The Silent Spirit (A Wind River Reservation Myste)

by Margaret Coel

  The crowd was still cheering as Charlie came down the steps at the side of the stage. William watched him cut a straight line toward the girl. In the four months they had spent on the reservation, it seemed as if Charlie had forgotten about her. He and Anna got married; he was going to be a father. Missy was in the past.

  Except that she was here in Hollywood. Charlie leaned in close, saying something to her, and she gazed up at him with the soft, trusting look of a deer.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Lasky strode over to Charlie and thumped him on the back. The girl seemed to dissolve into the air, floating toward the other stages in her ragged black dress. “You’ll wow ’em. Get ’em in the mood for the moving picture. Sign language people, you go on next.” He waved toward Goes-in-Lodge and McCoy standing near the steps.

  Charlie was looking around, surprise fixed in his expression, as if he expected the girl to still be nearby. The surprise started to fade into something else, William thought, a mixture of disappointment and relief. They had ridden down from Cahuenga Pass early this morning, he and Charlie. People out on the sidewalks had stopped and stared, then shrugged and kept going, and William had understood that it was all part of the moving picture business. Anything might come down the street. A few drivers had blasted their horns and waved for them to get out of the way. Most had driven past without turning their heads.

  They left the ponies in the sheds out behind the backlot where Ce cil B. DeMille himself left his horse, McCoy said, and spent an hour walking around the stages. All kinds of rooms—living rooms and dining rooms with thick carpets and polished tables and velvet chairs and mirrors with golden frames; nurseries with rocking chairs and cradles and toys on the floor; doctor offices with white lace on the chairs and magazines stacked on little tables, newspaper offices with typewriters and telephones on the desks. And all of it so real—all the stories the white men were making. It was hard to get his bearings, William thought, between what was true and what seemed to be true.

  Goes-in-Lodge and McCoy were on the stage now, hands and fingers flying, making words out of signs. Goes-in-Lodge had on his best deerskin trousers and the shirt with fringe down the sleeves and beaded designs that his wife had sewn on the front. He wore his eagle feathered headdress, the feathers hanging down his back, each feather earned by an act of courage or generosity. William had seen the old buffalo warrior dressed like that at a hundred celebrations and ceremonies. They were the clothes he had worn on the plains, part of who he was. Now he lifted both hands and worked his fingers into signs that made McCoy burst into laughter.

  “Translator! Translator!” Mr. Lasky paced in front of the stage. “Nobody knows what’s going on. We need somebody to translate. You there.” He flapped a small hand toward William. “You stand up on the stage and tell the audience what the hell’s going on. You understand Indian signs, right?”

  William nodded and made his way up the steps. He moved to the front corner of the stage where he could see both McCoy and Goes-in-Lodge. McCoy’s fingers were dancing, and William said, “What do Indians like best about white people?” Then Goes-in-Lodge’s fingers started moving. “Arapahos like white people’s coffee,” William said.

  McCoy signed again, and William said, “How do you take your coffee?”

  Back to Goes-in-Lodge, whose hands never seemed to stop moving. “We drink coffee half and half,” William said.

  McCoy made another sign, and William said, “Half coffee and half cream?”

  Goes-in-Lodge tipped his head and ran his fingers up the air, and McCoy laughed. “Half coffee and half sugar,” William said.

  Mr. Lasky stopped pacing and gave a bark of laughter. “Half sugar!” he shouted. “Oh, that’s good. Make sure you leave that in.”

  William translated the rest of the conversation, all about the buffalo days and how the Arapahos had lived on the plains. Nothing about the days on the reservation, which, back in the desert, Mr. Lasky had said sounded boring. When Goes-in-Lodge and McCoy finished, William followed them down the steps. Within minutes the musicians had hauled a large, round drum onto the stage, and the air filled with a low, steady thud-thud-thud that mingled with the high-pitched voices of the singers.

  “Dancers get ready!” Mr. Lasky shouted. “You go on next.”

