Medicine River

by Thomas King

  The photograph was beat up a lot. It had been folded, and the emulsion had cracked and peeled. There was a tear that ran halfway down the left side.

  “That’s me,” David said. “What do you think?”

  * * *

  —

  JAMES AND ME liked to play tricks on my mother. Nothing mean. One time, I put on one of James’s shirts and walked into the kitchen with the shirt up around my chest. “Look at this,” I whined. “You must have shrunk it. It was my favourite shirt.”

  Mom would look at me, and before she could say anything, I’d shout, “Ha, it’s James’s shirt. Had you fooled, right?”

  “Boy, I guess you did.”

  “You thought it was my shirt, right?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “You got to watch out for me.”

  “I guess I do.”

  Another time, I got James to crawl under the sink. He crawled way at the back where the pipes were, and then, I piled the soap boxes and rags and the bucket and stuff like that all around him. Even with the doors open, you couldn’t see him, unless you got down on your knees and really looked hard.

  James was supposed to stay there until he could hear Mom at the sink, and then, he was supposed to start meowing. I guess it was because he was young. After a while, he got scared of being in the dark and started to cry. Mom found him and hauled him out and held him.

  “It was Will’s fault,” he cried.

  “No, it wasn’t. You were supposed to be a cat. Not my fault you’re still a baby.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!”

  Sometimes our tricks didn’t work out so well.

  * * *

  —

  “THE GUY STANDING next to me is Dennis Banks.” David held the picture and ran his finger across the image. There were four men and one woman in the photograph. David and two of the other men were holding rifles. “That’s Carter Camp. I can’t remember the other one. The woman is Gladys Bissonette.”

  The photograph was underexposed. Probably whoever took it shot it without a flash. But you could see David, alright. He was wearing a headband and a T-shirt.

  “You see the jacket Dennis is wearing? This is the same jacket. He gave it to me. You think you can fix this?”

  David had a big smile on his face, as though one of the other men had just told a joke. Dennis Banks wasn’t smiling. He was turning towards David, caught in mid-gesture, his eyes half-closed, his mouth open, his head turning to the side. “I’d like to get a really big one. You know, poster size. Maybe a couple of wallet-size ones, too.”

  In the background, you could see a table. There were people sitting around the table. They might have been eating, but you couldn’t see much detail. It was too dark, and the people were beyond the range of the camera.

  “This is a famous picture,” said David. “The FBI or the RCMP would love to get their hands on it.”

  There was nothing remarkable about the photograph. It could have been five friends on a hunting trip. I knew it wasn’t, but it could have been.

  “Wounded Knee,” David said almost in a whisper, as if someone might be listening. “This photograph was taken at Wounded Knee.”

  * * *

  —

  MAYDEAN JOE WAS RETARDED. She lived in the apartment building next door to ours, and every so often, Maydean would wander into our basement. We played in that basement in the winter, when it was too cold to go out, and in the summer, when it was too hot to stay out. I guess we figured we owned that basement.

  When Maydean first showed up, we didn’t know what to do. Henry Goodrider told her it was our basement, and that if she wanted to play in it, she would have to pay. Maydean just stood and looked at Henry with her mouth hanging open. Her arms hung in the air at funny angles, and every so often, they would jump as though someone had pulled on a set of strings. She sort of frightened me, her arms jumping about and her head jerking as if she couldn’t control it. I think she frightened Henry, too.

  We tried to play a couple of tricks on her. One day, James and Henry and me pretended we couldn’t hear Maydean or see her. We walked around the basement, as though she wasn’t there. We talked to each other as though she didn’t exist. It was a joke, but all of a sudden, Maydean let out a scream and rushed Henry and pushed him into some boxes that were stacked in the corner near the washers and the large commercial dryer. He wasn’t hurt, but he was angry as hell, and he got up and pushed Maydean. She fell down, and then she got up and pushed Henry, and Henry pushed her back, and then she pushed me. We all started pushing each other, and then we started laughing, and after that, Maydean was okay.

  I don’t mean she got better or anything like that. She was still retarded. She liked to hug us, and that was embarrassing. She’d run over in that staggering, falling, loose-limbed way she had of moving and grab Henry or James or me. She was strong, and she liked to squeeze us as hard as she could.

  The other kids didn’t like her much. Lena Oswald called her Little Miss Moron, and Bat Brain, and Slobberdean, because Maydean drooled a little when she got excited. Vicki Wright and her sister Robin started drawing pictures and writing things like “Will loves Maydean” or “James loves Maydean” or “Henry loves Maydean” on the basement walls with chalk they stole from school. Vicki said if you hung around retards like Maydean and let them slobber all over you, you would become a retard, too.

  The kids said all those things out loud in front of Maydean, as if she couldn’t hear or didn’t care. One day, she sort of went wild in the basement and started scrubbing at a picture Vicki had drawn. Maydean tried to erase it with her bare hands, and she got most of it off, but not before she cut her hands on the concrete. They didn’t bleed much, but you could see the faint fan of blood on the wall.

