Winter Counts(56)
Shit, what did that have to do with anything? Ann Short Bear didn’t like me, that was clear, but I’d hoped maybe I’d get a pass for just one day.
“Does Shawna like it at St. Francis?” I asked.
“She likes it better now that she’s on the cross-country team. She has practice after school every day and some mornings, too. She’s so tired in the evenings that she falls asleep at eight thirty.”
Interesting. I wouldn’t have guessed that from the kid’s appearance—she didn’t look like the sports type.
“I’m really glad she joined the team,” Brandi continued. “She came in fourth place at her last meet; now she’s talking about running at college. Maybe at USD, she’s not sure yet.”
Ann poured herself another glass of wine. “Our older daughter went to Dartmouth and was very happy there. She originally wanted to major in Native American studies, but we convinced her to switch to economics. Dartmouth doesn’t have an undergraduate business program, which is a little outrageous, given what they charge for tuition.”
“Dartmouth?” Brandi said. “Where’s that?”
“New Hampshire, dear.”
I knew it was time to take a break, so I excused myself to go to the backyard and smoke a cigarette. I found a spot where I could be alone for a few minutes and lit up. The little dog sidled up to me and I stroked her head, her eyes closing in sheer contentment. After a few puffs, I realized that I could hear some people talking faintly but couldn’t see who it was. Then the wind shifted and I could hear a bit more clearly. Shawna and Nathan.
You know St. Francis is mostly Indians there’s like one white kid in the whole school
Todd County is I don’t know a mix I chill with pretty much anyone
What are you gonna do after graduation you gonna work or go to college
I don’t know just trying to get through this year I was thinking about Sinte a while back
I got my CDIB it was stupid why do I have prove I’m Indian but I guess I need it for scholarships or whatever but I’m on the cross-country team maybe I can get a running scholarship
That’s cool
I started running last year my best friend killed herself I just felt like sad all the time so I joined the team I don’t know why
Yeah we had two kids kill themselves last year it sucked
You know our ancestors didn’t have to go to college or worry about stuff they just hunted and lived life
Yeah but like what are you gonna do go hunting for buffalo right
I’m like really scared to leave the rez for college my mom wants me to stay but there are like no jobs here what does your dad say
He’s not my dad he’s my uncle
Oh sorry
It’s cool I didn’t really know my dad my mom died in a car wreck like years ago
Sorry
It’s all good he’s like my dad now but I really miss my mom you probably think this is stupid but I try to think of her every night before I go to sleep I hit up my memory and try to come up with one thing to remember about her I make sure I remember it in the morning when I wake up
AT THAT POINT I had to leave. I went back to the living room, where Ann was telling Brandi about New England airports and how terrible and uncomfortable air travel had become. I had nothing to add to this, so I looked around the room as I listened, noticing the large collection of Native art and artifacts displayed on the shelves. There was one large series of photographs hanging up that showed a man in profile. On one side he looked Indian, clean shaven with long hair. On the other side, he looked Latino, with shorter hair and a mustache. In the middle was a pic of the guy head on—he had long hair on one side of his head and short hair on the other. Half a mustache, too. Ann saw me looking at the prints.
“James Luna. It’s called Half Indian/Half Mexican. That’s the original.”
I didn’t know what she meant, but kept looking at the pictures. The guy in the photos reminded me of some dudes I used to work with at a construction site in Rapid City.
Marie returned to the family room then and told us the meal was ready. Brandi retrieved the teenagers from out back, and we all moved to the formal dining room, where there were complicated place settings on the distressed wood dining table. In the center was an elaborate wicker basket that looked Native, although it had a different design than I usually saw around here. Ann saw me looking at it. “That’s a handwoven Navajo protection basket,” she said. “We got it while visiting friends in Shiprock. It’s over a hundred years old.”
“Jeez, Mom, couldn’t you buy art from some of our people?” Marie said.
“Thank you, dear, for your input. As you know, I do support local Lakota artisans. But that basket is beautiful and historic.”
Lack walked in, carrying a tray of food. “Today we have a wild green salad, locally sourced turkey with braised acorn sauce, and roasted tinpsila with sage—wild turnips that Marie located. Bravo to her for her turnip-hunting skills. I’m happy to tell you that Marie prepared the entire meal today; I just gave her some direction. She is a very gifted cook.”
“Lack, you are too sweet,” said Marie. “This is your food, no matter what you say, and we’re grateful you’re starting to change indigenous cuisine. I’ll let you all know that I’ve cleansed my kitchen of wheat and gluten and sugar. From now on, I’m only eating real food.”