  William started for the tent where the trunks filled with regalia were kept. The earth seemed to vibrate with the drumbeats. Most of the dancers were already dressed in breechcloths and beaded vests and moccasins. They wore feathered bustles and beaded bracelets, the finest things they owned, faded and worn-looking, passed down from the buffalo days. Most had roaches made of porcupine hair on their heads, but a few wore long, flowing feathered headdresses. He found his own regalia and started to get dressed when, past the opening of the tent, he saw Charlie standing close to the girl. She tilted her head back and looked up at him. There was something desperate in the way she reached for his arm.

  William tossed the regalia aside and ran out of the tent, passing the dancers who had started to form into little groups. The girl lifted a hand and let it flutter in the air like a white handkerchief, and William saw James start toward them. He held the little black camera in both hands.

  “Take our picture,” the girl called. Her voice sounded like the tinkling of a cow’s bell in the emptiness of the plains.

  William hurried over. He could hear Charlie murmur something about not wanting any pictures.

  “Nonsense,” the girl said. Her arm was like white silk draped over Charlie’s brown arm. “Everyone wants a picture with a movie star! Go ahead,” she said to James.

  A mixture of confusion and wariness seemed to freeze James in place. He stood a few feet from Charlie and the girl, the camera gripped to his chest.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “No, Missy,” Charlie said. He was attempting to remove his arm from hers. “We have to put on the regalia.”

  “Regalia, schmalia.” The girl let out a lilting laugh. “Take our picture.”

  William stepped next to the girl. Charlie was married now, and pictures could tell true stories. He and Charlie with the girl would be better than Charlie alone. William stood as close as he dared, but the girl seemed unaware of his presence. She was more beautiful than he had realized. The smell of lavender floated around her.

  “Go on,” she said again, tilting her head sideways and lifting her chin. She held herself perfectly still.

  Charlie gave an almost imperceptible nod, and James lifted the black box and squinted with one eye into the lens in the back. There was a clicking noise, and he lowered the box. The girl gave out another laugh and said, “See? Was that so bad? Really, Charlie,” she said, folding both white arms around his. “Do you know how many men would give their lives to be in this picture?”

  The skinny bodyguard, when he appeared, seemed to come from nowhere, as if he had dropped out of the sky. He wedged his rail-like shoulders between Charlie and the girl and looped an arm around her waist. “You’re wanted on the scene, Missy,” he said, pulling the girl away.

  “Leave me alone,” she said.

  “I’ll call Mr. Lasky.”

  “Go to hell!” She tossed her head and shrugged out of his grasp, but something had left her—a spark of fire snuffed out. She whirled about and headed back toward the stage across the lot where two cameramen waited, arms draped over the top of the cameras. One of them puffed on a cigarette.

  “Let’s go,” William said, nodding toward the tent. James was already ahead, and they set out after him, reluctance in Charlie’s step, William thought, as if he hadn’t wanted to be free of the white arms wrapped around his.

  William waited until they were alone in the tent, pulling on the last of the regalia, tying the feathered bustles around their waists. The thud of the drums was muffled by the canvas walls. William could hear the dancers moving about outside, lining up for the grand march onto the stage.

  “Did you tell her?” William said.

  Charlie was fixing a roach o
n top of his head. He stood in front of a small mirror propped on a trunk. He didn’t say anything.

  “Did you tell her you and Anna got married? Did you tell her about the child?”

  “She doesn’t care about that,” Charlie said. He had the roach in place, and he swung around and pushed back the flap. Sunshine flared across the tent.

  “All the same, you have to tell her.”

  Charlie hesitated in the opening. “Maybe you wish you was me,” he said. “Maybe you wish she was coming around you.”

  “For godssakes, Charlie. She could’ve gotten us all sent home from the desert. She can still get us sent home. Mr. Lasky hears . . .”

  He was talking to Charlie’s back. He went out after him and joined the line of dancers marching up the steps and onto the stage, a whirl of headdresses and bustles and feathers, bright colors winking in the sunshine. The drum was beating loud and fast. William moved close behind Charlie. “If you don’t tell her,” he said, “I will have to.”

