by Chuck Redman
“Oh,” says Janet with her pen frozen at “propagan.”
“Mmmmoooooo,” goes Gilligan’s dry throat.
“Smash, Splat” goes Gilligan’s pen.
“Thunder” go four raging hooves.
“Ow! Aaaaah! Gasp! Yelp!” go many human throats.
“Now!” say moms and dads yanking their kids.
“That way!” say guys hauling their gals by the waist.
“Help me!” say older folks on legs that can’t run.
“He went to get ice crème,” says Cory Gillespie’s older sister.
“Up here!” says folks that’s clumb upon the bandstand and is pulling others to safety.
“Roll that camera,” says the Riverside TV reporter.
“You roll it!” says the cameraman, running toward the porta potties.
“Crack, crack, crack, crack and crack,” go sheriff’s rifles.
“Oh my God,” say regular folks and protesters alike.
“Wail,” go many children under the age of four.
“Wail,” goes the fire engines and paramedics almost before the smoke clears.
“Wail,” they go again minutes later on the way to the Good Samaritan Hospital.
“This good food shouldn’t go to waste,” says Reeves Palmer during total silence tryin to snap the folks that’s came back out of their shock.
“Whatta we do with the—” say the Event Staff and folks that’s pitched in.
“Let’s do what we planned,” says Reeves.
Feet. Backside. Feet. Backside. Feet. That’s it, I can’t look at it no more. Makes me dizzy, anyways. What’s the use? I don’t think Gilligan’s Ma and Pa would of wanted to see their son end up this way. Not that they ended up any better, with a one way trip to Riverside. Can’t hardly believe that thing there is Gilligan the pet bull. Though, if you don’t gander too long or too close, you could almost imagine that’s old Gilligan just holding on to that skewer for dear life so as not to fall into a thick bed of redhot hickory. Hard to ignore the smell, though, ain’t it? I don’t think I hear no lip-smacking, I’ll say that.
What I don’t like is the warm damp feel under the sycamore. I don’t know whose is whose. Whether from two-footed folks or four-footed, it soaks in just as sure. It still leaves me dank and darkly stained.
Sunday
Sunrises in my Platte Valley can be pert’ner as handsome as the sunsets, but they never do get the same appreciation. Mornings is a busy hurried time. Red Moon has went to raid granny’s cache for some corn cakes, nuts and dried berries, and Lark has yet to look downriver at the bright orange and pinks that drain into the horizon. The new bride kneels and splashes cold river water on her face and neck, fixin herself up for her hubby. A sudden shadow passes over and, startled, she blinks her wetted eyes and smiles at a cloud of sandhill cranes seeking to breakfast somewheres hereabouts. A piece of easy driftwood comes and pokes the riverbank, then does a spin or two on its back while considering whether this spot might do or does the current have choicer locations to show it downstream. Lark plucks the wood from the river, turns it in her hand and digs the thing in the air like a farmer digs in soil. No. With a little proud shake of the head and wrinkle of the nose she flings the stick out over the nearest sandbar and into the main channel. As she washes her hands and pats her cheeks once again, another big shadow falls on Lark and when she looks around that same sharp gasp sucks into her as when she was bit by that rattler. “Lean Wolf!”
“Good,” says the feller with the snow-capped smile, plucking the string of his powerful bow, “you’re washed and ready. If we leave now we can make Mud Creek by—”
“You better get away from here now,” she says, having stood and pulled her hair back hard. “If they find you they’ll—” Probly better that she didn’t try to follow that unpleasant train of thought no further. Her husband will be back soon, she adds but she don’t quite seem to know what consequence to attach to that general announcement either.
“Whatever this little stunt was, Lark, it’s over.” The young hunter straightens and adjusts the quiver of arrows slung across his bare chest. “There’s a pair of black moccasins over there. They’re yours, I take it. Put them on and let’s go.”
“If you wonder why I ran away, you just answered it perfectly, Lean Wolf.”
“What kind of man would I be if I just walk away and leave you here?”
Weren’t that intended to be one of them rhetorical questions? Even so, she’s awful ready with an answer, to wit: the kind who’s not afraid to admit other people have feelings. Or to stand up to the crowd. Hmmmh.
