All of these thoughts weighed me down, and I decided to take a break. Right then I saw an old-fashioned neon sign attached to a dilapidated building, blinking red and blue: HANGAR BAR.
Without thinking, I opened the door and walked in. About a dozen people were sitting down or playing pool. Hanging up over the bar was a sculpture of an old-fashioned airplane, constructed out of empty beer cans from the 1960s and ’70s. Schlitz, Olympia, Hamm’s, Falstaff. The bartender walked over and asked me what I’d like.
It had been a long time since I’d had any booze. I remembered the cravings I’d had in the first months after quitting, then the orgy of sugary desserts I’d eaten after the first wave was over. I also thought about the shame I’d felt, back when Marie and I were together, when I’d gotten staggeringly drunk one night, called her a fucking apple, and thrown all of her clothes out of the house. My insult wounded her to the core, as I’d known it would, even in my inebriated state. She’d never felt accepted by the tradish Native crowd, and I’d scorned her for that with my slur, which was ironic, given that I’d always been rejected by those people myself. My words—and my drunkenness—were the last straw for her, and she’d moved out the next day.
Yeah, I’d been a mess, but I’d cleaned up my life, slowly. Now I was facing more problems. I looked over at the people playing pool and talking with each other. They seemed happy.
The bartender waited for me to say something.
“Bud Light and a shot of Old Crow.”
I picked the glass up and swirled it around a bit, a few drops of beer spilling out onto the bar. Then I smelled it. It had been a while since I’d inhaled the yeastiness of a beer, the hops and the wheat, and the aroma flooded my mind, triggering a memory from a few years ago, a memory I’d tried to lose.
The empty cans of Bud Light scattered around the living room. The reek of stale beer. The silence. The awful silence.
14
An elder I knew had called me, begging me to go check on her grandchild Mikey, who lived with her son and his girlfriend out by Parmelee. We’d been in one of our terrible snowstorms, temperatures twenty below zero, and she hadn’t heard from the child’s mother, who wasn’t from South Dakota. Nearly all families in the surrounding towns heated their homes with propane, and sometimes people froze to death if they missed out on a propane delivery. She told me that her son was out looking for work in Sioux Falls, but that the girlfriend was staying in their trailer looking after their little boy, who was only two. I’d seen the girlfriend at the grocery store—she was young, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, with red hair and a nose ring. The little boy was cute; I remembered his Superman T-shirt and big smile.
I’d fired up my car and slowly driven north, dodging the wind drifts and trying to stay on the road. It took a while to find the trailer in the snow, and there were no street signs or house numbers to go by. The elder had told me that I’d recognize the place by a large painting of Mickey Mouse on the front wall of the trailer. After a while, I spotted it. Whoever had done the painting was no Rembrandt, and it looked more like Bart Simpson than Mickey Mouse, but at least I’d found it. There was a Ford Taurus parked in front, just outside of the fence.
I’d put on my cap, gloves, hoodie, and overcoat to brave the bitter chill. Even though I was only a hundred miles away from my home, it was colder here, and I felt the moisture inside my nose freezing as soon as I got out of my car. I knocked on the door to the trailer, but there was no answer. I waited for a second and banged on the door even louder. It was dangerously cold, and I couldn’t wait outside for more than a minute or two. I gave it one more bang and then tried the door. To my surprise, it was unlocked, and I went in.
It was cold inside, but not freezing. That was a relief. I took a look around the small living room. Empty beer cans, Bud Lights, maybe two dozen strewn around. An empty Smirnoff vodka bottle, one of the big ones. And the stench of stale beer, powerful even in the cold air. No one was around, and I wondered if the girl and her son had gone to stay with neighbors to wait out the storm.
“Hello, anyone here?”
No answer.
I walked over to the bathroom, which was by the small cooking area. No one in there. The door to the bedroom was closed. It wasn’t a real door; it was one of those sliding vinyl accordion units that don’t give you any true privacy. I slid it back, the vinyl protesting in the chill.
