by Ron Levitsky
“What light?”
“There was a light up on Grandfather’s ridge. I saw it from my window. I knew Grandfather was up there crying for a dream. I knew he wouldn’t be using any light.”
“What did you do?”
Stevie closed his eyes a moment, as if once again seeing the light from his window. “I went out of the house and up to the ridge.”
“About what time was that?”
“Ten-thirty or so, I guess. Just after my mom left for work.”
“Did you carry a flashlight?”
“No need. I know my way around the ridge with my eyes closed, and there were enough stars out. Ever since I was a little boy, Grandfather and me . . .” He stopped suddenly, looking down at his hands.
“That’s all right. Take your time.”
Stevie spoke more softly. “You know that Stone Boy sent his mother and uncles into the sky to be stars for the Lakota?”
“Yes, yes,” Benton said, trying to hide his impatience. “What happened when you went up to the ridge?”
“I walked up toward the light. It was by the bones of White Bear.”
“Didn’t your grandfather and Albert Gates argue over the remains that very afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I saw Mr. Gates’s tool kit near White Bear. Then I heard something make a sound. At first I thought it was White Bear—it scared me real bad. But it was coming from the other direction, not far from Grandfather’s vision pit. I walked toward the sound. It was Mr. Gates.”
“So he wasn’t dead.”
Grace heard several people gasp, then mutter to one another.
Again Stevie shook his head hard. “He was lying stretched out not far from the pit, moaning real soft. I almost ran away but didn’t. I walked around and knelt in front of him. The back of his head was all bloody, real bad.”
“What did you do?”
“I thought maybe I should go for help, maybe call to Grandfather in his vision pit.”
“Did you see anybody else? Hear anybody else on or near the ridge?”
“No. Anyways, I just kinda froze. My knees wouldn’t let me stand. I think I called Mr. Gates’s name. Maybe I did, because he sorta moved his head and looked up at me.”
Closing his eyes, Stevie wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. Grace felt like taking him from the stand, taking him right home. If Dr. Hartrey hadn’t said Stevie’s testimony would help him get better . . .
“What happened next?” Benton asked more insistently. When Stevie hesitated, the prosecutor added, “We’re almost finished, son.”
“I’m not your son!” Lips trembling, he looked past Benton to Grace. She started to rise, but he shook his head. “All right, Gates looked up at me, his eyes real glassy like he wasn’t seeing anything. Then . . . I think he knew who I was. He pushed out his fist, hit me with it, and . . .” Stevie’s voice trailed off.
“What did he say? What did Albert Gates say?”
“He said, ‘Saul T . . .,’ then he collapsed.”
There was a moment of absolute silence, as if the court rested within the eye of a tornado. Then all hell broke loose. People shouting, reporters running up the aisle and out the door, and Judge Whistler banging his gavel again and again, like the blood pounding inside Grace’s head.
Finally the courtroom grew quiet. Benton took a deep breath, then sighed, as if a burden had been lifted from him as well.
“One last question. I can understand why you waited so long to tell the truth—because of the horror that you saw, as well as your affection for your grandfather. Why did you come forward?”
Stevie looked at his shoes, not replying.
“Was it because of what Dr. Hartrey said earlier? It’s important for you to tell the truth?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I . . . had to tell the truth.”
“You did the right thing. Thank you.” Returning to his chair, Benton added, “Your Honor, I suggest a short recess before Mr. Rosen’s cross-examination to let the boy collect himself.”
“Of course. In fact, if defense counsel wishes, we’ll adjourn until tomorrow to give him a chance to prepare questions for both Stevie Jenkins and Dr. Hartrey. Mr. Rosen?”
Grace was afraid to look at the defense table, afraid to look into her father’s eyes. Glancing in that direction, she saw her father smiling at Stevie. Rosen leaned forward so still, so collected, he reminded Grace of a coyote catching the scent of its prey in the air.
“Mr. Rosen?” Judge Whistler repeated.
“I only have a few questions for the boy. Stevie, you feel up to answering a few more questions?”
