by Rose Christo
10
Sleepwalker
The line outside the ballpark was long and dense. DeShawn tapped on my shoulder and I spun around.
"Where'd you get the tickets?" he asked, a baseball cap on his head. Whether he was showing his support or just aggravated with the sun, I couldn't tell. "Aren't they expensive?"
"It's minor league," I said. "They're never expensive."
He wasn't to be deterred. There's nothing my punctilious brother loves more than numbers. "Well, if you'll give me the full cost," he said, "I'll add it to the books, and we can recover the funds during crafts month--"
"You hear that, Shawny?" Jessica said behind him.
"Hear what?"
"The sound of my brain melting? It sounds a little like... 'Shut up... Shut up...' "
"Noted," DeShawn said with a frown.
Just ahead of me, Mickey tugged on Rafael's arm. He bent his head to listen to her.
"What's a dugout?" Mickey asked.
"How the hell should I know?" Rafael retorted.
For the tenth time this afternoon, I rolled my eyes. Rafael had a notebook and two novels tucked under his arm. I'd argued with him all during the car ride into the city.
"How can you bring a book to a baseball game?" I said again.
"S'easy, if you've got hands," he returned sourly.
"A dugout is where the players sit," Dad said to Mickey. "And the coaches. I'll show it to you when we're inside."
At long last, the line started to move. A good thing, too. The sun was giving me a vicious headache.
"What do you mean, my damn purse is too big?" Racine burst out at the front of the line.
"Ma'am," I heard the security guard say.
"If you think you're looking through my personal stuff, you've got another thing coming. Do you know who you're talking to?" Either I was blushing or I was sunburnt; I couldn't tell which. "A retired police officer, that's who. Move aside."
"Ma'am--" said the security guard.
"Sweetheart--" said Dad.
"You go, Mom!" Jessica said cheerfully.
The crowd was chaos. Men and women kept stepping in and out of line, intermittently blocking my view. I couldn't really tell what was going on. All I knew was that I couldn't hear Racine anymore, and suddenly the line was moving again, and I figured maybe Racine had flashed her badge at the security personnel. She does that, sometimes, when she wants to cut corners. Or lines. Or avoid parking tickets. I'm not entirely sure it's legal.
"Cool!" Mickey breathed, once we had stepped into the stadium.
It was reminiscence of the most welcome kind. I gazed around at the fresh-cut grass, at the blinking scoreboard and the climbing grandstand. Dad and I used to spend countless summers in this baseball stadium. Those summers felt like an eternity ago. Dad wasn't a killer back then; and I didn't even know my own grandmother.
I stole a look at Dad. For the most part I was trying to discern whether he'd be alright with this crowd. The noise was deafening, the throng bordering on unnavigable.
But Dad looked fine to me. His face was lined with age--when did that happen? where did those empty years go?--his mouth was impassive; his eyes were relaxed. His hands weren't shaking.
Maybe, I thought, I should have taken him to the ballpark sooner.
Jessica took the lead when we climbed the grandstand. I didn't trust anyone else with the tickets. She found our seats rows up from the diamond--not a bad spot at all--and we slithered down the bleachers after her.
Mickey turned her baseball cap backwards. She held her hand above her eyes and squinted at the field below.
"I see the dugout," she reported proudly. I wanted to squeeze her. "Who are the good guys?" she asked, and turned to face my dad.
"The Paldones Bandits, of course. They're in orange. I don't know much about the Swingers--terribly unfortunate name--"
"Why is it unfortunate?" Mickey asked.
"I'll tell you when you're older," I cut in.
We each of us scrambled around, bickering and trading our seats. I wound up between Rafael and Mickey, Dad on Mickey's other side, Racine on Dad's. Racine pulled a giant pair of binoculars out of her equally gigantic purse and tossed them to DeShawn. I stared dubiously.
"Biggest nerd on the planet," I heard Jessica say, somewhere to Rafael's left.
"I wear that distinction proudly," DeShawn said. But he sounded pretty sullen to me.
Rafael sat hunched over an open book, an unfriendly expression on his dark face. I elbowed him. He narrowed his eyes at me shrewdly. I rolled mine in return.
"Move your head, fatty!" said someone behind us.
Only when I looked over my shoulder did I realize the guy was talking to me. My mouth fell open. I shifted closer to Rafael.
"When did I become fat?" I needed to know.
Rafael grinned. "You're not that fat."
