There were several sage branches scattered on the dirt floor, probably used in the past by Dakota vision seekers for sleeping on. It seemed like a comfortable idea, besides giving me the good feeling of a history link; I gathered the sage together to form a makeshift bed. Right next to it, I emptied my backpack and laid out my things side by side. My blue jeans and my two T-shirts. My ceremonial pipe. My journal and two Bic pens. Toothbrush, soap, and washcloth. The denim jacket. I decided the jacket would make a good pillow, so I rolled it up and laid it on the sage. The light from the opening was good once your eyes got adjusted, because the opening faced south. But I knew when the sun went down, the cave would be completely dark.
I remembered then about leaving all the things of the world behind, and I took off my moccasins and my blue jeans. I decided to go up and sit under the pine trees, so I picked up my pipe and my journal. At the entrance I hesitated because I was about to go out naked, but then I realized that was foolish because who would look at me? There wasn’t a soul for miles.
After I got up there, it took me a few moments to find a comfortable seat. Pine needles make a nice cushion underfoot, but your bare ass isn’t as tough as your feet. I either got myself comfortable or I got used to it; anyway, I packed my pipe with some of the willow bark and lit up.
It was almost completely silent, except for a few birds high up in the pines. As far as I could see in any direction, there was the rugged terrain of the Black Hills, mountains, valleys, and prairies. This could have been a hundred years ago or a thousand.
Somewhere out there was the Little Bighorn, and the Rosebud, and Wounded Knee. How many hundreds of years of Sioux history? I was sitting on the spot where Black Elk himself once came for vision seeking. Maybe more than once. When I got into the hanblecheya head, the right zone for visions, maybe the spirit of Black Elk would visit me. Maybe I would make contact with my former self, the warrior from the dream who was riding from Willow Creek. Maybe a lot of things, when it comes to your destiny, I told myself.
The whole experience was giving me a big-time head rush. The best thing of all, probably the most important thing, was that I belonged here. I wasn’t sneaking or pretending, I was only twenty-four hours on the reservation, but it didn’t get any more authentic than this. This was my hanblecheya, on ancient, holy ground, directed by Chief Bear-in-cave himself.
As soon as the pipe was smoked out, I opened up my journal. Anything as major as my own vision quest should be written down, and here I was looking at four days’ free time with no distractions. There ought to be enough time to receive my vision and also write out all the notes I wanted.
I thumbed past my story contest entry, the one called “Mask,” which had freaked Mrs. Bluefish out, and then I flipped by some of my notes on the Stone Boy legend. When I got to a fresh page, I wrote hanblecheya across the top.
I sat there thinking for a while, and then decided to go right on back in time to that day in April when I moved into Gates House.
CHAPTER THREE
Since I’d never been to Joliet before, I didn’t recognize any of the city landmarks, but Gates House looked familiar, anyway. It looked just like most of the dipshit places that are run by social services anywhere you go. It was a dull brick rectangle, with no porch and a few small windows. Not old, but real tacky. It looked like it didn’t belong in the neighborhood. There was a parking lot in front, but no trees.
Leonard, my social worker from Peoria, was driving me. He helped me get my stuff inside and then he introduced me to Mrs. Grice, who was the supervisor of the house. She was short and dumpy and old, with no upper teeth.
She started showing me and Leonard around, beginning with the dining room and lounge, which were close to the front door. I really didn’t need this guided tour because I knew exactly where everything would be; besides which, Mrs. Grice had this annoying habit of popping her loose lip back and forth.
When she showed us my room I was glad to find it was at the end of the hall, next to the fire escape. That always feels like a good location, but I don’t know why. The room was empty and smelled like paint. There was one small window, fairly high up.
“This room’s been empty for a couple of weeks,” Mrs. Grice said, “so we’ve had it cleaned and painted. Both beds are empty, so you can choose either one. We expect a roommate soon, but some of his material is being processed, so we don’t know exactly how soon.”
I didn’t say anything.
She said, “You may decorate your half of the room if you like with pictures or posters, but I don’t allow any vulgar material. And you’re not to make marks on the walls or deface them in any way.” She was looking at me and popping her lip again. I didn’t say anything.
She showed me some more stuff around the house, I can’t remember what all, and then Leonard said it was time for him to hit the road. We said good-bye, and he wished me good luck. It wasn’t exactly an emotional farewell, since I’d only known him a couple of months. That’s the way it is in social services, they come and they go. High turnover is how it’s usually put. It’s probably good that that’s the way it is, because the worst mistake you could make in the system would be to get attached to someone.
After Leonard was gone, Mrs. Grice put on these Scrooge glasses and started reading all the rules you had to go by when you live in Gates House. Since it was just me now, the polite tone was gone out of her voice, but I didn’t care. I knew all about group home rules and which ones you had to watch out for.
She showed me the bulletin board between the dining room and the lounge. “You need to check it every day,” she said, “for announcements, work schedules, and so on. If a resident is put on probation for any reason, it’s posted here.”
