Shell Shaker

by LeAnne Howe

  She lets her shoes fall off her feet, and leans back in her seat. “This is an awful story,” she says, as the car dissolves along a blood clot of darkness.

  15 | Heart of the Panther

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1991

  Adair is sitting on her living room couch when gangsters break down her front door and pump her body full of bullets. As the shots hit their mark, she gives a little “oh-oh” which wakes her up in time to see Warren Beatty get it the same way in the in-flight movie, Bugsy.

  But it’s not the gunfire she hears in the earphones, it’s her father’s voice: Pichahli, remember what I told you. You are the true hunter in the family.

  She jerks the earphones off. Gore Battiste is seated next to her in the aisle seat, typing furiously on his laptop. She looks out the small oval window of the jet; thin stringy clouds whirl by. All is quiet in the first-class cabin. Was it really her father’s voice? It’s been a long time—she was only nine when he died—perhaps she’s mistaken. No one ever called her Pichahli except her father. She wishes she had a cigarette. She doesn’t feel like much of a hunter.

  “Indians aren’t capitalists—we can’t buy anything. Haven’t you read the history books? We must trade for what we want,” says Gore aloud, chuckling as he types.

  “What?”

  “I was typing some notes for the trial.”

  “Speaking of history—” she says, pausing.

  “Was I?” he asks.

  “Why haven’t you ever mentioned—well, the last time we saw each other?”

  He grins at her with that crooked little smile that makes her want to smack him, then make love to him. The problem is, he knows it.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up,” he says, mischievously. “Considering the circumstances, wouldn’t it have been a little cheesy to say, ‘Hey Adair, how’ve you been since the last time I saw you naked?’ ”

  She raises her fist, he raises his eyebrows. “You never called, I just want to know why,” she says.

  “A couple of reasons. Our timing was off. I was living in law school and you in New Orleans. After all, you’re the six-figure-a-year girl,” he says, closing his laptop.

  “Ah, here it comes, the hostility because I’m successful.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I want the mother of my children to be a six-figure-a-year girl, except you’ll have to stop smoking like a chimney when you get pregnant.”

  She must look stunned because he laughs loudly, then kisses her. “Nice,” he says, softly.

  “What are you saying?”

  He looks serious, and clears his throat for a speech. “The real reason I never called you was that I got married shortly after we met. We were in law school together, but it didn’t work out.”

  Adair is thoughtful. She hates prying into people’s pasts, yet she can’t help but ask, “Why didn’t it work out, can you tell me?”

  “We were of different faiths—if you can believe that matters in this day and age. It became a very big deal the longer we were together.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Annulled, you mean.”

  “Catholic?”

  “She was, I wasn’t, and if there were children...”

  “I see... So what about us?” asks Adair.

  “Over the past three days, it’s clear that we’re crazy about each other. Your whole family thinks we’re perfectly matched. Everyone’s quizzed me about how we met, when, where. I had to tell them something—that you once put the moves on me, but I outmaneuvered you. However,” he says, grinning from ear to ear, “now that you’ve changed your hair and dress like a man, I’m having a much tougher time.”

  She punches him in the stomach.

  “Stop hitting me.” He laughs and grabs her fists. “Even your mother said, ‘Welcome to the family, son.’ Jeez, you Billys are really brazen when you want something. Did you put her up to that?”

  “No, I did not!” Adair feels her face turning a shade redder.

  “According to Aunt Dovie, you’re not seriously involved with anyone else. I’m disease free, I have a steady law practice, and I want to make lots of little Indians with you. I’m asking you to marry me.”

  Somehow she’d known he’d married another woman. Now that he’s free, she can’t believe she’s hedging. Adair looks away from Gore’s face, intense and vulnerable. How can she be so happy while her family is being put through hell?

  “Marry me, Adair.”

  Silence.

  He must be reading her mind because his demeanor changes. “C’mon, Miss Billy, marry me, please,” he whispers, then kisses her brown-stained palms. “According to my uncle, who taught me this, even the meanest of Indian women after hearing a sincere marriage proposal will offer her tender weapons in exchange for a warrior’s true heart.”

