Green Grass, Running Water

by Thomas King

  That card is very white and it has gold lettering and it has A. A. Gabriel’s picture on it.

  That is one beautiful card, says Thought Woman.

  Thank you, says that Card. And that Card begins to sing.

  Hosanna da.

  That’s what it sings. Hosanna da, hosanna da, hosanna da.

  “I know that song,” says Coyote. “Hosanna da, in-in the highest, hosanna da forever . . .”

  “You got the wrong song,” I says. “This song goes ‘Hosanna da, our home on Natives’ land.’”

  “Oh,” says Coyote. “That song.”

  Here we are, says A. A. Gabriel, and that one opens that briefcase and takes out a book.

  Name?

  Thought Woman, says Thought Woman.

  Mary, says A. A. Gabriel. And he writes that down. Social Insurance Number?

  “Six three seven,” says Coyote, “zero one five . . . five six one.”

  “A. A. Gabriel wants Thought Woman’s Social Insurance Number,” I says, “not yours.”

  “Are you sure?” says Coyote. “I have a very important number.”

  Any fruit or plants? That A. A. Gabriel keeps reading that book.

  Any firearms? Any alcohol or cigarettes? Are you now or have you ever been a member of the American Indian Movement?

  Sign here, says A. A. Gabriel.

  What is it? says Thought Woman.

  Virgin verification form, says A. A. Gabriel. Here’s a map of the city. We’re here, and this is where you’ll have the baby.

  Hosanna da, hosanna da, sings that Card. Hosanna da.

  I’m not pregnant, says Thought Woman.

  No problem, says A. A. Gabriel. Sign this paper.

  As long as the grass is green and the waters run, says that White Paper in a nice, deep voice.

  Oops, says A. A. Gabriel, and he shoves that White Paper back into the briefcase. Wrong paper, he says. That one is for later.

  What else do you have in that briefcase? says Thought Woman.

  We’re going to need a picture, says A. A. Gabriel. Could you stand over there next to that snake?

  Snake? says Thought Woman. I don’t see a snake.

  “Look, look,” says Coyote. “It’s Old Coyote.”

  “Hmmmm,” I says. “So it is.”

  “Hmmmm,” says Coyote. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Hello, says Thought Woman to Old Coyote. What are you doing here? Beats me, says Old Coyote. But I would appreciate it if you don’t stand on my head.

  Enough pictures, says A. A. Gabriel. Let’s have you lie down here, and we’ll get on with the procreating. Ready? Hail Mary / Full of grace . . .

  Hosanna da, sings that Card. Hosanna da.

  I don’t think so, says Thought Woman.

  Wait, says A. A. Gabriel. There’s more. Blessed art thou among women / And blessed be the fruit . . .

  No, says Thought Woman. Absolutely not.

  “Fruit?” says Coyote.

  “Relax,” I says. “It’s just another metaphor.”

  “Oh . . .” says Coyote. “So she really means yes, right?”

  So, says A. A. Gabriel, you really mean yes, right?

  No, says Thought Woman.

  But that’s the wrong answer, says A. A. Gabriel. Let’s try this again.

  Let’s not, says Thought Woman, and that one gets back in the water.

  Wait, wait, says A. A. Gabriel. What am I supposed to do with all these forms? What am I supposed to do with all these papers? What am I supposed to do with this snake?

  Hosanna da, sings that Card. Hosanna da.

  There are lots of Marys in the world, shouts A. A. Gabriel as Thought Woman floats away. We can always find another one, you know.

  “But there is only one Thought Woman,” says Coyote.

  “That’s right,” I says.

  “And there is only one Coyote,” says Coyote.

  “No,” I says. “This world is full of Coyotes.”

  “Well,” says Coyote, “that’s frightening.”

  “Yes it is,” I says. “Yes it is.”

  The Lone Ranger, Hawkeye, and Robinson Crusoe stood outside Bill Bursum’s Home Entertainment Barn and watched Ishmael dance in a tight circle.

