“My boots are filling,” he says.
He says this in a normal voice, like he just noticed and he doesn’t know what to think of it. Then he’s gone. A branch comes by. Another branch. And I go in.
By the time I get out of the river, off the snag I pulled myself onto, the sun is down. I walk back to the car, turn on the high beams, and drive it up the bank. I put it in first gear and then I take my foot off the clutch. I get out, close the door, and watch it plow softly into the water. The headlights reach in as they go down, searching, still lighted even after the water swirls over the back end.
I wait. The wires short out. It is all finally dark. And then there is only the water, the sound of it going and running and going and running and running.
hill SCAI FS (1980)
ALBERTINE JOHNSON
I was sitting before my third or fourth jellybean, which is anisette, grain alcohol, a lit match, and small wet explosion in the brain. On my left sat Gerry Nanapush of the Chippewa Tribe.
On my right sat Dot Adare of the has-been, of the never-was, of the what’s-in-front-of-me people. Still in her belly and tensed in its fluids coiled the child of their union, the child we were waiting for, the child whose name we were making a strenuous and lengthy search for in a cramped and littered bar at the very edge of that Dakota town.
Gerry had been on the wagon for thirteen years. He was drinking a tall glass of tonic water in which a crescent of soiled lemon bobbed, along with a Maraschino cherry or two. He was thirty-five years old and had been in prison, or out of prison and on the run, for almost half of those years. He was not in the clear yet nor Ak.
would he ever be, that is why the yellow tennis player’s visor was pulled down to the rim of his eyeglass frames. The bar was dimly lit and smoky; his glasses were very dark. Poor visibility must have been the reason Officer Lovchik saw him first.
Lovchik started toward us with his hand on his hip, but Gerry was over the backside of the booth and out the door before Lovchik got close enough to make a positive identification.
“Sit down with us,” said Dot to Lovchik, when he neared our booth.
“I’ll buy you a drink. It’s so dead here. No one’s been through all night.”
Lovchik sighed, sat, and ordered a blackberry brandy.
“Now tell me,” she said, staring at him, “honestly. What do you think of the name Ketchup Face?”
It was through Gerry that I first met Dot, in a bar like that one only denser with striving drinkers, construction crews who had come into town because a new interstate highway was passing near it. I was stuck there, having run out of money and ideas of where to go next. I was twenty-two and knew I’d soon have to do something different with my life. But no matter what that would be, I had to make some money first.
I had heard Gerry Nanapush was around, and because he was famous for leading a hunger strike at the state pen, as well as having been Henry Larnartine’s brother and some kind of boyfriend to Aunt June, I went to look for him. He was not hard to find, being large. I sat down next to him and we struck up a conversation, during the long course of which we became friendly enough for Gerry to put his arm around me.
Dot entered at exactly the wrong moment. She was quick tempered anyway, and being pregnant (Gerry had gotten her that way on a prison visit six months previous) increased her irritability. It was only natural then, I guess, that she would pull the barstool out from under me and threaten my life. Only I didn’t believe she was threatening my life at the time.
I had a false view of pregnant women. I thought of them as wearing invisible halos, not committing mayhem.
“I’m gonna bend you out of shape,” she said, flexing her hands over me.
Her hands were small, broad, capable, with pointed nails. I used to do the wrong thing sometimes when I was drinking, and that time I did theW Tong thing, even though I was stretched out on the floor beneath her. I started laughing at her because her hands were so small (though strong and determined looking-I should have been more conscious of that). She was about to dive on top of me, six-month belly and all, but Gerry caught her in midair and carried her, yelling, out the door.
The next morning I reported for work. It was my first day on the job, and the only other woman on the construction site besides me was Dot Adare.
That day Dot ‘just glared toward me from a distance. She worked in the weigh shack, and I was hired to press buttons on the conveyor belt.