"Then how fat am I?" Was I starting to panic? No way. I never panic. "Rafael--"
"Pleasantly plump," Jessica's voice rang out. "Like the Pillsbury Doughboy."
My ego deflated considerably.
"Actually," Jessica went on, "what happens if I poke you in the tummy?"
"Don't," Rafael said, disgruntled. "I'm the only one who does that."
"Oh, ew. Sorry, didn't know it was a bedroom thing."
"Jessica--" I started. I must have been really sunburnt.
I could hear Dad humming My Country, 'Tis of Thee on Mickey's other side.
"Okay, dummy," Mickey said to Rafael, leaning across my lap. "Close the book. I'm gonna teach you baseball."
"Could you teach me, too?" DeShawn said.
"No."
I don't think he knew what to say to that. Hell, I didn't know what to say to that.
"Alright," Rafael said, none too enthusiastically. "Who's the guy in the mask?"
"That's the umpire," Mickey said.
"Which team does he play for?"
Mickey threw me a look--an Is this guy for real? look.
"Neither," I filled in. "He calls the shots."
"So...what, there's a third team?"
"Has he always been this stupid?" Mickey asked me.
"Watch it," Rafael growled.
"Yes," Jessica said at the same time.
"Quiet," DeShawn said, and peeped through his binoculars like a batty owl.
Dad's team was at bat. The pitcher made his move. The batter missed. The umpire blew his whistle.
"What the hell!" Racine yelled, and leapt out of her seat.
Dad did the same. "That was a ball!" he bellowed. Baseball is the only time when Dad, usually so meek and mild, turns into a raging maniac.
"Of course it was a ball," Rafael grunted on my left. "I thought that was the point."
"A 'ball' means it was an unfair throw," I said. "Outside of the batter's range."
"What the hell? Then why don't they just call it an unfair throw?"
"Will you two Marys shut up?" said the guy behind me.
An expression of fury flared across Rafael's face. I didn't need to be told how offended he was.
"Nobody compares me to my sister," Rafael said, his teeth ground together.
I grabbed his arm before he could incite a fistfight. He struggled against me. Jessica and DeShawn threw themselves on top of his other arm. We only just managed to hold him down.
"Peanuts!" Racine shouted.
I'd thought it would be nice to take my family out for the day. You know--something everyone could enjoy. Especially Dad. Dad had spent the past fifteen years staring at prison bars. A baseball field ought to be a nice change. Right?
Rafael opened his notebook and freed a pencil from behind his ear. DeShawn trained his binoculars on the lights at the top of the stadium. Jessica swiveled in her seat and struck up a conversation with the girl behind her. Apparently they'd gone to college together.
"Lame," Mickey remarked.
"Definitely," I agreed.
&
nbsp; It was standard fare for a minor league game. The Bandits lost inning after inning--losing is their specialty--and the crowd, bored with the tedium, started up a couple rounds of The Wave. Mickey crunched her peanut shells in her hands and yelled obscenities at the Los Portales Swingers. I probably should have stopped her, but it was funny.
"Look," Rafael said, and showed me his sketch, a bashful grin playing around his mouth.
"Oh, nice," I said, and made sure to hide the notebook from Mickey's view. "You drew me like one of your French girls."
A loud "crack" resounded through the stadium when one of the Bandits finally managed to hit a run. Dad and Racine jumped to their feet. I couldn't tell you which of the two was louder.
"This doesn't make any damn sense," Rafael complained.
"It's a game of outs," I said. "Three strikes and the batter's out. Three outs and the inning's over."
"So...what? Are they out?"
"No, quite the opposite."
"Then why's that guy running around like a raving lunatic?"
"That's how they score points, Rafael."
The guy behind us lost his head again. "If you two fags don't shut your yammers--"
It happened in an instant. Rafael threw down his notebook and jumped out of his seat. DeShawn said, "Now, sir--!" diplomatic in his indignation.
It was Michaela who lunged off the bleacher and jumped on the offender's knees.
I was so shocked, I couldn't even react. Mickey threw her arms around the gentleman's neck and squeezed. The gentleman started shouting. His complaints, alas, were lost under a cacophonous cry of jubilation from the audience: The Bandits had hit a home run. The gentleman stood up and thrashed. Mickey clung to his neck with all her might. At one point, I think she bit into his arm. Truly it was a sight to behold.
