Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light #4)

by Rose Christo

3

  Touchy Uncle Sal

  It was a Sunday morning. A day of rest, as far as Nettlebush was concerned, but I guess the law stops for nothing.

  I tugged on the collar of my turtleneck and winced at the computer screen.

  Oliphant v. Suquamish Indian Tribe, I typed on the keyboard, and immediately felt my brain melting to slush. An intellectual I am not. Why did I choose law? Why didn't I choose picketing, or goat herding, or paranormal investigation? Why didn't I become an astronaut?

  Do you know about the Mark David Oliphant case in 1978? Mark David Oliphant was a non-Native living on a Native American reservation. That happens sometimes; in my experience, most tribes are pretty open to people from different races. But that's not the point. This guy was a Grade A Jackass. He walked around getting into fights, beating up women--he even beat up a tribal police officer. So the tribal police arrested him on battery charges. Makes sense to me.

  Didn't make sense to the rest of the country. The Supreme Court butted in and came up with this new law--or, well, a new interpretation of the old law. But whatever you want to call it, it's disgusting, and it still baffles me that anybody agreed to it.

  In 1978, the Supreme Court decided that the Suquamish tribe didn't have the power to charge Mr. Oliphant because he's white.

  An axe murderer could show up in Nettlebush tomorrow, and as long as he's white, we're not allowed to stop him. And if we stop him, we're the ones who go to prison.

  Did I mention this happened in 1978?

  There are about a thousand different reasons I hate this law. The axe murderer scenario is only one of them. Did you know 35% of all Native women are going to be assaulted if they leave their reservation? It's like their attackers know they can get away with it. And when I think about it, I guess they do. It's a virtual free-for-all.

  If I could just convince a judge to overturn that ridiculous ruling--

  "Damn it!"

  I turned off the computer monitor and spun around.

  Rafael stormed into the front room looking frazzled and frustrated. At once I felt very sorry for him.

  "My grandmother's visiting the reserve this summer," Rafael told me. He sat heavily on the rocking chair that stood next to the kitchen doorway. "Uncle Gabe just said so."

  I tilted my head. "Is there a reason we're not happy about that?"

  "Grandma Gives Light? She's insane. She's like a shrieking, two-headed harpy."

  "The one who eats raw elk?"

  "Yeah, that one. Heads up, she only speaks Shoshone."

  "Oh, that's okay."

  Rafael groaned. "It's not okay," he said. "I was scared stiff of her when I was a kid. Mary always said--"

  I think his sister Mary has psychic powers. I really do. She walked in on us just then and whistled--followed closely by her longtime girlfriend, a Navajo woman named Kaya.

  "Did you hear?" Mary said. She had the air about her of a gleeful demon. "Grandma Gives Light's coming over! Raffy, remember that time she poured cold water in your ears because you ate candy before dinner?"

  Rafael moaned miserably.

  "Hi, Kaya," I said politely.

  "Hello, Skylar." Man, that woman is chic. She could make an apron look like a fashion statement. "When are you visiting Three Suns?"

  "November, hopefully."

  "Yaadi la," Kaya said with disapproval. "Our reservations are so close to one another. There's no excuse."

  "Cold water, Kaya!" Mary went on. Clearly she was ecstatic about this arrangement. "And she told off a state trooper once when she was speeding--"

  "Did she really?"

  "Yeah, but she only speaks Shoshone, like hell he knew what she was saying--"

  "Ah, Shoshone."

  "Masukwih! Yuhupippuh!"

  "Please," I said, "make yourselves at home."

  "Don't mind if I do," Mary said. She shoved Rafael off of his rocking chair and took his place.

  "Hey!"

  Siblings are siblings, I guess. It doesn't matter how old they are. Put them in the same room and they revert to two-year-olds.

  Mary and Kaya stuck around for lunch. Kaya told us about her latest forays in the anthropology department at Dine University while Mary pretended to snore. It was all about the music for Mary; telling her that no one was interested in signing a Native American metal band wouldn't change her mind.

  "They're kind of like us," Rafael said when they had left.

  I laughed, bewildered. "What the heck do you mean?"

  "Kaya's nice and smart and Mary's a dumbass."

  "Don't talk about yourself that way, Rafael," I chided.

  "I meant you were the dumbass, dumbass."

  I checked my watch. I loaded our dishes in the wash basin for later. Rafael tensed immediately.

  "It's time already?" he asked.

  I smiled, hoping to encourage him. "It's fine," I said. "Just relax. It's going to be fine."

  He mumbled something that sounded oddly like "Grandma."

