but didn’t speak it much, or didn’t like to. Old-timey stuff, they said impatiently. So my sisters and I communicated kind of hopscotch. I’d speak in Lakota and they’d understand, but they’d answer with gestures, or a few words of English and Lakota mixed. They didn’t take any stock in back-to-the-blanket.
A glance told Unchee that the family’s food was gone, and there was hardly any to begin with. We’d counted on supper with them. Unchee always packed plenty for lunch, though, so she set out the leftovers, jerk meat and dried corn with berries. We polished them off right quick, and I was still hungry. It was as sad a supper as I ever ate.
I didn’t hear much of the conversation. My mind was raging— Where am I going to live? However, I pieced together bit by bit what happened to their home.
“Five days ago,” I heard Senior mumble. That was whenthe house burned down. “In the middle of the night,” said Angelee, like that was the worst thing about it. “We don’t know why or how,” said Senior. From Mom’s look I knew she did know, and pretty quick I got a clear mental picture—Senior passed out in bed with a cigarette in his hand.
Grandpa gave me a warning look and spoke up himself. “Who has it in for you?”
“I’m sure gonna get whoever done it,” said Senior. He futzed around and scratched at the ground while he said it. It was the performance of a man ashamed.
Nothing was ever admitted nor proven, against Senior or anyone else. I didn’t need any proof.
What kept hurting my eyes was that auto carcass. The four of them were living in that thing. What few of their belongings they’d saved were stashed in the lidless trunk, and they slept inside, or underneath, or nearby, maybe on top, whatever worked. No tipi-dwelling Indian was ever as poor as my family. As Senior explained things to us, his tone was craven and his smile was fawning.
I cast my eyes down and tried to keep my stomach calm. The car said everything. It was the first car anyone in my family ever owned. Had no tires, wheels, fenders, windshield, windows, trunk lid, headlights, taillights, or license, but it was a car. Was once.
I walked off into the evening a bit and hunkered down. Then I walked back, looked Senior in the eye, reached in his shirt pocket, slipped out the pack of Marlboros and took one, and his matches. My first cigarette. I walked away and squatted down again and put my anger into the hard scratch of the match head and the first pull into my lungs. I held the match at arm’s length and watched it burn. The flame died just before it touched my fingers.
I’d been carrying the embers of anger inside me for a while. At Sun Dance earlier that summer, Angelee was sporting a bruiselike a pint-size eggplant around her left eye. “Where did you get that?” I said.
She snuffled and hid her face.
“Tell me Senior didn’t put it there,” I demanded.
She flung a wild look at me and hurried away, sobbing.
I didn’t need to ask if he was sober at the time.
That’s when I started calling him Senior instead of Dad.
I stubbed out the cigarette on the hard, dry ground. I stared at the dry hills all around me. My anger could have set them on fire.
One good thing about anger, it keeps you from knowing how scared you are.
When I walked back to the family, Mom pulled me down beside her, and my heart sank.
“I’m taking Angelee and Mayana to Wambli,” Mom said to me softly.
Her words leapt at my throat.
Wambli was where her family came from, over east toward Rosebud.
“I’m going to Martin to look for work,” said Senior.
I raised my eyes into his, not caring about respect, not feeling any, and wanting him to know it.
“Tomorrow,” said Senior. “We’re all leaving tomorrow.”
Which meant they’d planned to leave without letting us know.
I stood up, unsteady. “Grandpa, I want to go home,” I squeezed out.
He looked at me and his eyes were hard as rocks. Though he was a kind man, he
A glance told Unchee that the family’s food was gone, and there was hardly any to begin with. We’d counted on supper with them. Unchee always packed plenty for lunch, though, so she set out the leftovers, jerk meat and dried corn with berries. We polished them off right quick, and I was still hungry. It was as sad a supper as I ever ate.
I didn’t hear much of the conversation. My mind was raging— Where am I going to live? However, I pieced together bit by bit what happened to their home.
“Five days ago,” I heard Senior mumble. That was whenthe house burned down. “In the middle of the night,” said Angelee, like that was the worst thing about it. “We don’t know why or how,” said Senior. From Mom’s look I knew she did know, and pretty quick I got a clear mental picture—Senior passed out in bed with a cigarette in his hand.
Grandpa gave me a warning look and spoke up himself. “Who has it in for you?”
“I’m sure gonna get whoever done it,” said Senior. He futzed around and scratched at the ground while he said it. It was the performance of a man ashamed.
Nothing was ever admitted nor proven, against Senior or anyone else. I didn’t need any proof.
What kept hurting my eyes was that auto carcass. The four of them were living in that thing. What few of their belongings they’d saved were stashed in the lidless trunk, and they slept inside, or underneath, or nearby, maybe on top, whatever worked. No tipi-dwelling Indian was ever as poor as my family. As Senior explained things to us, his tone was craven and his smile was fawning.
I cast my eyes down and tried to keep my stomach calm. The car said everything. It was the first car anyone in my family ever owned. Had no tires, wheels, fenders, windshield, windows, trunk lid, headlights, taillights, or license, but it was a car. Was once.
I walked off into the evening a bit and hunkered down. Then I walked back, looked Senior in the eye, reached in his shirt pocket, slipped out the pack of Marlboros and took one, and his matches. My first cigarette. I walked away and squatted down again and put my anger into the hard scratch of the match head and the first pull into my lungs. I held the match at arm’s length and watched it burn. The flame died just before it touched my fingers.
I’d been carrying the embers of anger inside me for a while. At Sun Dance earlier that summer, Angelee was sporting a bruiselike a pint-size eggplant around her left eye. “Where did you get that?” I said.
She snuffled and hid her face.
“Tell me Senior didn’t put it there,” I demanded.
She flung a wild look at me and hurried away, sobbing.
I didn’t need to ask if he was sober at the time.
That’s when I started calling him Senior instead of Dad.
I stubbed out the cigarette on the hard, dry ground. I stared at the dry hills all around me. My anger could have set them on fire.
One good thing about anger, it keeps you from knowing how scared you are.
When I walked back to the family, Mom pulled me down beside her, and my heart sank.
“I’m taking Angelee and Mayana to Wambli,” Mom said to me softly.
Her words leapt at my throat.
Wambli was where her family came from, over east toward Rosebud.
“I’m going to Martin to look for work,” said Senior.
I raised my eyes into his, not caring about respect, not feeling any, and wanting him to know it.
“Tomorrow,” said Senior. “We’re all leaving tomorrow.”
Which meant they’d planned to leave without letting us know.
I stood up, unsteady. “Grandpa, I want to go home,” I squeezed out.
He looked at me and his eyes were hard as rocks. Though he was a kind man, he
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