An usher came running up the grandstand to the group of us. Uh-oh, I thought. I scooped Mickey into my arms before the usher could beat me to it. I sat down and collected her on my lap. I stroked the crown of her head--poor baby must have been traumatized--and shot the usher a sycophantic look. He relented.
"Oh, come on!" shouted the gentleman behind us. His protests fell on deaf ears; the usher showed us his back. "Somebody put a leash on the brat!"
"Just so you know," said Mickey, sneering at him, "you taste like shit. And you talk shit, too. Shithead."
DeShawn started to hyperventilate. He felt his pockets in search of his inhaler.
The game lasted another half hour, after which the seven of us filtered out into the parking lot. Jessica giggled--well-meaning, I'm sure--and DeShawn kept sneaking looks over his shoulder, no doubt keeping an eye out for our new friend.
"Sweetheart," I said to Mickey, and tried to keep a straight face. "That was very nice of you, but you can't go around attacking people."
"Why not?"
"Of course you can go around attacking people," Racine said. "Want to borrow my badge?"
"Racine," I said.
We climbed into June Threefold's borrowed SUV. Mickey was oddly silent when she wedged her way between Rafael and me.
"If I'm bad," she said, "will I have to go to a different home?"
"Why do you ask?" I said, taken aback.
"The last time I got into a fight, and I got a black eye, the social worker took me out of the Delsons' home."
"Well, we're not going to let you get a black eye," I assured her.
"But will a social worker take me away? If I get in a fight?"
I looked at Rafael.
"Maybe," he mumbled. "If he found out."
"Oh, be realistic," said Jessica from the driver's seat. "Zeke's never gonna say a bad word about you guys."
"That still doesn't mean she should put her hands around people's throats," DeShawn murmured.
"Why?" Jessica asked. "Are you worried you're next?"
"Now that you mention it--"
Mickey's silent spell lasted for the ride back to Nettlebush. We were coming off the turnpike when Dad tried to engage her.
"Why don't we play baseball together sometime?"
I tried to decipher the tone of his voice. I couldn't.
"I like shinny better," Mickey said.
"Shinny it is. You know, there's a tournament in February."
"Can I play on your team?" Mickey asked.
Without discussing it, we'd all assumed she would still be with us come winter.
"I'd really like that," Dad said, a weak smile fluttering to his face.
Jessica parked outside the reservation hospital. I noticed Aubrey sitting on the wheelchair ramp with his twins in his arms. Immediately I started to worry.
"Hey," Racine said to Mickey. "Wanna help me set up for the ghost dance?"
"What's that?"
"You come with me and you'll find out."
Just like that, the two of them left for the badlands, Racine's hand on the small of Mickey's back.
"Grandma," Jessica mocked with a soft giggle. "You boys have fun. I promised Prairie Rose I'd do the cleaning."
Dad and DeShawn stayed behind to talk about today's game. I nudged Rafael and nodded toward the hospital ramp.
He set his books down on the hood of the car. We walked up the ramp together until our shadows fell across Aubrey's face.
"Oh! Hello!" Aubrey sputtered, as warm and as kind as could be. He stood up, a baby in each arm. "Sorry, am I blocking you?"
"Are the girls alright?" I asked, concerned.
"Quite alright, quite alright. Little Lizzie just had a small case of the croup, but I panicked, figured I'd bring the both of them here--you know, if one has it, maybe the other does...I still don't know how twins work and I've been living with Holly and Daisy for years... Really, I can't calm down--what's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you," Rafael said. "You've always been like that."
"Ahhh..."
We walked Aubrey back to his house, where Annie received him with a stern scolding.
"I told you there was no reason to panic," she said, and took the twins from his arms. "Would you go help Daisy out back? She can't do everything on her own. Oh, Skylar, Rafael--"
I grimaced. Here it comes, I thought.
"--since you're here, could you clean up the milkshed for me? That would be lovely."
"Want us to pasteurize the milk while we're at it?" Rafael said bitingly.
"Actually, yes," Annie said. "Thank you. Move along, then."
I shot Rafael an indignant look and we went on our way.
The milkshed stood alongside the toolshed, just to the east of the farm manor. It was dark and ridiculously chilly when we went inside. I pulled the drawstring on the low-watt lightbulb and looked around disapprovingly at the mess. Brushes and spare buckets lay on their sides in the middle of the concrete floor. Pails full of milk lay with them The cows peered cluelessly at us from their stables.
"The hell?" Rafael said. "Did Isaac just forget they were standing here?"
