Two Medicine

by John Hansen

  I nevertheless dragged myself out of bed, remembering how intently Katie had asked me about going, in the hall, drunkenly. I splashed some water over my face and got dressed.

  Katie and I left together and strolled slowly down the gravel path that led from the store towards the campsites. She was carrying her old, tattered Bible. It was a brilliant day – white sunlight blanketed everything, and it wasn’t too hot. It was the perfect kind of warmth from the sun that lights up everything in a clean, bright white, yet doesn’t bake everything to a crisp and ruin it all.

  It was about 7:30 when we finally arrived at the campsite, which was actually more of a cleared-out meeting spot on the ground than a campsite, because there were wooden benches set up there. It looked like a place a ranger would give a talk to some kids perhaps, or where there’d be a Boy Scout meeting.

  There was a small group present already, a few families with kids struggling out of their parents’ grasps to run around in the camp area, and parents trying to hold everything together for an awkward young preacher who was standing near the center, about to start.

  Katie had told me that the young guy was just another staffer at the lodge, working for the park like us, but that the park looked for people every year from different faiths who would agree to give sermons on Sunday mornings. This kid looked to be about nineteen years old, and he was dressed strangely – he wore the common tan cargo pants and hiking boots that people in that area often wore, but he had put on a button-down dress shirt and even stranger a blue suit jacket, to add a little decorum to the service apparently. The jacket stuck out oddly amongst all of us dressed in t-shirts and shorts, but it added a sense of apartness to the young man which kind of fit – in the prophet-among-the-people sort of way. He had a dark crop of hair, a dark beard kept short, and glasses; and he looked like a studious science student more than an outdoorsman or errant prophet.

  He began with a prayer and he definitely sounded nervous. I figured he was just some kid who’d grown up in the church and was very devout, and picked up the call to preach this summer as an extra job for the park; or maybe he was a seminary student and this was part of the deal for them to graduate – preaching somewhere for the summer. He seemed to really be taking this service seriously, though, and I admired his trying to do his best – his earnestness was nice to see.

  After the opening prayer and a quick greeting to those of us in the congregation as his eyes flicked around at the group, he went into the sermon, reading a verse from the New Testament. He then he gave about a 10-minute talk on it, telling us what he thought was important to take away from the words.

  “Matthew 5, verses 3 through 11,” he said. “Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.”

  He closed the book, keeping a finger in the place where he had read, and looked up to us, his erstwhile congregation, sitting in the sun on the benches, listening respectfully to him. Growing up going to church, it felt both strange and normal for me at the same time, sitting there in the middle of such natural splendor and listening to this young, earnest preacher, among strangers on their summer vacations. Bible preaching always seemed to fit the outdoors, to me, though. Probably because it mostly happened outdoors in the Bible, as far as I could remember of Jesus’ traveling around. There was also John the Baptist, who came “out of the wilderness…” I remembered, as the preacher began his talk. In the Bible everything happened out in the wilderness…

  His voice brought me back into the moment. “In our faith,” he began, his voice still peppered with a nervous shakiness, and his bespectacled glance flitting from one face to another, “These verses are called “the Beatitudes,” which means “joyful,” or, more accurately, “blissful” in Latin.”

  He paused a moment and then started to pace in front of us, looking down at his scripture and then up at the trees, alternating. I had the feeling that the pacing was planned as a part of his presentation. “They are the teachings by Jesus that describe 10 blessings, which are very short, and a little unusual to our modern ears,” he continued. “But they are so full of meaning.”

  He stopped and faced us. “Each Beatitude consists of two parts: the first is the condition and the second is the result. Poor – rich; meek – dominant; in mourning – comforted; persecuted – honored. Poor, mourning, persecuted, these conditions were well known to the Jews in Jesus’ time, and were a part of their regular lives and synagogue teachings. But Jesus teaches here a new way to think about them lowly places. Those conditions were of suffering and were well known to humble, displaced, and ruled-over people, as the Jews lived under the Roman rule.

  “But,” he stabbed a finger at the pages in his hand, “Jesus was also talking about Christianity. Each of these conditions, these unpleasant states of being, the early Christians were going to experience, soon – from the Jews and the Romans, and everybody else. By promising that their lowly and painful way of life would soon turn into a victorious one, he gave his followers hope, as it should also give us hope.”

  “So,” he resumed after a pause, “the Beatitudes give us a new set of models, Christian models, that focus on a spirit of love and humility – different than what they were used to hearing in Jesus’ time. These verses show us the highest ideals to strive for, showing us how to live for mercy, humility, and compassion. Even when we are persecuted.”

  He looked at us for a moment, peering at us as debating in his head if he should say more, and then he said, “So let us pray.”

  He began his closing prayer, asking God to help us live under those ideals that would lead us to victory. I looked over at Katie who had her head bowed and eyes closed; she was mouthing some words that were different than the prayer the young preacher was giving. Katie had sat like a stone the entire talk, as I had seen in a couple sideways glances.

