Winter Counts(55)

“No thanks, I’ll just finish off the coffee.” I poured the dregs into my cup as I watched her out of the corner of my eye. The coffee had been simmering so long, it looked like black asphalt and smelled like old cigarette butts. She sat down at the table.

“So, I got a letter in the mail.”

“Yeah?”

“You remember I applied to medical school?”

How could I forget?

“Well, the University of New Mexico gave me their answer.”

By the look on her face, I could tell it was bad news. “Hey, don’t worry about it; there are other schools—”

“I got in. And they offered me a partial scholarship.”

It took me a moment to process. Scholarship in New Mexico?

“Congratulations,” I said. “Where’s the school again?”

“Albuquerque. About ten hours by car.”

“That’s not so far.” It seemed like a million miles away.

“I guess so. Never been there. I applied because they’ve got one of the best internal med programs around. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d get in, much less a scholarship. Thought I might have a chance at USD, but not New Mexico.”

“You don’t seem too excited.”

“It’s a lot to take in. And there’s something else. The scholarship requires you to stay in New Mexico after graduation.”

“You have to do what?”

“To get the scholarship, I have to agree to practice medicine in New Mexico for at least five years after I graduate.”

“Oh.” I was beginning to understand. Marie was telling me that she’d be leaving the rez for a long time. “Did you tell them yes?”

She finished the rest of her tea. “Not yet. The deadline to send my deposit is two months from now. I’ve got some time to think about it.”

Even though I usually drank my coffee black, I added four teaspoons of sugar to my cup, took a sip, then dumped the whole thing into the sink. I watched the sugary mess flow down the drain.

“Why don’t we celebrate?” I said, looking at my empty cup. “We could go out to dinner, drive to Valentine or Rapid City.”

“That’s sweet of you, but how about if I cook? I’ve been learning some things at the restaurant, like to try them out. I need to tell my parents too. Maybe we should have dinner there, Saturday night.”

AND SO WE WENT to Marie’s family house, the one she’d grown up in. I’d been there years ago and remembered it well. It was located a long way from town and was spacious and modern, unlike most houses on the rez. Their place wasn’t constructed by the government, but had originally been built by a white ranching family. A lot of people who’ve never been on a reservation probably assume that the entire population consists of Indians only. In reality, a large number of wasicus had gotten reservation land during the allotment years in the late 1800s, when the federal government passed a law dividing most reservations into 160-acre parcels, awarding the majority of the plots to Natives but giving a sizable number to—surprise—white farmers and ranchers. So much for “This land shall be yours as long as the grass shall grow.” Decades later, Ben Short Bear had managed to purchase his little piece of land from the white owners. He’d renovated the house and raised two daughters there, all on a tribal councilman’s salary, supplemented by his wife’s family money.

I rang the doorbell, Nathan trailing behind me. I’d made him ditch his hoodie and wear his cleanest shirt, a checkered red flannel button-up two sizes too big for him. I’d dug up an old Dickies denim shirt, the best I could do. Marie was already there, having started cooking earlier in the day.

Ben answered the door, leading us into the large family room, where Ann, Marie, and Lack were already seated and drinking white wine, along with two people I didn’t recognize. I was introduced to Brandi Little Moon, who’d been brought by Lack, and her daughter Shawna. Brandi worked at the casino and had recently transferred from the front desk to a job in the restaurant. She told me that her daughter went to St. Francis Indian School, the former Catholic high school now operated by the tribe. Shawna had bright pink hair, two piercings below her lower lip, and looked bored stiff while the little dog Ava nestled in her lap. I introduced Nathan to Shawna and they immediately ran off to the backyard together, followed by Ava.

Marie brought me a soft drink—some organic soda I didn’t recognize—and excused herself to get back to the cooking. Lack went with her, which left me in the uncomfortable position of being in the conversation with Ben, Ann, and Brandi.

“How old is Nathan?” asked Brandi. I could tell from her clipped rez accent that she was from here. Long black hair, slim, Native print skirt. She’d dressed for the occasion. I wondered what the deal was between her and Lack.

“He’s fourteen, in ninth grade at TC.” I wondered how much Ann had told Brandi about Nathan’s legal problems.

“Does he like it there?”

“Yeah, I think so. He’s been bullied by some of the older kids, but he’s doing okay. He won’t tell me much.”

“It’s the same with Shawna. I don’t know, it’s like some kind of law with kids—when they get to be teenagers, they stop talking to their parents.”

Ann piped in. “Virgil isn’t Nathan’s father; he’s a legal guardian.”