Future Home of the Living God(82)

His voice is wistful, childish, and I can’t even look at his damaged hands.

“The thing is,” he says, very softly, “you have a treasure, Cedar, if our baby is normal. We would be in charge of things. Rich. Super rich! We’d be safe. If we somehow worked out genetically, I mean, to have a normal child the sky’s the limit for us.”

“We could seize power and found a dynasty,” I say, meaning it sarcastically.

“That’s right,” says Phil softly, reaching for me. I bat away his hand and call Eddy.



Thanksgiving

There never was a raid. Mother did not come back. Perhaps I hallucinated her. And maybe, let’s hope, in the throes of eighth month’s hormones I hallucinated Phil. But no, Phil was out the door once I called Eddy. The silver car backed out of the brush and Phil pulled out onto the highway. I wish he hadn’t come here and hadn’t disappeared. I’m hoping that when I wouldn’t agree to his plan, he went off to figure out another way to found his dynasty. I’m trying not to think about him. We are sitting in the garage, guards posted just outside the door. The cement floor is covered with wild turkey feathers.

“Honey, I hunted,” calls Eddy for the hundredth time, to Sweetie.

“You should have shot their damn feathers off,” she complains.

I am wearing rubber gloves, so I’m happy with my raw smelly job. Dead bird, blood, feathers, a rich gamey odor. There are six turkeys to clean. I’m way too big and heavy to do much more than sit and pull feathers. I have to shift my weight constantly—one butt cheek is pins and needles, the other aches.

“Eddy’s always got a plan with his turkeys,” says Sweetie. “Some years he brines them. Some years he uses this green egg-shaped cooker. Some years he deep-fries the whole damn bird.”

“Do we have to have the pilgrims?” says Mary.

Sweetie groans. Transcendence seekers have been passing through the reservation in tattered campers bearing Tibetan prayer flags. They are often looking for protection, or fleeing, and have put a burden on the militia. It is difficult to sort the mere yearning from the darkness that some of them bring. And then there are the Catholic pilgrims—neatly dressed, devout, setting up their Target tents, hibachi grills, and collapsible aluminum chairs near the statue of Kateri.

“They are on their own,” says Eddy. “We’ll feed our elders, our children, and our warriors. Maybe not strictly traditional, but hey, learn from experience. First Thanksgiving, we ended up with our heads on pikes.”

But of course we end up making all of the food on the reservation, and feeding absolutely everyone.



November 30

In the dead of night, the only time we feel invisible, Sweetie brings me to pray at the statue of Kateri. I wear a blanket, a huge sleeping bag, and pads on my knees. Other people around me are praying too, keeping vigil, and the peace of it all, the stillness, the great pointed stars overhead in the blackest night, are of such comfort to us. As I pray along with the others, rosaries, Hail Marys, I keep my hand on my belly. Again, I know you are listening. I can feel you listening, breathing, puzzling out the sounds. I can feel you thinking.



In the middle of a prayer, I am hoisted onto my feet. I am wearing my backpack, which makes me awkward, and I can’t see who’s behind me. I put my arms up to try and pull hair, but it is a big guy with no hair. A squeaky-breathed woman quickly zip-ties my wrists together. Yelling, I’m dragged straight into a van. The doors shut. After everything we’ve gone through, after all we’ve avoided, it seems like I am being hijacked by some random pilgrims. Sweetie’s running after the van, screaming. The other pilgrims are chasing after her. The statue dwindles. We turn onto the big highway. Home falls behind us.

The woman in the seat next to me is nervous like her husband, with lopsided pale hair, soft hands. She reaches over and straps me in. I try to head-butt her. Anxiously, she folds a blanket over me.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “We’re broke, so dead broke, and we have kids. We need the money.”

“For turning me in?”

She doesn’t answer, just sniffles and groans.

“Will you pray with me?” she asks in a hopeful voice.

“Fuck you,” I answer.

“Now don’t get all testy on us,” says the man in the driver’s seat.

Saint Kateri really let me down.



December 1

I’m sure we all feel like this, every woman with a baby, because of the brain-bending hormones, but, dear child, I still have this stubborn notion we’ll be all right. Even here. A sign above the entrance says Stillwater Birthing Center, but it is only a painted piece of canvas that covers Minnesota Correctional Facility Stillwater.



December 2

Even though I have a thick piece of foam for a mattress and soft blue flannel sheets and a fuzzy pink blanket, I am still in a cinder-block cell. A disinfected cell, a nicely painted cell with an extra pillow, an extra-plush blanket, but a cell. There is a sink, a toilet, a fold-down cot, a wall shelf, a small plastic chair, and a bulletin board with pictures of babies taped on it. Which strikes me as sadistic, considering. The pregnant women roaming up and down the central walkway wear blazing neon-pink or peacock-blue jumpsuits. I have one of each. My blue suit has a dark round stain on the pants. It looks like old blood. You can never get it out once the stain sets. This time I got to keep everything inside of my backpack, and because I am now Mary Potts with a tribal ID I’ve evaded detection. It won’t be long. Once they find out who I am, we’re shit outta luck. So I’m writing to you before all that happens.