He shrugged.
“Good. Now, I want you to remember as clearly as possible what happened up on the ridge with Albert Gates.”
“I told you what happened. Can’t I get outta here?”
“Very soon.” Rosen walked to the witness stand and stood very close to Stevie. “Think about exactly how things happened. For instance, what did Albert Gates do when he saw you?”
“Told you, he hit me with his fist.”
“Which way was his fist?”
“Huh?”
“Was it this way,” Rosen jabbed with his right fist palm down, “or like this?” He jabbed with his left fist palm up.
“That way.” Stevie pointed to Rosen’s left fist.
“Which fist did he shove at you?”
Stevie thought for a second. “The same one, his left.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rosen looked at his fist slowly opening. “About what you thought you heard Gates say—”
“Objection!” Benton said.
“I’ll rephrase my question. What did you hear Gates say?”
Stevie swallowed hard. “He said, ‘Saul T . . .,’ then he collapsed.”
“How soon after he finished speaking did he collapse?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think carefully. It’s important.”
“I don’t . . .” Stevie shook his head. “Maybe a couple seconds, that’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
“I must object again,” Benton said, standing. “Mr. Rosen is badgering the boy about a rather trivial point.”
Judge Whistler nodded. “I’m going to sustain the objection. Mr. Rosen, you’ll kindly refrain . . . Counselor?”
Rosen was no longer looking at Stevie or the judge. Grace watched him scan the courtroom behind her. She saw her brother Will, Andi, Ike, Huggins, Belle, Tom, Pearl, Dr. Hartrey—was he looking for one of them?
“Sorry, Your Honor,” Rosen said. Once again he seemed lost in thought. “Uh . . . I have no further questions for the witness today. I may continue my questioning tomorrow. If it please the court, I would like that recess you offered, to prepare my cross-examination.”
“For both Stevie Jenkins and Dr. Hartrey?”
He hesitated, then replied, “I have no questions for Dr. Hartrey.”
Judge Whistler frowned. “Indeed. Very well, court is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Before the judge could gavel adjournment, Grace hurried toward her son. She passed Rosen, who walked just as quickly in the opposite direction. As Stevie stepped from the witness stand, she held him tightly and kissed his damp forehead.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “It’s all right.”
Jack stood beside her, then Will and Dr. Hartrey. Grace’s eyes blurred, and she dabbed them with a handkerchief.
Patting Stevie’s shoulder, Dr. Hartrey said, “I know how difficult that was, but nobody should have to bear the burden you’ve had. What you did today is for the best.”
The four of them walked from the witness stand. In a far corner of the room, Rosen was talking to Belle. He seemed excited, far more than when questioning Stevie. Belle nodded a few times, then they left the courtroom together. Grace was about to ask Jack what he thought of that, when suddenly she found her father standing
before them.
He smiled at Stevie. “I don’t like the medicine this doctor puts into you, but I’m glad you told the truth.”
Stevie reddened, as he looked at his shoes.
“After all this is over, we’ll throw that medicine away. You’re old enough to cry for your own dream.”
Pushing Stevie behind her, Grace glared at her father. “Isn’t it bad enough what you’ve already done to him?”
His smile faded slowly. “Daughter, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Get away—just get away from me!”
Her legs wobbled, and she leaned against Jack. As they walked away from her father, Grace heard him say, “Ohan—All right.” Just as when he talked to the spirits.
Returning the handkerchief to her purse, she felt Stevie’s turtle doll. Grabbing it, she felt the word form on her lips—“Ohan.”
Chapter Sixteen – TUESDAY NOON
Stamping the snow from her boots, Grace walked into the Bear Coat Motel, followed by her son and Dr. Hartrey. Greg Castor, the owner’s son-in-law, nodded from behind the registration desk and reached for Dr. Hartrey’s key.
“You can wait on that,” Grace said. “We’re gonna have lunch in the coffee shop.”
