Winter Counts(41)

“But we can’t use the grant if we don’t have a way to store—”

“You’re the rich girl with the councilman father—why don’t you buy some freezers?” Delia shook her head and walked away.

I fumbled with some tape and tried to look like I hadn’t been eavesdropping. Marie walked back over to me, anger and irritation playing across her face.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I need to get out before I say something stupid.”

Once we were inside the car, Marie gripped the steering wheel and put her head down.

“Just give me a minute,” she said. “Damn it.”

I could hear her breathing. It sounded like she’d just run around the track. “Take it easy,” I said.

After a while, she lifted her head up. “Sorry you had to see that. I try to keep my temper, but it’s hard. She won’t do anything, she’s so freaking lazy.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, I helped write a grant proposal last year for the USDA. It was my idea, so of course she hated it. Anyway, it got approved, two hundred thousand dollars to bring in bison meat for the food program. You know, better quality than that crappy canned pork we get.” She curled her lips in disgust. “We could put five pounds of frozen buffalo meat in every box. Not to mention, buffalo’s our sacred food. Great idea, right? The grant even included funds for nutrition education. The money came in months ago, but the tribe hasn’t chosen a supplier. There are four or five bison ranches around here, but tribal council won’t get off their asses.”

I asked the obvious question. “What does your dad say?”

“I talked to him, even though I felt weird about it. He told me there’s a committee handling it, and he’s not on it. Said he spoke to Wayne Janis—I guess they’re soliciting bids before they decide. I’m trying to get Delia to call the committee and get them to hurry up, but she won’t do it. Families are going hungry while they fool around.”

She shook her head, then picked up her phone and looked at the screen.

“She spends all of her time messing around on social media and texting, barely does any work.” She put her phone into her bag and sighed. “Let’s forget about this stuff. Like I told you, there’s a food truck at the center. It’s part of the grant—we’re supposed to provide nutrition information, so there’s a lecture on healthy cooking after lunch is served. Want to check it out?”

“Uh,” I said, “do I have to stay for the lecture?”

“You do whatever you want. Maybe I’ll hire you to pound some sense in Delia.” She gave me a half smile and started the car.

At the community center, the food truck was already there. It was painted in psychedelic colors, bright red and orange and purple and green, not colors usually associated with Indians, and a giant pink medicine wheel adorned one side. Emblazoned at the top were the words INDIGI-CULTURAL DECOLO-NATIVE CUISINE, CHEF LACKLAND STRONGBOW. There was a crowd in front of the truck waiting to be served, so Marie and I took our places at the back of the line. “You guys brought this in?” I said. “Who is he?”

“We scheduled it a few months ago. To be honest, I don’t remember his background.” She took out her phone and started typing. “Oh, right. He’s the executive chef at a restaurant in California. He calls his food ‘decolonized indigenous Native cuisine.’ Only uses ingredients that were around before Columbus.”

I spotted Tommy behind the truck, holding a plate.

“Should have known I’d see you here,” I said. “Free food.”

“Yo Virg! Welcome back! Hey there, Marie.” He tried to give me a fist bump, but couldn’t due to the fact that he was holding a platter of food. I looked at the food he’d gotten; it appeared to be a few tablespoons of beans and rice and some salad.

“Dang, had to walk all the way here from the Depot! I was with Rudy, doin’ a little day drinking. But he started freakin’ out—said he saw some strange dude in the bar with a blurry face. He said the guy was throwin’ off black sparks, like a welding machine or something, so Rudy wanted to get out of there. I didn’t see no one like that, think Rudy was just lit up.”

He started eating his food, using a little plastic spork. “We tried to leave, but he’s got one of them alcohol interlock things in his car—he puffed in it but was too damn drunk, so it wouldn’t start. Tried to find one sober person in the bar to blow in the tube, but nobody could get it to turn over.”

He looked down at his now-empty plate. “Sheeit, this all the chow they gonna give us? Damn! I need some more.” He threw his trash away and turned his attention back to me. “Hey, been meaning to ask you, what’s the story with Nathan?”

I didn’t know where to begin.

“Been back a few days,” I said. “Met with a lawyer in Rapid City. Lots of news—I’ll tell you about it after I eat. So what’s the deal with the food truck? They serving Indian tacos or what?”

“Hell no. Don’t know what that stuff was, some sort of rice and meat pudding.”

I noticed a printed sheet taped on the side of the truck. It said:

INDIGENOUS RICE WITH HEIRLOOM BEANS AND TOASTED SUMAC LEAVES