  * * *

  —

  HARLEN HAD TOLD ME the story of David Plume. As soon as the Indians took over Wounded Knee, David and Kevin Longbird and Amos Morley piled into Kevin’s van and headed for South Dakota. They got stopped in Fargo and were thrown in jail there. After they got out, Kevin and Amos Morley turned back and came home.

  Ray Little Buffalo figured that David was bullshitting everyone. “Once the feds closed down the highways and the secondary roads around Wounded Knee, no one got in. Plume probably just hung out in town and tried to convince the whores he was some big hero. Probably got that jacket at a surplus store.”

  According to Harlen, after Wounded Knee ended, David got himself arrested for aggravated assault in Lincoln and spent fourteen months in jail. When he came home, he had the jacket.

  The photograph could have been taken inside Wounded Knee. But it could have been taken at someone’s house, too, or in a bus depot.

  “I can fix it,” I said. “It won’t be as good as new, and I can’t print a poster-size copy. How about an eight-by-ten and some wallet size?”

  “Kinda like something bigger. It’s a historic picture.”

  “Don’t have the equipment to do real big stuff. There might be some places in Calgary that can do that.”

  “It was taken the morning the cops really started shooting at us,” David said. “This jacket has power. You had to have been there.”

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS HENRY’S IDEA that we put Maydean in the dryer. James wanted to be the one, but Henry said that he might bang his head as the dryer went around, and that if Maydean banged her head, it probably wouldn’t hurt.

  We’d put Maydean in the dryer and wait until my mother came down to put the wash in the dryer and just before she turned it on, we’d say, “Hey, isn’t that Maydean?” or something like that. That was the idea.

  But Maydean wouldn’t get in the dryer. She got as far as the door, but she wouldn’t get in.

  “Come on, Maydean. It’ll be fun.”

  “No,” said Maydean.

  “Look, tell you what. We won’t let her turn it on.”

  “No.”

  “Maydean,” said Henry. “If
you want to play with us and be our pal, you got to get in the dryer.”

  Maydean didn’t get in the dryer. She was stubborn sometimes, and this was one of those times. So we were stuck with James. Henry borrowed his brother’s hockey helmet and a pair of gloves because, he said, you can’t be too safe. James looked like one of those astronauts climbing into a space ship. He pressed his nose against the glass and stuck out his tongue. Maydean stood in front of the dryer jerking her head around and laughing, while James made fish faces behind the glass.

  When we heard Mom coming down the stairs, we told James to be quiet, and we shut the door. Maydean stood in front of the dryer, and she wouldn’t move. We thought she’d give the whole thing away. “You mess this up, Maydean, and you can just find some other basement.”

  Henry and me went and stood by the washers and tried to look casual. “We’ll help you, Mom,” I said as soon as she came through the door. Henry opened the washer, and we began carrying the wet clothes to the dryer.

  My mother didn’t say anything. She just watched us. Maydean started to laugh and sway.

  “You kids break something?”

  We got all the clothes from the washer into the dryer, and my mother took her coin purse out of her apron pocket.

  “Maybe you should take a look to see that we put them in right.”

  “Don’t know of a wrong way to do it.”

  “We may have made a mistake, you know.”

  My mother opened the purse and took out two quarters, but as she closed the purse, it slipped out of her hand and fell, the coins scattering across the floor.

  Henry and me leaped on the quarters and the dimes and the nickels. Some of the coins ran under the washer. Others rolled to the far side of the room. We chased them all down, pouncing on them like hawks on field mice.

  I was just starting to count my coins, when I heard a klunking sound and Maydean’s crazy laugh.

  “What’s wrong with this dryer?” my mother was saying. “What’d you kids put in here?”

  * * *

  —

  I MADE SOME COFFEE. David sat in the easy chair. He sat with his legs sprawled out in front of him as though he had walked a long distance and was tired.

  “You ever been shot at?”

  It was a casual question. David might have asked me if I’d flown in a plane or if I liked sushi or if I had ever been to Yellowknife.

  “It’s weird, you know. At night, you can see the flash and the tracers coming in. Every so often, you’d hear the bullets hitting something.”

  “There’s a poster company in Calgary. I could make a negative and send it to them. They’ll blow it up to any size you want.”

  “I was never scared at Wounded Knee. Most of the time we just sat around and talked. Most of the time we sat and waited. Most days, it was boring as hell. You know the cops killed Frank Clearwater while he was sleeping?”

  I was trying to think of something sympathetic to say when David got out of the chair and tucked the tail of his shirt back in his pants. “You get close to guys when someone’s trying to kill you. You know what I mean? Me and Dennis Banks were like that.”

  I nodded and started moving towards the door, hoping David would follow. “Give me a couple of days,” I said. “I’ll shoot a negative, touch it up and print a couple of wallet-size photos. I’ll look up that address in Calgary.”

  “He gave me this jacket,” David said, and he turned so I could see the letters on the back. “Harlen says you were in Toronto when we took Wounded Knee.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I thought about going.”

  “Lots of people thought about going.”

  David walked back to the chair and sat down. I watched the window hoping Harlen would drop in. We talked about Wounded Knee. We talked about Medicine River and the reserve. David’s parents lived in Cardston. They were both Mormons, and he didn’t see much of them. It was a friendly conversation full of anecdotes and humour, but as he talked, his gestures became laboured and jerky as though springs were slipping inside, and his voice plunged and thrashed like someone dying in water. I wasn’t sorry when he finally left.

