Winter Counts(32)

He handed the eagle feather to the man at the front of the circle, presumably Reuben. An older Native man, he looked about seventy years old, in good shape, with long gray braids and an easy smile. He was dressed in faded jeans and a dark-blue T-shirt.

“Okay, good seeing you all today, and don’t forget about the potluck next week. Get your tickets from Iya at the front desk.” People began filing out of the room.

We waited until everyone was gone, and then Marie approached the man while I stayed back a little. “Hi, are you Reuben?” she asked.

He nodded in a friendly way.

“I’m Marie, and this is Virgil. We’re wondering if you had a few minutes?”

“Sure, let me get my stuff together.” He put some papers and a notebook in an old tote bag. “What’s up?”

I decided to jump in. “We’re looking for someone, heard he might be in town. Do you know Rick Crow?”

The smile left his face immediately. “Yes. I’m his father.”

It took me a second to take this in.

“What’s going on?” he said. The expression on his face revealed far more than his words—he looked weary and sad. I let Marie take the lead.

“We’re from Rosebud. Sammie Wolf Song said to look you up,” she said, smiling politely. “Anyway, we know Rick, someone said he was in Denver. Have you heard from him?”

“No, we haven’t been in touch. A long time. Sorry I can’t help you.” He gave us a strained smile and started gathering up more papers and putting them in his bag.

“Well, we don’t want to take up any more of your time,” Marie said. “Thank you.” She began moving toward the door, but I stayed put. “Is there anything you can tell us?” I asked. “Maybe an old address or phone number?”

Reuben shook his head. “Wish there was. I really don’t know what he’s doing these days. Last time he called, he was asking for money. I wouldn’t give him any, he got mad.” He looked off into the distance. “I still think I did the right thing.”

I decided to gamble. “Sir, he might be mixed up with some bad people. Real bad. Be best if we find him before the police do.” This was not strictly true. “Sorry for this news, but any info you have could help. Be in his interest to fix things without the cops.”

He paused. “Tell me who you are again.”

“Virgil Wounded Horse. This is Marie Short Bear.”

“You’re tribal police?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Marie works for the tribe—family services. Me, I’m a . . . handyman.”

Marie jumped in. “I know this is strange, us showing up here, but I’m a friend of Rick’s.” She glanced over at me. “We used to, uh, date.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then motioned for us to sit down. “Have some coffee.”

We poured ourselves some black sludgy brew from an ancient pot on the counter. He poured himself a cup and picked up a little plastic container of nondairy creamer. We waited while he struggled to open the creamer, his hands trembling a little.

“I think he mentioned you once. Marie. He calls me every so often, usually when he needs something.”

He took a drink of the coffee. I drank some too and nearly spit it out, it was so bitter.

“His name isn’t Rick, you know. It’s Waowakiye, it means ‘helper.’ It was given to him by a medicine man when he was five. When he was twelve, he made us start calling him Rick and stop using his Native name.”

I nodded.

“We raised him in the traditional way, took him to Sun Dances, taught him our customs. He did well. You might be surprised, but he was very quiet when he was little. He loved to sit outside and watch the birds and the sky. He’d sit for hours, watch the squirrels, the butterflies, the clouds. But we had to move to Rapid City because I lost my job, and that’s where he went to school first. One day in second grade, he came home crying because some kids bullied him and made fun of him for being Indian. He told us he wanted us to cut his long hair, but we said no. My Lord, how he screamed! We finally gave in. I’ve always been ashamed of that. I just wanted him to stop crying.”

He stopped talking and added another nondairy creamer to his coffee. Again we waited while he tried to open the little plastic package. I wondered if I should offer to help.

“Things got worse. He made some friends, and there was one kid that invited him to his house for a sleepover. When he got there, the boy’s mother made Rick go home. She wouldn’t let him stay at their house because he wasn’t white. He was so humiliated, he cried and told us that he didn’t want to be Indian anymore. He said he wouldn’t speak Lakota, wouldn’t go to powwows, wouldn’t do anything Indian. I knew we had to leave the city, so I quit my job and we moved back to Rosebud. But I wasn’t making much money, and Rick’s mother started fighting with me.”

He took a spoon and started stirring his coffee, even though it was nearly empty.

“We argued, sometimes in front of Rick. We put him in the rez school, but something had changed. The sweet boy I loved—he was like a different kid. He got into fights, trouble. Lots of trouble. I prayed about this and tried to help him. I know this was my fault, because I didn’t show him the right way to be a man.”

Marie shook her head. “No, none of that was your fault.”