Winter Counts

by David Heska Wanbli Weiden

  “Yeah?”

  “I sent an anonymous letter to her parents. She got in pretty bad trouble, I heard. But I was still mad, so I stuck some frozen shrimp behind her locker. When they spoiled, it smelled so bad. There were bugs, flies—everyone made fun of her. It took her a week to figure out that I did it. I still smile about that.”

  WHEN WE GOT TO THE WAREHOUSE, the trucks with the government-supplied food had just arrived. Marie went back to the office while I helped the staff move the large cartons of commodities inside. When we were done with that, Marie came back, and we started packing the individual food boxes for the people who’d be arriving soon. Each box got big blocks of bland cheese, vegetable oil, cans of beans, instant potatoes, powdered eggs, flour, dry nonfat milk. Then we moved on to the specialty items: canned vegetables, peanut butter, cereal, and the dreaded macaroni pasta, which my mother had always saved until the end of the month, when the pantry was nearly empty. Mac soup was one food I’d vowed to never eat again.

  I watched Marie while I helped pack the boxes and label them. Everyone knew her, and she walked from person to person, answering questions and chatting for a bit before going on to the next task. She kept the process moving smoothly, and we made steady progress.

  Then I saw someone walk in the back door. Dark-blue tracksuit, long black hair, dangly beaded earrings. Delia Kills in Water. I hadn’t seen her in a few years, but she looked the same, pretty much. Marie stopped packing, went over, and started talking to her. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but it was clear they were having some words. Marie was frowning and gesturing with her hands while Delia stood aloof, her arms crossed. I moved a little closer so I could listen.

  “—said they’ll let me know. If you talk to them, maybe they’ll do something.”

  Delia held up her hand. “I already told you, I’m not getting involved. Stupid idea anyway. How we going to keep that meat fresh? You know we don’t got no money for freezers.”

  “Maybe we can use the grant to buy some! Just ask Wayne from council if we can do that. Why not?”

  “I’m not bothering Wayne! Not his job.”

  “But he’s on the committee, right? So he’s got the authority to approve the purchase.”

  “I said no. Don’t ask me again!” Delia waved her finger at Marie.

  “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

  WILD ONION, WOOD SORREL, AND CORN SMUT SALAD

  BISON TERRINE WITH CHOKECHERRY AND PINE NUT PESTO

  I had no idea what most of that was. “What’s corn smut?”

  Marie shook her head. “I think it’s a fungus? What’s it taste like, Tommy?”

  “Don’t even know which one it was,” he said. “The salad was good; meat pudding was pretty banging, but they gave us like only a bite. I’m out, yo. Gonna head over to the gas station, see if they got any of that Chester Fried Chicken
left. Catch y’all later.”

  Soon after Tommy left, a man dressed in a white chef’s uniform stepped in front of the truck, holding a microphone. He was fairly young looking, and had two long black braids tucked behind his ears and trailing down his back. He was wearing leather fringed pants, the kind that Indians supposedly wore a hundred years ago. I’d never actually seen anyone dressed in those, outside of museums and old movies.

  “Hello everyone! I’m Lack Strongbow, citizen of the Muckleshoot Nation, and I’m honored to be here. If you don’t know, I’m the executive chef at Red Eats in Los Angeles and the leader of the new indigi-cultural food movement. I hope you all are enjoying the indigenous cuisine we’ve gifted you. Today we put together a menu using ingredients from the Great Plains! How about a round of applause for my associates, who cooked this meal for you?”

  The crowd applauded politely, and I stole a glance at Marie to see what she thought of this. She was watching the chef intently.

  He went on. “I want to start by making an important point, something I hope every person here will take to heart.” He waited a moment to increase the suspense. “Put down your frybread! That’s right, I want you to throw away all the flour, dairy, and sugar you have at home. Get rid of it! Frybread isn’t indigenous! It’s the food our grandmothers had to invent when the government robbed us of our way of life! I honor our elders for doing what they had to do, but there’s a reason diabetes is killing our people.”

  He held up some type of shrub.

  “Indigenous people need to eat indigenous foods, the proteins and wild plants our ancestors lived on. Instead of eating commodity cheese, go out and forage for some edible plants and roots! My friends, we must decolonize our minds and our stomachs, and I’m here to show you how. After lunch is served, I’ll give an indigenous cooking demonstration, and we’ll also be offering short classes over the next week, absolutely free of charge! You can also buy my new cookbook, on sale right here. Thank you again for letting us nourish you—your bellies and your spirits.”

  The line for the food truck was still long, so I asked Marie if we should leave. She looked at me indignantly.

  “Let’s try it. What he says makes sense. Less sugar and dairy, more vegetables.”

  “That sounds good,” I said, “but how is a single mother with three kids going to find the time to go out and, you know, pick wild herbs? Won’t work here.”

  Marie grimaced, and I could tell she was frustrated. “I think what he’s saying is that Native people need to take more control of their health. Small changes, right?”

  “Don’t sound like he wants small changes. Get rid of frybread? Not gonna happen. You made some skillet bread yourself this morning. Pretty damn good, too.” By the look on her face, I could tell I’d said the right thing. “You stay here and try the chef’s food. I’ll run over and catch up with Tommy and see you in a bit.”

  I went off in search of Tommy. He’d said he wanted some fried chicken, and there was only one place on the rez where he could get it. I drove for a while, thinking about the frybread my mother used to make. Was it unhealthy? I suppose, but I’d loved it so much. I remembered the way the house smelled when she was cooking, the damp and yeasty feel of the air, the shape of the little discs of fresh dough, and the crackling of the oil when she dropped them in. While I was reminiscing about frybread, my phone rang.

  “Virgil?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Ben. Marie gave me your number. You holding up okay?”

