Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  The next thing she knew, she was lying on the floor. Passed right out. George’s face loomed over her, the ends of his braids brushing her face.

  “Sister, are you okay?”

  Clara could feel the tears nudging at her eyes. She jumped up, pushing him out of the way, and headed for the side door, running away, this sudden knowing just too much. But she couldn’t make it past the top of the side stairs. He followed, finding her there, arms wrapped around herself, as though only that would hold her all together.

  “Sister. It’s okay.”

  Clara felt the shame rise in her at the tears that fell, her weakness right there for anyone to see. She turned away from him and he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “The teachings show us that we learn and become strong through suffering. I can see that you are very strong. There is no shame in sadness.”

  Clara felt the same way she had back then, with those lilting songs dancing among the shimmering birch leaves. Something that had been gone a long time filled her again, like her heart had suddenly started beating again after a long silence.

  No matter how long between the times when George and Clara saw each other, it always seemed like no time had passed at all. She and John Lennon pulled up to the rez house just outside Billings. It was long past midnight, but the lights were burning. The headlights cut through the country darkness, exposing the shed, the corral, the front porch. Just as she slid the car into park, George and Vera stepped out onto the porch, waving her in. She opened the door for John Lennon and he was out there like a dart, racing for the porch, a happy swipe of George and Vera with his smiling face and then off to sniff the latest news in that busy yard.

  Vera laughed. “That dog is more human than some humans I know!”

  Clara climbed the porch stairs and hugged her. “My sister, how are you?”

  George put his hand on her shoulder. “You must be tired. Come in, we kept supper for you. Tea?”

  “Yeah, long road, Brother. Tea sounds good.”

  They went into that warm, sage-smelling house and gathered around the table, John Lennon romping outside to his heart’s content, his home away from home.

  The trio laughed and visited for at least an hour, with no mention of tomorrow’s plan. In the small hours, John Lennon snoring on the porch, the talk turned serious.

  George put his hand on Clara’s. “You sure you want to do this?”

  She nodded, a small headache forming at her temples. “Yes. No doubt.”

  “You know what’s at stake, what could happen?”

  Clara laughed. “Ah, man, we can do this. Don’t worry.” She pushed the adrenalin down. No fear. No retreat.

  While everyone was glued to their TVs watching the news about the siege at Wounded Knee, no one had even heard of Willow Flats or the countless other reservations where the Bureau of Indian Affairs officials paid off the ones they could buy to do their dirty work on the rez. The showdown between the sellouts and the Traditionals was happening all across Turtle Island, known by the whites as North America. Sometimes the struggle played out in words, and sometimes, like at Willow Flats, too much was at stake on either side. The sellouts were being promised big bucks for getting enough tribal signatures to sell off parts of the reservation lands that were rich in oil and gas reserves. People like George and Clara, in support of AIM, were called in when the old people, who were speaking up for the future, arguing against selling, started getting hurt. No one wanted anyone hurt, but everyone wanted to make sure those old people had someone to stand up for them, someone to protect them.

  “When we get to Willow Flats, Vera and I will drive ahead. The tribal police know us, so they will for sure give us grief at the checkpoint. I know they have an FBI agent working with them, collecting information on all the Traditionals. While they are hassling us, you just slide on through and head straight for the church. Our people there sent a message that if you tie a white flag to the antenna, the National Guard will let you through. They are just watching right now, not shooting. Clara, try to look like some sweet young thing.”

  Everyone laughed.

  The next morning, Clara and Vera drank coffee and made breakfast while George bolted the metal box under Clara’s car. John Lennon lay under the birch tree, panting, his tongue lolling out as he ignored the goings-on.

  “Look at your dog.” Vera nodded toward John Lennon. “Does he ever stop looking your way?”

  “Only when he’s sniffing and running.” Clara walked out and sat on the porch with her coffee. John Lennon bounded over, flopped at her feet and huffed. Vera joined her moments later, flipping a piece of bacon to John Lennon.

  “Hey!” she called out. “You almost done? Clara, are you going to take John Lennon with you? He can stay here if you want. Celina next door loves him, and she can watch him till you get back.”

  “No, he comes with me.”

  George scrambled out from under the car, jumped to his feet, brushed the dirt off the front of his jeans and walked to the shed. He emerged moments later with a coffin-looking box. “Gonna need a hand with this.”

  Clara and Vera raced to help him. George slid under the car and the women handed him rifle after rifle until he stuck his hand out waving, no more. “Hand me that wrench.” Clara slipped it into his hand, the two women waiting, the tightening bolts making an angry metallic sound. “Done.” George slid out from under the car and they walked back to the porch. Clara concentrated on John Lennon as they walked up the stairs, thankful for how he always sought her out in tense times, filling her with a sense of calm.

  “Come and have your breakfast.” Vera walked into the house. George lingered as though he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he followed Vera inside. Clara raised her eyebrows at John Lennon and followed them in.

