Green Grass, Running Water

by Thomas King

  The grapefruit half hadn’t been sectioned. Alberta glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone was watching. Locking her legs around the table, Alberta waded into the grapefruit with the spoon, slicing the fruit into a lumpy pulp, spraying her wrists with juice.

  The man had stopped talking now and was staring out the window. The black woman had finished her meal and was sitting quietly with her coffee, rubbing one leg. There was something disconcerting about the way the woman drew her nails across her skin, as if she were scratching. Or shaving.

  Two of the outfits were badly tattered, most of the feathers snapped off, the ends missing. Alberta’s mother said the others could be repaired. As she held each one up to the light, Alberta could see the pattern of dirt on the sleek feathers where someone with boots had walked on them.

  * * *

  The toast had gone hard and oily. Alberta wiped her wrists, looked at the bill, and stood up. The man had begun to talk again. As Alberta passed the table, she heard him say something about the Indians being close by.

  Tourists, Alberta told herself. Only tourists wouldn’t know that Canada’s largest reserve was just to the east of town. No, she thought, as she walked into the lobby, that was the very thing that tourists would know.

  Alberta pushed through the front doors. There was rain in the air. She had always liked the rain, wondered if her father had liked the rain, too. For a moment, she considered driving out to Horsehead Coulee to stand on the prairie and watch the storm settle on the land.

  Her car was not where she had left it. Alberta walked through the parking lot, thinking she might have forgotten exactly where she had parked. After all, it had been late. It had been dark. Things always looked different in the light.

  But the car was gone. The puddle she had had to walk around the night before was still there. The car was not.

  Eli felt the wind first, quick and full, as the storm caught the truck at the top of the rise. He had watched it in the rearview mirror for several miles as it boiled out of the mountains and out onto the prairies, dragging the rain behind it. In the distance, Blossom lay in sunlight.

  The truck slid off the hill, picking up speed, and Eli let it run down into the river bottom, the wind rattling all around, the rain tumbling after him like a flood.

  Lionel’s birthday. He’d wish his nephew a happy birthday, maybe buy a small radio from him for the cabin. They’d have lunch at the Dead Dog and he’d say hello to Latisha as well. He had seen little of his family since he came home. Except for Norma stopping by from time to time with groceries and gossip and Sifton hiking over most mornings for free coffee, Eli had surrounded himself with space and silence.

  An Indian Thoreau. Except that Thoreau had been at Walden Pond for only a year and he hadn’t been serious, saw it as a social experiment, something that the semi-idle, semi-middle class could afford, the precursor, Eli supposed, to the ever popular retreat. Grey Owl was more to the point. The Englishman who wanted to be an Indian. What had Eli become? What had he wanted to be?

  “People ask about you,” Norma told him. “What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them I’m home.”

  “Everybody knows that, Eli. People want to know if you’re alive or dead.”

  “Tell them I’m dead.”

  “Been telling them that for years. No one believes me anymore.”

  “Then tell them I’m alive.”

  “Nobody believes that, either,” Norma said. “Tried telling them you’re just an old man in a cabin, but that lie’s not thick enough to dry dishes.”

  After the first few years, Karen stopped talking about the Sun Dance and mentioned it only on those occasions when the trip appeared in conversation. It was a silent place in their lives. Eli knew Karen wanted to go back to Alberta, but he also knew she could sense his reluctance. At first Karen suggested that perhaps he felt uncomfortable about taking her along since she wasn’t Indian.

  “You’re probably just nervous, Eli,” Karen had said.

  “That’s not it.”

  “And I understand.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What you should do is go out there by yourself. Then, once you’re comfortable about going home and you’re not embarrassed anymore . . .”

  The Indian who couldn’t go home.

  It was a common enough theme in novels and movies. Indian leaves the traditional world of the reserve, goes to the city, and is destroyed. Indian leaves the traditional world of the reserve, is exposed to white culture, and becomes trapped between two worlds. Indian leaves the traditional world of the reserve, gets an education, and is shunned by his tribe.

  Indians. Indians. Indians.

  Ten little Indians.

  “I want you to be happy, Eli.”

  The Indian who couldn’t go home.

  It had been hard leaving the reserve and his mother and his sisters, and by the time he got to Toronto, it was all he could do to keep from turning around and going back. But he didn’t go back that first year, knowing if he did, he would stay. Each year was easier. Each year laid more space between who he had become and who he had been. Until he could no longer measure the distance in miles.

  By the time Eli got to the turnoff, the windshield was under water. The wipers labored back and forth, moving the rain from one side to the other with little enthusiasm. Inside, everything was fogging up, and Eli had to scrub circles on the glass so he could see. He remembered the general run of the road, how it climbed the hill, rocking to the right near the top, and then swinging back past the water tower.

  Eli turned on the headlights and leaned forward to see out under the sweep of the blades.

  “Nothing wrong with Lionel selling televisions,” he had told Norma. “Unemployment on the reserve is close to eighty percent. At least the boy has a job.”

  “Figured you’d want to help.”

  “I could talk to him about university. I suppose I could do that.”