"This is your fault," I said lightly.
"Shut up, Sky. I'm gonna get 'em out into the pasture."
I threw open the side doors for him and he opened the stables. Getting a cow to follow you is actually pretty easy; all you have to do is talk to her in a nice, friendly voice and start walking. Cows are the most curious creatures on the planet. They're the ditziest, too, because they'd rather walk in circles than a straight line. I couldn't stop laughing when Rafael started herding them:
"Okay, come on," he said, struggling to sound as friendly as possible. It was like something out of the Twilight Zone. "I know you wanna go out in the nice sun, right? S'too dark in here--where the hell are you going, that's the wall--I mean heck, sorry, I mean heck--stop headbutting me--"
I shook my head and smiled. I stacked the brushes on their shelves and the buckets in their nook. I ran the faucet in the corner and found the mop hanging on the wall--oddly stringy, like it hadn't seen use in years. I wet the mop and clea
ned the mess on the floor.
Rafael was frazzled and sweaty when he trudged back into the milkshed. "The bull calves are going crazy out there," he grunted. "Why is the floor wet?"
"That's how you wash it, Rafael."
He grunted again. He opened a paper sack next to the east-facing door and sprinkled sawdust on the floor. I picked up the heavy milk pails--careful not to spill their contents--and carried them to the low stove on the opposite wall.
I don't know why they call it "pasteurizing." All you're really doing is heating the milk--just slightly--to kill the bacteria. After that you chill it again.
I sloshed the milk into a pot on the stove. I lit the burner on low heat.
"He reminded me of my dad," Rafael mumbled.
I looked at him with consternation.
"Aubrey," he clarified. "When he was holding the babies like that. One in each arm. There used to be a photograph on my uncle's mantel." He drew off momentarily. "With my dad holding Mary and me like that, back when we were babies."
"What happened to it?" I asked softly.
"Mary smashed it years ago."
I reached sideways and squeezed his shoulder. His hand rested on top of mine. His hand was rough and dark, his fingers short and square. Mine was soft and pale and freckled, my fingers long. On the outside we were nothing alike. On the inside...
"You look a lot like your mom," Rafael said quietly.
I smiled at him with regret. "You look a lot like your dad."
I found his gaze and held it. He asked for you, you know, I wanted to say. Rafael's father had asked for him seconds before he'd died. No matter what else he had done wrong, he had cared for his son.
I didn't know that I could hate him. All the lives he had taken--the tangible trail of agony and turmoil he had left in his wake--I couldn't hate him for that. Because he had loved his son. He had loved the person I loved more than anything on earth.
I couldn't hate the man who had loved Rafael.
I watched his eyes behind his glasses when they dropped from my eyes to my throat. He knew what I was thinking about. I didn't need to tell him; he just knew it, the way a tree knows when its roots aren't strong, the way a hummingbird knows it will die if it stops flying. And maybe, over the years, some of his crazy mind-reading prowess had rubbed off on me; because I knew what he was thinking, too.
He tucked my curls behind my ear. He touched his fingertips to the scars on my throat.
Long ago he'd told me how conflicted he felt about his father. How he loved him; how he hated him. How he could never forgive him.
"Not after what he did to you," Rafael said.
I smiled at him. I was sorry for him, in one way. In another, I was touched.
"I'm glad I met you, Rafael."
"Say my name again," he said.
If I weren't already smiling, I would have smiled all over again. "Rafael."
It was a milkshed, for crying out loud. It was hardly the most appropriate place to start--you know--"thanking" each other. But there he was: The best thing I'd ever seen. And it didn't matter that his hair looked like he'd brushed it with a cow's tongue. It didn't matter that he was slick with perspiration and he smelled like fresh grass and stale hay. What did matter was that his arms locked around me; his arms felt familiar around me. His chest felt familiar against mine through the fabric of his damp shirt. My second heartbeat.
And his mouth on mine, open and hot, was second nature. Sometimes it was the only thing that made sense.
We took the milk off the stove and left it out to chill. We went back inside the house in search of Annie. Serafine was sweeping up the dust and dirt in the foyer. She nodded over her shoulder, in the direction of the back patio.
Annie and Aubrey were on the wood-paneled patio, Celia and Elizabeth sound asleep in a shaded twin bassinet. Mother and father were engaged in a very animated discussion the likes of which I couldn't hope to determine. I noticed Zeke was with them, too. He looked up; he spat out a mouthful of chilled rose tea.