  Her eyes fill with tears.

  “C’mon, Miss Billy, it’s a good exchange between very old, very dependable trading partners. This is the way it’s been done for a thousand years. The Alabama Conchatys want what the Chahtas have. Trade hearts with me. Say yes.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Then we have a treaty. I’ll bring the wampum belts,” he says, caressing her cheek.

  Once they check into their hotel room, Adair makes love with Gore. When she thinks he is soundly asleep, she gets up and paces the room. At two A.M. she’s still awake, writing a priority list. First, retrieve the package from Tema’s agent. Second, find James Joyce. Third, hire her hacker friend to download the tribe’s computer bank files. All this will cost a fortune—perhaps all the money she has stashed away. She calls the answering service for Tema’s agent and leaves a message. She’ll pick up the package before noon tomorrow.

  Gore gets up and stumbles to the couch. “It’s two-thirty woman, what are you doing?” he asks, yawning. “Come to bed, why are you knocking yourself out this way?”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “It’s just that Ma has never depended on me for anything truly important. She’s always known that I’d be all right, so she kinda ignores me,” she says, shrugging. “Auda’s the oldest, Tema’s the baby.”

  “I promise never to ignore you,” he says tenderly.

  She smiles. “I want to show my family that I’m worthy too. Understand?”

  He nods yes. “You need sleep. Tomorrow I’ll call a friend of mine in D.C. who can help us. She works in the Attorney General’s office and is very aware of the problems that Redford McAlester was creating for the tribe. Besides, we’ve gotta get some help tracking down this James Joyce character.”

  Adair wakes up at five, a force of habit. She drags on her robe and heads to the bathroom. Gore is still sleeping. When she comes out of the bathroom, she sees a huge panther lolling on the sofa of their hotel room. The panther has a thick tan coat; its body completely spans the three-cushion sofa. The brown markings across its cheeks remind her of her father’s facial scars, the ones he got in World War II when he fought hand-to-hand with a German soldier.

  “Dad,” she says, staring into the panther’s fiery eyes, “is that you?”

  Adair sits on the chair facing the couch and then falls into a deep sleep at the sound of her father’s voice.

  Do you want to live with the Alibamu Conchatys?

  Yes.

  This is good news. They’re admirable people, I have always trusted them.

  Will Auda get well?

  Things are not always how they seem, Pichahli. Don’t worry I am watching over my girls.

  How do I find James Joyce?

  He’ll be waiting for you at a restaurant called Harry’s at Hanover Square in New York City. But you must hurry, he leaves town soon, and you will not be able to track him.

  What does that mean?

  That his time is up.

  Dad, I miss you.

  Go back to sleep, my girl, you need your rest.

  Gore sounds panicky as he shakes her. “Adair, wake up, what are you doing on the floor?”

&n
bsp; “My father’s spirit was here,” she says sleepily.

  “I should put on some clothes.”

  “Don’t be silly, he came as a panther. He didn’t have on any clothes, either.”

  “Does this happen often?” Gore asks nervously, pulling on his pants.

  “Almost never.”

  He looks from the sofa to the bed. “That’s good to know.”

  “What time is it?” asks Adair, sitting up.

  “Nine forty-five.”

  “He told me where I can find this guy, Joyce. He’ll be at—”

  The phone rings. They both look at it, as if it were a foreign object. When Adair picks up the receiver, it’s Tema’s agent. She has the package for her. Also, a man with a thick Irish accent named James Joyce has been trying to contact Tema. Won’t leave a number; says he’s leaving town today. Adair says she’ll take care of it and hangs up. “I’m worried that Joyce is going to leave town before we get to him. He’s been trying to reach Tema.”

  “We just have to go on what your father’s given us,” Gore says, pulling her into the bathroom. “Clearly, Joyce wants to connect—though that puzzles me.”

  Before they leave, Adair tries to call her mother’s house, but no one answers. “Someone should be there,” she says. Then she remembers. The phone lines were jammed once before when Isaac had been arrested.