  Rafael and I left the house together, my hand on his back, and walked across the trodden dirt path. I could hear William Has Two Enemies' children playing among the alder trees. Rafael drew a deep breath and I wrapped my hand around his.

  We walked out to the communal firepit. Zeke was already waiting for us there--along with a scruffy-looking little girl.

  It's weird how nervous I suddenly felt. Usually I leave the nerves up to Rafael. But this little girl--I don't know. She may as well have been the ambassador to the UN, for all that I was suddenly terrified of her. Her hair was long, brown, and straight, her curly little snub nose dusted with freckles. Her jeans looked two sizes too big for her and her shirt said, "Stop Looking at Me." I guessed the backpack on her back carried her only possessions.

  "Hey, morons," Zeke said. "Okay? This is Michaela."

  Rafael's mouth opened and closed like a witless fish. I elbowed him and he jolted.

  I smiled at Michaela. "I'm Skylar. He's Rafael."

  "Weird," she said.

  Heaven help me, I thought, my nerves dissipating. I could fall in love with this kid.

  "Ah, man, I've gotta head downtown," Zeke said. "I'll see you princesses later! Michaela, don't be a brat in front of them."

  Zeke turned around and darted off. Michaela didn't acknowledge him.

  I elbowed Rafael again. No response.

  "Come on," I said to Michaela. "You can come back to our house. I bet Zeke didn't even give you a snack, did he?"

  "Are you really Indians?"

  "Uh," Rafael said. He coughed. "Yeah, we are."

  Michaela pointed at me. "Why's he blond?"

  "My mother listened to a lot of pop music," I said.

  It was a joke, but I guess it wasn't a very good one. It went right over her head.

  "Why's your voice raspy?" she asked me.

  "My father's Clint Eastwood," I said.

  "Who?"

  "Dirty Harry?"

  "Harry Potter?"

  What's wrong with this generation?

  "Uh," Rafael said.

  Michaela fixed him with a hard, unimpressed look. "Do you talk, or do you just grunt?"

  "That's the thing," I said, hoping to spare Rafael's feelings. "He's part bull."

  She didn't laugh.

  "Come on," I said. "Bet you had a long ride."

  Michaela followed us in silence down the forest path. The robins and the grackles were spirited in their treetops; occasionally I saw her looking around with what I thought might be curiosity. Poor Rafael kept staring at the back of her head like he didn't know what to do with her. I threw an arm around his shoulders when he wasn't looking. He turned his head to glance at me and I winked.

  I threw open the front door--I hadn't locked it, but you don't usually worry about those things in Nettlebush--and Michaela stepped inside. She dropped her backpack on the floor and looked around.

  "It's like a log cabin," she said.


  "It is a log cabin," I said. "When this reservation first started, everybody lived in tipis. Once they realized the arrangement was a little more permanent, they started cutting down trees."

  "Where's the bathroom?"

  "There's a door through the kitchen," I said, and pointed. "Outhouse."

  Michaela gave me a very weird look. I returned it with a silly one. She shrugged and trundled off.

  "She doesn't like me," Rafael mumbled, after we heard the outhouse door slap shut.

  "Don't be silly," I returned calmly. "She doesn't even know you yet."

  I heard the creaking of the water pump outside the cabin; and then Michaela walked out from under the kitchen archway, her eyes shifting.

  "Why doesn't it flush?" she asked.

  "It drains," I said. "You're fine, hon."

  Rafael was dead silent.

  "Okay," I said. "How much did Zeke tell you about this reservation?"

  Michaela scrunched up her face. "The foster worker guy? I never know what he's saying. He always sounds like he's screaming in the middle of a mosh pit."

  Rafael suddenly stood up straight. I suppressed the urge to groan. Not another metal fan.

  "We're Shoshone," I said. "And we probably do things a little differently from your last foster home. Like dinner. We all eat dinner together at nighttime. I mean, all three hundred of us."

  "Not on Sundays, though," Rafael said. I guessed he was feeling a little more confident now that he knew they both listened to the same crappy music.

  "Where's your refrigerator?" Michaela said. "I didn't see it."

  "We don't have one," I explained.

  "Yeah, we use an insulated cellar," Rafael said. "It keeps everything fresh, but it doesn't use electricity."

  Michaela raised her eyebrow imperiously.

  "Your bedroom's upstairs and on the right," I said. "You can check it out later. Do you want something to eat?"

  "My bedroom?" Michaela said.

  "What about?"

  "You mean, I'm not sharing with four and five other kids? Or Touchy Uncle Sal?"