  After it was over some of the campers came up and shook the preacher’s hand, and spoke for a few minutes. I asked Katie if we were free to go, but she didn’t respond and just got up and went over to him to talk. After she said something to him, he nodded his head vigorously and they talked for a good ten minutes more.

  I sat on the bench while they talked, still a little groggy from the early rising. I idly kicked at the gravel and dirt with my boots a bit, and watched the campers in the various spots I could see through the trees along the footpath around us. They milled around, some making breakfast, others packing up, some just arriving and unpacking, ready for a few days in paradise. I would seem them in the store, soon, I reflected. A few of them had small trailer campers pulled into the lots, but mostly there were just tents, large and small, colorful domes that peeked through the pine boughs as the wind blew through the trees.

  I thought about what the preacher had said – about how the meek shall inherit the earth. Was did it mean to be meek, really? And what did it mean to inherit the earth – in this life, or the next? Phyllis was meek, it seemed; would she dominate over Larry someday? Would she inherit anything? Katie was meek, in her own tough and eccentric way…

  I resolved, if was dragged back here by Katie again some early morning, to ask the preacher what the meek will inherit. But Katie suddenly kicked my boots as I looked through the trees. “Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me forward.

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as we walked, trying to gauge her mood, which was never easy with her at the best of times, and certainly not at that moment. She seemed more
moodier than when we had set out that morning, despite what I thought was a actually a pleasant little sermon – nothing to get upset about…

  “I liked his message,” I said to her, politely testing the waters. “Short and sweet!”

  She didn’t acknowledge that I had spoken, and didn’t say a word at first, and we walked on. But suddenly she said in a sad voice, “I was supposed to be the pastor here this summer, not that guy. But I canceled after I got here; told the park I wasn’t going to do it. They just found that guy at the last minute, I think.”

  “Oh?” I asked. “I don’t think I could see you preaching the Beatitudes up there, for some reason.” I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back, but just stared straight ahead.

  As we walked on our boots crunching the gravel; our shadows stood out sharp and black under the white sun that fell in force around us.

  “I just couldn’t act like I was some big Christian, and stand there and preach to people like I was some holy roller or something – like I’m a part of the church,” she said bitterly.

  “Are you not a part of it?”

  She snorted. “Well my parents are both pastors, and I grew up in a pretty strict Christian home – a preacher’s kid times two. I was actually in seminary studying to be a pastor, to go on missions overseas, until last year.”

  She paused. “What happened last year?” I asked.

  “Last summer I did serve the preacher out here, in Two Med.” She pushed a blonde strand that had come loose from her ponytail back behind her ear. “I just couldn’t do this anymore – I felt like such a hypocrite.”

  I could feel something dark flowing around like lava inside her – just by the way she walked I could see something was affecting her. We crunched on; there is nothing like just walking to bring out even the most difficult of conversation.

  “My father is this big deal back home,” she said after a few moments of walking. “But I just got a note from my mom that the family is moving, again.” Her voice sounded strange, and I looked over at her and saw tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with her palms. “My father moved us seventeen times when I was growing up,” she said.

  “My father has cheated on my mother seventeen times; and each time he did we have to move because of it – and they are these big shots in the Church community wherever they go. Nobody knows about it.” She sniffed back tears and looked at the ground as we walked.

  I stepped a little closer and reached for her hand, she glanced over at me and then took my hand. It was shaking a little and after a moment she started to cry, wiping her tears away again with her other hand as we walked. She tried to speak again but just made a muffled, gurgle.

  “Katie, it’s ok,” I said. “You’re here now, with us, in this weird place. It’s a different life.”

  She shook her head and said, “But I’ll eventually go back. I know I will. Like last time he did it he said he had finished forever – he swore on the Bible – his hand on the actual Bible. And now I get a letter from my mom that they are moving – that’s all it said. I know what it means. I feel horrible for my little brother, still with them.”

  She sobbed for a moment. “My father… that fucking pig! Swore on the Bible, and what good did it do?” She pushed me away suddenly, and bracing the Bible under her arm, wiped the tears from her red eyes with her forearm, like a child does. “My mom is such a sucker,” she said viciously.

  She sniffed, “If that’s what it’s like to be a Christian, then, I don’t want any part of it.” She held up the tattered book in her hand, stared at it a moment, and then reared back and threw it as far as she could into the woods off to our left. I heard it crash though some brush and land with a thud in the leaves on the ground.

  I looked over to where it had landed, off somewhere in the trees. I imagined some person finding it out there and seeing it as some sign from above… a direct intervention from God himself!

  Katie kept walking and didn’t look back. “And he’s a fucking drunk,” she said, tears replaced with an angry glare focused straight ahead of us down the trail. “He drinks all the time, but when he drinks heavy he goes bat-shit crazy. Last time, before I left for Two Med the first time, I was at home one night, like a Friday night, and he comes into the basement where us kids used to hang out and watch TV.

