Where the Lost Wander(41)

The boys mother him too; it’s like he’s always been ours, waiting eagerly on the other side of transcendence for his turn to be a May, and now that he’s here, none of us can remember life without him. He smiles—Ma says I was a smiler early on, just like him—and he’s so aware and bright eyed, kicking his legs and moving his mouth when we talk to him, like he’s trying to talk back. Webb hovers only inches above his face and has long one-sided conversations with him, telling him about the mules and the horses and California, and Wolfe just seems to soak it all in.

Still, as sweet as he is, as good as he is, he doesn’t want to settle at night. Maybe it’s the constant rocking of the wagon that lulls him to sleep during the day, but at bedtime, Ma and I take turns walking him so he doesn’t keep the whole company awake.

Some nights I walk to where John keeps watch—he always takes the first shift—and sit beside him, letting Wolfe fuss where no one can hear him, and we talk of stars and simple things. He’s taught me some Pawnee words. He doesn’t call Wolfie by his name, even though he chose it. He calls him Skee dee—the Pawnee word for wolf. And there are plenty of them. We’ve seen signs of the buffalo, their chips and skulls bleached white in the sandy swales, but our most frequent guests are the wolves. They lurk on the ridges and follow the trail, and Ma has dreams that they’ll drag Wolfie away.

One night, so weary I cannot stay awake, I fall asleep in the grass with Wolfe in my arms and wake without him. For a moment I don’t know where I am or how long I have slept. I can’t remember if it was I who held him last. I jump to my feet, noting John’s blanket around my shoulders, and I see his silhouette against the blue-tinged darkness. I almost cry out, caught in Ma’s nightmare. Then I see the smooth line of Wolfe’s head bobbing against John’s shoulder, an occasional hiccup blending with the lowing of the cattle and the whisper of night sounds all around. He walks with him, talking softly in a language I can’t understand, pointing at the sky and the cows, the moon and the mules, and I am overcome with grateful awe.

John is careful. He says little and rests even less. Maybe his quietude is simply the wear of long days and short sleeps, and I don’t know if he shares the same comfort in my presence that I feel in his, but I think he does. I feel more than comfort. I feel fascination and fondness and a desire to follow wherever he goes. I want to hear his thoughts. I want to look at him.

He does not touch me. He does not take my hand or sit as close as I’d like him to. Not since the day in his tent when he told me I was beautiful has he indicated how he feels, and I can only guess that his words of admiration were delirium, caused by his illness. But when I seek his company, he does not ask me to go, and when the night is deep and the camp is quiet, he talks to me. And though we do not speak of love or a life together, I am happy. I know it’s wrong to be so when Warren and Elmeda are so lonely and Ma is so worn. But John makes me happy, little Wolfe makes me happy, and my happiness makes me strong.

“How old are you, John?” I ask him one night.

“I don’t know. I think I am probably twenty-five or twenty-six.”

“You think? You don’t know when you were born?”

“No.”

“Not even the season? Your mother didn’t tell you anything?”

“I think it must have been winter. There was snow on the ground. She said when she rose from her bed after my birth, there was a single set of footprints around the lodge. The tracks were odd, like a man wearing two different shoes, and they weren’t deep even though the snow came to her knees. She followed them a ways, and they just suddenly stopped.” He is silent for a moment, contemplating.

“Who was it?” I press.

“She never discovered, but it is how I got my name.”

“Two Feet. Pítku ásu’.” I’ve been practicing.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about her,” I say.

“I don’t remember very much,” he says, quiet.

“What was her name?”

“My father called her Mary. The whites she worked for called her Mary too.”

“Son of Mary, walking on the water,” I whisper, thinking of Ma’s dream.

“Her people called her Dancing Feet. So I suppose I have a . . . part . . . of her name.”

“Why Dancing Feet?”

“When she was young, she sat too close to the fire, and the edge of her blanket caught a spark that quickly became a flame. Instead of screaming and letting the blanket go, she stamped the blaze out with her feet.”

“Like a dance.”

“Yes. That is the way most names come about. Some of the children don’t have names until they are half-grown.”

“But you did,” I say.

“Yes. I did.”

“Did she look like you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t really remember her face.” He turns his palms up helplessly. “I don’t think so. I look like my father. He never doubted I was his. But . . . I think I might have her mouth. She did not smile much, but when she did, her lips would rise higher on one side. She had a crooked smile.”

I want to press for details, needing to see her in my mind so I can create her on paper, but I hold myself back, letting him study the sky in silence, searching his memory.