There was a small mountain of clothes on the floor, and a Murphy bed by the wall with four or five blankets on top. I was wondering if I should drive out to the neighbors when I saw the blankets move a little. I tried to remember the woman’s name—was it Rose?
“Hey, someone there?” I said, stripping the blankets back.
The mother was under the covers, passed out cold. Her red hair had been dyed green at the tips, and her nose ring was turned up, giving her a comical look. I could smell the alcohol reeking from her, along with some other vile smell. Her skin was even paler than I remembered.
“You okay?”
No response, so I felt her forehead, which was chilly to the touch. She was breathing, but slowly. If she’d drank all the booze in the other room, she must be plastered beyond belief, maybe even suffering from alcohol poisoning. I wondered how I’d get her to the hospital in this storm. I looked around the room for some winter clothes to put on her.
But where was Mikey?
I pulled the entire mess of blankets off the bed, assuming that the child was curled up in there, asleep.
No dice. I looked on the floor next to the bed, under the pile of clothes, and in the small closet.
No child.
I yelled out, “Mikey!”
No response.
I went back to the living room, then the bathroom. I opened up cabinets, looked in trash piles, and behind furniture. I remembered from Nathan’s early years that two-year-olds could get into spaces you wouldn’t expect, so I tore that trailer up.
No luck.
Then I went back to the bedroom and shook the mother. Hard. I grabbed her shoulders and shouted at her. “Rose, where’s Mikey? Did you take him somewhere? Where is he!”
She opened her eyes for a moment. They were going in different directions, so I knew it was pointless to try and wake her up. And then I had a scary thought. Could the boy have wandered outside? I remembered that the front door had been unlocked.
There was no back door, so I ran outside the front and looked around the yard. It was still snowing, but I was able to see. There were no footprints, but that didn’t mean anything, given the snowfall we’d had.
“Mikey!” I shouted as I ran around the back and scanned for any snowdrifts. “Mikey!”
It was freezing cold outside, but I didn’t notice the temperature. Could he be under the trailer in the crawl space below? I crawled down to the base of the trailer and started digging out snow. It was dark under there, but I didn’t see anything. I stood up and looked outside the cheap fence they’d put up, right by their car.
Their car.
The Ford Taurus.
I hadn’t looked in there, but it was pointless, right? There was no way the kid could be in there, not in this weather.
I walked over to the vehicle. It was an older model, one of the boxy ones. The windows were iced up, and I couldn’t see inside. The driver’s side door wouldn’t open—it was frozen shut, so I tried the passenger door. With some effort, I was able to pry it open.
I looked inside.
There was a child’s car safety seat in the back. Graco model, dark gray with black straps. My sister, Sybil, had bought one of those car seats for Nathan after obsessively researching the safety records of the different brands. She’d worked so hard to keep baby Nathan safe, I remembered the babyproofing all over the house, the outlet plugs, the padding on sharp corners, all of this work to protect children from their slips and falls, when it was the grown-ups who needed to be muzzled and padded from their own misdeeds and transgressions.
Little Mikey was strapped inside
the seat, not moving, stiff. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead into nothingness, not blinking, frozen solid. It was quiet, so quiet, in that car. The falling snowflakes looked like tiny blades in the dying light, and I saw a rabbit skitter across the snow, hurrying for some shelter.
For a second I wondered if I could go back in time somehow, just rewind the last several days, suspend the laws of physics. Maybe there was something on the internet, or perhaps some famous scientist could visit the rez, showing how it was possible to go back and change events, like a movie running in reverse. Anything so that I wouldn’t have to look at this beautiful little boy again, in this car, in this storm.
The last I’d heard, the mother of the child had been charged with felony child abuse and negligent homicide for getting drunk and leaving the child in the car overnight. After I gave my statement to the police, I didn’t follow the case. I wanted to forget. But no matter how hard I tried, I hadn’t been able to shake the image of that little boy. Sometimes I’d remember his face when I saw little kids playing in the park, sometimes I’d see him when I was driving out in the country. Now he was here again. His sweet face.