  “That looks like it all right,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “I don’t know,” said Hawkeye. “That looks more Kiowa to me.”

  “Maybe if you bent over a bit more,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Now it looks Cree,” said Hawkeye. “You better keep working on it.”

  Ishmael stopped dancing. “Boy, I’m getting hot with all this dancing. Maybe Hawkeye should do some dancing now.”

  “Yes,” said the Lone Ranger. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Okay,” said Hawkeye. “I guess I can do that.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” says Coyote. “You may not believe this, but I know that dance. I can do that dance.”

  “Ho,” said the Lone Ranger. “Look, it’s Coyote.”

  “Hello, Coyote,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” said Ishmael.

  “Watch this,” says Coyote. “Watch this.”

  To the west, clouds ran in low against the land with thunder at their backs, and in the distances, the world rolled up dark and alive with lightning.

  “Oh, oh,” said the Lone Ranger. “I don’t think that’s the right dance.”

  “No,” said Robinson Crusoe. “That’s not the right dance at all.”

  “Watch this,” says Coyote. “This is the fancy part.”

  The wind arrived first, warm and damp. The old Indians moved under the eaves of the store and watched the sky darken.

  “You can stop,” said Ishmael. “You’ve done enough dancing.”

  “Yes,” said Hawkeye. “That was some very fine fancy dancing.”

  “Looks like it’s going to rain,” says Coyote. “What should we do now?”

  “We’re going to a party,” said Robinson Crusoe. “It’s our grandson’s birthday.”

  “A party?” says Coyote. “With cake and ice cream?”

  “Sure,” said Hawkeye.

  “And presents?” says Coyote. “And games?”

  “You bet,” said Ishmael.

  “I love parties,” says Coyote, and he dances even faster.

  “Yes,” said the Lone Ranger. “We remember the last party.”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” says Coyote just as the rain begins to fall. “That really wasn’t my fault.”

  Dr. Hovaugh eased into the convertible into a parking place in front of the Blossom Lodge and got out.

  “Maybe it was a star.” Babo stayed in the car and watched Dr. Hovaugh walk to the edge of the coulee and look out over the river bottom. “Or a flying saucer. Something like that.”

  “Look around you,” Dr. Hovaugh shouted back to Babo.“What do you see?”

  “Looks like a storm coming in,” said Babo. “Maybe we should put the top up.”

  The wind blew Dr. Hovaugh’s coat up his back and rolled his hair over his face. “No,” he said. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I’d still put the top up,” said Babo.

  Dr. Hovaugh spread his arms. The coat rattled around his stomach, the tie floating in the sky like a kite. “If you were the Indians, where would you go?”

  Babo half turned in the seat and looked at the Lodge. Then she looked at Dr. Hovaugh and the prairies. Then she looked at the Lodge again. “Don’t know,” she said. “This looks like a nice place. I guess I’d stay here.”

  “Exactly,” shouted Dr. Hovaugh, and he thrust his hands into his pockets and strode toward the motel. “Grab the bags.”

  Babo looked to the west. The light was still there. Westward leading. Getting close now, she thought. Getting pretty close.

  When Babo came into the lobby, Dr. Hovaugh was at the front desk talking to a nice-looking man in a dark cardig
an.

  “Ah, yes,” said the clerk. “Is that Mr. and Mrs.?”

  “No,” said Dr. Hovaugh.

  “Do your televisions have remote control?” said Babo.

  “Does the gentleman have a major credit card?” asked the clerk.

  “Of course,” said Dr. Hovaugh.

  “My daughter tells me that most of the good places have remote controls these days.”

  “Does the gentleman have a car?” asked the clerk.

  “The white Karmann-Ghia convertible,” said Dr. Hovaugh.

  “It’s nice to be able to lie back and just push the buttons,” said Babo.

  “A lovely car,” said the clerk.

  “Thank you,” said Dr. Hovaugh.

  “I have a remote at home,” said Babo.

  “And does the gentleman require any assistance with his bags?” said the clerk.