  The drive to Willow Flats seemed to go on forever. Clara stroked John Lennon’s head, glad for his calming company as the farther they got, the more rattled she felt. It was like a dream, thinking of the guns under her car, the goons they would face, the old people waiting, counting on them. Clara’s thoughts turned to Lucy and Kendra and she almost turned the car around. Then she thought of Lily, so small and alone, dying among strangers for no reason at all. Her uncertainty evaporated like it had never been there.

  The three of them met up at a rest stop on the outskirts of Rapid City for one last meeting before they headed into Willow Flats.

  “I’m gonna take a little walk with John Lennon.” Vera scratched his head and he was happy for a companion on his sniff around.

  George took Clara by the hand and looked at her. “It’s just your car and your new face. We can find someone else they won’t know. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do. I do. Remember me telling you about Lily?”

  “Yeah.” He squeezed her hand a little tighter.

  “I need to say something for Lily. I think of how many didn’t go home. I have to do this.” Clara felt the tears rising and shook them off. George hugged her, and they walked back to the cars. John Lennon ran up to her with a tongue-lolling smile so big it was as though she’d been gone for a week.

  Clara waited a few minutes, letting George and Vera get ahead of her, before she turned into the reservation. It was almost dark when she pulled up to the checkpoint. As expected, George was spread-eagled against the car, Vera standing by the open trunk arguing with her hands as the tribal police threw their stuff all over the ground. Clara slid the car slowly up to the checkpoint. She rolled down the window and one of the tribal cops rested the butt of his .303 British on the edge of it. Her stomach churned and she thought she would vomit. John Lennon huffed.

  She gripped the steering wheel and made herself as small as she could inside, just the way she used to when she didn’t want Sister to notice her.

  “Where you going?”

  “Just want to see the old memorial.”

  George looked back at the cop talking to Clara and chose his moment. He turned from his spread-eag
le position and pushed one of the cops. “Back off, we’re just visiting.” The guy at Clara’s window ran toward George’s car. She dropped her car into gear and just slid on by, her heart pounding in a rush of relief.

  As soon as the checkpoint was out of sight, Clara pulled over. She couldn’t help herself—she clambered over the seat into the back and hugged John Lennon before jumping out, reaching into the glovebox and retrieving the white flag. Hands shaking, she attached it to the antenna. She slid back into the driver’s seat and headed for the church.

  Clara’s heart was still pounding as the church, surrounded by National Guardsmen, came into view. She took a deep breath and approached the perimeter, the one headlight helped a little by the badlands dusk. Two National Guardsmen flagged her down just before the entrance, one motioning for her to roll the window down, the other walking around to the back of the car.

  She looked up at the Guardsman. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me. What’s your business here?”

  “Oh, my sister’s here and she asked me to come pick her up and take her home.” She glanced into the rear-view mirror; the second Guardsman was now at the rear of the car.

  He motioned to the first one. “Get the keys for the trunk.”

  “Officer, there’s nothing in the trunk. Just the spare and some clothes.”

  “Give me the keys.”

  “You have no reason to be searching my car. I told you why I’m here.”

  Clara glanced into the rear-view mirror again, and when the second Guardsman crouched down to look under the car, she slammed it into gear, spraying gravel as she raced back for the main road. She figured she had only seconds before they would be in pursuit, and she was right. Sirens wailed and the flashing lights weren’t far behind. The car was moving faster than she’d ever driven it before, and was up on two wheels as she veered off the main road looking for a place to hide. There was a small thicket not far ahead and she raced for it, making a sharp left onto an almost-indistinguishable access road. The road veered sharply to the left and she missed the corner, careening headlong into a deep ditch surrounded by tall bush.

  It was dark when Clara came to. John Lennon lay with his full length against her, keeping her warm against the badlands chill. A searing pain in Clara’s shoulder came alive and she cried out loud. John Lennon howled, and she quieted him as best she could, not knowing if they were still searching for her.

  The quiet took over the badlands under a small and bitter moon. Clara lay there, not yet able to move, listening to the wind rustling through the pines and the chaparral.

  Clara opened her eyes, and for a heart-pounding moment she lay there unmoving, unable to figure out where she was or how she’d gotten there. Panic ran through her like an electric shock. She looked around at the blinding whiteness of the room. The walls, the linens, even the light was white. The smell reminded her of the infirmary at the Mission. She tried to sit up, but the searing pain in her shoulder stopped her dead. She groaned and realized she wasn’t alone. “Clara.” George’s voice caught in his throat as he reached for her hand.

  “Where the hell am I?” Her throat hurt, it was so dry. “I need water.”

  “You’re in the hospital.” George poured her some ice water from the turquoise plastic jug. “Here.”

  She guzzled it down and motioned for more, the water easing the painful dryness in her throat. George filled the little plastic cup again, and once more after Clara downed it.

  “Help me sit up. Why does my shoulder hurt so much?” Clara looked at the thick bandages wrapped around her left shoulder.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  She dropped her head back down on the pillow, casting around, trying to put it together. The night in the badlands suddenly rolled over her like a nightmare. She sat up straight despite the pain.

  “Where’s John Lennon?” She remembered the wreck, the torn metal ripping through her shoulder. “George, where is he?” She burst into tears. “Where is John Lennon?”