  “He just walks down the stairs and says to me, ‘Are you ready? It’s time to go.’ I could tell he was drunk because his face was red and blotchy, and he was swaying as he stood there. ‘Go where?’ I asked him. ‘To heaven….’ Is all he said, and then just stared at us kids.

  Katie shook her head at the memory. “My heart started beating hard like a hammer in my chest – I can still remember the feeling. I didn’t know what to do; I just sat there frozen. So scared. I hate him for making me feel like that. Then he turns and just walks up the stairs. He left for like two days after that, and soon after we moved.”

  She kicked some gravel as she walked. “Number seventeen.”

  I thought about what that must have been like to see your father, who led your family, who everyone looked up to, betray your mother and yourself and your siblings, and then to spiral into drunken craziness on top of everything else – making them pick up and move all the time as a result.

  “Now number eighteen,” I said, sympathetically.

  She looked over at me. “What’s that you got on your wrist?” She reached over and held my arm, raising my wrist a bit to inspect the leather and beads.

  “Oh, somebody gave me that, some guy who’s into Indian stuff,” I said as vaguely as possible.

  “First that thing around your neck, and now this thing on your wrist?” Katie asked. “You’re hanging out with the Blackfoot, hooking up with a local girl off the reservation, and doing who knows what else.” She looked at me through scorched eyes with some amusement. “You’re not the same guy who showed up here straight off the jammer bus with a big suitcase in his hand.”

  “No I’m not,” I agreed.

  “Will,” she said. “I’ve seen some Blackfoot wearing that same string-thing with the beads. That’s not just some souvenir – not wearing it that way. Even I know that. They mean something.”

  “I know it’s not just a souvenir,” I said. “And it does mean something – to me.” Although what it meant, exactly, I couldn’t have told her. I just knew that it had a tenuous, but specific, connection to Alia, albeit through Thunderbird, so it was diminished slightly. Hell, it just felt good to where it, was all I was sure of.

  Katie didn’t ask what it meant to me, thankfully, so I didn’t say any more about it. When we finally got back to the store, I saw a Bureau of Indian Affairs cop car in the driveway. I felt a jolt of fear pass through me as I started at it.

  “What’s a cop doing here?” Katie asked me.

  I stared at the cop car for a moment. “Let’s find out.”

  Twenty-Six

  We came in the back door to the kitchen and I saw Officer Olsterman sitting at the big table. Across the table from him were Larry and Phyllis. Larry looked angry and flustered, and Phyllis looked scared.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. Olsterman turned his heavy bulk slowly around on the kitchen bench and regarded Katie and I.

  “Oh, Mr. Benton,” he said in his thick drawl. “Glad ya turned up. Was just chatting you’re your boss, here.” He nodded his big, balding head towards Larry and Phyllis. He turned to Larry and said, “You folks can go; and thanks for your time. Anything turns up, call me.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Larry said, and as he got up from the table he looked at me with a furious expression that could have burned holes into wood.

  I waited for Larry and Phyllis to go and then I sat down where they had been. Katie asked Olsterman if he needed her and he said, “No,” so she left too. Alone now, Olsterman turned back to me and his face grew stern, and he looked tired, too.

  “I came out here all this way, son, for two reasons,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing his nose
in it, and then replacing it back into his shirt pocket. His radio on his belt squawked with static, and he reached down and turned the volume down.

  “Even though I am sick. One, is that I hear that you are running around Browning stirring up trouble about Ms. Reynolds’ murder. Doing some kind of half-assed investigatin’.” He looked at me and I just stared back. After a moment, he continued. “And two, I need to finish my own investigation, and that means I need to talk about you and Ms. Reynolds the night of her murder.

  “You see, what I still don’t believe is you not remembering when she left,” he said, cocking his head to the side as he regarded me. “Was she out for hours after leaving you? Did she get killed only a few minutes after? How much time between you and her murder? It doesn’t add up, does it?” he asked, making an attempt to sound reasonable, as if I should agree with him.

  “I see what you mean,” I said, also trying to sound reasonable, if not agreeable, “but I can’t tell you any more than that, sir, because there’s nothing more to tell.”

  He ran a hand over his bald head. “Do you understand that you are the only person we now have that was with her before she died – there’s no one else who has come to light. You know what that means doncha?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I do.”

  He cocked his head again, “You don’t seem too worried about it.”

  Was I worried? After the initial jolt of fear at seeing the cop sitting in the kitchen, natural for anyone like me who had never really run afoul of the law, I was growing more and more disinterested in this officer and his supposed investigation by the minute. His whole demeanor now reeked of laziness and just “going through the motions.” Olsterman didn’t want to be at Two Med, it was obvious, and he didn’t want to be talking to me, and he didn’t want to be talking to anyone else, probably, about Alia. I could see it in his face and it disheartened me.