After our plates were cleared, we strolled around the place. We visited the run-down arcade, where we played Skee-Ball and ancient video games. Then we wandered through Black Bart’s Pirate Cave, a sort of haunted house with battered skeletons, treasure chests, and weathered old skulls, trying not to step in the random pools of liquid left by overenthusiastic children.
“What do you think of this place?” I asked.
“I love it.” Her eyes gleamed like the polished gems we’d held in the gift shop. “If I had a child, I’d take her here every week.”
I wondered what it would be like to have a child with Marie. Her smarts, my toughness. A little son. Maybe a daughter? I looked over at Marie and wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. The music drifted through the fake palm trees, and it was easy to imagine that we were really in Mexico at some beach resort.
I turned to Marie. She moved closer, waiting for me. I started to embrace her, but I hesitated. I’d dreamed of this, but in an instant I also remembered the pain and depression I’d felt when she left me. The heartbreak had been so overwhelming, I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover. For months, I visited that grief every evening. I’d buy a twelve-pack of beer and play some gloomy songs. It was strange because, after a while, I’d started to look forward to those late-night sadness sessions—just my music, my beer, and my grief. It had become a part of my life, my new routine. The nightlands.
I’d finally gotten past that sorrow—and the booze—and carved out a good space for Nathan and myself. Things weren’t perfect, but I was content with the life we had. What would happen if I started things up again with Marie? I didn’t want the complications and the problems, not when I’d finally gotten some steadiness back in my life. It had been tough to get over Marie, but I’d made it through.
But then I smelled Marie’s perfume. Not just her perfume, but the scent of Marie herself.
It hit me right in the chest, and it seemed that I sensed it with every cell in my body. It was overwhelming, the aroma of her, and I felt desire travel throughout my body. My resolve slipping, I tried to tell myself this was a mistake, that I should leave things as they stood. But, that scent.
I dove off the cliff.
13
The next morning, I awoke in Marie’s room next to her, my body positioned at the far side of the mattress, taking up as little space as possible. In the quiet of the morning, I reflected on the previous night. Maybe we’d made a mistake, moved too soon. She began to stir. Her eyes opened, and she looked at me in surprise. “Oh shit,” she said, and ran into the bathroom.
What the fuck? I’d assumed she’d wake up with some affection and warmth, maybe even desire. Had I done something wrong? We’d kissed at the restaurant, awkwardly at first, then with confidence as we began to remember each other. I’d driven back—way too fast—to the motel, where we continued where we’d left off. The lovemaking had felt effortless. We already knew each other, and there was none of the discovery process necessary with a new partner.
I wondered if I should hightail it back to my room, avoid any further weirdness. But before I had a chance to make a decision, the door opened and she came out. She’d rearranged her hair and was wearing one of the scratchy white motel bathrobes.
“Hey,” she said, “sorry I dashed out of here like that. I needed a moment to catch up. You know, process a little. Also, my hair looked like the Wicked Witch.”
“I get it,” I said, relief flowing through my body. “It just happened, not like we planned it or anything.”
She sat on the bed and took my hand. “I don’t know, maybe we can take it one step at a time; what do you think?”
It sounded good. In fact, that had been my guiding philosophy most of my life. But the awkwardness of the situation hit me. Did she want me to stay here in her room, maybe go for round two, or should I clear out and give her some space? I realized I was completely naked, and my clothes were scattered across the room.
“Lord, my head hurts. You want some Tylenol?” she asked as she started rummaging through her bag. Suddenly shy, I covered myself with a sheet and began to recover my clothes, although I couldn’t find my underwear. I resigned myself to that loss and slipped on my pants.
“How about some coffee?” I said as I pondered whether to kiss her again or escape with no contact. Christ, we’d been together for a long time, why was this so complicated?
Marie made the decision by leaning down and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “That would be great, thanks. I’m getting in the shower. Just set it on the table if I’m not out yet. Thought I’d do a little shopping today before we get started, maybe pick up something for my mom. I’ll take the car, you mind?”
I’d been thinking that we’d go to the café together, but it looked like I was on my own. I didn’t mind that she wanted to go shopping by herself, and I understood why. Her mother had instilled a love of expensive goods in her and was willing to finance her spending, but Marie struggled with this, feeling that materialism was inconsistent with Lakota values. In the past, I’d told her to buy what she liked and not worry about it. But I knew she’d likely beat herself up and end up returning some of the things she’d purchase today.
“And listen, I’ll make some calls while I’m out,” she said. “I’ve got a few people I want to ask about Rick.”
I spent the morning trying to watch TV in my room, but was too distracted to focus on anything but Scooby-Doo. Marie returned, hours later, with some sandwiches and several large shopping bags. While we ate, she told me that she’d gotten a lead, someone in Denver who might have knowledge about Rick Crow.
After eating, Marie and I left the motel. We drove about half an hour to a run-down neighborhood that had numerous pawn shops, dollar-a-scoop Chinese restaurants, and more cannabis dispensaries. I wondered if there was a correlation between the poverty of an area and the abundance of marijuana stores. We pulled into the parking lot of a large building with a well-tended garden in front. The sign read DENVER INDIAN CENTER.
Inside, a young Native woman was at the front desk. We passed through the lobby, where a dozen pamphlets were on display: Signing Up for the Children’s Health Program; Native Americans Uniting to Fight Alzheimer’s; Veterans’ Benefits and Natives; Heart Healthy Practices Start with You! I considered taking one of the booklets to learn how to protect my heart, but realized it was probably too late for that.