  Harry’s at Hanover Square is a famous Wall Street haunt. Adair knows it well from her regular trips to New York. Every Monday through Friday afternoon, brokers, traders, sales assistants, fund managers, and recently graduated M.B.A.s line up to drink dinner there.

  When she and Gore arrive, they’re escorted to a small table. Two cold glasses of beer are placed before them. Sinking into a fissured leather chair, Adair sees a man in a tan overcoat approaching her. He carries a glass of beer and a copy of the Times.

  James Joyce looks like he could be the twin of Willie Nelson. Same dark eyes, ruddy complexion, deep wrinkles for laugh lines. Strange how people choose one profession over another. A country western singer versus an explosives expert, or an assassin for the I.R.A. “You’re a Billy alright.” He sets his glass down, pulls a large manila envelope from between the folds of the Times and tosses it on the table. Then he sits.

  “Nobody listens to me,” he says. “It was bound to happen. True, our operations are kaput; we knew it wouldn’t last long, opinions within the ranks were always at variance. Everyone’s quarreling. How shrill, how harsh—the barbs wound the likes of us all. Tragedy about Chief, isn’t it? Poor bastard, getting it that way in the head. I’ve seen worse—he’d seen worse, to hear ’em tell it. Immortal role, chief. It can’t be easy. Dissenting voices to contend with, hurling curses at one another, profiles-incourage types dealing you a Mickey Finn. Who knows who’s doin’ what, to whom? Palms raised toward the Sun in prayer, or pressed together in front of the Virgin Mary—it doesn’t mean a thing, I grant you. Oh, don’t look at me so skeptically. One religious gesture you’re in, another you’re out.”

  He inhales the last of his beer. “The way Chief would stride back and forth, take to the open air in Belfast, he was a right one, he was. He stood firm on his history, never let it be forgotten. ‘Who owns the past? What are we quarreling about?’ he would ask me. ‘Whose land is it?’ I would answer. ‘Where is the goddamn sovereignty?’ And to that I’d reply. ‘Whose property is to be held, won back, shared with the bloody crown? Oh, Queens, be damned!’”

  He flags a waiter for his check. “Plutocratic terrorists, that’s what we all are, now. That’s where most of the money went, you see, not where Chief wanted it to go. Hoped it would go. But I’ve done what he asked. You can have what you’re after, it’s all here. But why are we talking about the end of the world? Plenty of plans left in my dreams. Chief was a hilarious, unique creation, but he wasn’t commanding enough, was he? He would say, tomorrow I’ll get back to saving the trees. We enjoyed him too much,” says James Joyce, folding the newspaper under his arm.

  Adair hasn’t understood a word. She glances over at Gore, who, by now, has tipped his beer glass toward Joyce, as if he were toasting him.

  “Then why don’t you just cut off their feet?” asks Gore, downing his own beer.

  “The whole lot is going to be stinking dead,” replies Joyce, carefully rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s what independence will do for us, look what it’s done for Indians. Ah, well—a change of climate might help, a shift in the currents, that is if she comes out of it, right as rain, so to speak. She was good for metaphors. Her perseverance unraveled every stitch of his sweater. No, we’re all dying and that’s that. It’s the trend—”

  “Stop!” shouts Adair, putting her hand up. She looks at James Joyce, then over at Gore who seems surprised that she’s upset. “Mr. Joyce, please, no more incoherent sentences. I never could get through Finnegans Wake.”

  Joyce says nothing, but he smiles innocently in Adair’s direction. He sits quietly at the table. When she can stand it no longer, she tries a more direct approach.

  “Mr. Joyce, Auda’s in a coma. Red is dead.”

  “Queer business, isn’t it,” he quips.

  “But what I want to know, are you going to tell us what happened to the money McAlester gave the I.R.A., why you got involved with him in the first place, and why you left a message with Tema’s agent? And ...”

  Gore interrupts her. “Honey, he just told us why, and this envelope contains the evidence we’re after.”

  With that, James Joyce stands up, nods politely in Gore’s direction and walks out of the restaurant.

  “You’re letting him get away!”

