She switched off the ignition, grabbed the floppy black bag next to her, and slid into the icy outdoors. Moonlight filtered through the clouds, casting gray shadows over the snow. She heard the soft swish of the wind in the ponderosas. She pulled the wool scarf under her chin, set the strap of her bag firmly over one shoulder, and trudged to the gate. The chain was thick enough to discourage a herd of buffalo from attempting to break through. Fresh tracks packed the snow on the other side, and a dim light glowed from the house.
Suddenly Vicky had a sense of someone watching her, as if she were surrounded by ghosts. She glanced about, silencing her own breathing, half expecting the white man to step out from the trees. No one. She turned back to the gate. About a foot and a half separated each of the three horizontal bars. She had climbed hundreds of gates like this, sat on the top rail for hours watching her father and grandfather brand the new calves, slid off the rail onto the back of her own pony, and raced across the earth. But not in a suit, coat, hose, and dressy leather boots.
She tossed her bag over, then grabbed the middle bar and scrunched down, pulling her upper body through the narrow space. She twisted around to bring her right leg over the lower bar, then the left. Snow slid inside her boots; she felt as if she’d waded into ice water. She picked up the bag and started down the driveway, walking in the hard-packed tracks.
A wave of memories washed over her as she approached the house. She remembered the plywood siding she and Ben had installed one summer and painted the color of green apples. The old pickup she had loaded the kids into the day she had decided to leave. And the memory she hadn’t experienced, only imagined: Ben coming through the front door and finding her and the kids gone. The pictures dissolved into a jumble of black-and-white images, like an old movie reeling itself out.
She pounded hard on the front door, her glove muffling the sound. She yanked it off and pounded again. The static noise of a television mingled with the hiss of the wind. She waited a moment, tried the doorknob, and was surprised when it turned in her hand. “Susan,” she called, stepping into the small living room. The odors of cigarettes and stale food met her.
The room was a contrast of light and shadow: the shaft of light from the kitchen; the greenish light flickering off a television set; the shadows everywhere else. Slowly a figure began to uncurl from the sofa against the opposite wall. “Mom? What’re you doin’ here?”
Vicky set the door in place, a mixture of relief and terror welling inside her. This child-woman in rumpled sweats with long black hair plastered to the sides of her head, with circles under her eyes so dark even the dim light couldn’t conceal them—this was her beautiful daughter.
Susan stretched one hand toward a small table, groping among empty beer bottles, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and Styrofoam fast food boxes. She fingered a pair of glasses and slipped them on. Her eyes loomed large and accusing behind the wire-framed lenses.
“Are you okay, honey?” Vicky’s voice rose over the noise of the television. “. . . your question, please. Would you care to guess? . . .” Jeopardy, She crossed the room and lowered herself onto the sofa, close to her daughter. The old black-and-white TV, the table, the sofa—all as she remembered, smaller, perhaps, more haggard-looking. The detritus of her old life.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Susan flopped both bare feet onto the linoleum floor and attempted to sit up, then slouched against the back cushion. “I was takin’ a nap.” Her words came slowly, as if she had formed them through wired jaws.
Vicky’s stomach twisted into knots. The signs loomed like billboards on the interstate. Not just the lethargy and fogginess of marijuana, but something else—another kind of drug, which she was at a loss to identify. “I was surprised to hear you’d come back,” she managed.
“Yeah, well, I was gonna call you, but . . . no phone. Didn’t we used to have a phone here? Yeah, it was on the kitchen counter next to the toaster. You used to talk to Grandmother while you smeared jelly on our toast. See, I remember.” Susan brought one hand up to her forehead. “Did you take the phone?”
“Susan, you’re sick. Let me help you.”
Her daughter shook her head, like a child in a temper. “No, Mom. I’m tellin’ you, I’m fine.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Look, you want some coffee or something?”
Vicky nodded and followed her daughter into the kitchen. Dirty plastic dishes, more empty beer bottles and Styrofoam boxes, papers, and stacks of catalogues spread over the countertops and the yellow Formica table. A door on the left opened onto a dark hallway that led to the two bedrooms. The house felt hot and close, as if there were a shortage of air. She dropped her bag onto the clutter on the table and unbuttoned her coat, letting it slide back loosely around her shoulders.
