Tangled Roots

by Marcia Talley

  We had another abbreviation at Whitworth and Sullivan: KISS. Keep it Simple Stupid.

  Did I need to know what haplogroup I belonged to? Probably not, but the number of shared centimorgans (cM) seemed key. The more centimorgans you have in common with someone, the closer you are related. Julie’s name topped my match list. My niece and I shared approximately 1700 cMs, or about twenty-five percent of our DNA. No surprises there.

  The GENerations column was critical, too. Using the One-to-One option, I compared Julie’s results with Nicholas’s and Mai’s. The GEN column for each read four. Roughly translated, according to the tutorial, the cousins’ MRCA – most recent common ancestor – was four generations away. Thus they shared a great-great-grandparent. When I compared myself with Nick and Mai, the GEN value was ‘three’ – my great-grandparent, their great-great-grandparent. Who could that be but John Otaktay ‘Kills Many’ Johnson? If Hawk had been our most recent common ancestor, the values would have been two for me and three for them, respectively.

  Proof positive, at least to me, that White Bear was my biological grandfather, and not his brother, Hawk. My heart beat a little faster just having my suspicions confirmed.

  Seeking more information about my new family, I Googled ‘American Indian census’ and was directed immediately to the website for the National Archives and Records Administration in Washington, DC. The Indian Census Rolls 1885-1940 were archived on six-hundred-and-ninety-two rolls of microfilm, but, sadly, not indexed. Further complicating my research, the pages were displayed sideways, and the view could not be rotated. After half-an-hour’s scrolling with my head tipped sideways, I stopped, massaged the crick in my neck and muttered aloud, ‘There has to be a better way.’

  Fortunately, there was. Google informed me that Ancestry.com, bless their generous hearts, had uploaded the microfilm records from the National Archives and (hallelujah!) indexed them. I logged on to their website.

  In 1913, Otaktay, his wife Ehawee and their children Matoska, age two and Tahatan, age zero, lived together on the Pine Ridge reservation. Wasula joined the family in 1916. By 1936, Tahatan had married Kimimela and baby Takoda joined the tight-knit family unit, but Wasula, then around twenty years old, had moved on.

  Had Wasula married? I added the question to the list I had for my cousin Nick the next time we had a FaceTime conversation.

  Extrapolating from the census information, White Bear had been born around 1911. When, exactly, had he died and, thinking about Wasula’s belief that her brother’s death had been no accident, more importantly, how?

  Finding the ‘when’ was easy. According to the South Dakota death index, grandfather Joseph White Bear passed away on September 4, 1932. No birth date or cause of death was listed on the digital record, though – a scan of a printout so old it had holes at the sides for feeding the paper through a dot-matrix printer.

  Wasula had mentioned that White Bear had been a rodeo star. I wondered if his skills had attracted the attention of any contemporaneous newspapers. If he’d been famous enough, his death would surely not have gone unreported.

  Deadwood, South Dakota must have been a happening place in the 1930s. Of eleven South Dakota newspapers publishing between 1920 and 1932, five were located in Deadwood. And Joseph White Bear himself had been a busy boy. Beginning in 1927, his name began popping up in lists of rodeo performers all over the Mount Rushmore State. By 1930, his appearance would be a headliner for the annual Days of ’76 Celebration held in Deadwood every August.

  The August of 1932 was no exception. According to the Deadwood Pioneer-Times, my grandfather had won the champion bucking contest and a purse of $800.

  I sat back. $800 would have been a fortune back then. I minimized the newspaper and brought up a new search window. Adjusted for inflation, $800 in 1932 would equal $13,508.16 in today’s dollars. White Bear was a rock star, indeed.

  From the Pioneer-Times several weeks later, though, came this distressing news:

  Saturday, September 3. Yesterday this newspaper received advices from John Kills Many in Pine Ridge stating that his son Joseph White Bear, who was injured recently in a rodeo accident at Rosebud when a bucking horse fell on him, had suffered similar injuries in a rodeo performance at White River. Reports first received in Pine Ridge stating that he had been fatally injured later proved to be exaggerated. His son resumed participation in different rodeos in that section. Riding again on Wednesday of this week a bucking horse again fell with him and he sustained injuries from which recovery is quite doubtful. He is at St Mary’s hospital in an extremely critical condition from a fracture to the skull. Many friends and acquaintances in this section of the Hills will regret to learn of his misfortune.