“A woman’s judgment. Not mine. Nor your father’s.” Oh boy, she don’t appreciate that, and lets loose a flurry of abuse on her father for what he done to her sister, and it’s quite a snowstorm before Lean Wolf can impart the fact that Running Water’s marriage to Rain Bear got postponed when Lark run away. Lark’s eyes open big and for a minute she’s adrift. “Where’s Scout?” he says, looking around. He watches the gal shudder and close her eyes. “I picked up his trail. Sometimes beside your tracks, sometimes apart.” She points west toward the fresh grave just a short ways up the riverbank. “It was his time,” says Lean Wolf.
“Why are you doing this?” she says.
“These are not your people.” He lifts his hand toward her Pawnee dress. “You look ridiculous.”
“Nice to see you too.”
A very chipper fella was Red Moon til he come through them trees and run headlong into a invisible brick wall. Who is this stranger talkin a low Siouan dialect to his wife is the detail he’s probly sorta curious to know. “Your brother, Hon?” His satchel of food drops to the ground.
“Oh Moon Red. I tell he go, he don’t go.”
“What’d he say?” says Lean Wolf. “What’d you say?”
“He’s my husband, what do you think he said?”
“This lumpy bumpkin is your husband? This is the mighty Pawnee?” She frowns at Lean Wolf.
“What’d he say?” says Red Moon.
“He say want know what you say.”
“What’d he say?” says Lean Wolf.
“He said—” But then she shakes her head and tells the muddy river she’s not doing this, it’s enough already. “Stop!” she says twice, bilingual, each time with a unyielding hand toward a disgruntled fella. She goes puts her hands on Red’s shoulders and they talk low. Then, with his big arm around her snug and steady, they face the other fella and by no uncertain terms she tells him he’s got to hightail it back to Oglala country cause she ain’t never leavin her husband nor his people.
That’s fine, cept the other fella says he can’t help that, he’s still not leaving empty-handed. They don’t know what to do but they return to the village with Lean Wolf at their heels and before too many curious villagers can gather they acquaint Eagle Chief with the situation. Which leads to a immediate confab at the big fire circle with no fire but a rising sun.
“You’re a meddlesome boy,” says Eagle Chief to the Sioux gatecrasher. “But, you showed incredible courage to challenge the Pawnee single-handed. You won’t be harmed here.”
“What’d he say?” says Lean Wolf.
“He says they won’t hurt you,” says Lark. “As long as you go peacefully, preferably now.”
“Tell him I’m not leaving without you.”
“Yes you are.”
“I’ll fight the whole crummy village,” he says, putting his hand on his knife, at which several of the assembled Pawnee do the same. “Great Sioux warriors always die in battle. Tell him.”
“I’m not telling him that. You’re more stubborn than my father.”
“Three days I walked.”
“Then that’s how many days it’ll take you to get home.”
“Yes, but not alone. Tell him.”
Eagle Chief and the elders is becoming a bit fidgety. “Kalp him, kalp him!” yelps Left Hand from the rear of the conclave with his swaddled tongue and purpled face sticking out. “
He’b kalp uth ip he hab thhe thhance!” Eagle Chief nods and a couple younger elders gently usher Lefty back to his lodge. Doc Good Sky also strolls thataway, musing and ferreting about in his satchel where he always stashes a herbal sedative or two.
She looks the Chief direct in the eye. “He say, he say—” All at once her head pivots, she wheels about and she’s talkin to Lean Wolf and tellin him she’ll be ready, they can leave before lunch, she ain’t got hardly nothin to pack.
“What’d you just tell him?” says Red Moon to his bride.
“I know how is my people,” says she. “If no he return my village in three, four day, they is send biggest war party. Is maybe be big war, most worse war Sioux on Pawnee.” A dismal scowl Red Moon has, more than ready. But a proper rebuttal to that thesis he don’t have. “If Lark go now, tell Oglala she marry to good Pawnee man, maybe, maybe can make long peace for you people, my people, all be friends.” Nor that dissertation neither. In fact a pretty fair number of gray Pawnee heads is nodding at one another.