Greg smiled at Dr. Hartrey, who wore a full-length mink coat, as well as a fur muff which covered her hands. Grace had never known anybody who owned a muff. It seemed not only of a different place but of a different time as well, like the elegant ladies her white grandfather might have visited in San Francisco.
Despite her warm coat, Dr. Hartrey was still shivering. “I could use a cup of hot coffee. It’s too darn cold, even for January.” As they walked through the lobby, she continued, “Thanks for showing me around town. The landscape is positively breathtaking. Nothing like it in the eastern part of the state.”
Grace said, “We figured to let you rest for a few hours after lunch. Then Jack’s taking us all into Deadwood for an early dinner.”
“Fine. I should get back to the motel by seven or so. I’ve several calls to make and some reports to write up.”
Fancier than the Village Diner, the coffee shop displayed a series of historic maps and photographs along its sand-colored walls. Dark-brown booths lined three of the walls, and the counter, to their left, was gray slate cut from the Black Hills. The shop had always been special to Grace. As children, she and Will had swiveled recklessly on the counter stools while drinking milk shakes overflowing from their metal canisters. In high school she and Molly McGaffey, the owner’s daughter, watched the tourists with their cameras and crazy clothes, imagining going back with them to New York or Florida or anyplace far from quiet little Bear Coat.
But seeing the place as Dr. Hartrey probably did, Grace noticed the spider-cracks in the wall and the taped cushions that Mr. McGaffey never quite got around to replacing. He was getting old, like the motel and just about everything else in town.
The place was empty, except for an old man drinking coffee at the counter and Molly, like a plump chicken in her waitress uniform, chatting with her father behind the register. Grace walked straight ahead to the long wall with a view of the foothills, then slid into the middle booth. Stevie sat beside her, across from Dr. Hartrey.
Grace said, “You can hang your coat up over there . . . Well, maybe it is too expensive to just put anyplace.”
Dr. Hartrey laughed that gentle laugh of hers. “I’m still a little cold. You didn’t think this was real?” She pulled the tag from an inside coat pocket. “See, man-made. My friends would skin me alive, if I wore a real fur coat.”
“Why?”
“Because of the needless cruelty. Why inflict pain on an animal unnecessarily just to flatter your ego, when an imitation fur is just as nice?”
Molly came over and took their order.
After she’d gone, Dr. Hartrey continued, “I suppose, with all the rifles and hunting, most people around here wouldn’t agree.”
Stevie sat very tall and still. “Grandfather says we’re allowed to take the animal’s fur, if we first ask permission and treat the animal with respect. That’s how the Lakota were able to live, ever since White Buffalo-Calf Maiden brought the chanunpa to our people.”
“Chanunpa?”
“Sacred pipe,” Grace explained. She looked down at her hands for a moment, embarrassed that her son went on so, speaking what her father had taught him—had taught them both.
“I understand what you’re saying,” Dr. Hartrey said to Stevie. “I can even accept the reason your grandfather gives for killing animals.”
“And me?” he asked.
“Yes, if you also believe.”
Grace clicked her tongue. “It’s no good setting the boy back on those ways. Not after what his grandfather did to him.”
“You mean, your father.”
“Same thing.”
“Is it?” Dr. Hartrey put her hand over Grace’s. “No one’s all good or bad. Your father may have killed Albert Gates for whatever reason, but that doesn’t negate the goodness of his faith or how it can help Stevie.”
“Help Stevie? How can you, a doctor, say all that mumbo jumbo is any good? It just confuses the boy.”
“I think Stevie’s quite clear in his attitude toward his grandfather’s faith, and in my opinion it’s done the boy good. People make the mistake of trying to find some one to believe in. That someone often turns out to have feet of clay, I suppose like your father. Better to believe in some thing, like the faith of your father. If you don’t mind my saying so, Grace, you could use a little of that faith.”
Grace didn’t know what to say. Stevie was getting better. That’s what was important, she kept telling herself, trying not to think of her father. Of how he looked at her in the courtroom, his face smooth as a stone, as if he were dealing with a stranger, a white woman. That didn’t matter, she almost said aloud, squeezing her hot eyes shut. Stevie was who counted.