Susan mechanically filled two mugs with tap water and shuffled along the counter. Stopping in front of a cluster of jars, she opened one and spilled instant coffee crystals into the mugs. Vicky pushed some papers and dirty dishes out of the way so Susan could set the mugs on the table. Tiny black specks floated in the brownish liquid.
“I didn’t come here to argue,” Vicky said, taking one of the two chairs at the table.
Susan slid onto the other. “So why’d you come?”
Vicky began again. “Your father said you and three men plan to start some kind of crafts business. If I can help you—”
“You can’t.” Susan’s eyes blinked behind her glasses. “We’ve got things figured out, okay? We’re gonna get the moccasins and beaded stuff that people make around here. And we’re gonna advertise in catalogues.” She drew a catalogue from a pile and set it next to an open Styrofoam box with pieces of wilting lettuce still clinging to the sides. “Everybody wants Indian stuff. We’re gonna make a lot of money.”
Vicky took a sip of coffee. It was tepid and bitter. This idea sounded so good, so possible, except that Susan was stoned on something. Her hand shook as she lifted her mug. “Your friends are from Los Angeles?”
“You mean, are they white? Yeah, so what?” After a moment, Susan added, “My friends know all about starting a business. One’s a real professor.” Still the shaking. Little drops of coffee ran down the sides of her mug.
“So why do you need them?” Vicky asked. “You’re the one Our People will trust. You’re the one who can go to their homes and contract for the crafts. You could run the business yourself.” Then she added, “Once you were clean.”
“Don’t bug me, Mom.” Susan got to her feet, gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles blanched. “Maybe you better go away and leave me alone. You’re real good at that.”
Here it was, the blow Vicky realized she had been waiting for. Susan and Lucas never forgot she had left them, even though no one else on the reservation ever mentioned it. It was traditional for Arapaho grandparents to help raise the grandchildren. What had kept the moccasin telegraph buzzing for years was that she’d left Ben. And for what? To go to school and become a white woman, to become Hisei:ci’:nihi, Woman Alone.
Vicky pushed her chair back and walked around the table. She placed an arm around Susan’s thin shoulders. “Please come home with me. Just for a few days. You can clean up, get some food in you. You’ll feel better. I’ll bring you back.”
The girl shrugged off Vicky’s arm. “I don’t need your help. I got Ty. He’s here for me, and I can count on him. Me and Ty, we’re gonna get married. So, please, just go.”
“You heard what she said, Mom.” The male voice came from the living room, and Vicky swung around as the man she’d met earlier came through the kitchen doorway. He seemed larger here than he’d appeared outdoors: six feet tall, with a thick neck, and shoulders and forearms that filled out the sleeves of his down jacket. His blond curly hair was matted in places, as if he’d just removed the knit cap he held in one gloved hand. A light stubble covered his cheeks and chin like a rash. He was about Susan’s age.
Two other men followed him into the kitchen and lined up next to the counter. One
was also in his twenties, thin and dark-haired, in blue jeans and a thick jean jacket. Susan sidled toward him, and he draped one arm over her shoulders, a gesture of ownership. The other man was short and heavyset, with a round face partly hidden by a dark beard streaked with silver. He had brown curly hair and pebble-like eyes that looked out from plastic-rimmed glasses. He could be her own age—forty-two—too old to be hanging out with kids.
“Who are you?” Vicky demanded.
“This is Ty,” Susan said. Then, nodding toward the blond, she added, “This here’s Gary.” Another nod. “And that’s the professor I told you about.”
“What’d ya tell her?” Gary said, his tone sharp.
“Nothin’.” Susan leaned into the dark-haired man.
Vicky stepped between Gary and the couple her daughter had become. “Susan, please come with me.”
“She said no, Mom.” This from Gary behind her. “So I’ll just walk you out to your Bronco.”