  Gore reaches for the envelope on the table. “Boy, for a woman who just said she spoke to her dead father the panther, you certainly fall apart when the conversation is amongst the living.”

  He looks inside the envelope and passes it to her. “It’s the wire transfer reports from the bank. I can’t be sure, but it looks as if the balances are zero. At least it proves Auda’s story.”

  “Why did Joyce give us these documents?”

  “You heard him.”

  “I didn’t understand a word. And how come you’re such an expert on James Joyce all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not. But I’m an expert on legalese. Reading between the lines, understanding what is said and what is implied. As you know, James Joyce, the famous author, was trained in Jesuit schools where he received an excellent grounding in religious doctrines, the basis of Judeo-Christian beliefs, hence English law, and hence—the basis of American law.”

  “So.”

  “Obviously the man who just left here chose that name for a reason. Speaking in a stream of consciousness might be helpful if you’re a bagman, or...whatever it is that he does for the I.R.A.”

  “I see,” says Adair, thoughtfully. “What else did you understand that I missed?”

  “He liked McAlester. He saw similarities between the problems of Northern Ireland and the British, and American Indians and the federal government. As a result, the I.R.A. and McAlester had history in common. Most of the money that McAlester paid them didn’t go toward killing other people, but to the I.R.A. bureaucracy. That’s why Joyce is angry with his own organization. That’s why he turned over evidence. That’s why he’s going to disappear.”

  “Boy, you were reading between the lines.”

  “Writing between the lines, Adair. You can read it all in my brief before we go to trial.”

  DURANT, OKLAHOMA

  THURSDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 26, 1991

  Tema can’t remember what day it is, or whether the Sun is coming up or going down. She’s been in the makeshift hospital room since they brought Auda home. She won’t leave Auda, somehow feels responsible for what has happened. She’s always felt a debt to her sister, but can’t explain why. There have been times over the years when she would wake up believing she knew why. But like the color of running water, she can’t name it. In Tema’s dreams there is a road of fire, the glint
of an ax. Immobility. Nothing.

  The past few days have been an emotional roller coaster ride. She misses Borden, more than she thought possible. Before Hoppy left for Mississippi with Delores and Isaac, he said he didn’t want to go to school in Paris. He said he wanted to stay in Durant and help Isaac work the ranch. One reason is Kelly Kampelubbi—she knows her son well enough to know that—but that’s not all of it. She decides to call Borden—surely he’ll have some advice—but when she picks up the phone in Auda’s room, there’s no dial tone.

  The house suddenly creaks. It tells Tema a stranger has just entered uninvited. The oak floors upstairs pop. Someone has just walked across them. It can’t be family or friends. Buster’s gone to the hospital to get more medical supplies. Her mother and Aunt Dovie are at the grocery store. Tema’s had a premonition that someone might break in, but she’s shrugged it off. The house groans again. She draws her Swiss Army knife out of her boot, opens the door of Auda’s room and looks up to the second floor landing. Someone is there, but she can’t see a thing. She listens. Another move. For a brief instant fear grips her and she can’t control her breathing. Every breath cuts her chest. Someone takes another step. Then another.

  To calm her breathing, she whispers the lines from The Conference of the Birds. “Come out—I see you peer and pry; you know my treasure’s home and you must die.” She knows she’s going to have to leave Auda and attack whoever is up there. She looks over at her sister, then checks the machines. They’re working fine. She decides to go up the front stairs and then come down the kitchen stairs at the back of the house. Perhaps she can draw whoever it is into one of the bedrooms then lock the door behind them.

  She remembers a story her mother once told her. To clear a path, Choctaw warriors once had to remove autumn leaves one by one, with their toes, in order to make a surprise attack on an enemy village. She makes herself into such a warrior. Taking off her boots, she slides across the wooden floors. Her own heart is beating so loudly that she will later say she never heard the pounding on the front door. All she will say is that she saw a stranger starting down the back stairs. He held a gun in his hand. She bolted and knocked him down the narrow kitchen stairs. The fall broke his neck, and within minutes he was dead.