Poor Red ain’t in the frame of mind to nod to nothin, he says okay he’ll go along with her and the Sioux fella on this here good will tour. If that’s what it takes. Well, she borrows one of his banged-up hands, puts it to her heart, and softly tells her mate how wonderful brave he is. But, really, that’s not such a swift idea, dear, is what she needs him to understand right now. She can’t guarantee what kind of a reception he’d get from the Oglala. They’re not quite as open-minded as the Pawnee. And she does a little eyebrow curl toward Lean Wolf, who waits with hands on hips, by way of example.
“What if I decide to follow you?” and that don’t sound much like Red’s voice cause there’s one of them swallows in the throat that ought to a been swallowed by now but Red’s on the spot. No doubt he hates to gulp it down in front of everybody and prove what a shaky bowl of mush he’s became. So when he finally does swallow, it’s a whopper.
“No follow,” says Lark with blinks of pity. “Moon Red be fast lost. All hill look same.” But in a low murmur she promises she’ll parley with her Pop and his chiefs until they say okay to having a Pawnee son-in-law. And she ratifies that promise with a warm clasp of his head against her cheek. Then she’ll return and tow Running Water alongside to boot. Red’s lips is mouthing something, close into his bride’s ear, but there ain’t no sound, just emptiness, in it.
“What’d he say?” says Lean Wolf. “What’d you say?”
The look she gives the intruder might of been enough to scare away most critters that roam the plain. Even the hungry ones.
“Could that be spelled some other way?” When Connie Griff smiles, it’s not bright and happy like Lyle’s big neon sign at the Best Midwestern. But it’s the kind of smile that only certain ladies have. The kind that just makes you feel so good. Special. Loved and understood. Lyle must be one of the most loved and understood husbands in the region.
Not that they know of, says the farm family looking over the front desk at Connie’s smile and her hospital volunteer smock.
“You wouldn’t know the last four digits of his Social Security number?” According to the slight action of their heads, they wouldn’t. “You’re sure he was admitted and wasn’t discharged?”
“Bleeding ulcer,” says the wife.
“Why don’t you folks check with admitting. Just through there and down the hall. They can help you.”
The family turns in the direction Connie points with the little kid whining and yanking the mom’s arm toward the vending machines. “Say,” says the husband, “you might try Terry Gilbert instead of Gilbert Terry. He’s got one of those names, you know.”
“Bingo,” says Connie, and I think her smile just made the man’s day. “Room two fifteen east. Here are your stickers. Right up those elevators. Hey, Janet. You haven’t slept.”
“Have you got a ward for that, Connie? I’m willing to be committed. So what’s going on here?”
“Yesterday was a madhouse. Today things are under control. A dozen or more people came in from the park with everything from nosebleed to—you name it. I wasn’t here, we were seeing Lyle, Jr., off to his third deployment. But Dr. Chowdhury says it was total mayhem at the barbeque. What’s-his-name your photographer sure got a great shot of you dragging Florene with her little grandson up the jungle gym.”
“I didn’t want to print it, but I was outvoted. And Florene’s mad because it’s mostly her rear end.”
“So you’re here for an official hospital statement? I’ll see if anybody’s—”
“No, nothing official. Just to visit someone on three west.”
Before she gets to the elevator, but not before her visitor sticker has already fell off her shirt, Janet gets hailed by a couple coming out of the gift shop. Barb and Bob Clayfield are loaded with balloons, candy, puzzles, magazines. Janet don’t look thrilled but says hey, guys. And asks how he’s doing.
“Broken collarbone,” says Bob. “Where he got trampled. Missed his vitals, could have been worse. Appreciate the way you wrote it up. Very charitable.”
“Jordan feels awfully bad about what happened,” says Barb. “There will be consequences. Grounded for a month.” Janet don’t say nothing. “He won’t be hanging around that Blake boy anymore. It’s so easy to go along when the other boys come up with these ideas, you know. And all he got was a concussion. He didn’t even have to be admitted overnight.”
Bob shifts his packages and his feet and says that Jordan’s got to realize all the expense and trouble he’s put them through. Not to mention the embarrassment.