"Hahaha! Hey!" he said, pink spit dribbling down the front of his shirt. "I was looking for you two losers!"
"You might have tried their house first," Annie pointed out.
"What are you talking about? They're here, aren't they? So I did something right. What was I saying?"
"Please don't wake them?" Aubrey begged, wincing, glancing at the twins. "We had such a long night..."
"Aubrey, I just remembered," I said. "If croup is all it was, I could have given you some bloodroot. I've still got some, I think."
"Oh, could you give it to me at dinnertime? That would be terrific, thank you."
"We did your stupid milk thing," Rafael told Annie.
"Good. I'll remember it the next time you need a favor."
"Why would I ask you for a favor? It's not like I need a duck gutted or something."
"Why, you--!"
"Why isn't anybody paying attention to me?!" Zeke demanded.
"Aagh!" Aubrey cried. "No! You woke Celia! Why would you do that?" He scurried over to the bassinet.
"What is it, Zeke?" I asked temperately.
"About Michaela," he said impatiently. "Do you guys wanna adopt her, or not? Because if you decide you wanna go through with it, I've got to write up a homestudy first. So you have to let me know."
Rafael's fingers bit into my arm. I knew immediately there was no answer for him but a definitive yes.
"Can we talk about it first?" I asked. "With Michaela?"
Rafael looked sideways at me. "How do you mean?"
"We have to make sure she's comfortable. We're little more than strangers to her right now."
I knew how much Rafael wanted her. I wanted her, too. But it was Rafael who had first said that adoption should be about the child's needs.
"Yeah," Rafael said, slouching. "We'll let you know."
We went home a few hours before sunset. It wasn't long before Racine dropped Mickey off on our doorstep. Mickey was singing Ring of Fire, for whatever reason. Rafael and I traded quick looks.
"Can I have ice cream?" Mickey asked.
"Not before dinner," I said.
"Okay," she said. "Racine is so cool. She said she'd show me how to shoot a rifle after the ghost dance."
I didn't quite catch what Rafael said in response, but it sounded something like, "Oh God."
"We'll see," I said. "Did you read that book Mr. Red Clay gave you for the summer?"
Mickey raised an eyebrow at me. "You mean Mr. Siomme."
"Right, that."
"I read it. It wasn't as good as Charlotte Doyle. Do you know how to make potato chips?"
"No, I don't," I said. "Sorry, honey."
"Mary does," Rafael said. "We could ask her."
"Cool."
"Oh, you know something?" Rafael went on. "She built a carburetor once. I've gotta show it to you."
"What's a carburetor?"
"Part of an engine, or something like that. She's good with car stuff."
I sat on the armchair in the sitting room. I cleared my throat.
"What?" Rafael and Mickey said at the same time, each as testy as the other.
I gave Rafael a pointed look. I thought it was the right time to bring up the adoption. I looked from Rafael to Mickey. Suddenly I wasn't so sure. It's not that I didn't want her--far from it--but in truth, we'd only had her for a few months. Discussing something so permanent, and so soon... I don't know. Maybe it would have made her uncomfortable.
"Do you know what the ghost dance is for?" I asked.
Mickey shook her head.
"It's a dance that lets the dead come back to us," I said. "Just one night every year."
"Oh." Mickey's eyebrows knitted together. She curled up on the throw rug on the floor.
"Well," Mickey finally said, "it sounds like bullshit."
"It's not bullshit," Rafael said. "If you believe in it, that makes it re
al."
"Like when you wish upon a star?" Mickey asked.
Rafael's familiar, muted smile made its way to his face. "Yeah," he said. "Like that."
"I miss my cat," Mickey said. "The one Mom choked when she got mad at me."
My stomach turned. Of all the cruel ways to punish a child...
"Well," I said, "that's why you should go to the ghost dance. You'll get to be with your friend again."
"In spirit, you mean," Mickey said.
"You're very smart."
Mickey screwed up her face in concentration. "Wait," she said, "aren't you going to do music for that thing?"
"Me?" I asked. "I am, yes."
"What kind of music? I wanna learn."
I smiled teasingly. "Okay," I said. "Go get my flute from the mantelpiece."