  “No, thank you,” said Dr. Hovaugh. He turned and smiled at Babo. “We can manage.”

  Babo smiled back and gave the clerk a nod.

  “Where are the bags?” said Dr. Hovaugh.

  “In the car,” said Babo.

  By the time Lionel turned to walk down Fourth Street, he had divided the remainder of his life into a series of manageable goals. First, he would resign his position at Bursum’s. Bursum had been good to him and he hated to leave the man in the lurch, but after he explained to Bill how he wanted to get on with his life, he was sure that Bill would understand. And there would be no need to mention that he had never received a raise in all the years he had worked there. Or that he thought Bill should consider changing the gold blazers for something that didn’t suggest real estate and used cars.

  “Bill, I’m going to resign and go back to school.”

  “Good for you, Lionel. Don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous.”

  “I won’t, Bill. The years I’ve worked for you have taught me a lot.”

  “Lionel, you’ve been my best salesman.”

  The second thing he planned to do was to go back to university and get his degree. Like Charlie. Like Alberta. Like Eli. Like almost everyone he knew. Perhaps he should go back East as Eli had done. Perhaps he should talk to Eli. Perhaps Eli could help get him into the University of Toronto.

  “I’m going back to university, uncle.”

  “That’s a good career move, Lionel. Have you decided on a school yet?”

  “I was thinking about the University of Toronto.”

  “I know the president. Would you like me to call him?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Will you need any scholarship money?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Third, he would talk to Alberta about his new life, about commitments, about babies. See what she thought about these things. See how her ideas fit in with his plans.

  “I’m going back to university. I expect to be a lawyer. Are you interested in coming along?”

  “I just want to be where you are.”

  “What about your career?”

  “It can wait. I can always pick it up later.”

  “And children?”

  “Lionel, I’d love to have your children.”

  Last, he would go to the reserve and spend more time with his mother and father, help them around the house, drive them into town, maybe even go to the Sun Dance with them. His father had never insisted, but Lionel knew that it would make him happy.

  “Thought I’d help out with the house.”

  “You’re a good son.”

  “Maybe you and Mom would like to go to a movie in town.”

  “Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

  “No trouble at all. I’m thinking I’ll go to the Sun Dance with you, too.”

  “You’re a good son.”

  There were other things he needed to do, too. Five, six, seven. But four was a good number to start with.

  Lionel had misjudged the walk. It was longer than he remembered. His feet were beginning to hurt and his shoulders had begun to ache. To make matters worse, a storm had snuck in while Lionel was setting up his goals, and as he looked to the sky, he realized that it would be upon him before he got to the store.

  Lionel picked up the pace, striding out, swinging his arms, looking for all the world like a goose at full gallop. He was going to be late. And wet.

  The storm broke hard and quick, catching Lionel as he turned the last corner and headed down the alley to the store. The rain fell in huge drops that ran through his blazer and his wool pants straight to the skin. As he puffed along, the rain slanting into him, he could feel his hair begin to come free and wash down the sides of his face.

  Up ahead, at the end of the alley near the rear entrance to the store, Lionel thought he could see a yellow dog dancing in the rain.

  Alberta sat in the coffee shop and watched the steam rise from her coffee. Now she was sleepy. Lying in bed had left her wide awake. Sitting up in a restaurant was putting her to sleep.

  “Have you decided?” The server smiled and rolled his pen around in a small circle. “Would you like to hear the specials again?”

  Alberta sat up and reached for the cream. “Yes, please.”

  Nothing much sounded good. Alberta ordered half a grapefruit and some whole wheat toast and dumped most of the cream and two sugars into the coffee.

  When her father got out of jail, he was still angry. Not the flashing anger Alberta had seen the day the border guards unwrapped the family’s dance outfits and spread them out on the ground, but a deeper, quieter rage that Amos buried with smiles and laughter as he recounted the story.

  “So here’s this asshole with eyes like an owl. He looks at the outfits like he’s checking prime fur and says, ‘Oh, yes, these are eagle feathers, all right.’”