All I had to do was adjust the speeds on the belt for sand, rocks, or gravel and make sure it was aimed toward the right pile. There was a pyramid for each type of material, which was used to make hot-mix and cement. Across the wide yard, I saw Dot emerge from the little weigh shack from time to time. I couldn’t tell whether she recognized me, but I thought, by the end of the day, that she probably didn’t. I found out differently the next morning when I went to the company truck for coffee.
She got me alongside of the truck somehow, away from the men. She didn’t say a word, just held the buck knife out where I could see it, blade toward me. She jiggled the handle, and the tip waved like the pointy head of a pit viper. Blind. Heat seeking. I was completely astonished. I had ‘just put the plastic cover on my coffee and it steamed between my hands.
“Well, I’m sorry I laughed,” I said. She stepped back. I peeled the lid off my coffee, took a sip, and then I said the wrong thing again.
“And I wasn’t going after your boyfriend.”
“Why not?” she said at once. “What’s wrong with him?”
I saw that I was going to lose this argument no matter what I said, so for once I did the right thing. I threw my coffee in her face and ran.
Later on that day Dot came out of the weigh shack and yelled,
“Okay then!” I was close enough to see that she even grinned. I waved. From then on things were better between us, which was lucky, because I turned out to be such a good button presser that within two weeks I was promoted to the weigh shack, to help Dot.
It wasn’t that Dot needed help weighing trucks, it was just a formality for the state highway department. I never quite understood, but it seems Dot had been both the truck weigher and the truck-weight inspector for a while, until someone caught wind of this. The company hired me to actually weigh the trucks, and Dot was hired by the state to make sure I recorded accurate weights. What she really did was sleep, knit, or eat all day. Between truckloads I did the same. I didn’t even have to get off my stool to weigh the trucks, because the arm of the scale projected through a rectangular hole and the weights appeared right in front of me. The standard back dumps, belly dumps and yellow company trucks eased onto a platform built over the arm next to the shack. I wrote their weight on a little pink slip, clipped the paper in a clothespin attached to a broom handle, and handed it up to the driver. I kept a copy of the pink slip on a yellow slip that I put in a metal file box No one ever picked up the file box so I never knew what the yellow slips were for. The company paid me very well.
It was early July when Dot and I started working together. At first I sat as far away from her as possible and never took my eyes Retail’, mom off her knitting needles, although it made me a little dizzy to watch her work. It wasn’t long before we came to an understanding, though, and after this I felt perfectly comfortable with Dot.
She was nothing but direct, you see, and told me right off that only three things made her angry. Number one was someone flirting with Gerry. Number two was a cigarette leech, someone who was always quitting but smoking yours. Number three was a piss-ant. I asked her what that was. “A piss-ant,” she said, “is a man with fat buns who tries to sell you things. A Jaycee, an Elk, a Kiwanis.” I always knew where I stood with Dot, so I trusted her.
I knew that if I fell out of her favor she would threaten me and give me time to run before she tried anything physical.
By mid-July our shack was unbearable, for it drew heat in from the bare yard and held it. We sat outside most of the time, moving around the sh
ack to catch what shade fell, letting the raw hot wind off the beet fields suck the sweat from our armpits and legs.
But the seasons change fast in North Dakota. We spent the last day of August jumping from foot to numb foot before Hadj], the foreman, dragged a little column of bottled gas into the shack. He lit the spoked wheel on its head, it bloomed, and from then on we huddled close to the heater, eating, dozing, or sitting mindless its small radius of dry warmth.
By that time Dot weighed over two hundred pounds, most of it peanut-butter cups and egg-salad sandwiches. She was a short, broad-beamed woman with long yellow eyes and spaces between each of her strong teeth. When we began working together, her hair was cropped close. By the cold months it had grown out in thick quills-brown at the shank, orange at the tip. The orange dye job had not suited her coloring. By that time, too, Dot’s belly was round and full, for she was due in October. The child rode high, and she often rested her forearms on it while she knitted.
