedy girl with bowed legs, leaned over and whispered to Lily, who blushed and dropped her eyes.

“What a wonderful creature! Can you tell me about any others?” Dulcinea glanced at Crooked Tail, seated next to last in the row
by the door. He opened and closed his mouth indecisively, and his hand fluttered at his shoulder. When she nodded at him, he spoke so softly she had to move closer to hear.

“Rabbit Boy. Hero,” he said, his hand collapsing on the desk with a soft thump.

“
Wagnuka,
red-headed woodpecker,” Sarah Sweetwater said. Dulcinea looked at the girl seated across from Crooked Tail. She had spent the entire year in silence, but now spoke clearly and confidently. Her large eyes made her thin face seem narrow and she kept her lips closed to hide the fact that her baby teeth had never fallen out and now crowded her larger ones. Her cousin, Lost Bird, had been adopted or bought by General Colby after Wounded Knee, depending on which story one believed. She was taken to Colby's home in Beatrice, Nebraska, and raised by a white family. Sarah's aunt never recovered from the shock of the killings at Wounded Knee or losing the child. This past summer, Mrs. Colby tried to enroll her adopted daughter with the Cheyenne River Agency for full tribal rights, including an allotment of land.

“Don't forget
kangi
the crow and the turtle
keya,
” Billy Blue Horse said in his distinct high, clipped voice.

“
Ptan
and
capa,
” a voice called out. It was the tiny, sickly Otter girl who sat in the front, as far from the windows as possible to stay warm. Dulcinea turned and smiled at her, and the girl said, “Wakan Tanka,” in an awed whisper, her face alight as she glanced shyly at the other children, who grew quiet, caution in their eyes. A couple of the oldest watched for Dulcinea's reaction. She had heard the words before and knew they were sacred, a reference to the great mystery, the creating power of the Lakota people. She closed her eyes and nodded.

An angry male voice said, “Hestovatohkeo'o.” It was Stone Road, a fourteen-year-old who was held back for not learning his numbers and letters. He spent most days locked in the cloakroom or working in the kitchen, punishment for using Lakota or practicing his religion. The Indian agent had tried punishing the families of children like him
by withholding food allocations and other supplies, but in his case it did no good. This was his last year in school. He was one of the children Dulcinea had tried to reach, to tutor privately, but it didn't work. In a way, she was relieved he wouldn't return in the fall.

“And who is that?” she asked in a tired voice.

“Double Face. The second one grows on the back of his head. Make eye contact, you die!” The boy smiled and opened his hands while the other children shifted uncomfortably and whispered to each other.

“Your fairy tales have anyone that powerful?” he demanded.

She was about to answer, then closed her mouth and looked at her students—dressed in plain cotton clothing, hair shorn, lacking ornament as if they had taken the vows of a strict Christian order—and shook her head. It was self-evident who had the power here. She recalled the supervisor's warning last fall. She was hired to introduce them to white culture and teach them to be of service in white families.

“By six and seven, Indian children have stopped playing with toys and are considered adults, working as hard as any grown person. They don't need coddling. Teach them how to be good citizens, how to follow rules, and about the consequences of poor decisions. And let's hope they go home and teach their families so we stop having all this trouble.” The supervisor had looked out the window of the classroom at the bleak sweep of rolling hills nearly devoid of trees, with only the tall grasses and the empty mindless blue sky to relieve the eye. He wasn't a bad man. Dulcinea had heard him called saintly for his Christian convictions. He had fought to keep the school open when whites wanted to empty the reservations after Wounded Knee. He'd ordered the doors locked during those dangerous times, and the children were unable to join their families at the Ghost Dance. Although he was praised, Dulcinea wondered at his strategy. She'd worked at the school for a year now, and suspected that much of what she was asked to teach the children was useless or worse.

She glanced at the gray walls neatly lined with pictures of happy white children playing with farm animals, baking cookies with their mother, decorating a Christmas tree, ironically drawing turkeys and Indians for Thanksgiving—calendar pictures from previous years. She had been instructed not to allow the students to express their tribal culture with Lakota language or customs, and under no circumstances to celebrate their primitive rituals or display their drawings or handicrafts unless they reflected white culture. It was a ridiculous order, and she spent the year afraid to violate it. Now, in ten minutes' time she had undone the year, and felt relieved. It was the last day of school and she could feel the rising impatience in her charges, who sat twitching like horses under the burden of required stillness. When they returned in the fall, they would struggle to refrain from smiling, to maintain blank faces, and she would once again feel the weight of their obedience. Her friend Rose often hinted at the richness of Lakota life but was hesitant to reveal much. Dulcinea suspected that Rose met with the students secretly to share news of home and their culture. She had no real proof, though, except for Stone Road.

Dulcinea hadn't seen Rose in more than a week. The woman had disappeared without a word, leaving the kitchen shorthanded. She was startled at how easily the other woman slipped away and by the hurt she felt. Rose was her only real friend since she had been forced to abandon her husband and sons.

Half-strangled by guilt and grief, she tried to live close enough that she could ride into the Sand Hills to watch over her family, Drum Bennett be damned. He always caught her, threatened her again, and she resolved to stay away, move to another town. Before long, it would begin again. A few times J.B. found her in the town and brought Hayward to spend time with his mother, which drove her wild with regret. When J.B. came alone, they fought for hours about Cullen and about her leaving, and then fell exhausted into bed to punish each other's bodies, ending in silence side by side in her rented room like a long-married couple waiting for a train.