  Well, that was very... "No," I said. "No foster kids. No Touchy Uncle Sal. It's your room."

  Her eyes darting in her head reminded me of a fox's shrewd gaze. No doubt she was critically analyzing whatever we'd said, trying to find the trap in it. But I guess she didn't find one, because she shrugged.

  "Yeah," she said. "I'm hungry."

  "Come on," I said.

  She picked up her backpack and followed us into the kitchen. She sat down on a scrubbed pine chair and watched us with calculating eyes.

  "Want to try cornmeal cookies?" I asked.

  She gave me a jerky little half-nod.

  I opened the cabinet above the wood-coal stove. I took out a tied cellophane bag and set it on the table. Michaela peered at it; she twisted it open and reached inside.

  "What do you like to drink?" I asked. "Milk? Juice?"

  "Juice," she said.

  I gave Rafael a meaningful look. Was he just going to stand there all day?

  He must have caught the gist of my glance. He strode across the kitchen and opened the icebox.

  I noticed Michaela sneaking cookies into her backpack. I can't explain why that made me feel so sad.

  "Hey," I said. She quickly dropped her backpack and sat up straight. "Have you ever been on a raft before?"

  She hesitated. "What's that?"

  Rafael set a glass of elderberry juice on the table in front of her. "It's like a boat," he said. "Only you don't sit in it. You sit on it. Every year we have a raft race in June."

  "What do you think?" I said.

  Michaela chewed slowly on a cornmeal cookie. Her eyes, sharp and brown, pierced right through me.

  She swallowed.

  "Let's not kid ourselves," she said. I'm surprised my jaw didn't drop open. "I'm only here until you get sick of me and kick me to the curb."

  I looked to Rafael.

  Rafael cleared his throat. "We're not kicking you out," he said. "You can stay as long as you want."

  "Even if I go crazy and start smashing all the windows?"

  "I'd prefer it if you didn't," I said, "but yes, even if you go crazy and start smashing all the windows."

  "I don't believe you," Michaela said.

  "Then go ahead," I said. "Smash a window."

  "He's joking," Rafael said quickly.

  "I'm not," I replied. "I put the windows together. It wouldn't be too difficult to make new ones. I should warn you, though," I said to Michaela, "whatever you break, you're cleaning up the mess."

  She seemed to consider her options.

  "I'm good," she said, grimacing. She took another cookie.

  When she had finished eating, she trailed upstairs to get a look at her room. I started cleaning up around the kitchen. Rafael raked his hands through his hair.

  "Would you relax?" I said.

  "I don't know what to do with her. I thought I'd know what to do. I thought it would be like dealing with Charity."

  "Charity's not your daughter," I said. "She's your sister." Well, cousin. Shoshone regard their cousins as though they're siblings. "That's a very different matter from being responsible for a child. Give it time, Rafael. You didn't love me at first sight, did you?"

  "No," he said. "But I thought you were hot."

  "I'll never understand you," I said, warmed.

  That was when I heard it--a loud crash upstairs.

  I don't think Rafael or I wasted a second tearing out of the kitchen and up to the second floor. We threw open Michaela's door, the door already ajar. And there she was, standing by the bookcase, a book-shaped hole in the window.

  "Sorry," she murmured. "It slipped."

  Rafael's face went from bewildered to outrageous in a matter of seconds. I squeezed his arm.

  "That's fine," I told Michaela. "You can sleep in the sitting room until I fix it."

  She nodded.

  "Go downstairs," I said. "There's a dustpan in the closet. You can clean up the glass."

  I wish I could say the rest of the day went smoothly. Oh, there weren't any more broken windows--not that I'm aware of--but for the most part, Michaela holed herself up in her room and only ever came outside if she needed the outhouse. Except for a visit from the jittering Carole Svensen, the tedium remained uninterrupted.

  Dad and Racine stopped by for dinner. So did Rafael's aunt and uncle, Rosa and Gabriel.

  Gabriel was nearing his fifties, but his honest, friendly face was as youthful as when I'd first met him. Rosa, too, reminded me of a child's cornhusk doll; sweet, innocent, wiser than words.

  "Hey, Ro," Racine said. "Where's Charity?"

  "With Mary," Rosa said meekly.

  "You sure she's still alive?" Rafael said sourly.

  Dad, Racine, and Gabriel went into the sitting room to listen to the radio. Rosa and Rafael helped me cook. Rafael and I aren't exactly what you'd call culinary experts, so I guess I should say Rosa took the helm. Mostly I just let those two handle whatever dishes involved meat. I don't eat meat, so I'm certainly not going to take part in cooking it.