I spoke for the first time: “I’ve never been on probation in my life.”
She looked at me over the top of her glasses before she answered. “Good. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
When she was done with the rules and procedures, I told her I’d like to take a walk.
“You may, if you use the sign-up sheet. You need to write your name, the time, your destination, and the time you’re going to return.”
“How can I write a destination if I don’t have one?”
Again, she looked at me over the top of her glasses. “Are you using a tone with me?”
“No tone at all,” I said.
“Because one thing I’ve noticed with youngsters over the years, where you find a tone of voice you usually find an attitude problem.”
“I’m not using a tone,” I said again. “But I’ve never been to Joliet before, so I wouldn’t know what to put for a destination.”
She pushed her glasses back up. “Just for this time, you may write that you’re taking a walk.” She looked at her watch and added, “Make sure you’re back no later than two. Your social worker called and said she might come by later this afternoon.”
That was about all the time I wanted to spend one on one with Mrs. Grice, so the walk was a relief. The neighborhood was a little uneven, with some of the houses kept up nice but others run down. After three blocks I came to a big park called Vale Park, which had a few hills and a stream and lots of old shade trees. I sat under one of the trees for a while, just glad to be off by myself. I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs; I probably wouldn’t be seeing them again.
As soon as I got back to Gates House, I went straight to my room to unpack my stuff. There was a guy there, sitting on the other bed, the one I didn’t plan to use. He said his name was Greg Kinderhook. I asked him if he was going to be my roommate. “No,” he said. “They’re holding this open for Nicky. He’s been in Gates House before, but not lately.”
I took a good look at Kinderhook, who was wearing a pair of khaki walking shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He reminded me of the Pillsbury dough boy. His skin was white as chalk, and he was pudgy, but all his fat was slack. It was loose fat, like all he had was bones with fat attached.
I opened up one of my suitcases and st
arted putting some clothes away in one of the dresser drawers. I asked Kinderhook why he wasn’t in school.
“I had a doctor’s appointment, so I got out early. I have gastrointestinal problems.”
I took another look at him. Even his knees and elbows were loose fat; I’d never seen a body quite like it. I felt like telling him some exercise and a little muscle tone would be good for him, but what would be the point?
He asked if he could sit there and talk to me while I unpacked my stuff. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “If you want to.”
I started unpacking more stuff, and Kinderhook started in with the questions. “Where are you from?”
“I’ve been living in a foster home downstate,” I said.
“How come they took you out?”
“The lady got sick. They couldn’t be foster parents anymore.”
“What was she sick with?”
“Diabetes,” I said. Then I stood up straight. “Kinderhook, I said you could sit here, but you can kiss off the twenty questions.”
“Sorry,” he said.
The thing is, I knew exactly what he was up to. In group homes there are alliances. These sort of pecking orders are established, just like you find in any institutional residence. Since I was new, and since he was out of school early, he was taking the opportunity to get a jump on finding out how I might fit in, and whether I was somebody whose good side he should be on.
He changed the subject back to the guy named Nicky, my future roommate. “He’s been living with his mother, but it looks like they’re going to pull him out.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He’s hung out while they have staffings on him.”
“I figured.” I said. I’ve been hung out enough times myself, so I knew this guy Nicky might show up in one day or one month.
After I had all my clothes and bathroom stuff unpacked, I started to get out a few personal items. A few paperback books, mostly about Indians, such as Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee and Black Elk Speaks. I got out these half a dozen posters I have, which are prints I ordered from an art museum. They are photographs of Indian art from caves and tipis.
The posters, which have a beige-colored background, are depictions of important tribal symbols and activities, such as the bear, the eagle, the raven, the elk, the buffalo hunt, and the capture of horses. The art is stick-figure art, because that is the Dakota tradition, especially when the pictures are used to tell a story.
I started putting the posters up with masking tape, being careful to get them mounted in a straight row.
“You must really like Indians,” said Kinderhook.
“I don’t just like Indians,” I told him, “I have a connection with Indians.”
“What do you mean, a connection?”
“Never mind. Forget it.”
Then he said, “I’m pretty good at art. I could draw you some better pictures than those stick figures if you want.”
I couldn’t believe it. “These posters are authentic.”
“Sorry,” he said.
By this time I’d had about all of Kinderhook I could deal with. “Go to your room,” I told him. “Go somewhere. These are museum photographs of real Indian art. The thing with actual art is, you don’t try to change it or make it suit you better.”
“Well, excuuuuuuuuse me!” he said. He was trying to imitate Steve Martin, the movie star; it was real lame. He left without another word.
It was good to get rid of him, and not only because he was irritating; I wanted to unpack my two most valued possessions, my ceremonial pipe and my journal. It wouldn’t be easy to find a place for them, because in group homes you never have any real privacy. Your personal things are never secure the way they should be, the way they would be in a regular house.