One of Dot’s most peculiar feats was transforming that gentle task into something perverse. She knit viciously, jerking the yarn around her thumb until the tip whitened, pulling each stitch so tightly that the little garments she finished stood up by themselves like miniature suits of mail.
I thought that the child would need those tight stitches when it was born. Although Dot as expecting mother lived a fairly calm life, it was clear that she had also moved loosely among the dangerous elements.
The child, for example, had been conceived in a visiting room at the state prison. Dot had straddled Gerry’s lap in a corner the closed-circuit TV did not quite scan. Through a hole ripped in her pantyhose and a hole ripped in Gerry’s jeans they somehow managed to join and, miraculously, to conceive.
Not long after my conversation with Gerry in the bar, he was caught.
That time he went back peacefully, and didn’t put up a fight. He was mainly in the penitentiary for breaking out of it, anyway, since for his crime of assault and battery he had received three years and time off for good behavior. He just never managed to serve those three years or behave well. He broke out time after time, and was caught each time he did it, regular as clockwork.
Gerry was talented at getting out, that’s a fact. He boasted that no steel or concrete shit barn could hold a Chippewa, and he had eel like properties in spite of his enormous size. Greased with lard once, he squirmed into a six-foot-thick prison wall and vanished.
Some thought he had stuck there, immured forever, and that he would bring luck, like the bones of slaves sealed in the wall of China. But Gerry rubbed his own belly for luck and brought luck to no one else, for he appeared, suddenly, at Dot’s door, and she was hard-pressed to hide him.
She managed for nearly a month. Hiding a six-foot-plus, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Indian in the middle of a town that doesn’t like Indians in the first place isn’t easy. A month was quite an accomplishment, when you know what she was up against.
She spent most of her time walking to and from the grocery store, padding along on her swollen feet, astonishing the neighbors with the size of what they thought was her appetite. Stacks of pork chops, whole fryers, thick steaks disappeared overnight, and since Gerry couldn’t take the garbage out by day, sometimes he threw the bones out the windows, where they collected, where dogs soon learned to wait for a handout and fought and squabbled over whatever there was.
The neighbors finally complained, and one day, while Dot was at work, Lovchik knocked on the door of the trailer house. Gerry answered, sighed, and walked over to their car. He was so good at getting out of the joint and so terrible at getting caught. It was as if he couldn’t stay out of their hands. Dot knew his problem and told him that he was crazy to think he could walk out of prison and then live like a normal person. Dot told him that didn’t work. She told him to get lost for a while on the reservation or to let his Mother, Lulu, who had a long successful history of hiding men, keep him under cover. She told him to change his name, to let the straggly hairs above his lip grow, disguising his face. But Gerry wouldn’t do any of that. He simply knew he did not belong in prison, although he admitted it had done him some good when he was younger, hadn’t known how to be a criminal, and so had taken lessons from professionals. Now that he knew all there was to know, however, he couldn’t see the point of staying in a prison and taking the same lessons over and over. “A hate factory, ” he called it once, and said it manufactured black poisons in his stomach that he couldn’t get rid of although he poked a finger down his throat and retched and tried to be a clean and normal person in spite of everything.
Gerry’s problem, you see, was he believed in justice, not laws.
He felt he had paid for his crime, which was done in a drunk heat and to settle the question with a cowboy of whether a Chippewa was also a nigger. Gerry said that the two had never settled it between them, but that the cowboy at least knew that if a. Chippewa was a nigger he was sure also a hell of a mean and lowdown fighter.
For Gerry did not believe in fighting by any rules but reservation rules, which is to say the first thing Gerry did to the cowboy, after they squared off, was kick his balls.
It hadn’t been much of a fight after that, and since there were both white and Indian witnesses, Gerry thought it would blow if it ever’ reached court. But there is nothing more vengeful over] and determined in this world than a cowboy with sore balls, and Gerry soon found this out. He also found that white people are good witnesses to have on your side, because they have names, addresses, social security numbers, and work phones. But they are terrible witnesses to have against you, almost as bad as having Indians witness for you.