  Although I paged forward looking for it, there was no formal announcement of his death or any funeral.

  The newspaper’s account of White Bear’s accident didn’t dovetail with the story Wasula had been told, that he’d been trampled to death by his horse in its stall. Had she been intentionally misinformed, or had the Pioneer-Times? Being fatally trampled by one’s own horse would have been an ignominious way for a rodeo star to die. Had John Kills Many invented a rodeo accident in order to salvage his son’s reputation? Or had he invented the story to cover up his murder, as Wasula clearly believed?

  When Nick called several days later, his hair sticking out in spikes as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, I told him what I had found out about his great-great-uncle, my grandfather. ‘He died on September 4th,’ I said. ‘According to the newspaper, it was a rodeo accident.’

  Nick’s dark eyes flashed. ‘He didn’t die, Cousin Hannah. White Bear walked on.’

  ‘That’s a lovely way to put it,’ I said. ‘Walking on. Where do the Lakota believe people go after they die?’

  ‘To Wakan Tanka, the spirit world in the sky.’

  ‘We’d say heaven.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He grinned. ‘So would the priests at our school.’

  ‘Can you tell me where my grandfather’s buried?’ I asked. ‘One day, I’d like to visit his grave.’

  ‘That’s a more complicated issue,’ Nick said. ‘These days, we bury our dead in cemeteries and mark the graves with decorated crosses just like everyone else. Back then, though, White Bear would have been dressed in his best clothes and placed on a scaffold, along with his possessions. Food would have been set out for him as if he were still alive. There’d be a wake, too, and it might go on for two or three days. Then his body would have been taken down and buried in the ground under a big pile of rocks. It’s hard to say where the grave would be now.

  ‘Wasula kept his soul bundle,’ Nick added.

  I must have looked puzzled because Nick went on to explain how it was customary for a lock of hair cut from the deceased to be held over burning sweetgrass to purify it. Then it would be wrapped in a piece of sacred buckskin while mourners smoked the Sacred Pipe. ‘The buckskin bundle would be kept in a special place for about a year, then carried outside and released,’ Nick said. ‘Wasula was the keeper of her brother’s soul.’

  ‘Golly,’ I croaked, overcome by the image. I swallowed, took a deep breath and asked, ‘Did Wasula ever marry?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Nick said. ‘A cantankerous old fellow from what I understand, named Jesse Has Horns. He died long before I was born.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever heard of code talkers?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The Navajo code talkers were famous for stymieing the Japanese.’

  ‘Little known fact. There were more than sixty Lakota code talkers, too,’ Nick said. ‘Jesse Has Horns was one of them. He spoke three Sioux dialects. Served in the South Pacific. His skills were so critical he had two bodyguards. I gather the Japanese knew about the code talkers and sent snipers out to get them. Jesse came home safely in 1946, but the bullets, mortars and bombs really got to him. He died of alcoholism in the early fifties.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I said.

  ‘Alcoholism is a sad fact of life on the reservation,�
�� Nick said.

  I simply stared at Nick’s image on the screen, not sure what to say.

  ‘Father once told me that White Bear was buried with Wakinyan,’ Nick said after a moment.

  I searched my memory banks. ‘Wakinyan?’

  ‘Wakinyan. Thunder Spirit, his horse.’

  A wave of sadness washed over me. Two senseless deaths: first the talented young man, my grandfather, then his magnificent, spirited horse.

  ‘Was that because they believed that Thunder Spirit killed him?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, Hannah. I know that the horses of some Lakota, particularly warriors, were sometimes sacrificed at the grave and their tails tacked up on the scaffold.’

  I shivered. ‘I hate that custom.’