  "How is the little girl?" Rosa asked.

  "She broke a window," Rafael muttered.

  Rosa looked quickly his way.

  "She's been through a lot," I said. "She just needs time to settle in. I'm sure she's still convinced we're going to abandon her."

  "But we're not," Rafael said.

  "She doesn't know that yet," I said. "Give her time."

  We set the table with corn soup and wild rose blossom and wojapi. I tried not to vomit when Rosa set out the pan-seared elk. Dad and Racine and Gabriel finally came around.

  "Anything good on the radio?" I asked.

  "No," Dad said glumly. "Toros struck out."

  The two things Dad's most passionate about are baseball and cats. I don't know whether they let him watch baseball while he was in prison,
but I'd imagine it's not the same as enjoying it with your friends.

  "I'm gonna go get Michaela," Rafael muttered.

  He didn't have to. She poked her head into the kitchen, looking confused.

  "Who are all these people?" Michaela asked.

  Everyone collectively stopped talking. The way they stared at her, I hoped she wouldn't turn tail and run.

  "Michaela," I said, "this is my father."

  "Hello," Dad said awkwardly. He's one very awkward guy.

  "And my step-mother, Racine."

  "How's it going?" Racine said.

  "Wait," Michaela said, screwing up her face. She turned on me. "Your dad's Indian. Your mom's black. Why are you white?"

  "Why?" I asked. "Why not?"

  She didn't have an answer.

  "Hi, Michaela," Gabriel said cheerfully. "I'm Rafael's uncle."

  "Hello," Rosa said shyly.

  Michaela didn't respond. I'm not sure she knew what to make of all this.

  "You know," Gabriel said, glancing at the open window. "It's a nice evening. Why don't we sit outside instead?"

  We all of us spent the next few minutes gathering our trays and pots and dishes and carrying them out the front door. A patch of dwindling twilight sun shone on the smooth ground by the brook, the sky hazy and hyacinthine, shades of violet settling atop the silver clouds and chasing away the blue. The last of the robins called to us from the safety of his beech home. The first and faintest of the nightly winds tousled the pale yellow creosote bushes and tickled the wild pink centauries.

  Michaela sat cross-legged on the ground. "What's that?" she said, and pointed at the wojapi.

  "It's like pudding," I told her. "But it's made from berries." And healthy, I thought, but no way was I going to say that out loud. I know how much kids hate the H word. I spooned wojapi onto Michaela's plate. "Try it."

  She dipped her spoon into the dish. She stuck her spoon in her mouth.

  "Well?" I asked.

  She didn't answer me. She must have liked it, though, because she went on eating.

  "Are you coming on the hunt tomorrow, Rafael?" Gabriel asked.

  "So long as the hospital doesn't page me," he said.

  That reminded me. "If I went to the council building," I asked, "how soon could I get another pager?"

  Around the reservation, we rely on pagers if we ever need the reservation police. Gabriel belonged to the tribal council.

  "Pretty soon, I'd think," Gabriel said. "We've got a few extras sitting around. Why?"

  I nodded subtly at Michaela. I wanted her to have one in case of an emergency.

  "You hunt?" Michaela asked Rafael, her mouth full of fried rose blossom.

  "You wanna come?" Rafael asked. "I'll get you a knife."

  "Okay," Michaela said cautiously.

  "You don't have to if you don't want to," I said.

  "I want to," she said.

  Dad opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened it again.

  "So..." he started uncertainly. "Where are you from, Michaela?"

  "Mom's from Puerto Rico."

  "I see."

  "Are Indians from India?" she asked.

  I tried not to laugh.

  "No," Dad said gently. "We're from America."

  "Then why aren't you white?" she asked.

  "Well, you see," Dad said, "whites aren't really from America." I could tell what he was thinking. What the heck were they teaching this kid in school? "Their ancestors came here from other countries, like England and Spain."

  "What country is Skylar from?" Michaela asked.

  "America," Dad said.

  "But he doesn't look Indian."

  "Looks can be deceiving," Gabriel said, and winked. He tossed his arm around Rosa and she blushed beautifully on cue.

  Sunlight leaked out of the sky in one final farewell, save for the last remnants of gold atop the smudged black horizon, their saffron shadows reaching for the heavens in vain. We carried our dishes aside and set them on the counter. I'd clean up later, I told myself. You can't count on Rafael to clean anything. Dad and Racine said goodbye, and after them Rosa and Gabriel. I heard the front door snap shut.