I pushed back the full beer and the shot of whiskey, untouched, and walked out of the Hangar Bar.
15
Hey, where were you?” Marie said when I returned from my journey along Colfax Avenue. The door to her room was open; she was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching television. I could hear the local news broadcasters with their cheerful voices.
“Out for a walk. You get a chance to eat?”
“No, you want to get something? I think there’s a pizza place across the street.”
“Sure, let me get my coat.” I went to my room and got my jacket and cell phone, which I’d left in the hotel while I was out on my stroll. I turned it on and noticed that there were seven missed calls, all from Tommy.
I hit the call button. He picked up right away.
“Homeboy, where you been?” he said. “Trying to reach you all day.”
His tone was weird; he wasn’t his usual boisterous self. “Just out and about, nothing exciting. What’s—”
“You better get back here. Nathan’s been arrested. For drugs. They found some stuff in his locker at school.”
MARIE AND I PACKED up our things as quickly as we could and hit the road back to the rez. Although we’d gotten some information about him, Rick Crow would have to wait. While we drove, I told Marie what I’d learned from Tommy, which wasn’t much. Tommy had gone to check on Nathan at Audrey’s house and learned about the arrest once he got there. Apparently the school authorities had gotten an anonymous tip and searched the students’ lockers. They’d found drugs in Nathan’s space, but there was no word yet on what type or how much was found. He’d been arrested at his auntie’s house, and they told Audrey they were taking him to the tribal juvenile jail. Audrey didn’t have any phone service, so she’d had no way of reaching me.
Marie drove while I made some calls, trying to learn more details. I called the tribal police, but the operator wouldn’t put me through to Nathan or give me any information. I tried calling the school, but they were closed and weren’t answering. I pounded the dashboard in frustration, and then Marie suggested that she phone her father and have him make a few calls. Of course. The police might be willing to give Ben, a tribal councilman, details and information that weren’t yet released. She rang her dad, and I listened to her half of the conversation.
She hung up. “He’s going to call the tribal police chief at home and get right back to us.”
For once, I was grateful for Ben. I gripped my phone so tightly that my hand turned white. Nathan had told me that his experiment with heroin had been a onetime thing, so what the fuck was this? Had he been lying to me all along?
I stared at the passing scenery and tried to let my mind go blank as we waited for Ben to call back. The mile markers, road signs, and scrub grass blended into each other and created a sort of white-noise buzz in my head, which served as a welcome distraction.
I jumped when I heard Marie’s ringtone, a snippet of a powwow drum song. She looked at the phone’s screen and handed it to me without a word.
“Virgil, it’s Ben. I just spoke with Frank Pourier. Here’s the deal. The high school got word about possible contraband and searched the lockers yesterday. They didn’t get a search warrant because you don’t need one on school grounds, he said. Anyway, they found pills in Nathan’s locker, and they—”
“Pills? What kind of pills?”
“Take it easy, and I’ll tell you what I know. They’re the strong ones, oxycodones—for severe pain. He didn’t say how many there were, but it must be a lot, enough for a class three felony possession charge.”
“What does that mean? Class three?”
“It means fifteen years in prison. And because they were found on school property, they can double the sentence.”
Jesus Christ. “Is Nathan all right? I mean, was he high or anything when they picked him up?”
“Don’t know. All I know is that he’s in custody at juvenile, but he’ll be handed over to the feds next week. You want to prevent that if you can. Frank told me there’s no federal juvenile facility here, which means he could be thrown in with the wolves if the feds get him. You get me? Federal prison.”
Oh shit.
Ben went on. “More bad news—he said Nathan’s right at the age to be tried in court as an adult, not a juvenile. Looks like the age is fourteen for violent crimes or controlled substances. You need to contact a lawyer. There’s the public defender’s office, but I don’t recommend them. Call Charley Leader Charge in Rapid City. I’ve known him for a long time, and he owes me a favor or ten. And he’s the best—he’ll help Nathan. If anyone can.”