  “We need the young people to stay home, Eli. Figured you could tell him about that.”

  “The reserve’s not the world, Norma.”

  “There are good ways to live your life and there are not so good ways.”

  “Nothing wrong with getting away from the reserve.”

  “We’ve been here for thousands of years.”

  “Tourist talk, Norma.”

  “Good times and bad. You ever ask yourself why?”

  So he had stayed in Toronto and taught his classes. Year after year. Good times and bad.

  When Karen began waking up in the mornings with nausea, Eli thought she might be pregnant. Karen thought so, too, and she was annoyed when the tests came back negative.

  “Sorry,” she told Eli, as if she had done something wrong.“No baby.”

  There were tests and pills and the nausea went away. And then it came back. Stronger and debilitating. There were more tests. And then more tests. At first the problem appeared to be anemia. And then it was supposed to be hypoglycemia. One doctor suggested that it might simply be the onset of early menopause. The nausea came and went, disappearing for months at a time, but always coming back.

  “All in all,” Karen told him on one of their innumerable visits to the clinic, “I’d rather be pregnant.”

  “Me, too.”

  “At least then I’d have a reason for throwing up.”

  It was two years before the doctors caught it. The irony was that the same doctors who hadn’t been able to figure out the problem earlier on could now trace the symptoms right back to the source.

  “I’m almost relieved,” Karen told him. “At least I know what’s wrong.”

  “We’ll beat it,” Eli told her. “Now that we know the problem.”

  But while the doctors finally agreed on the problem, they all had different ideas about how to deal with it, and for the next few years, Karen ran a gauntlet of medical enthusiasms, until the procedures came full circle and began to tr
eat the cures.

  “This is crazy,” Karen told Eli. “These pills are to control the side effects of the treatments.”

  There were moments when the disease and the doctors, worn out by their long confrontation, took a break, and Karen came home.

  “It’s been seven months,” Eli told her. “Things are going to be better.”

  “It’s still there, Eli. I can feel it.”

  “That’s just the pills.”

  “Before I die, I’d like to see the Sun Dance again.”

  “Nobody’s going to die.”

  It had been a stupid thing to say, and he had known it was a lie even before he said it. They had become a melodrama. The doctors, the disease, Karen and Eli. A bad movie with absurd dialogue.

  “I’d like that, Eli. I’d really like that.”

  Eli swung the corner and pulled into the parking lot. The storm had let up a little. It was early yet, and there were no other cars. Eli turned off the engine and leaned against the door. There was no hurry, no place else to go.

  Through the blur of the windshield, Eli could make out four figures moving under the overhang, waiting for Bursum’s to open, and as he watched, a scraggly dog dashed back and forth, chasing its tail, spinning in the rain, as if it were trying to dance.

  “The problem is,” said the young man, “it’s not one of ours.”

  Charlie sat on the edge of the bed with the phone cradled against his shoulder. The sun had disappeared beneath a flood of clouds, and even with the curtains open and the lights on, the room was dark and depressing.

  “We don’t have a car missing,” said the young man.

  “I rented a car from you last night,” said Charlie.

  “Charlie Looking Bear?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s right,” said the young man, “and the car you rented is still in the lot. We tried to call you this morning, but we didn’t have a local number.”

  Charlie sighed and put the phone down and looked out the window. It was going to rain. It was going to rain for quite a while. He picked up the phone.

  “Look. I rented a Pinto. There was a Pinto in your lot. A rusty red Pinto. It was the only car in the lot. The keys you gave me fit the car. I drove the car to the Blossom Lodge and parked it in the lot. This morning, it was gone.”

  “Well, that explains it,” said the young man.

  “What explains it?”

  “We did rent you a Pinto. But it was lime green. And it was brand new. And it’s still here.”

  “The keys you gave me fit.”

  “That happens sometimes.”

  “Then whose car did I take?”

  “It wasn’t one of ours.”

  “Look,” said Charlie, squeezing the phone, “I’m a lawyer.”

  The rain came in with the wind, suddenly, hard, rattling across the window. Charlie sat on the bed and waited. Nothing.

  “Let’s start over again,” said Charlie, breaking the silence.“You rented me a car. A lime green Pinto. That car is still in your lot, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, then I’ll come out there and pick it up.”

  “Well, there’s a problem.”

  “Besides the stolen car?”

  “When we couldn’t get in touch with you this morning—”

  “It’s still this morning.”

  “We rented the car.”

  “Let me guess.”

  “And we don’t have any other cars available—”

  “Because it’s a long weekend.”

  “Because it’s a long weekend,” said the young man.

  Charlie laid the phone on the bed and walked to the window. The parking lot was black and slick and the space where he had parked the car was filling up with water. No car. The long weekend and no car.

  The young man on the phone continued to talk, something about a reduced rate off the next rental, and how sorry he was that matters hadn’t worked out this time. Charlie hung up the phone without saying good-bye, waited until the line cleared, and then called the front desk.

  “Could you call me a taxi?”

  “Mr. Looking Bear? Room four twenty-four?”

  “That’s right.”

  “To the airport?”

  “No.”