Not only did Gerry’s friends lack all forms of identification except their band cards, not only did they disappear (out of no malice but simply because Gerry was tried during powwow time), but the few he did manage to get were not interested in looking judge or jury in the eyes.
They mumbled into their laps. Gerry’s friends, you see, had no confidence in the United States judicial system. They did not seem comfortable in the courtroom, and this increased their unreliability in the eyes of judge and jury. If you trust the authorities, they trust you better back, it seems. It looked that way to Gerry, anyhow.
A local doctor testified on behalf of the cowboy’s testicles, and said his fertility might be impaired. Gerry got a little angry at that, and said right out in court that he could hardly believe he had done that much damage since the cowboy’s balls were very small targets, it had been dark, ‘and his aim was off anyway because of two, or maybe it was three, beers. That maAe, mate-is worse, of course, and Gerry was socked with a sentence that was heavy for a first offense, but not bad for an Indian. Some said he got off lucky.
Only one good thing came from the whole experience, said L Gerry, and that was that maybe the cowboy would not have any little cowboys, although, Gerry also said, he had nightmares sometimes that the cowboy did manage to have little cowboys, all born with full sets of grinning teeth, Stetson hats, and little balls hard as plum pits.
So you see, it was difficult for Gerry, as an Indian, to retain the natural good humor of his ancestors in these modern circumstances. He tried though, and since he believed in justice, not laws, Gerry knew where he belonged-out of prison, in the bosom of his new family. And in spite of the fact that he was untrained in the honest life, he wanted it. He was even interested in getting a job. It didn’t matter what kind of job,
“Anything for a change,” Gerry said. He wanted to go right out and apply for one, in fact, the moment he was free. But of course Dot wouldn’t let him. And so, because He wanted to be with Dot, he stayed hidden in her trailer house even though they both realized, or must have, that it wouldn’t be long before the police came asking around or the neighbors wised up and Gerry Nanapush would be back at square one again. So it happened. Lovchik came for him.
And Dot now believed she would have to go through the end of her pregnancy and the delivery all by herself Dot was angry about having to go
through it alone, and besides that, she loved Gerry with a deep and true love-that was clear.
She knit his absences into thick little suits for the child, suits that would have stopped a truck on a dark road with their colors Bazooka pink, bruise blue, the screaming orange flaggers wore.
The child was as restless a prisoner as its father, and grew more anxious and unruly as the time of release neared. As a place to spend a nine-month sentence in, Dot wasn’t much. Her body was inhospitable.
Her skin was loose, sallow, and draped like upholstery fabric over her short, board like bones. Like the shack we spent our days in, she seemed jerry-built, thrown into the world with loosely nailed limbs and lightly puttied joints. Some pregnant women’s bellies look like they always have been there. But Dot’s stomach was an odd shape, almost square, and had the tacked-on air of a new and unpainted bay window. The child was clearly ready for a break and not interested in earning its parole, for it kept her awake all night by pounding reasonlessly at her inner walls or beating against her bladder until she swore. “Kid wants out, bad,”
poor Dot would groan.
“You think it might be premature?” From the outside, anyway, the child looked big enough to stand and walk and maybe even run straight out of the maternity ward the moment it was born.
The sun, at the time, rose around seven, and we got to the weigh shack while the frost was still thick on the gravel. Each morning I started the gas heater, turning the nozzle and standing back, flipping the match at it the way you would feed a fanged animal.
Then one morning I saw the red bud through the window, lit already.
But when I opened the door the shack was empty. There was, however, evidence of an overnight visitor-cigarette stubs, a few beer cans crushed to flat disks. I swept these things out and didn’t say a word about them to Dot when she arrived.
Love Medicine Page 16
