The Only Good Indians(58)

“Too many sleeping bags,” Cass says. “This is just us in here.”

“We’ll be talking to a couple of our friends,” Gabe says. “Just so you know.”

“Which one?” Nate says. “The killer one, or the one who got killed?”

Gabe licks his lips, looks down into the darkness of his lap. It’s just the same as the darkness everywhere else.

“When we were your age, doing these,” he says. “Our … our counselor, this old dude, Neesh—”

“That’s his granddad,” Cass cuts in.

“You’re nodding at Nate, I take it?” Gabe says.

“Nathan,” Nate says.

“Neesh Yellow Tail was his granddad, yeah,” Cass says.

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Nate says.

“Anyway,” Gabe says. “Neesh, Granddad, whatever, he told us that none of the old stories are ever about a war party attacking a sweat that’s happening. That it wouldn’t just be bad manners to do that, it would be the worst manners. You don’t even jump somebody when they’re done, are all staggering out, weak and pure and shit. It’s a holy place, like. It means right here where we are, it’s about the safest place in the Indian world.”

Nate snickers, says, “Safest place in the Indian world? That means we’re only eighty percent probably going to die here, not ninety percent?”

“Nobody ever dies in a sweat,” Cass says. “Not even the elders. I’ve never heard of it, anyway.”

“This where we eat the mushrooms?”

Gabe drops his head back to smile up into the idea of the domed roof muffling their voices, says, “Different tribe, man.”

“Unless you ordered pizza,” Cass chimes in, finally joining this century.

“I can do that?”

“After, sure,” Gabe says. “I like meat lover’s. That’s real Indian pizza.”

“Nobody says ‘Indian’ anymore,” Nate says, voice somewhere between insult and disappointment.

Gabe closes his eyes, lilts out, “One little, two little, three little Natives,” lets it fall dead between them all, then says: “Doesn’t really sound right, does it?”

“We grew up being Indian,” Cass says, something about his delivery making it sound like his arms are crossed. “Native’s for you young bucks.”

“And indigenous and aboriginal and—” Gabe says.

“This part of it?” Nate cuts in. “I supposed to be getting all sweaty from this history lesson?”

“You didn’t wear deodorant, did you?” Cass says, not missing a beat.

Silence.

“Does that matter?” Gabe finally asks, kind of quieter.

Cass calls out a deep ho to Victor.

“We have to be sure to thank him each time he brings a rock in,” Gabe says, back to normal volume. “Otherwise—this is what your granddad told us—otherwise, feeling all unappreciated, he might deliver a warmed-up buffalo patty in for us to pour water on, breathe into our lungs.”

“Bullshit,” Nate says.

“Exactly,” Gabe says right back.

“Here,” Cass says, reaching behind Gabe for … ah: the ceremonial golf club. Of course. He uses it to guide the flap open enough for Victor to step one leg in. A cool sigh of night air breezes in as well.

“Careful,” Victor says, making sure his path is clear. When it is, he angles the shovel in. Balanced in it is a rock so hot there’s lava worms crawling all over it.

“Thank you, firekeeper,” Gabe over-enunciates.

In the splash of light coming in, Nate, pushed back from the pit, nods a quick thanks as well.

Victor rotates the shovel handle, spilling the rock into the pit, along with the embers and ashes he’d scooped up. A vortex of sparks trails up into the domed ceiling.

“Did you wet the sleeping bags and stuff?” Gabe leans over to ask Cass.

“It’d smell like dog if I did,” Cass whispers back.

Gabe nods, checks the fabric all around them again.

“Does dog hair burn?” he says, just out loud.

“Thank you,” Cass says up to Victor.

“Another coming,” Victor says.

When the hot rocks are in the pit—there’s room for maybe three more, total—and the flap’s closed, their faces all underlit dull red, Gabe looks across to Nate, says, “Last chance, man.”

Nate shakes his head no.

Cass reaches back, slides the cooler alongside. The dipper is an aluminum scoop, like for feed. Cass does a humming up and up then down again drumbeat in his chest, and Gabe gets the lope of it, falls in. When they were the kid’s age, they always called drum circles circle jerks. And now here they are, carrying the beat.

Gabe shakes his head, amazed at it all, and ramps up his humming drumbeat, smiles a smile he can’t help. There’s five twenties in the right front pocket of his pants on the chair out there, and at least three of them are his—would be eighty dollars, but Denorah can shoot the hell out of free throws, can’t she?

“Here we go,” Cass says, breaking his own drumbeat for a moment, and scoops a dollop of water onto the two hot rocks.

The steam hisses up, boiling the air.