  “Doing all right. Trying to get things in order. I saw Nathan day before yesterday, and I met with Charley Leader Charge in Rapid City—”

  “I heard. He’s a good lawyer, one of the best around. He’ll be able to help Nathan out.”

  “Hey, I owe you some thanks. Charley’s not making me pay anything, said he talked to you. Appreciate it. Right now, I couldn’t afford any high-dollar attorneys—”

  “Don’t mention it. Charley and I go way back. I got him out of some jams in the old days, and he hasn’t forgotten. Let me know if he gives you any guff, I’ll set him straight.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.” I pulled into the convenience store parking lot. I’d finish with Ben and go inside, see if Tommy was there. “I’ll let you know if—”

  “Hold on. I want to ask you about something else.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell me what’s going on with Rick Crow.”

  I’d been so focused on getting Nathan out of jail, it was hard to get my mind wrapped around that situation again.

  “Well, we went to this bar in Denver where he usually drinks, but he wasn’t there. Then we found his dad—he lives in Colorado. Said he hadn’t seen him lately, but he said Rick had called, told him about some hemp-growing business out here. First I’d heard of it—that ring any bells?”

  “No,” Ben said. “Still against the law, for now anyway. He say who Rick was working with?”

  “Didn’t mention any names. I can ask around, but not sure where—”

  “Marie told me about the cop, the one who’s been tracking Rick. What did he say?”

  I hadn’t realized Marie was sharing all of this information with her father.

  “What did she tell you?” I asked. “About the cop.”

  “Rather hear it from you.”

  For an instant, I wondered about how much to share. I’d wanted more solid information about Rick and his whereabouts before having this conversation, but I supposed I owed Ben.

  “The cop said Rick’s involved with some gang in Denver. They’re starting to bring black tar heroin here, just like you said. They got some new system—they smuggle the drugs from Mexico and deliver it to the customers themselves. Hand out free samples to get people hooked—some real bad shit. But they need people here, you know, drivers. Indians who can blend in, not attract any attention. The cop thinks Rick’s setting up the local sales force.”

  “What’s the next step, according to the cop?”

  I paused again while I considered how much to say.

  “He wanted Nathan to wear a wire and set up a buy. At the school. He said selling drugs near a school gets you a life sentence or something like that. But it doesn’t matter now. Nathan’s got these charges against him, so he’s out.”

  “Can they get someone else to do it?”

  “I don’t know. They wanted to use Nathan, since he already knows the guys. Right now I got to get him out of juvie, figure out what the hell’s going on with those pills they found. That’s job one. The cops can find some other narc to wear a wire.”

  I could hear Ben breathing on the other end of the phone.

  “You may need to rethink that,” he said.

  17

  The next day I got up early and left while Marie was still asleep. We hadn’t talked about indigenous cooking again, and that’s where I wanted to leave it. What did I care if Marie wanted to give up frybread and Indian tacos? I had important shit to deal with, and there was no point in getting jealous over some celebrity chef from California.

  As I drove, I thought about Nathan’s situation. Something about the arrest didn’t make sense to me. The lawyer had said that the school authorities found illegal pills in his locker. But Nathan told me he hadn’t bought any pills, and if he had, why would he keep them at school? He was a smart kid, and storing narcotics in a school locker was a stupid move. On the other hand, kids did stupid stuff all the time. Maybe he was lying to me and was more involved with the drug guys than I’d known. Dennis had said they were moving black tar heroin, not pills, but they could be selling both.

  I decided to call the Denver cop and tell him about Nathan’s arrest. I was sure he’d try to sell me again on the wire, and now I had to consider the possibility, given Nathan’s situation. Maybe set up a deal. But I’d talk to the lawyer first, get his opinion on whether it was even possible. That was his job. I called the lawyer’s office and left a message for him. His assistant informed me that he’d call me back at his earliest c
onvenience. Good to know.

  It seemed like I’d done all I could do for the moment, but then I had an idea. I decided to try and find out more about the Denver gang. The ones who’d given Nathan free heroin and possibly the pills. If they were in town, it would be useful to scope them out, see how many of them there were, and if they were moving pain pills in addition to heroin. Useful information for the lawyer, perhaps even the cops, and maybe I could put some pressure on the dealers if the opportunity came up. The problem was finding them. But the rez was like a small town—everybody knew everyone else’s business.

  I realized I should go visit my friend Bill Ford—probably should have contacted him sooner. Bill was an older guy who owned a gas station and auto repair shop right on Main Street. He was there all the time, selling gas and fixing cars for cheap. What’s more, I knew he’d tell me if he’d seen anything out of the ordinary, especially if I told him what was going on. Bill had a hatred of drugs and drug dealers beyond words. His only daughter had gotten hooked on something while living in Rapid City. She’d fought it for years but finally gave up and committed suicide. Bill told me she’d taken a full bottle of sleeping pills, then bound her mouth shut with pink duct tape while she waited to die. The heartbreaking thing was that she’d apparently changed her mind in the middle of it, because she tried to call 911 but passed out before she could dial the last number.

  Even though it was early, Bill was at the shop, hunched underneath a car hood.

  “Hey Bill, how goes it?”

  He looked up from his work and saw me.

  “Virgil, long time no see. How you been doing?” He grabbed a shop towel and wiped off his hands.

  “Doing the best I can. Aren’t we all?”

  “Oh yeah. You want a soda? Got some Mountain Dews. Those’ll start your motor. Might have a couple of Dr Peppers, too.” He went to the cooler, opened two cans, and handed me one. “Heard about Nathan, sorry about the news. Hope he gets some help. Damn these drug sellers—sons-a-bitches.”

  “That’s why I came by. Cops are telling me there might be some guys moving in, selling dope—real dangerous shit. But they’re not from around here. Maybe from Denver, maybe from Mexico. You see anyone like that?”