BACK AT THE REZ, the next few days were a blur as I made countless calls to try and get Nathan out of jail and learn the details of what had gone down. Marie offered to stay with me for a while, and I gratefully accepted. I was too distracted to focus on the everyday details of life, and it was a relief to have her there. She cooked some simple meals and engaged in a full-scale cleaning of the house, top to bottom. I realized with embarrassment that it had been many moons since Nathan and I had really scrubbed the place. I offered to help, but she told me just to focus on getting him home.
I’d been thrown into a world I wasn’t familiar with, and it was difficult to know which way to go. I had an appointment in a few days with the lawyer in Rapid City, but I knew there was no way to pay him. I wondered if there was something I could barter for the lawyer’s fees. Maybe be some type of enforcer for him or serve legal papers. Ben Short Bear had said I should avoid the public defender, but what choice did I have if I couldn’t work something out with the attorney? And what about a bond to get Nathan out of juvie? I knew that bail bondsmen required some type of collateral before they’d put up the full amount of bail, but I didn’t own anything beyond three small pieces of land on the rez that I’d inherited, and those couldn’t be used anyway, as they were BIA trust properties. They could have my car, but that was worth about a hundred dollars, on a good day.
The only positive news was that, after many phone calls, I was allowed to see Nathan at the juvenile detention center. The facility itself looked like a golf club, with the exception of the fence surrounding the basketball courts. Coils of vicious concertina razor wire were mounted atop the barrier, the blades flashing in the sun.
After a pat-down and a trip through a metal detector, I was ushered into the lobby of the facility, where the director was to meet me. As I walked into the large circular room, I noticed about ten people hunched over armless, legless torsos. I stared at the scene, trying to comprehend what was going on.
“Our annual CPR training. Required by the state. Don’t worry, we get the mannequins sanitized after they’re done. I’m Joe, the director here.”
A Native man of about thirty-five, sharply dressed in a dark suit and bolo tie, gave me a warm smile and stuck out his
hand to shake. I shook it and noticed that he did it the wasicu way: firm, like he was checking for weapons.
“I’m here for Nathan Wounded Horse,” I said.
“Sure, I’ll take you to him. Let me show you around first. We like to meet with all the parents and guardians, let them know their kids are in good hands.”
He motioned for me to follow.
“We’re very proud of our facility. We think it’s the best in Indian Country, maybe even the best in the state. Thirty-six units in medium and maximum security and about one hundred kids in our transitional program. All of our clients—we don’t call them inmates—take part in cultural and rehabilitative training. That’s our motto up there.”
He pointed to a mural on the wall. There was a large medicine wheel in bright red, yellow, and white. Inside the wheel were these words: WITHIN THE CIRCLE OF LIFE ARE TWO PATHS, ONE OF SORROW . . . ONE OF HAPPINESS . . . YOU HAVE A CHOICE!
“One of our clients painted that. He’s got a steady job now, heard he got married too. All clients join in our talking circles. I’m sure you’ve heard about the teen suicides around here?”
I nodded.
“Two completed suicides last month, and four attempted. It breaks my heart. The kids here have such despair—they don’t think there’s anything better for them. But there is! We tell them to have grit. Gratitude, Respect, Integrity, Tenacity. GRIT, get it?”
He led me down a hallway and through a door to a courtyard.
“That’s the greenhouse, where we teach gardening skills. Look over there. Those are our bee colonies—we sell our own honey! Real Lakota honey from real Indian bees.”
He looked over to see if I’d gotten his little joke, but I wasn’t in a laughing mood.
“Over there is our sweat lodge. We purify once a week—parents are welcome to take part. Some of our clients have never taken a sweat, and they say it’s the best thing they’ve ever done.”
He shook his head ruefully, and I saw my opening. “Thank you for the tour, looks like a good place. But I need to know about my nephew. Can I see him now?”
Winter Counts Page 11