The Night Watchman(24)

“Cramps.”

“What kind of cramps?”

He looked at her and she bent her face away, flinching at herself, and mumbled, “Muscle cramps!”

“I get those.” He hid a smile, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“You can make a tea. The tea is better.”

“So where are you going when you get to the Cities?”

“I have a couple addresses.”

“Where your sister lives?”

“No.”

“So the plan is you walk the streets until you run into her?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“Maybe not. But what would you do? Go to the police?”

“Not exactly.”

“What?”

“Go to the not-police. Sorry to put it this way. She might have got into trouble. So, what I’m saying is, go to the scum.”

“Oh, well, okay, but I don’t know. How do I find the scum?”

“Rises to the top. Just look around. Find the questionable people who are in charge of things.”

“What things?

He didn’t know that much about Pixie. He wasn’t sure how far to get into it.

“Not good things,” he finally said.

“Liquor?”

“Yes.”

“What else is there that’s bad?”

He gazed at her. She simply wanted to know.

“You worry me,” he said.





A Bill




To provide for the termination of Federal supervision over the property of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians in the States of North Dakota, South Dakota, and Montana, and the individual members thereof; for assistance in the orderly relocation of such Indians in areas of greater economic opportunity; and for other purposes.





There it was, in the first line of the dry first sentence, the word termination, which instantly replaced in Thomas’s mind that word emancipation with its powerful aura of expanse. In the newspapers, the author of the proposal had constructed a cloud of lofty words around this bill—emancipation, freedom, equality, success—that disguised its truth: termination. Termination. Missing only the prefix. The ex.



The wind rattled the metal blinds of the plant’s industrial windows. Thomas pulled on his jacket. He had not finished eighth grade until age eighteen because he had worked with his father. They had harvested and planted, weeded and sweat. One summer he had dug that well. After he’d finished grade eight, Thomas had tried to educate himself, mainly by reading everything he could find. When he needed to calm his mind, he opened a book. Any book. He had never failed to feel refreshed, even if the book was no good. So it wasn’t the words in the rest of the bill that stymied understanding, it was the way they were put together.

Be it enacted by the Senate and the House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, that the purpose of this Act is to provide for the termination of Federal supervision over the trust and restricted property of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewas in North Dakota, South Dakota, and Montana, for the disposition of Federally owned property acquired or withdrawn for the administration of the affairs of such Indians, for the intensification of an orderly program of facilitating the relocation and placement of such Indians in a self-supporting economy to the end that federal services and supervision with respect to such Indians may be discontinued as no longer necessary, and for the termination of Federal services furnished to such Indians because of their status as Indians.





He threw down the pages. Walked his round. But after he finished, he picked up the papers, put them back in order, and replaced them in his briefcase. He was empty of response. There was a hollow feeling, a thrumming, a sense that his body had become a drum. That anyone could knock on him and get a sound. That the sound, even if defiant, would be meaningless. And that whoever used the drumstick knew this and was pitiless. That person would strike and strike until the hide was worn out.

Who was that person? The person beating this drum? Who had put this bill together? Thomas wondered.



That same morning, Thomas made an expensive phone call to his old friend and boarding-school buddy Martin Cross. Martin was the tribal chairman of Fort Berthold, a reservation in western North Dakota, shared by the Mandan, Arikara, and Hidatsa, which was Martin’s tribe. From a fellow boarding-school cutup, Martin had become a source of wisdom and a strategic fighter for Indian rights. Martin told him who was beating the drum: Arthur V. Watkins.

“He’s the most powerful man in Congress,” said Martin Cross.

“That’s not good.”

“No. And I don’t know if it matters, but he’s a Mormon.”

Thomas paused. What Cross said sounded vaguely familiar.

“You know any Mormons?” asked Martin Cross.

“I don’t think so.”

“They haven’t got to you. They’ll come around yet. It’s in their religion to change Indians into whites.”

“I thought that was a government job.”

“It’s in their holy book. The more we pray, the lighter we get.”

“I could stand to drop a few pounds.”

“Not that kind of lighter,” Martin laughed. “They think if you follow their ways your skin will bleach out. They call it lightsome and gladsome.”