Blinking hard, she saw Nate Rosen walk into the coffee shop and take the second booth on his right, along the wall perpendicular to them. He laid his briefcase on the seat beside him, then gave his order to Molly. Grace felt her stomach tighten and grabbed Stevie’s hand under the table, as she had held it before his testimony earlier that morning. So what if Rosen was here; after all, he was staying at the motel. He didn’t seem to notice them, but how couldn’t he?
A few minutes later, Molly brought their lunch.
“Your hamburgers look good,” Dr. Hartrey said. “Of course, this is cattle country.”
“How’s your tuna salad?” Grace asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think they raised this on a tuna ranch. I don’t eat meat—that wouldn’t be too consistent with my opinion on fur coats, would it? Besides, I need to watch my cholesterol. I really should exercise more but never seem to find the time.” She looked out the window. “Not that you have to worry about keeping fit, what with riding and hiking and all this clean, crisp air. I can see why Jack likes Bear Coat so much.”
At the mention of Jack’s name, Grace’s eyes narrowed. Dr. Hartrey wore a wedding ring, and on the desk in her office was a family photo with her husband and son. Still, she was beautiful, and Grace had always wondered if there was anything between the woman and Jack. It wasn’t something you’d talk about, especially in the woman’s office, but this was Bear Coat. Somehow Grace felt that gave her more of a right to know.
“I didn’t realize you and Jack were . . . friends.”
Dr. Hartrey pushed aside the rest of her lunch. “We’re not, really. He’s just called the office regularly to see how Stevie was doing. Didn’t you know?”
“No.”
“Hmm. He cares very much about the boy. And you.”
Grace glanced away, a little ashamed but relieved even more. She shouldn’t doubt Jack; he’d done everything, been everything she could’ve wanted. Shaking her head, she promised herself: no more doubts.
“Stevie, how about some of Molly’s mud pie? Think you can work th
rough all that chocolate?”
Head cocked, her son was listening to something at the other end of the room. A sound soft and low. Dr. Hartrey turned, and both women followed the boy’s gaze.
“What’s Mr. Rosen trying to play?” Dr. Hartrey asked.
“A siyotanka,” Stevie said.
Grace explained, “A Lakota courting flute, but where’d he get it? Of course . . .”
“Grandfather must’ve carved it. He’s a brother to the elk. They gave him the power.”
“What power?” Dr. Hartrey asked.
“The power to make a woman fall in love with you.”
“Really? I wonder if Warren Beatty has one. No, I shouldn’t be making fun of your grandfather’s beliefs. I’m sorry.”
The boy didn’t seem to hear. He said, “That’s not the way to play it,” then slid from the booth and walked across the room toward Rosen.
“That man,” Grace said, and was about to go after her son when Dr. Hartrey put a hand on her arm.
“You’ve got to stop feeling afraid for the boy. He’s tougher than you think.”
“It’s just . . .” But she let Dr. Hartrey draw her back into her seat.
For a minute Stevie stood over Rosen, watching him try to play the siyotanka. After they exchanged a few words, the lawyer laid his briefcase on the floor, and Stevie sat down. Taking the courting flute, he tested the sounds. There was a pause, then the music came soft and sweet, so sweet. Closing her eyes, Grace remembered as a little girl lying in bed, while downstairs in the kitchen her father played the same wondrous music for her mother, until suddenly the music would stop and the house grow silent, except for the whispering between them that rippled up the stairs.
“May I join you?”
The music had stopped. Opening her eyes, Grace saw Stevie, fingering the siyotanka, beside her again. But it wasn’t the boy who’d spoken. Holding a cup of tea, Rosen stood over her.
“Please,” Dr. Hartrey said, scooting over. He sat beside her, and she continued, “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Karen Hartrey.”
“Happy to meet you. Excuse me.” He signaled Molly. “More hot tea, please.”
“I see you had your first music lesson.”