  George jumped out of his chair and wrapped his arms around her. “Be still, Clara. He’s fine. He’s with Vera. He’s pining for you, howling a lot, but he’s good. Vera gave him some deer ribs to spoil him.”

  “What happened? What the hell happened?”

  “All we know is we found you the next morning. We went to the meeting place, but they said you two had never shown up. We backtracked, looking for you, but it was so dark it was hopeless.

  “We eventually found you just up the canyon from the main road. John Lennon wouldn’t let anyone get near you. You were lying there, on your back. I thought you were dead. Vera was eventually able to sweet-talk John Lennon so we could get to you. What the hell happened?”

  Clara told him about the Guardsmen and how she’d panicked when they wanted to search under the car. She told him of the chase and how they must not have seen her veer off the main road.

  “Those bastards. Why can’t they just leave us alone?” George stood up and walked to the window. “We got to your car before the FBI. We got the box off and the guns to where they were supposed to go, but they’re still sniffin’ around. They were here earlier, wanting to talk to you.”

  “I got nothing to say to them.”

  “The hospital must have called them.”

  “How did I get here? I don’t remember nothing after waking up with John Lennon beside me, keeping me warm.”

  “We brought you here. Vera’s brother hooked a tow to his truck. Went out there last night and took your car and John Lennon back to Billings. It took both of us to wrestle him into the car. Vera called me when she got home. She said he howled for you for over an hour before he wore himself out.”

  “George. Get me home.” Clara tried to sit up again but fell back, dizzy.

  “They gave you morphine after they fixed your shoulder.”

  She lay there quietly, trying to make the dizziness subside. When she just about had it under control, some guy in a white coat, Clara figured him to be the doctor, entered the room, all legs and glasses and papers. He grabbed Clara’s wrist and read her name tag. She pulled her arm back, feeling the way she had when they called her number at the Mission.

  “Well, Miss, ah, Clara, you’ve had a rough go of it.”

  She nodded and looked at George. “Yeah.”

  “Well, a metal shard went clear through. It missed your shoulder joint but did a lot of damage to the muscle tissue. It will be months before you have full use of that arm again, if ever.”

  “When can I go home?”

  “Oh, well, we will want to keep you for at least a couple of days.” The doctor flipped through the chart, clicking his pen and making notes.

  Clara looked at George and shook her head.

  “How’s the pain?” The doctor looked up at Clara again.

  “I’m fine.”

  George interrupted, impatient. “She’s not fine. She can’t even sit up.”

  “I’ll order some more morphine. The pain should ease in a day or two. You’re a lucky girl.” The doctor patted Clara’s foot and smiled. “You could have lost that arm.”

  “I don’t feel so lucky right now.” The conversation left Clara completely exhausted. The doctor retreated, and she lay there looking at George. “My brother, please get me out of here. I can’t breathe with all this whiteness.”

  “Clara, rest.”

  A nurse bustled into the room with a steel tray in her hands. “Sir, if you will excuse us a moment.” She pulled the curtain around Clara’s bed. “Roll over now.” The injection burned, but soon the warm, floating effect of the morphine replaced all thoughts of the wreck, the cops and even John Lennon. The nurse straightened the linens, opened the curtain and hustled out of the room, busy and efficient. Clara slid into the oblivion of the drug as George sat down again beside the bed, his gentle smile a distraction from his worried eyes.

  When she woke again, George was gone. A note left on the bedside table said: Gone for food. Back soon. The pain in Cla
ra’s shoulder was more of a dull ache now. Risking the possibility of shooting pain, she pulled herself up with her good arm, using the metal triangle suspended over the bed. Taking a few deep breaths first, she mustered her strength and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She exhaled deeply, dissipating the pain. Not so bad this time. The dizziness passed sooner too. Clara wondered how long George had been gone. She looked out the window and watched the dust devils dancing across the gravel parking lot. She scanned the room, wondering where her clothes were, her shoes, the purse Lucy had found for her at the Sally Ann. She tried to stand, but the dizziness was just too much and she eased herself back into bed.

  Her thoughts of escape were interrupted by heavy footfalls in the hall outside the room. She knew it was the police even before they crossed the threshold. They flashed their badges and approached the bed.

  “I’m Special Agent Frank Yates and this is my partner, Special Agent Arlen Grimes. Can we have a word with you?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What happened to your arm?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t remember.”

  “Which is it? You don’t know or you don’t remember?”

  “Ah, both, I guess.”

  “You want to tell us why you were running away from the National Guard?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We know it was you. You and a big dog in a blue Falcon.”

  “I was hitchhiking. I don’t have a car. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Agent Frank leaned in, pulling a picture out of the folder he held under his arm. He flashed it in front of her.

  “Maybe this will help refresh your memory.”

  There was no anger in Agent Frank’s voice, he was cooler than that. Power. Certainty. He would get what he wanted from her.

  “Now that’s a fine-looking car, officer, a little dirty, but it’s not mine.”

  “The officers you ran from say they saw a metal box under your car as you took off. What was in the box?”