  ‘Needless to say, we don’t do that any more.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘So, what’s happening with the investigation into your brother-in-law’s murder?’ Nick asked, deftly turning the conversation from two senseless deaths to a third.

  I told him about my conversation with Claudia Turner and about the possibility that one of the twins had been home on the day of the murder and had lied about it.

  Nick whistled.

  ‘Although it’s been days now,’ I added, ‘and we haven’t heard a word from the police about any tape, so maybe … well, knock on wood.’ I reached out and tapped my solid oak bookshelf three times.

  But I guess I didn’t knock hard enough.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The telephone rang just after nine a.m., jolting me out of the New York Times crossword puzzle. I filled in B-A-L-D for ‘barely-there tires’ and picked up.

  ‘They’ve arrested the twins!’ Georgina cried.

  ‘Just now?’

  ‘Yes!’ she wailed, sounding desperate.

  ‘Miranda warning, handcuffs, the whole bit?’ I asked, starting to feel panicky myself.

  Georgina took a deep breath. ‘Well, no. That detective, what’s his name, Evans, and that officer who looks like you. Said they were taking Sean and Dylan downtown for questioning.’

  ‘She doesn’t look like me,’ I insisted, emphasizing every word.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ Georgina said. ‘They. Took. The. Twins.’

  In my experience, when the cops really come to get you, they arrive at the crack of dawn while you’re still in your jammies. No time for phone calls. No time for coffee. Grab you when you’re most vulnerable – Yes, yes, I did it! Now please may I have a cup of coffee?

  ‘Relax,’ I told my sister. ‘It’s not serious until they get out the handcuffs.’

  ‘I told the twins not to say anything until the attorney got there,’ Georgina said.

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘No. I called that guy that Tim recommended. Sydney Foster. I think we need the big guns, don’t you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt. Is he going to meet the boys at the station?’

  ‘I don’t even know where that is!’ she whined.

  ‘East Fayette Street,’ I said, speaking from personal experience, ‘but the attorney will know that.’

  ‘I didn’t actually talk to him,’ Georgina said, ‘but I left a message with his service.’ I heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘What if he doesn’t get there in time?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Georgina. Sean and Dylan are not stupid.’ After a moment I added, ‘Do you want me to come up?’

  Georgina heaved a sigh. ‘Would you? I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘You’re alone?’ That surprised me. ‘Where’s Julie?’

  ‘Working at the day care center. She’ll be home around three.’

  ‘Maybe the twins will be back by then, too,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘And I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  After I hung up, I filled a travel mug with coffee, doctored it with half and half and extra sugar, texted Paul to say where I was going and set out.

  I’d driven to Baltimore so often in the previous month that my car could probably navigate there on its own. To keep the drive interesting, I like to vary the route every now and again. That day, I decided to skirt the Inner Harbor and head straight up Charles Street, a slower trip by five minutes or so, but less stress-fraught than the beltway.

  I stopped by Eddie’s to pick up a continental breakfast tray before heading around the corner to my sister’s. Fueled by coffee and Danishes, I helped Georgina address thank you notes while we waited for news, good or bad.

  All the mini-Danishes were gone by the time Dylan texted: Hey! Don’t worry. On our way home.

  Georgina collapsed over the countertop, limp with relief.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, when the twins wandered into the kitchen twenty minutes later, looking glum but not suicidal.

  ‘Who pigged out?’ asked Dylan, eyeing the half-empty platter.

  ‘Hush up, young man,’ I said. ‘I’m on a sugar high and could be dangerous.’ I shoved the platter in his direction. ‘Help yourself. Sit down. Then talk.’

  ‘Did the lawyer show up?’ Georgina wanted to know as she watched her sons tuck into the pastries.

  ‘Ms Foster? Yeah, she was super,’ Dylan said.

  That caught my attention. ‘She?’

  Dylan shrugged. ‘Tall, brunette, around forty wearing wicked don’t-mess-with-me glasses.’

  I’d forgotten Sydney could be a girl’s name, too.