We sat together, Mickey perched on the chair's armrest, and together we played the plains flute. I played the Thunder Song for her, a dark, fast piece written thousands of years ago. Even back then the Shoshone were accustomed to flash floods. Rumbling, thundering darkness breaks loose, goes the song. The first time I heard it, it scared me a little. The notes are tumbling, one note crashing into the next; erratic and frantic and fierce. One of the most impressive smoke dancers I've ever met danced to that song some years ago. I still remember the way she moved; relentless; as powerful as nature, as dangerous as the monsoon.
After that I played the Song of the White Wolf. You know, in summertime, gray wolves shed their outer pelt and end up looking like they're coated in snow. That's where the name of the song comes from. The Shoshone used to pray to the Wolf as the benevolent half of God; but in summertime, they prayed to the White Wolf specifically.
"Play it again," Mickey demanded.
"You blow," I said, handing her the flute. "I'll cover the holes. Then you can try covering the holes yourself."
Rafael searched the mess that was his hair for a pencil stub. It happened to be one of those rare occasions when he didn't find one. He marched into the kitchen in his neverending pursuit. I swore I saw a smile on his face.
The night of the ghost dance was a chilly one. I bundled Mickey up in a fleece jacket and zipped it to her chin. She giggled, her eyes as bright as the stars above our heads. The cascading brook reflected an argent moon.
"Next year," Mickey said, "maybe I can play the music with you, too."
I straightened up and looked at Rafael. He was a shadow in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob; keys hanging from his fingers. I couldn't see his face. I could feel his smile.
"I'd like that," I said.
"Hey," Rafael said. "Hold up. You forgot something."
He skulked over to us and knelt on the ground. He showed Mickey the small, hollow turtleshell in his hand.
"What is that?" she asked.
He shook it, the stones sounding inside. "It's a rattle," he said. He tied it around her leg. "When you dance," he said, "it'll match the rhythm of the music."
Mickey shook her leg experimentally. She looked appeased.
Rafael stood up. "C'mon," he said. "We don't wanna be late."
We walked through the woods together. Owls hooted softly from the copse of brush-soft aspen trees tangled at the end of the brook, winglike lupins in lavender and frost blue crowded together at their gnarled, raised roots. Mickey's rattle clattered on her leg, her arms swinging at her sides.
She surprised me when she reached out and wrapped her hand around mine.
We followed the dirt path to the firepit; we followed the firepit to the north. The sky's hue matched shadowed ocean slate; the slate matched Rafael's eyes. I heard doors snapping shut in the wind. I saw Gabriel, Rosa, and Charity filing out of their house beneath the southern oak tree, Grandma Gives Light tagging after them. The four of them caught up with us when we were walking the slope to the badlands.
"You can stand next to me in the circle, Mickey," Charity said.
Grandma Gives Light narrowed her eyes at me. I smiled helplessly in return.
"Numu paa kutsapi'kontuih wuchamata huuppiammu."
"No thank you," I said politely.
Rafael and I held Mickey's hands when we walked out to the badlands, blue-gray clay crumbling beneath the soles of our shoes. "Careful," Rafael said to Mickey. She slipped twice. We righted her both times before she could fall.
"Kimma!" yelled Immaculata Quick at the front of the group.
She led us down a more stable path between the gullies. A gulch curved to our right. The hilly promontory drew closer, closer still, coyotes yipping at the moon.
I felt Mickey's hand tighten around mine. "What is that?"
"Don't worry," Rafael said. "Coyotes won't hurt you."
"That's rich, coming from you," Mary's gleeful voice rang out among the gorges. "Remember how scared shitless you were when you were a kid? That a coyote was going to come and carry you away?"
"Mary," Gabriel said sternly. I guess he still saw them as his children.
The next voice I heard belonged to Kaya--but I couldn't see her at all. Jeez, was it dark out here. "Carry him away?" she asked. She tsked thoughtfully. "So he had coyotes confused with dingoes."
I could practically hear Rafael gnashing his teeth.
"Actually, no," I said. "That's how we scare children over here. 'If you're bad, the Coyote will carry you away on his tail!' "
"Ah, Shoshone."
"Acha Dine!" Grandma Gives Light suddenly shrieked.
"If you can't insult me in a language I speak," Kaya mused.
The badlands opened up. A small grove of southern oak trees rested between the valleys. The ground was smooth here, the moon bright, bathing each of us in a shining, luminous glow. The fire built on top of brush and animal bones was almost unnecessary.
"Come on, Michaela," Charity said gently, and took Mickey's hand right out of mine.
