Winter Counts(10)

When the legal system broke down like this, people came to me. For a few hundred bucks they’d get some measure of revenge. My contribution to the justice system.

But heroin was different. This wasn’t a wife-beating or car theft, crimes that the feds never gave a shit about. Busting a heroin ring would get major press and probably make some federal prosecutor’s career. Ben had to know that, so why wouldn’t he take his intel to the FBI? Maybe he was being straight with me, and there wasn’t enough hard evidence linking Rick to the dope.

I’d had enough for the night, so I went to go check on Nathan. I could see that his lights were on, so I’d turn everything off and cover him with a blanket. I opened the door and saw that he was passed out on his bed, all of his clothes still on, one arm hanging down at his side.

“Dude, why don’t you get into your shorts and get under the covers?”

He didn’t respond.

“Nathan, let’s go to bed, I’m tired.”

Still no response.

“Nathan?”

I looked at him closely. His face and lips were gray, almost blue. I saw an empty balloon, a lighter, and some crumpled, burned foil on the floor. There was an acrid vinegar odor in the air.

Oh no.

“Nathan, wake up! Get up!”

I tried to sit him up, but he was too heavy and fell back onto the bed. I pulled his eyelids up. His pupils were tiny and dark, like miniature black holes, and his skin felt cold and clammy. I slapped his face, hard.

“Nathan, open your eyes! Wake up!”

No response, but I saw his chin move, just a little. I ran to the living room for my cell phone. The IHS hospital was fifty miles from here, and the tribal police station about twenty. The tribal cops were my only hope.

My hands shaking, I dialed the number.

“Police.”

“This is Virgil Wounded Horse. My nephew—he’s overdosing! He won’t wake up, you need to send—”

“What is your address?”

“Please hurry, he’s unconscious—”

“I need your address, sir.” He sounded pissed off, like I was stopping him from going home after a long shift.

“Eighty-three and Spidergrass Road—we’re the only house out here.”

“Just stay on the phone with me, okay? Is he breathing?”

“I think so, yeah, but not much—”

“Stay on the phone, stay on the phone, all right?”

“Just hurry.”

“How old is he?”

“Uh, I don’t—he’s fourteen! He’s only fourteen.”

I flashed back to Nathan as a little kid, playing with some toy cars I’d given him. What difference did it make how old he was, if he was overdosing!

“How long has he been down?”

“I don’t know, I just found him. Do you have a car free?”

The dispatcher sounded angry again. “We’re on the way. You said it was an overdose?”

“Heroin, I think. There was a balloon and some foil on the floor.”

“Do you know how much of the drug he took?”

“How the fuck should I know? I didn’t know he was doing that shit!”

“Just trying to help. How much does he weigh?”

“I don’t—maybe one forty?”

“We’ll be there soon, stay with me, okay? Can you stay on the line? Sir?”

I let the phone drop to the floor. Black clouds entered the room, taking up all the oxygen, all of the air. I couldn’t breathe, so I let the darkness envelop my lungs, my skin, my body.

“Sir? Sir?” I heard the voice on the phone from far away. “Are you still there?”

I picked up the phone. “Yeah, I’m here,” I said. “How close are they?”

“Do you know how to do CPR?” he asked.

“Uh, kind of. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

“Not exactly. I need you to start chest compressions right away. You remember that movie, Saturday Night Fever?”

“Movie? What’re you talking about?”

“I need you to put both hands on his chest—right on top of his heart—and press down hard; do a hundred compressions a minute. Think of the disco beat from that song ‘Stayin’ Alive.’ The song from the movie. Use that beat on his chest. Put the phone down and do it now! Keep doing it until they get there.”

I pulled up Nathan’s sweatshirt. His skin wasn’t brown anymore—it was a strange shade of gray, and weirdly cold and damp. I clasped my hands together, like I was praying, and put them right over his heart. I’d always hated disco music, but my mother had played that old Bee Gees album constantly when I was a kid. I couldn’t remember the lyrics, but the beat of the song came back to me instantly. I pushed down on Nathan’s chest steadily, like I was dancing at a 49 party. Was I pressing too hard? Did I need to push harder? I focused on the beat of the music as I forced his heart to pump blood through his veins. Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive . . .

As I pushed, I tried to remember the Indian prayers my mother used to say to me. I’d heard them so many times as a kid, it seemed urgent that I remember just one line, but nothing would come. How was it that I could remember some shitty disco song from years ago but couldn’t remember my mother’s own words? The weight of my failures—all of them—felt like a shroud wrapped around me.