  ‘You were right about the videotape, Aunt Hannah,’ Sean mumbled around a mouthful of croissant. ‘They questioned Dylan and me separately, but afterwards, Ms Foster got us together and the cops showed us the video.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Georgina blurted. ‘So? So? Don’t keep us in suspense, dammit! Who was it?’

  Instead of answering his mother, Sean turned to me. ‘It was surreal, Aunt Hannah, like looking in a mirror. My God, it is me, I thought. Maybe I drove home in a blackout?’

  My heart did a somersault. ‘You mean you lied to everyone earlier about your whereabouts, Sean?’

  ‘No, no!’ He swiped at his bangs, clearing them out of his eyes. ‘I was at the beach, like I said. The guy on the tape? He looked exactly like me, but he couldn’t have been.’

  On the next stool over, Dylan nodded. ‘I thought it was Sean, too.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Sorry I went off on you like that, bro, but when I saw the tape, I thought you’d been shitting me.’

  ‘We asked them to run the tape again, and there was something not quite right about it.’ Sean wiped his hands clean on a napkin, balled it up. ‘Whoever the guy was, he was wearing a light-blue windbreaker. I don’t even own a windbreaker, let alone a light-blue one,’ he said with a tone of distain, as if owning such a garment would be a fashion faux pas.

  ‘But if he looked like you, Sean, why did the police let you go?’

  Dylan answered for his brother. ‘Because the tape doesn’t prove anything, Mom. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that it was actually Sean on the tape. All it proves is that Sean talked to Dad around one-fifteen and that he lied about it for some reason. There can’t be any physical evidence connecting Sean to Dad’s murder or Sean would be sitting in the slammer as we speak.’

  ‘Sydney Foster asked if I was being charged with a crime, and they said, “Not at this time”. She told me there’s a possibility they’ll come back to me later, so I shouldn’t get too complacent.’

  ‘What does the tape actually show?’ I asked. Sean had just bit into another croissant, so I aimed the question at Dylan.

  ‘It was really hard to watch,’ Dylan said, his voice choked with emotion. ‘I really miss him, you know?’ His Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed hard. After a moment, he said, ‘Dad walks down the driveway with this guy who looks like Sean, they talk a bit over by the trampoline, then Dad walks down the lawn toward the shed.’

  ‘The guy follows him,’ his brother continued without missing a beat.

  ‘Did either man seem angry?’ I asked Sean.

  ‘No, they were just talking. But
Dad has this body language, you know, like he wishes the fellow would just go away.’

  ‘Then Dad gets out his cell phone,’ Dylan continued. ‘Looked like he was taking a call. Anyway, he turns his back on the guy.’

  ‘After Dad finishes the call,’ Sean went on, ‘he sticks the phone back in his pocket, turns around, looking surprised the guy is still hanging around. Then the guy takes a piece of paper out of the pocket of his windbreaker, unfolds it, and shows it to Dad.’

  ‘They talk for a couple of minutes, then the guy walks away,’ Dylan said.

  ‘Which way did he go?’ I asked.

  ‘Back toward the house and down the driveway,’ Sean said.

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘Went into the shed and came out with the hedge clippers, then …’

  ‘Fade to black,’ added his brother.

  Georgina, who had been listening silently while her sons told their story, finally spoke up. ‘What I don’t understand is this. If your father was killed in the shed, how come the actual murderer didn’t show up on Claudia Turner’s videotape, later on when it actually happened?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Dylan said, ‘but a pigeon flew up and perched on the camera, skewing it down. All it recorded after that was Mrs Turner weeding her mint patch.’

  ‘Then they shouldn’t be bothering my children,’ Georgina huffed. Turning to the twins, she asked, ‘Does that mean you’re both off the hook?’

  Sean shrugged, his face turned serious. ‘They told us not to leave town.’

  Georgina snorted. ‘I thought cops only said that on television.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere anyway, Mom. I’m working on a team project and they’d kill me if I ran out on them.’

  ‘What kind of project?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

  Sean made quote marks in the air. ‘Land Use, Parking, and Post Internal Combustion Settlement Patterns.’

  Dylan grinned. ‘“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be”.’