Vicky sensed that even if Susan wanted to leave, Gary would not allow it. Her daughter was a prisoner. The question mark was the dark-haired man with his arm slung over Susan’s shoulder. How did he fit in? “I’ll be back,” Vicky said, not taking her eyes off Susan’s. Did she imagine it, or was there the smallest flicker of gratitude?
Vicky edged past Gary and the professor. Grabbing her bag off the table, she strode to the front door. There were footsteps behind her. “I don’t want your company,” she said, letting herself out. She hurried across the yard and down the road, aware of Gary’s boots crunching the snow. She made herself breathe deeply. The bastard was trying to scare her. When she reached the gate, the footsteps stopped.
Vicky glanced back. “Are you going to open this, or do I have to crawl over?”
Gary stood about ten feet away, arms folded, a dark shadow in the moonlight. He didn’t move.
She tossed her bag between the top and middle rails, then leaned down, grabbed the middle bar and propelled herself to the other side more quickly and easily than before. Retrieving the bag from the snow, she straightened upright and walked to the Bronco.
She got in quickly and turned on the ignition, sending the wheels into a whining spin. Framed in the rearview mirror was the white man, leaning over the gate, raising one hand and saluting her. The old guilt tightened its grip, like some creature attempting to drag her into its dark hiding place. She was leaving Susan again. Oh, God, who was she leaving her with this time?
14
Vicky drove down the canyon and across the reservation to the Arapaho ranch, scarcely aware of the falling snow, as if she were outside of time. She parked in front of the massive log cabin and ran up the stairs to the porch that extended along the front. Snow piled over the folded aluminum chairs stacked next to the wood railing. Here was where the cowboys sat on summer evenings, smoking and rocking back on the thin chair legs, boots propped on the railing.
She pounded on the wood door. In a moment it swung open and canned television laughter, mixed with the guffaws of male voices, floated toward her. In the doorway, silhouetted by the light indoors, stood Ben’s cousin, Nate Holden, shorter than Ben and broader, dressed in blue jeans and a plaid shirt. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Ben,” Vicky said.
Nate stepped back, bringing the door with him. He didn’t ask her in. Behind him was the cavernlike main room with log walls two stories high, the upstairs balcony that led to the bunkrooms, the sloping wood ceiling, and the plank floors strewn with faded Navajo rugs. There was a wedge of shiny pine cabinets visible from the kitchen.
She stepped sideways to get a view of the living area. Three Arapaho men sat on a Naugahyde sofa, arms folded, legs outstretched, boots dug into a rug. A couple of other Arapahos occupied two upholstered chairs. There was a vacant chair, its seat crinkled and sunken, probably from the weight of Nate Holden. A television rested on a metal cart against the wall, and a cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. She felt a kind of longing; she could use a cigarette right now herself. “You satisfied?” Nate said, watching her. “Ben ain’t here.”
The others had turned toward her, as if Ben Holden’s ex-wife showing up at the Arapaho ranch at 9 P.M. promised more entertainment than any M*A*S*H rerun.
Vicky said, “Where can I find him?”
“He want to see you?” Nate’s hostility was so thick she could almost touch it. Ben’s family had never forgiven her. It was a wife’s duty to stay by her husband.
“Ben’s watchin’ a couple sick calves at the upper range,” volunteered one of the Indians on the sofa. He looked about twenty. Perhaps he’d grown up with Susan and Lucas.
Of course. On more than one occasion, Ben had stayed up two nights running to tend a sick animal. “Thanks,” she called out as she turned and started down the porch stairs. The young man hollered, “His cabin’s up the road about six miles. Can’t miss it.”
Little eddies of snow scudded into the headlights, and Vicky gripped the wheel as the Bronco climbed through a tunnel of cedars and aspens. She had never been to the upper pasture of the Arapaho ranch. She hoped it existed, that the young Arapaho hadn’t done Nate a favor by sending her up a mountain in what could turn into a blizzard. She shook off the thought.
As the Bronco came out of a long curve, she saw light flickering like a campfire through the cedars. After another half mile she spotted the cabin itself, a smaller version of the bunkhouse she’d just left, with light glowing in the windows. Beyond the cabin loomed the shadow of a barn. As she pulled up, she heard a door slam. A figure emerged from the darkness into the stream of her headlights. She knew by his walk it was Ben.