The families all milled over to the bonfire. I saw William and Lorna with their girls--three of them, each as burly as their mother--and Autumn Rose with her hand on DeShawn's arm. Leon Little Hawk chased his brother Nicholas through the crowds and Nicholas screamed, because Nicholas didn't like pressure. Serafine Takes Flight handed out turtleshell rattles to the little girls and her father stood talking with Robert Has Two Enemies; Holly looked morose, Zeke babbling obliviously in her ear; Daisy and Isaac stood with their teenage son, an angry boy named Ryan who staunchly believed that the world was out to get him; Lila and Joseph sat idly on the ground with Morgan Stout and Siobhan Stout and their mother, Aisling Stout, a loony pediatrician in her fifties; and Dad was on the other side of the fire with Racine, Racine's arm around him for support.
I caught Dad's eye and waved at him. He smiled back at me, feeble, fleeting.
I sat on the chalky ground and tried to get comfortable, my plains flute hanging from my neck. Rafael crouched down and sat with me.
"Aren't you going to dance?" I asked.
"Nah," he said. "I hate dancing. Besides, I don't like you sitting alone."
I smiled at him, endeared. I knocked my knee against his. He threw his arm around me, as though to suggest he had the final word in this matter.
The families formed circles around the bonfire, one within the other. I saw Dad's water-gray eyes illuminated by the jumping, red-hot flames, his sad hawk's profile illuminated by the moonlight. The ghost dance is probably the most sacred dance we have to our name. It's a dance of mourning; a dance of celebration; a dance of reunion. What was Dad thinking about on this eve? Which of his many lost loved ones was at the forefront of his mind? The wife who had lied to him and died before they could patch things up? The best friend who had facilitated her death? The little brother who fell from the willow tree? The mother who couldn't look at him without seeing a cold little corpse?
I had a childish thought just then. I thought: It's not fair. And maybe it wasn't. It wasn't fair that Granny had passed away so soon, that she and Dad had never really talked
about what happened to Uncle Julius. In a perfect story, mother and son would have sat down for a long discussion; they would have learned to put aside their differences. They would have reconciled; they would have loved each other more than ever. I'm sorry, Dad would have said. I forgive you, Granny would have said. And then they'd talk. They'd talk, like a real mother and father, like people who really loved each other. They'd talk like I'd never seen them talk in my entire life.
Granny and Dad would never talk again. They'd had their chance to repair their relationship, and instead they'd looked the other way and pretended not to notice the rift between them. I'd noticed it. I'd noticed it so many times, and I'd never said a word. Of course I couldn't have, even if I'd wanted to; I didn't have a voice until now.
And when I think about it...I suppose Granny had never had a voice, either. Or Dad. They were Shoshone. They weren't supposed to talk when they were in pain.
That's an awfully long time to live in silence.
Stuart Stout started talking. Every year the tribal council reminds us of the significance of the ghost dance, the bloodshed and sorrow soaked across its history: how the Plains People danced for their lost loved ones, for the promise of a better future with the European settlers; how the whites didn't like the ghost dance and slaughtered whomever they caught performing it. I've always thought of the relationship between America and her immigrants as that of a mother and a child. The mother is generous; she gives and she gives, until she's given all she has; and still the child demands more. One day he grows up, and he turns away from her, and when she's old and alone, he leaves her to die without sparing her a second thought. But she gave him everything she could, you see. She never said no. What kind of mother says no to her son?
I lifted my flute to my lips. I started to play.
The night wind rushed between the valleys and the gorges. The turtleshells clattered in time with Offerings for an Empty Sky, a slow and mournful piece. The dancers moved slowly, solemnly, in their circles. Rafael's arm around me was solid and warm and I pressed against him, indelible comfort washing over me. Was he thinking about his father? About his mother? The ghost dance was a way of reuniting the living with the dead. What words would his mother have whispered to him, were she still alive?
I closed my eyes, my fingers skittering across the plains flute. I thought about my own mother.
I thought about my grandmother. I thought about my uncle, the man he never grew up to be, the little boy I never met. I don't know whether there's such a thing as an afterlife; but it sure is a comforting thought. Maybe my mother and Rafael's became friends. Maybe Granny can finally take her smallest son into her arms again.
Do you know how death first came into the world? That's right; there once was a time when nobody knew what it meant to die.
Long ago, we Plains People lived in harmony with the Wolf. We loved him, and he loved us. We were a part of his pack. Coyote saw the love between Wolf and the Plains People, and he grew jealous. His heart filled up with hatred.