“And the worry,” says Barb. “But I guess we were kids once too, huh Janet? You remember how we were at that age. That time we stuffed gym socks into our bras and—well it was a long time ago.”
“Which room is he in, Barb? I’ll stop by a little later.”
While Barb and Bob and Janet are waiting at the elevator, Janet looks over her shoulder at the picture of Dr. Spivak who delivered her, in the row of pictures that’s got all the retired Chiefs of Staff of the hospital goin way back. Then she looks at the big patchwork quilt above the pictures and each patch has a fancy design with a heart and was made by a schoolkid. Then she looks at the grand piano by the window that nobody’s ever figured out why it’s there.
On three her friends go east and she goes west. She keeps goin til she comes to room 325. Laertes is messin with the little TV suspended on a movable arm from the ceiling over the hospital bed. He’s got the PGA golf match on, but turned pretty soft. “You got company, Trail Boss,” says he with a sorry look at Janet in the doorway.
“Come in,” says Cosetti, kinda hoarse. “Have a seat. Awfully nice of you to come,” he says rubbing his jaw that could stand a shave. “I’m at a slight disadvantage. Whose company do I have the pleasure of?”
She’s alooking to Laertes like she needs a prompt, but a beatup shrug is all the big guy can signal back to her. “It’s me, Steve.”
In the time it takes for the fourth round leader to single-putt the first green and wave at the crowd, Cosetti’s mouth, which is pert’ner all you can see of his face, moves not a hair. Then he licks his lips and fingers his bandages and his swanky red eye patch like they might of fell off since the new nurse come on duty. “Did you find a chair?” She just stands, shivers and nods. You know how cold them hospital rooms is kept. “Did you get any of that kettle corn?” he says. “I never could resist that stuff.”
I never knew sticky carnival treats to be such a sad subject to Janet, but it sure takes her a bit to find her tongue. Which gives Laertes a chance to put a chair for her at bedside and excuse himself. “You’ve got some lovely flowers over there.” Now she’s the one with dry chops.
“I can smell them. Heightened senses, you know. To compensate.”
“Don’t.”
“No, it’s—not a problem. I guess, Janet, if I were about to be barbequed for Saturday dinner, I wouldn’t mind goring a few of my enemies while I still had the chance. I just wish he’d have picked
my bad eye instead. Then, I’d be no worse off than I was. No harm no foul.”
She stares at this man that has become a major drain on the world’s supply of medical tape over the last four days, and tries to just breathe. “You’re really not bitter.”
“Luckiest guy in the world, Janet. Look who came to see me. And I’m sitting here talking to.”
For a second she’s looking away and out the window straight down big Platte Avenue that ends right here where it runs smack into the Good Samaritan. And blinking up a storm. She asks him if she can do anything for him. “There must be something.”
“Mmmmh. How about reading me your latest editorial. It’s around here someplace. I wanna hear how it sounds when it’s your voice. Then we can watch a little golf.”
About the time the sun has rose to where it angles straight through the smokehole of his lodge and lights up the sacred bundle in its sacred place like a Chinese lantern, Secret Pipe kneels and offers a prayer for those setting out on important journeys. Outside the village pert’ner most of the Pawnee has came to bid farewells and, while they was at it perhaps, check on how a particular young farmer is holdin up. Them two Sioux travelers, northwest bound, is already a good ways up the valley, slowly mounting the northern ridge that holds back the crests and troughs of endless sandhills. Slowly, because weighed down by various parcels and pouches with the best of Auntie’s larder and Good Sky’s holistics. As the climbers scramble over the valley’s lip they meet the West Wind, and a sheet of long black hair flapping and pointing straight back at that farmer is all there is to be seen of them two. Then, not even that.
“She’ll be back, Cousin,” says Little Brother, clasping Red by the shoulder, “before the corn is this high.” Red’s hands ply a wooden hoe among his vegetables but he may as well be sleepwalkin beneath the stars. The villagers stare but soon turn back to their lodges, pangs of self-consciousness no doubt. When Red finally drops his hoe to follow Little Brother homeward, he trips and tumbles over the old watch dog, neither one particularly fazed by the experience.