  “What’d you tell him, Amos?”

  “I told him you can’t treat people like that.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “What the hell do they ever say?”

  Somehow a reporter from Medicine River heard about the incident and wrote a series of stories on the suppression of Indian religion. Within two weeks, several politicians were making speeches in the House of Commons about the abuses that Canadian citizens had to suffer at the hands of Americans.

  “Will the Honorable Minister please tell the people of Canada why our citizens are no longer safe to cross the border while we continue to offer visiting Americans every courtesy?”

  “I can assure the Honorable Member from Medicine River that the matter is being looked into and will be dealt with in a proper manner.”

  “Will the Honorable Minister explain to the people of Canada and our Aboriginal brothers and sisters why this government has done nothing to assure the return of the religious and historical artifacts that were stolen by the United States government?”

  “The government of Canada has always had the greatest respect for our Aboriginal peoples and will continue to provide them with the same protections that every Canadian enjoys.”

  It took almost six months of articles and stories and speeches. Then, one morning, Alberta’s mother got a call from a voice that said that the dance outfits were at the courthouse in Medicine River and could be picked up at any time.

  “We don’t get to town all that much,” Alberta’s mother told the voice.

  “The Honorable Robert Loblaw,” said the voice, “is always happy to be of assistance to his Cree constituency.”

  “That guy got a car?”

  “And I can assure you that Mr. Loblaw has worked tirelessly on this matter.”

  “Maybe he could bring them out. Save us a trip.”

  “May I pass your compliments on to Mr. Loblaw and his staff?”

  “Should probably tell that guy that me and my husband are Blackfoot.”

  “That’s very generous,” said the voice. “I’m sure Mr. Loblaw will be delighted to hear that.”

  Across the restaurant, a black wom
an and a white man were having breakfast. The man was talking, pointing out the plate glass window toward the mountains.

  You didn’t see many black people in Alberta, Alberta thought. For that matter, you didn’t see many black people in Canada at all. A colleague of hers at Calgary, a man from New York who liked to work at being provocative, told her that Canada was an all-white country, that the only reason there were any blacks in Canada at all was because of the Commonwealth. Except for baseball, of course. “What can you expect,” he liked to say, “from a country that sells citizenships to fat cats from the Middle East and the Orient?”

  “The U. S. does the same thing.”

  “Hell, everyone knows the U. S. is sleazy. But Canada is supposed to have some integrity.”

  Alberta didn’t care much for the man, but there was a hint of truth to his observations. In the ten years that she had taught at the University of Calgary, the only blacks she had seen had been exchange students.

  The woman was probably a tourist.

  Alberta watched her breakfast arrive. The grapefruit was tiny, the size of a large orange, and it had been cut so that it looked like an open mouth with teeth. The toast was cold.

  “Is there anything else I can bring you?” said the server.

  “The toast is cold.”

  “Oh, dear. Here, let me throw it in the microwave for a jiffy and get it nice and hot.”

  Alberta grimaced. “No,” she said with a sigh. “It’ll be just fine.”

  Amos went to the courthouse the next week to get the outfits. They were on the floor of a closet in three green garbage bags.

  “I’ll bet you’re happy to get these back, Mr. Frank.”

  “You can’t stick outfits in a bag like this.”

  “I’ve been to a couple of powwows,” said the man. “At the Calgary Stampede. Very colorful.”

  “You’ll bend the feathers doing that. You bend the feathers and it’ll ruin the outfit.”

  “Let us know,” said the man, “if we can be of any further assistance.”

  Amos brought the outfits home without ever looking at them. He put the bags on the table and sat on the couch. That evening, after the family had finished dinner, Alberta’s mother got a razor blade from the cupboard and slit the bags open.

  The black woman was laughing. The white man was wagging a fork at her as if he were in the middle of a lecture. Perhaps she was an entertainer, someone from the States up for a show. Or maybe she was a movie star. Alberta picked up a piece of toast, testing it with her fingers. That was probably it. She certainly wasn’t a baseball player.