  “Stay out of my business.” Charlie spit the words over his shoulder.

  “We need the money, Charlie.” William could sense the stiffness and anger in the way Charlie pounded his feet to the thud of the drums and the way he swung his head about. “I’m not gonna let you take it away from us,” he said.

  27

  VICKY SPOTTED SUSAN coming through the crowd at the baggage carou sels at LAX, the long legs striding forward, the black hair flying behind. Her smile looked joyful and free. It was the first thought that came into Vicky’s mind—my daughter is happy!—as she hurried to meet her, dodging the luggage piled on the floor and the people moving about, her own bag clacking behind. She held on to Susan for the longest moment; she could feel the moisture on her face, or was it the moisture on her own? Finally she stepped back and, still holding her hands, said, “You look great, honey!”

  “I am so glad you’re here.” Susan tossed her head back and let out a peal of laughter. “We are going to have such a good time. I have everything planned.” She went on about the Getty Museum and the beach and a string of restaurants Vicky had never heard of, and Vicky realized that the sandy-haired, serious-looking young man a couple of feet away was with Susan.

  “Oh, Mom,” Susan said, following Vicky’s gaze and letting go of her hands. “This is Brett. Brett, meet my mom.”

  The young man stepped forward and held out his hand. His grip was firm and confident, but the serious look had dissolved into a boyish grin. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he said. An unruly strand of hair strayed over his forehead. There were tiny laugh lines at the corners of his light blue eyes. “Susan’s been looking forward to your visit.”

  “We’ll fill you in on the details over dinner,” Susan said. They made their way around a couple of kids who were sprawled on pieces of luggage while the parents tried to fit other suitcases onto a cart. Vicky realized that Brett must have taken her bag because he was pulling it along, leading the way out of the area, down escalators, and into the parking garage.

  He drove a slate-colored sedan, and they surged out of the lot and into a stream of traffic eight lanes wide with overhead signs that steered the lanes in different directions, and all of it flowing as if a million cars going different places at the same time were normal. It was almost dark, and the crazy patterns of headlights jumped like pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope. Susan leaned back from the passenger seat and talked on about her job in visual effects, the crazy boss, but the boss was leaving for a new position soon, and too bad for the new people she would be managing.

  Vicky found herself holding her breath in the roar of traffic and the blur of vehicles as they changed lanes, finally settling into the far right lane that veered off the freeway and down a ramp. The freeway traffic zoomed past above. Another moment and they were driving along a boulevard lined with palm trees and mounds of red, yellow, and purple flowers. Behind the flowers were parking lots and shops and restaurants. She wondered what it was like when the Arapahos had come here? Orange and lemon groves spread over the hillsides? Palm trees lining the dusty roads? Probably not many vehicles, yet more than they had ever seen on the reservation, and the Pacific Ocean roaring in the distance.

  Brett swung into a parking lot, and Vicky could see a slice of the beach and the boardwalk framed by the buildings. She and Susan got out at the entrance to a restaurant and headed up the wood steps. Behind them, the tires of the sedan scraped the asphalt as Brett peeled away to find a parking place.

  “Isn’t he great, Mom?” Susan said. Vicky held the heavy wooden door open, then followed Susan inside where Susan told the woman behind the high desk that they had reservations for three. Holden was the name.

  “Well?” Susan said. “What do you think?”

  “He seems very nice,” Vicky told her as the woman ushered them across the restaurant and out to a vacant table on a deck with small heaters set among the tables. She placed three menus in red-leather folders on the white tablecloth and told them to enjoy dinner.

  “You’re okay that he’s white?”

  “I’m okay with Brett as long as you are,” Vicky said.

  “White men and Indian women—that’s always been okay, right?” Susan took the chair with the back to the railing and waved Vicky to the chair with the best view of the white-capped waves rolling toward the beach under a silvery sky. “But an Indian man with a white woman? That was a no-no. I mean, it could get the Indian killed. Why do you think that was?”

