Winter Counts(17)

He paused. “At school. By the football field.”

“What do you mean, the football field? From who?”

“I don’t know, some dudes hanging out there.”

“Rick Crow?”

“No. Some other guys, like four of them. I seen ’em once or twice before, don’t know their names. We were talking about music and stuff, you know, chillin’. So they said I could try it, didn’t ask me for no money. Said it was no big deal, like smoking a joint or whatever. I guess I just wanted to do something different. I didn’t think none of this was gonna happen.”

I wondered if he was bullshitting me. There was no way that drugs were being given away, and I knew he didn’t have money to buy them. There was more to this story.

“You being straight with me? Whole thing sounds shady.”

Now he was staring at me like I’d been the one who’d caused him to overdose. “I’m telling you the truth! You know, I got the right to make friends. Live my life. I made a mistake, all right?”

“I’m just trying to find out who these guys are, okay? You’re sure it wasn’t Rick Crow?”

He relaxed a little. “I’m positive. That dude’s creepy. It was these other guys, they’re not from around here. Can’t remember their names, only thing I remember is the main one was called Loco. Short guy, had a scar on his face.”

Loco. Sounded about right.

THERE WAS ONE MORE THING I had to do before I left for Denver. I drove out on the main road, the dust of the rez rising up around me, until I got to the unmarked street I knew so well. I headed down the dirt road and parked outside the gate, then walked through the weeds and grasses, keeping an eye out for rattlers, and went over to the second-to-last row, where all of the Wounded Horses and Peneauxs were buried.

There they were. My mother’s and my sister’s graves, right next to each other, my father’s two rows away. The cemetery was unattended, so there were no manicured lawns or landscapes. It was just an empty lot where some Indians were buried. I came to the cemetery every few months, depending on the weather. I used to bring Nathan, but it made him upset, so I stopped. I wanted to come more often, but there were times I couldn’t handle the sadness.

I stopped by my mother’s grave first, and bent over to clear off the small granite marker. After my father’s death, my mother struggled to raise Sybil and me, working several jobs to pay the bills and keep us in school clothes. She’d tried to sell Avon cosmetics by going door-to-door, but the local rez ladies mocked her and nicknamed her “Avon-calling.” But one of her friends bought a big order, so she got a nice commission, which we spent on our first real vacation to Rapid City. There, we explored tourist attractions like Flintstone City and ate out in a real restaurant for the first time. My mother had to spit out the food, which embarrassed us. She had a very strong sense of taste and could tell when food had spoiled before anyone else, just by taking a small bite. She could even taste the flavors left over in pots and pans, telling us that a cook had made chicken noodle soup in a pot before using it for spaghetti the next day. Once she told me that she could even taste the weather on the day that the food was cooked, but I didn’t believe her. What does a thunderstorm taste like? I’d asked, but she’d only laughed.

A few years after that, she died, and Sybil and I were left all alone. Aunt Audrey took us in, but we mainly raised ourselves, becoming our own little unit. Sybil and me against the world. No one to defend us against the petty brutalities of the local assholes. I vowed I’d get my revenge someday. And I did. Every beating I laid down felt like a victory, the payback of the bullied and the persecuted.

As I looked down on my mother’s gravestone, I remembered what she told me just before she died. “Akita mani yo,” she said. See everything as you go. I think she meant that I needed to be aware of the world as it really existed, not the way I wanted it to be. Indian awareness.

I walked over to my sister’s grave. Sybil had been like a mother to me in some ways. Even though I was older than her by a few years, she’d taken care of me when I needed it. She’d supported me when my drinking had gotten out of hand, fed me when I was hungry, nursed me when I was beat up and wounded. I tried to tell Nathan as many stories as I could about his mom so he didn’t forget her, but he’d always get quiet when I started, so I eventually gave up.

“Sister, I got to tell you something. It’s Nathan. He’s sick, he nearly died.”

I had to stop for a bit.

“I tried to keep him away from the bad guys around here. I tried to tell him the right stuff, have him do good in school. I really tried . . .”

The wind blew on my face. “I’m sorry. But I promise you, I’ll get the people who gave him that stuff.”

I took one last look at her grave and turned away. I knew the medicine man would’ve wanted me to burn some sage before I left, but instead I picked a few black-eyed Susans and set them next to the headstones. It was time to go.

When Sybil died, everyone said that the grief would get better over time, but that hadn’t happened. What I’d discovered was that sadness is like an abandoned car left out in a field for good—it changes a little over the years, but doesn’t ever disappear. You may forget about it for a while, but it’s still there, rusting away, until you notice it again.