So Coyote decided to trick his brother. One day he said to Wolf, "Well? It's very good that death is not permanent, and the people do not suffer for long. But what will you do when the planet has run out of food, water, and space to keep everyone alive?"
"What are you saying?" Wolf asked.
"I'm saying that you ought to consider making death a one-way road. That way there will be enough resources for everyone."
"Why couldn't I just make more resources?" Wolf said. "Another world?"
Coyote grew afraid. He could see his brother had read right into the heart of his intentions.
"Yes," Wolf said. "I know exactly what you're trying to do. But alright. We'll do as you say. The dead will stay dead."
And the very next day, what should happen but the deadly Rattlesnake biting Coyote's son, and Coyote learning loss for the first time.
The dead don't know what it means to die. Only the living can know it. Only the living live with loss, heartache, and grief.
I couldn't tell you what time it was when the ghost dance finally wound down. The sky had forfeited the last of its ocean slate; now it was empty and black, interspersed only half-heartedly with stars. The fire burned down to its embers, the animal bones left intact.
"C'mon," Rafael said. He unfolded his legs and stood up.
I grabbed his arm and pointed at Mickey and Charity.
Or it was supposed to be Mickey and Charity. Charity was off gabbing with Serafine instead. For a moment I was upset, and I wondered whether Charity was ignoring Mickey on purpose. Soon I realized it was probably the other way around.
Mickey had her turtleshell rattle in her hands. She stood by the dying bonfire with a big smile on her face. I couldn't hear what she was saying; but I saw that she was talking to Henry Siomme.
"That kid's too old for her," Rafael declared, flaring up with parental fury.
"Rafael, he's twelve."
"So what? You think twelve-year-olds aren't sneaky bastards? My sister was twelve when she stuffed Stu's cat down a water well."
"I doubt very much that Henry's killed any cats lately," I said, trying my best not to laugh.
"Skylar," said a new voice.
Until now I had forgotten DeShawn's plan to bus the Paiute down to Nettlebush for the ghost dance. I had assumed the tribe just didn't take him up on the offer. Now I realized at least some of them had.
The young woman standing in front of me was my cousin, Marilu; a Paiute girl. Her hair was squared off just below her chin, her eyes made smaller by her glasses. Her nose was about the size and shape of a button, something I used to tease her over when we were children.
As it was, I smiled wanly. "Hi, Marilu."
"Hey," Rafael said. He always tries to act nice toward Marilu. "Where you staying tonight?"
She looked tired. The trip from the Pleasance Reserve to Nettlebush is a long one. "I don't know," she said, after a long moment of deliberation. "I guess with Uncle Paul."
"Don't be silly," I said. "There's plenty of room for you in our house."
"You sure? Don't want to be a bother..."
"Hi," Mickey said, traipsing over to us. "Henry said he's going to teach me to ride a horse." She eyed Marilu suddenly. "Who's this?"
"Mickey," I said, before Rafael started issuing death threats against a twelve-year-old boy. "This is my cousin, Marilu."
Marilu looked at Mickey the way you would have expected her to look at an alien lifeform. "You have a kid...? Since when?"
"Foster kid," Rafael said.
Mickey opened her mouth, then closed it. Her forehead wrinkled.
"She's spending the summer with us," I said. "We'll tell you the rest later. Why don't we hurry on home? I'm sure you'll want something to drink after the long ride here."
"Alright," Marilu said. "Fell asleep on the Amtrak..."
The walk back home was an unusual one. Mickey had nothing to say--disconcerting, when she was ordinarily full of questions and off-color comments--and Marilu made me think of a sleepwalker, in that she didn't strike me as entirely conscious of her surroundings. She's had it rough, Marilu. The Paiute reservation's built on some really junky land and the government slaps so many restrictions on it, the residents can't even make simple house repairs when they need them. Normally the Paiute don't let their poverty keep them from having a good time, but I'd imagine all those adverse conditions wear down your resolve after a while.
Marilu was asleep the very instant she sat down in our sitting room. Rafael darted upstairs to find blankets for her.
"Bedtime," I said to Mickey.
She caught me unawares when she tossed her turtleshell rattle to the floor--hard--the rattle slamming and skidding across the hardwood. She spun on her heel and stormed up the staircase.
Rafael came walking down the stairs, confusion on his face, a blanket thrown over his shoulder.
"What'd you do to piss
her off?" he asked.
I shook my head, at a loss.