  “It was the times,” Vicky said. She hadn’t been able to shake the image of the beautiful white girl staring up at Charlie Wallowingbull, the white arms folded around the brown arm, and the dark shape of William Thunder hovering above her. “Times have changed,” she heard herself saying, but Susan’s words clanged in her ears: It could get the Indian killed.

  She looked out at the ocean. It always took her breath away, the swells of the waves, the vastness, like the plains, stretching into the sky. People strolled on the beach, some barefoot, dancing in and out of the waves, slacks rolled to their knees. It was comfortable on the deck, but people outside wore light jackets, backs blowing out in the wind. A stream of bikers and in-line skaters moved through the overhead lights along the boardwalk. The muffled shouts and laughter and the roar of the waves mingled with the violin music on the sound system.

  “Brett’s very serious, you know,” Susan said.

  “Serious about you?” Vicky looked back at her daughter.

  “Oh, Mom, come on.” Little red blotches appeared on Susan’s cheeks, the way they had blossomed when she was small and embarrassed about something. “Serious? Does anybody even talk that way anymore? I mean, besides mothers?”

  Vicky laughed. “You like him, I can see that.”

  “I meant he’s serious about his career. He’s with Bridges, Stanson, and Hughes in Westwood. Ever heard of them?”

  Vicky nodded and took a sip from the water glass the waitress had filled. One of the major law firms on the West Coast. Adam had spent several years with a similar firm before he moved to Wyoming to concentrate on Indian law. No doubt Adam would know some of the lawyers at Brett’s firm. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to bring up the subject of Adam.

  She watched Brett weaving his way past the other tables. He took the seat on Vicky’s right, but leaned in close to Susan and gave her a smile of accomplishment. When the waitress reappeared, they ordered salads, grilled shrimp, crab cakes and pasta, iced tea, and bread that, when it came, steamed the white cloth on top of the basket. They made small talk for a long while—the polite preliminaries, Vicky thought, just like on the rez. What was Susan working on? Big project, long hours with a lot of overtime, creating a visual train wreck for a Western movie. “You know how they used to film train wrecks?” Susan said. “They set two trains on the track coming at each other, and the engineers jumped off just before the crash. Locomotives reared up in the air, cars rolled off the tracks. Now we do it with graphics: smoke, steam, fire, the whole works
. It’s all make-believe. Not like the old days.”

  After the waitress had delivered the plates of food, Susan asked how Vicky’s practice was going, a kind of vacant politeness in her voice, as if she felt an obligation to ask, even if the answer didn’t really interest her. The law was what had taken her from Susan and Lucas when they were kids—all those years of school to become an attorney.

  “I manage to stay busy,” Vicky said, keeping the answer vague. She took a bite of pasta and realized her cell was ringing. “Excuse me.” She got to her feet and pulled out the cell as she walked to the entry. “Hello,” she said, pushing through the door. The cool breeze off the ocean and the damp air worked their way through her light sweater.

  “You sure Bellows is in jail?” It was Dede’s voice, filled with suspicion and defiance.

  “Thanks for getting back to me,” Vicky said. Then she heard herself assuring the girl that Jason Bellows was in custody and that, she was sure, bail would be set high enough to insure he would not be set free. “I need your help,” she said.

  “Bellows killed him,” the girl said. “Why don’t you just accept it?”

  “Because the autopsy showed that Kiki was free of drugs, and I think somebody else killed him.” Vicky gave the girl a second to understand before she went on. “What did Kiki do in Hollywood? Who did he talk to? Where did he go?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You’re the only one who does know, Dede. Think! He must have told you something.”

  “What are you? Bellows’s lawyer? He deserves to rot in prison. I’m not gonna help you get him free.”

  “I’m not his lawyer. I’m trying to get to the truth. The fed thinks Kiki was killed in a drug deal, and the prosecutor will make a strong case that Kiki tried to move in on Bellows’s territory. Everybody on the rez will remember Kiki as a druggie that got what was coming to him. You know that isn’t the truth, Dede. You told me Kiki was clean. Please tell me anything you can remember. Where did he go? How did he get around LA?”