“Never thought I’d see this night,” he said, opening her door. He wore the sheepskin coat and tan cowboy hat she remembered from the night before. A line of snow lay along the brim.
“Ben, we’ve got to talk about Susan.”
“Too damn cold to talk outside,” he said. She felt the pressure of his gloved hand on her arm as he guided her out of the Bronco and toward the cabin. He walked a little ahead, his boots packing the snow. Stepping onto the wooden stoop, he bent down to grip the metal handle set low on the door for people in the Old Time, shorter people. He motioned her inside. “This is where I’ve been hanging my hat lately,” he said.
Vicky took in the cabin at a glance: combination stove, sink, refrigerator, and cabinet against one wall; card table and two folding chairs in the center of the plank floor; two chairs with wads of gray stuffing poking from the cushions; cast-iron stove that gave off a hissing, crackling noise and flooded the room with warmth. The bed stood against the far wall. Spread across the top was the blue-and-white star quilt Ben’s grandmother had given them on their wedding day.
She stared at it with a kind of shock, as if she had unwittingly touched an electric wire. The star quilt: No true Arapaho home could be without one. Its lines and circles and stars were a reminder that all creation is alive, even the sky and the earth, and that all creatures are meant to live in harmony. She swallowed hard against the sense of the past welling inside her.
Crossing the room, Ben lifted a log out of a wood box, opened the stove’s little metal door, and tossed the log onto the fire. “That should keep us plenty warm.” Then, glancing back at her he asked, “You had supper yet?”
Vicky shook her head. She’d intended to get a bite before driving out to Lean Bear’s ranch, but she hadn’t had time after John O’Malley’s visit. She laid her coat and bag over one of the chairs, suddenly aware of the hollow feeling in her stomach.
Ben shucked off the sheepskin coat and hung it over a wooden peg on one wall. He set his hat on top. In two steps he was at the stove, flicking a match while pressing one of the small black knobs on the stove front, lighting the burner under a metal coffee pot. Then he lit the burner under a large pan. “How about some stew?” he asked.
“Your recipe?” Vicky asked.
Ben laughed. Plunging a spoon into the stew, he said, “The cook down at the bunkhouse
sent it up. Didn’t want it on her conscience, my starving to death. I’ve had a couple of sick calves on my hands. Haven’t had a chance to eat yet.” Still stirring the stew, he looked at her and smiled. “Must’ve been waiting for you.”
“Ben . . .”
He nodded. “This is about Susan. But we can get some grub in us first.” He ladled the stew into two pottery bowls and placed them on the table. Then he filled two mugs with coffee and set them next to the bowls. In an instant he produced plastic spoons and knives, half a loaf of bread in a plastic bag, and a tub of margarine.
Nokooho. The word sprang into Vicky’s mind as she sat down. Out of the natural order. In the eleven years she’d been married to Ben, he had never waited on her. Warriors did not wait upon women. Warriors rode out and slaughtered the buffalo, and brought the carcasses back to the village for the women to butcher and preserve and tan and dry, to cook and to serve. Warriors did not perform the undignified tasks of women.
“Surprised you, huh?” Ben took the folding chair across from her, looking pleased. He could always read her thoughts, sometimes even before she had them in focus. But he hadn’t read her intention to leave him, hadn’t even suspected.
Steam curled out of her bowl, which was filled with lumps of meat, potatoes, and carrots in brown gravy. It smelled of sage. After the first few bites, she began to feel warmer, calmer. Ben was eating, too, and she was aware he hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “You saw Susan?” he said finally. The time was ready.
Vicky set her spoon next to the almost empty bowl. “She’s on drugs again, but I don’t know what she’s using.”
Ben seemed to consider this as he spread a yellowish glob of margarine onto a slice of bread. After a moment, he said, “Stop blaming yourself. If Susan’s got herself screwed up again with drugs, it’s not just your fault.” He laid the knife across the top of the opened margarine tub and regarded her a long moment. “It’s my fault, too, Vicky.”
The Ghost Walker Page 9