Only Drum would tell her about her son, and his stories were as dark and bitter as any the Brothers Grimm could conjure—injuries, accidents, misfortunes. These were the hallmarks of Cullen's life, as far as she could tell. The last time Drum found her, she was waiting for a glimpse of Cullen out by the old line shack on Drum's land. She knew her son went there to escape his grandfather's tyranny. It was only a matter of time. She camped there for two weeks last August, fighting biting flies, heat, and loneliness. She spent the time training the little ranch horse she'd bought from the livery stable in Gordon. She wouldn't give up this time, she vowed; she'd be there when Cullen arrived and they'd talk until they understood each other. Drum be damned.

Drum arrived at dusk one evening, standing in the stirrups so the horse's jarring trot wouldn't pound his back and hips. He courteously stopped and dismounted far enough from her tent and fire that she was not disturbed. But when he stood in front of her and let his eyes sweep her figure, she felt shame, as if she didn't measure up.

“Here we are again,” he finally said with a slap of his reins across his palm. He sounded tired, and his wolf white-blue eyes glinted like mica as they took in her tent and her hobbled horse grazing nearby. “Having a time, aren't ya? Picnic? Campout?”

She remained silent.

“Got nothing to say, do you. We're going round the same ole mulberry bush.” He put his hand on the butt of his revolver. “You're like a dog keeps coming back where it's not wanted.” He slipped out the gun and let it hang in his hand between them.

She should have been afraid, but she wasn't. “Where's Cullen?”

“By God, I'll burn this place down if you don't keep away!” He raised the pistol and pointed it straight at her.

She shrugged and moved so close she could lift the gun he held and press the barrel against her heart. When she smiled, he shrank back, and the gun trembled in his hand. “You're crazy.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled again. “I'm going to have him back.”

“You'll get nothing. I'll finish off the lot before I let you touch any one of them.” He spit to the side, as if he could rid himself of the bitter taste. “You don't care nothing about yourself, but your men are another matter. Keep that in mind. They might not get themselves kilt, but there's a world of hurt they can be in unless you stay off Bennett land.”

That was the problem. She couldn't be sure that Drum Bennett wouldn't cripple his own to prove a point. He couldn't kill her, it wasn't in him to hurt a female for some reason, but males were another matter. As she watched him mount his horse and ride away, she thought it might be a relief to be done rather than continue living like a ghost, haunting the lives of loved ones, unable to reach out and touch them. Maybe she was going crazy. She packed up and left after that, hadn't seen Cullen since.

The last time she saw J.B. was during the warm spell in March when she rode down to Babylon to arrange the surprise shipment she'd bought for her husband and sons. They met in the room that was always reserved for the Bennetts at the hotel. For once their argument was halfhearted and they ended seated side by side on the bed. She traced the lines on his forehead with a finger and teased him about his sore tooth. For the first time in years, there was playfulness between them instead of grief and sadness at the separation. He asked, “Can you forgive me?”

“When you bring Cullen home,” she said. Unlike the other times she'd made this request, he nodded. Then a spring blizzard came through and nobody could get out. April was cold and rainy, travel was hard. Finally May arrived, bright and fresh, and there was no more waiting. J.B. would bring her son home, she knew it.

He was especially busy this time of year with calving and culling, branding and fencing. Ten years ago, when they first separated, they sent coded telegrams, full of anger and threats and cajoling. That stopped after a while. God, she missed him. She couldn't believe it was years now since she left. Years that old man had held her family hostage. This year, she vowed, this year she would put a stop
to it. Soon as the Kentucky Thoroughbred horses she'd bought for her husband and boys arrived, she'd tell J.B. the whole story and let him deal with his father in his own way. She planned the horses as a gesture of hope to bring their family together again, to signify her return and . . . and she didn't know what . . . She'd made the purchase on impulse and now it seemed foolish. She folded her arms and glanced out the window.

The American flag on the tall pole outside swayed in the wind as thin clouds skimmed the flat blue sky, causing waves of shadows to roll across the grass like the edge of a hand sweeping crumbs from a table. She walked over, unlatched the window, and turned back to the class. She wanted to invite them to climb outside and run through the new grass with her, as she would soon do on the ranch. She had felt a kind of wildness all morning, an anticipation. Something was coming toward her and she felt the urge to run.

“Mrs. Bennett?” A senior teacher poked her head in the doorway. Dulcinea turned and noticed the critical expression the woman wore that pulled her face into a narrow line like a ruler. “It's time.”

Dulcinea nodded to the disappearing head, dropped her gaze to the patient faces of Lily and Willow and Billy Blue Horse and all the others. She beckoned to them. Each row rose and filed silently to the front of the room, where she shook their hands and gave each a little brown sack of penny candy she'd paid for out of her own pocket. Lily pulled out a cinnamon gumdrop and shyly licked it with the tip of her tongue before shoving the whole piece in her mouth, where it sat bulging in her cheek as she turned and skipped toward the door, then stopped and walked slowly, head down. Stone Road paused, hands at his sides, and refused to accept the small reward, until Billy Blue Horse tried to take the sack from her hand.

“Hestovatohkeo'o,” he said, nodding toward the older woman outside the window, who was yelling for the children to be quiet for the photographer's picture.

“Maybe,” Dulcinea said. It wasn't a bad description of the woman, at any rate.

Stone Road smiled and lifted the sack of candy in salute before he sauntered down the aisle, flipping some books open and slapping others shut. Dulcinea felt a sense of calm in her chest. The boy would be fine. He could survive without her or the school. She smiled as the children broke for the doors, shouting and laughing and shoving as they ran to meet the families gathered to take them home.