  "Are you guys gay?" Michaela said suddenly.

  I turned around. I really hadn't expected that line of questioning. In retrospect, I probably should have.

  "Yeah," Rafael said, faltering. "Why?"

  "No reason," Michaela said.

  I looked out the window. Probably a matter of minutes until the stars came out.

  "Hey," I said suddenly. "Rafael. Remember those blue stars?"

  Rafael lifted his head. "Yeah," he said. A grin flashed across his dark face. " 'Course I do."

  Michaela looked from Rafael to me. I had the feeling she was judging us by some unknown criterion.

  "Stars aren't blue," Michaela finally said.

  "Some stars are," Rafael said.

  "You're lying."

  "Then why don't we prove it to you?" I said.

  "Go on," she challenged.

  We went out through the front door. Rafael stepped across the skinny brook. Michaela looked dubiously after him.

  "Don't worry," I said.

  We crossed the brook after Rafael. The lavender in the sky dulled to a deep gray. Only the last of the sun's rays still reached the bottom of the clouds, a pale moon's spectral imprint stamped across the ethers.

  "Where are we going?" Michaela asked.

  "You'll see," I said.

  We walked a little farther--but then Rafael came to a halt. I stopped, my hand on Michaela's shoulder, and pointed.

  The forest opened up onto a glade. The glade was filled with crawling blue flowers, rounded petals tapering to five points. Blue-violet markings ran from stigma to pistil.

  "Oh!" Michaela said. "Blue stars. I get it."

  "Just wait," I said.

  Stars glittered faintly on the coal-gray skyline. The final, feeble spark of sun dropped below the horizon. And the blue stars rolled up in defiance, their petals curling closed.

  For a moment it was silent in the glade, the moon shining silver on the grass, on the flowerbuds. The night chill picked up. I was glad to be wearing a turtleneck.

  "How did they do that?" Michaela asked.

  "They can feel the sunlight," Rafael said. "When there's no more sunlight, they close up. When the sun rises, they open again."

  "I'm staying here until the sunrise, then," Michaela decided.

  "No you're not," I said. "Time to go home."

  Michaela trudged after us on the walk back to the brook. The house loomed in view, the weathervane clapped in the night breeze. I pushed open the front door and lit the oil lamp in the front room.

  Later that night I lit the hearth in the sitting room, fireflies twinkling outside the airy windows. Michaela padded down the stairs in plain white pajamas. I wasn't at all certain how many clothes she had brought with her, but I figured I ought to buy her some more. In Nettlebush, some families knit their own clothes. Well, I wasn't in any position to do that. I can't figure out a needle and thread any more than I can a traffic sign.

  I padded the gray eiderdown sofa with quilts and pendleton blankets. Michaela tossed her pillow down and climbed on, firelight crackling between the windows.

  "You clean up the glass in your room?" I asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

  "Check it out if you don't believe me."

  I pulled the pendleton blanket up to her chin, soft fabric woven in shades of ocean blue and mellow sunrise. She gazed at me with hard, appraising eyes.

  "I broke that window," she said. "You're really not going to kick me out?"

  "You think you're tough, don't you?" I surmised. "When I was your age, I broke a water fountain."

  Michaela hesitated. "Really?" she said with interest. "How?"

  "I was trying to blow it up. But that's not the point. If you think you're going to scare me, you've got another thing comi
ng."

  "That other guy, then," Michaela said. "I'll bet he scares easily."

  I smiled. "You caught on, huh? He's not as scary as he looks."

  "He doesn't look scary to me."

  "Oh, brave."

  "What's his name?" Michaela said. "Rafael?"

  "That's right."

  Michaela paused. "Is he named after the angel?"

  She surprised me. "That's right," I said again. "His mother loved the angels."

  "Where's his mother?" Michaela asked.

  "She passed away."

  "Oh." Another pause. "Where's his father?"

  I smiled regretfully. "He passed away."

  "Wow..."

  I palmed the crown of her head. Her eyes slid closed, reminding me of a kitten. "You can ask more questions tomorrow," I said. "Now you go to sleep."

  "I want to see those stars again sometime."

  "Sure. Just never go past that glade. The north's dangerous. Black bears will gobble you up and floss their teeth with your bones."

  "Cool."

  I turned off the oil lamp on the side table. Shadows jumped and swam across Michaela's face.

  "Sorry I broke the window," Michaela said.

  "You mean you're sorry you had to clean it up."

  She tried to hide her smile. "Yeah."

  "How about we don't do that again?"

  "Deal."