“Can I help you?” asked the receptionist.
“We’re looking for Reuben,” Marie said.
“He’s leading the elders talking circle, but they’re almost done. Go ahead and go on in; they’re down the hall in the Thunderbird Room.”
We quietly opened the door and walked in. About ten elder Natives were sitting in a circle. We sat down in chairs near the back of the room to listen. A senior with long silver hair tied in a ponytail was holding an eagle feather and speaking. He glanced at us as we walked in.
“—the white man sticks their old ones in nursing homes, assisted living, whatever you want to call them—I call ’em warehouses, ’cause that’s what they are, a place to stick the old folks until they die. You know Indians don’t hide away our elders, we keep them with the little takojas so they can learn from us. Pass it on to the little ones, that’s what the Creator wants. Well, that’s all for me today. I want Reuben to know I appreciate what he’s doing, high time someone stuck up for us.”
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.”
He wouldn’t look at us. His attention was focused on his coffee cup, as if it contained the answers that had evaded him. “I was doing my best, but couldn’t get enough hours at my job. Money was tight. Rick’s mother said she wanted to leave me. But instead of doing it the Native way, she hired some lawyer and came after my savings. I had to hand over everything I had. I was so angry that I left the rez and moved here. Rick stayed with his mother in South Dakota. I tried to be a father even though I lived far away. I called, wrote letters.”
Reuben folded his hands on the table, his fingers a stronghold amid the wreckage of empty coffee creamers and discarded sugar packets.
“One summer he phoned me. He must have been thirteen or fourteen. Said his mother’d been arrested for something, so he rode his bike over to the jail. When he got there, he said, he heard the police raping his mom in her cell. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but what could I say? I told him he could come and stay with me if he wanted. I sent him bus money, and he came and lived here for a while. But he didn’t know anyone, he was lonely, and he went back to the rez. I could tell he was broken inside, maybe because of his mother, maybe because of me. Every once in a while, I’d get a call from him, asking me to help him out of some jam he was in.”
He took his empty coffee cup and turned it on its side, so we could see the bottom of the battered cup, the cracked and faded surface visible beneath the veneer of the ceramic coating.
“I don’t know where he is now. He called a few months ago. Said he was in Rosebud, working with some people to set up hemp farming on the rez. Completely legal, he said. Told me I could make some money, but I didn’t want any part of that.”
I looked over at Marie, who raised her eyebrows slightly.
“Did he say who they were?” I asked.
“No, he didn’t mention any names. He did say there was someone in Denver. Is that what this is all about?”
Marie shook her head. “We think some people might be trying to get him involved with, ah, other stuff.”
“Rather not know,” Reuben said. “I’m sorry if he’s done something wrong. I want you to know he was once a good kid. One of our Lakota virtues is compassion—waunsila. I ask you to have compassion. Help him if you can. Please.”
MARIE AND I WERE SUBDUED on the drive back to the motel.
“You ever hear Rick talk about growing hemp on the rez?” I asked. “It’s like marijuana, right? But weaker.”
“I think so. No, never heard him mention it.”
“You think he was just trying to scam his dad out of some money?”
“Don’t know. Possibly. Wait, didn’t that dispensary guy say something about hemp?”
“That’s right,” I said. “He said the grower was making some medicine, I think. Maybe Rick’s working with him. Doesn’t sound right, though. Rick’s never been much of a healer. We need to find this Martin Angel, see what he can tell us.”
As we pulled into the motel parking lot, Marie stopped and looked over at me. “So, I probably shouldn’t share this.” She paused. “But I know what happened to Rick when he was a kid—what made him change and get so angry. What his dad talked about.”
“Yeah?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
“So, he got pretty drunk one time, back when we were together,” she s
aid. “He told me he’d been abused by some older boy when he was little. Over and over. Wouldn’t say exactly how, but I could guess.”
“That’s pretty shitty. No one deserves that.” I studied her face, trying to gauge her feelings. “Was this his big secret? The one you mentioned?”
She nodded. “Yeah. He was really ashamed. I think he thought it was his fault. I tried to talk to him about it the next day, see if I could help him. But he got furious that I mentioned it. So he hit me, right in the face. Hard.” She shook her head. “Last time I ever spoke to him.”
I didn’t say anything, just stared at her.
WHEN WE GOT BACK TO THE MOTEL, I decided to go for a walk and clear my head. Heading west on Colfax Avenue, I passed by various groups of street people congregated in the parking lots of fast-food joints. Some of them looked Indian, but it was hard to tell. One homeless guy sitting on the street had a change jar next to a handwritten sign that read GOD HAS CHOSEN YOU. DO THE RIGHT THING IN YOUR LIFE.
Seemed like everyone was telling me what to do. I put a little change in his cup, and he nodded. I kept walking. The stories Reuben had told us about Rick and his childhood had disturbed me. I’d heard a little of this back when we were kids, but had never known the full story. For so long, Rick Crow had been the chief villain of my youth, the one who’d tormented me and made me hate being a half-breed. But he might have been just a sad kid who’d been bullied and abused himself.
Still, just because Rick had a rough childhood didn’t change the fact that he was an asshole now. An asshole who’d punched Marie and was bringing hard drugs to the rez. An asshole who’d almost got my nephew killed. Somebody had to stop him, but maybe Marie was right. Even if I took Rick out permanently, the cartel would just find somebody else to move the drugs on the rez. The cop had said that using Nathan to set up the dealers was the best chance to put them in prison. But I couldn’t put him in danger. All I wanted was to see him grow up happy, free of the demons that had pursued our family.
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