Mr. Gibbs gave me the Sioux ceremonial a couple of months after I moved in with him and Mrs. Gibbs. He said he’d got it a long time ago on a vacation out west, but he couldn’t remember exactly where. Of course my journal is where I keep my notes and ideas; it’s real personal and ultraprivate.
I finally put the ceremonial under some blue jeans in the bottom drawer of the dresser. It seemed safe enough for temporary, but I didn’t know if it would work for the long haul.
Before I decided where to put the journal, I spent some time leafing through it. The journal wasn’t cheap to buy; the pages are just blank, but it’s a hardback book with a dark blue cover. Even though it cost quite a bit of money, I look at it as a wise investment. I’ve been moved around a lot, shuffled over from one placement to another, but the journal is something like a constant. No matter where I’m placed, it stays the same; it’s still the same ideas and notes, and it’s always me.
Anyway, I got to leafing through and rereading story notes I hadn’t thought about for a while. There was one about this guy named Wintergreen, who is a very important executive in a huge corporation. The corporation is almost like an empire, they have important business deals with the U.S. government and also many foreign governments. Wintergreen has built up quite a few enemies, as anyone would in such a high position. One day, Wintergreen begins to develop this strange mental disease. The way it affects him is, he can’t ignore anything, or put any information in the back of his mind. Everything he sees on the television news, everything stays right in the front of his mind at all times. His head is about ready to explode from this overload of data, so he has to move into this padded room without any windows, or radio, or TV, or any reading material. When his enemies find out about his condition, they conspire against him and rig this speaker into the ceiling of his padded room. Then they pipe this all-news radio station through the speaker until Wintergreen can’t stand it anymore, and he commits suicide.
After I finished reading through the Wintergreen notes, I came across another favorite story outline: This conspiracy of military officers has overthrown the U.S. government. The country is now under the control of these certain generals, who form a dictatorship. They use military police to enforce strict order in all parts of the country, which is a policy that makes most people happy. But after that, they go on this huge campaign for efficiency. One of the major aspects of this efficiency campaign is the elimination of everyone who is designated as a TUS. TUS is the abbreviation for people who take up space. People who take up space are people who don’t make any contribution to the general welfare of the society. Like the ones who just feed their own face, watch a lot of TV, and go to bed. Or the people who sit around drinking beer and making a lot of public noise, like driving around aimlessly in a loud car or shooting off fireworks any time of year. This efficiency campaign has the population in a frenzy, as thousands of people suddenly realize that taking up space is about all they do. The new government has an agency that identifies everyone who is a TUS, and then the military police round them up and take them away for elimination.
I ended up reading these notes and outlines for quite a while. When I was finished, I put the journal in the one drawer in the nightstand next to the bed, where I could practically reach out and touch it. There was no lock on the drawer, though, so I knew I’d probably end up taking it with me wherever I went.
My new social worker didn’t come by until the next morning. She looked around fifty years old and she was big, maybe six feet or close to it. She wasn’t fat, but she was what you might call bulky. Her name was Barb McGuire.
She said why don’t we go out and get a donut, and I said okay. We took a ride in her car, which was an old station wagon with plenty of rust and rattles and a back window that didn’t close all the way. While she was driving, she was eating from a bag of Fritos; she offered me some, but I said no thanks.
“Maybe we can visit a while,” she said. “I’d like to get to know you a little bit if we’re going to be working together. Then we can go to the high school and get you registered.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’ll be a little late. I hope you don’t mind.” She was still eating the Fritos. Her
face was pockmarked with acne scars, and her voice was loud.
“It sounds okay to me,” I said.
We stopped at a McDonald’s restaurant. She got a briefcase from the backseat, then we went inside. We both had a cheese Danish and coffee. She asked me if I like coffee.
I told her if I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t be drinking it.
She laughed. “It’ll stunt your growth.”
“Let’s say you’re right,” I said. “I’m trying to think of a reason to get any taller.”
“Do they let you have coffee at Gates House?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know much about Gates House yet.”
Then she lit up a cigarette and started telling me a few things about herself. “I’m brand new at this,” she said. “Maybe you and I can help each other.”
I asked her what she meant.
“I’m a late bloomer,” she said. “I’m getting my degree in social work in another six weeks. A month after that, my high school class is having their thirtieth reunion. Most people get a college degree in four years, but I’m on the thirty-year plan, I guess.” Then she started laughing again, real loud.
I guess I needed to say something. “Better late than never, huh?”
“That’s how I look at it. Or try to. It just takes some of us a little longer to find ourselves. Anyway, I’ve only got four clients. I’ll have a full caseload after I graduate. For right now, I’m afraid you’re one of the guinea pigs.”
This is just great, I thought to myself. I’ve got a social worker so green, she probably doesn’t know the front door from the back. “What were you doing for the thirty years, before you went to college?” I asked.
“I was taking care of a husband and raising a son,” she said. “I did some part-time secretarial work. I don’t have much experience in the workplace, so I was serious when I said we’d have to help each other.”
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