  Charlie put his shoes on, picked up the phone once again. He dialed the number, waited for the circuits to route the call. The line was still busy. He sat there and listened to the busy signal, as though it might change to a ring.

  All right. He’d catch a taxi to Bursum’s, say hello to Lionel, look around the store. He’d been thinking about a new television, anyway. It might be fun to have Lionel show him around. He’d joke around with Bill, maybe even pull his chain about the lot at the lake.

  Sooner or later, Alberta would show up. And, Charlie mused as he watched the rain pour down on the town, Alberta had a car.

  “Coyote, coyote,” I says. “Get back here. Things are happening.

  “Just a minute,” says Coyote. “I got to finish my dance.”

  “You’ve done enough dancing already,” I says.

  “Looks like I’ve got to go,” Coyote says to the old Indians.“But I’ll be back.”

  “It’s okay, Coyote,” said the Lone Ranger. “We won’t start without you.”

  “Great,” says Coyote. And that one dances back into this story.

  “About time,” I says. “Thought Woman can’t float around forever, you know.”

  “Hey,” says Coyote, “where did that island come from?”

  “That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention,” I says.

  So Thought Woman floats along and pretty soon she hits an island. Not too hard. With her head.

  Ouch! says that Island. Look where you are going.

  Sorry, says Thought Woman. I was just floating.

  Say, says that cranky Island, I’ll bet you’ve come to visit Robinson Crusoe, the famous shipwrecked writer.

  Does he write novels? says Thought Woman.

  No, says that Island. He writes lists.

  * * *

  “Hey,” says Coyote, “haven’t we seen that guy before?”

  “They all look the same,” I says.

  “But isn’t that . . . ?” says Coyote.

  “No,” I says. “That’s Robinson Crusoe. You’re getting him mixed up with Caliban.”

  “Who’s Caliban?” says Coyote.

  So pretty soon Robinson Crusoe comes walking along and that one looks at Thought Woman. And he looks at her again. Thank God! says Robinson Crusoe. It’s Friday!

  No, says Thought Woman. It’s Wednesday.

  Now that you’re here, Friday, says Robinson Crusoe, you can help me with my lists. Here we go. Under the bad points, I have been shipwrecked on this island for years.

  I’m Thought Woman, says Thought Woman.

  Under the good points, says Robinson Crusoe, I haven’t argued with anyone in all that time.

  Why are you making lists? says Thought Woman.

  Under the bad points, says Robinson Crusoe, all my clothes have worn out until I have nothing to wear.

  Actually, I’m just floating through, says Thought Woman.

  Under the good points, says Robinson Crusoe, the climate is so mild and pleasant, I do not need clothes.

  “Oh, no,” says Coyote. “Robinson Crusoe is naked.”

  “Well,” I says, “at least no one can see him.”

  “It’s still very embarrassing,” says Coyote.

  Under the bad points, says Robinson Crusoe, as a civilized white man, it has been difficult not having someone of color around whom I could educate and protect.

  What’s the good point? says Thought Woman.

  Now, you’re here, says Robinson Crusoe.

  “He doesn’t have a car,” says Coyote. “That’s a bad point.”

  “But he doesn’t have to buy gasoline,” I says.
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  “Okay, but he doesn’t have a television, either,” says Coyote. “That’s very bad.”

  “So he doesn’t have to watch it,” I says.

  “Okay, okay,” says Coyote. “Old Coyote doesn’t seem to be around to help.”

  “So what’s the bad point?” I says.

  “Boy,” says Coyote, “this is fun.”

  Have you got it straight? says Robinson Crusoe.

  Sure, says Thought Woman, I’ll be Robinson Crusoe. You can be Friday.

  But I don’t want to be Friday, says Robinson Crusoe.

  No point in being Robinson Crusoe all your life, says Thought Woman. It couldn’t be much fun.

  It would be a lot more fun if you would stop being stubborn, says Robinson Crusoe.

  All things considered, says Thought Woman, I’d rather be floating. And she dives into the ocean and floats away.

  “This is beginning to get boring,” says Coyote. “How long is Thought Woman going to float around this time?”

  “Who knows?” I says.

  “I have to get back,” says Coyote. “How about I call you from the store to see what’s happening? How about I call you Friday? Hee-hee, hee-hee.”

  “Better call sooner than that,” I says. “By Friday, this story will be done.”

  By the time Lionel made it to the back door, got his key in the lock, and slipped inside, he was soaking wet. His hair hung in his face. The gold blazer had turned brown and smelled like a wet dog. His shoes squeaked.

  “Lionel, we got company.”

  Through the hair and the water that ran down his face, Lionel could see Bursum standing at the front of the store with some people. Lionel pulled the hair to one side.

  “Hello, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger.

  The four old Indians. Lionel was in the motion of raising his hand to suggest that he would just stop at the bathroom and dry off when Bursum put his arm around the Lone Ranger and waved Lionel over.

  “Come on? Lionel,” said Bursum. “Don’t want to keep customers waiting.”

  “We brought you a present, grandson.” And Hawkeye held up a package wrapped in brown paper.