  I caught Harlen at the Friendship Centre. “David shows everyone that picture,” Harlen told me. “He doesn’t mean to make people feel bad, you know. He’s the only one who went to Wounded Knee from around here. Kevin and Amos went with him, but they didn’t stay.”

  “He didn’t make me feel bad.”

  “That’s good. Some of the boys don’t like him. Ray figures David likes to show off. Those two almost got into a fight at the American a few weeks back. Things would be easier if he didn’t wear that jacket all the time.”

  “You think that’s the problem?”

  “Sure. Jimmy Bruised Head went to law school, and Louise’s cousin Alice got two or three degrees and went to teach at that university in Saskatoon. You and Louise own your own businesses.”

  “So?”

  “So, none of you went to Wounded Knee.”

  “So?”

  “David did. You can see how it all makes sense.”

  * * *

  —

  HENRY AND ME got James out of the dryer. His nose was bleeding, and the helmet was jammed down over his eyes. We took him over to the sink and got most of the blood off his face. He was trying not to cry. I knew Mom was looking at me.

  “He wanted to do it. I told him no, but he did it anyway.”

  “That’s right,” said Henry. “It’s Maydean’s fault. She was supposed to do it, but she didn’t want to because she’s crazy.”

  My mother stood and looked at the three of us, Henry and me and James, who was trying to stop the blood with a corner of his shirt.

  “Where’s Maydean?” my mother said.

  She wasn’t in the basement, and at first, I thought she had left. But then I heard her popping laugh. She was in the dryer. She was lying in the dryer on her back, her knees drawn up against her stomach.

  “Hey, get out of there. You’re going to get those clothes dirty.”

  “Yeah,” said Henry. “You didn’t want to get in the dryer before and look what happened. Now it’s too late.” Henry reached in and grabbed Maydean’s arm. She jerked the arm out of Henry’s grasp, rolled over, kicked at Henry and began screaming. Henry snapped his arm back and banged it on the side of the dryer. “Damn,” he shouted. “You gone and done it this time, Maydean Joe. Everyone’s going to know you’re crazy. Wanting to stay in a dryer is real nuts.”

  * * *

  —

  THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, just before closing, David pulled up in front of the studio in Kevin Longbird’s van. Kevin was in the driver’s seat, and I could see Amos Morley in the back.

  “We’re on our way to Ottawa,” David told me. “Government wants to cut the money for Indian education.”

  “They’re always trying to do that.”

  “You should come along, Will. You could take pictures.”

  “I don’t know why the government does that.”

  “I meet a lot of Indians, you know, who are sorry they didn’t go to Wounded Knee. That’s what they tell me. They feel like they got left out. It feels good to be part of something important.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know what you mean.”

  * * *

  —

  WE STOOD AROUND the dryer. James’s nose had stopped bleeding. Maydean was rolled up on her side with her face against the back of the dryer.

  “Go on,” my mother said. “Go play outside. She just wants to be like the rest of you.”

  Mom pulled up a chair next to the dryer and sat down and waited. “Go on,” she said again. “Going to take a while to fix this foolishness.”

  * * *

  —

  I WALKED DAVID to the van. He got in the back. He left the sliding door open as if he expected I might change my mind at the last minute and jump into the van with everyone else.

  “A person should do something important with their life. You sho
uld think about that.”

  “I will.”

  The van turned the corner past the American and headed for the highway. I stood at the curb and watched it go. Later, I went back into the studio and turned on all the lights and opened the doors.

  15

  Harlen had a great many interests. He liked basketball. He liked cars. He liked golf. He liked fishing. He was a fair carpenter and a decent hockey player. He collected these interests the way some people collect stamps, and though they never seemed to last very long, the knowledge accumulated in Harlen’s brain like brown grocery bags in a closet.

  Harlen’s latest interest was photography. For the last month, every time Harlen stopped by, I’d have to explain another aspect of taking pictures, or I would have to explain how a certain part of the camera worked.

  “That’s the shutter release, Harlen.”

  “Right.”

  “This ring sets your f-stops. It controls things like light and depth of field.”

  “Right.”

  “This is how you set your shutter speed.”

  “What is this?”

  “That’s the time-delay button.”

  “Those guys think of everything.”

  “I don’t use it much.”

  “What does it do?”

  Harlen was a good listener. I was a lousy teacher.

  “Well, let’s say you wanted a picture of yourself and the basketball team. You’d put the camera on a tripod and set the delay like this. Then you would push the button right here, and you’d have about ten seconds before the camera actually took the picture.”

  “So I could be in the picture, too.”

  “If you moved fast enough. I don’t use it much.”

  “Damn,” said Harlen, “those guys think of everything.”

  Near the end of June, Harlen decided that I should run a photography special. He hauled me over to see Leon Butler, who ran the local Woolworth store. According to Harlen, Leon knew everything there was to know about specials. Leon liked to tell anyone who would listen that specials helped to bring people in, and once they were in, there was no telling what else they would buy.