He hit the stop button on the tape player and rolled the window all the way down, keeping his eyes on the side mirror. The short, heavyset Indian disengaging himself from the patrol car had been at the powwow grounds yesterday with Banner.
“We been lookin’ all over the rez for you,” the patrolman said, stooping slightly at the opened window. “All hell’s broke loose with Ernest Oldman. He’s gone crazy for sure. Chief Banner can use your help.”
14
FOUR BIA PATROL cars were strung bumper to bumper out in the oil field on the southwestern edge of the reservation. Father John gunned the Toyota down a graveled road and across the field, bouncing over the packed earth. Banner and about a dozen BIA policemen huddled beside the patrol cars. Several hundred feet beyond, Ernest was circling an oil pump that rose out of the ground like the blackened frame of an ancient tipi. Suddenly Ernest faced the pump and raised a rifle to his shoulder. The sharp crack split the air like a sonic boom.
Father John flipped off the ignition and hopped from the Toyota while it was still coasting to a stop. Doubling over, as if to avoid the whirling rotors of an invisible helicopter, he ran toward the patrol cars. Banner motioned him on, and Father John hunkered down beside the chief.
“Ernest’s been shooting at that pump for the last hour or so,” Banner said. “He gets tired of that, he’s likely to shoot himself. He’s gone certifiable.” The chief kept one hand over the mouth of a bullhorn. Another rifle shot sounded overhead.
“Got a team ready to crawl in behind him, but it’s tricky as hell. Ernest spots ’em, he’ll turn around firing. Somebody might get killed. You think you could try talkin’ him into layin’ down that rifle?” Banner handed the bullhorn to Father John.
Dear Lord, thought Father John. Ernest was drunk, and Father John was an expert on drunks. There were the quiet ones—like himself—who sat in an easy chair wearing down a bottle of whiskey until they passed out. And there was the kind like Ernest that went to bars and picked fights with everybody there, stabbed people, shot people, and remembered nothing afterwards, insisted they couldn’t have done anything so terrible—Father John had counseled them all, but the drunks like Ernest were usually in custody or in the hospital, the crisis over. He’d never had to talk a drunk out of destroying an oil pump—or killing himself—and he didn’t want to do it now. But he had to try; there was no other way. Stretching himself slowly upward alongside the patrol car, he set the bullhorn on the roof and, shoulders hunched, knees bent, leaned into the mouthpiece.
“Be careful,” the police chief said.
“Ernest, this is Father John O’Malley.” His voice echoed across the open field. In the deepening dusk, Ernest and the black pump looked like two shadows plastered against the horizon.
Suddenly the Indian swung around in a half circle and pointed the rifle toward the patrol cars. “Get out of here,” he shouted.
“I’m coming out to talk to you.” To his own ears, he sounded as if he were shouting into a barrel. “I don’t have a gun. I just want to talk. I’m coming now, Ernest.” Father John straightened up and started around the patrol car.
“Hell you are.” Banner said, gripping his leg.
“Let go.” Father John didn’t take his eyes off the shadow of the Indian in the field. He had to see Ernest face to face and look into his eyes. Banner’s grip relaxed, and Father John wrenched his leg free. He started slowly across the open field, arms outstretched and palms up, hoping Ernest wasn’t too drunk to recognize the Arapaho sign of peace.
“Be careful, Father,” one of the BIA policemen called from behind.
“Go back,” Ernest shouted. “I don’t need no talkin’.” He waved the rifle toward Father John, as if zeroing in on a target.
Father John walked on, his pace slow and steady. He kept his eyes on the shadow ahead. The wind moved the air gently around him, and sagebrush crackled under his boots. “Take it easy, Ernest.” His voice was low, just loud enough for the Indian to hear. “It’s a bad deal, these oil wells going dry. I know how much you need your share of the royalties for Jenny and the kids.” He was taking a gamble, mentioning Ernest’s family. It might calm the man, or set him off.
Father John was close enough now that the rifle barrel looked like a wide, black tunnel. “You hear what the business council’s doing?”
Ernest stopped waving the rifle, and the barrel dropped a couple of inches. Father John kept coming. He was only a couple feet from Ernest now. He could see the metallic sheen of the rifle. It had a pink cast.
“The council ain’t doing nothin’.” Ernest brought the rifle up again.
Father John stopped. The sour smell of whiskey floated in the space between them, and for a moment Father John thought he was going to retch. He swallowed hard. Keeping his voice low, soothing, he said, “Harvey asked for a full report. The natural resource director’s putting it together now. Business council will have it in a couple days.”
“What good’s that gonna do me?” Ernest raised the rifle slightly, a reflex. Father John felt the metal barrel graze his arm. The Indian’s eyes were outlined in red.
“As soon as the report’s completed, the council can request the Bureau of Indian Affairs to conduct an investigation. It’s a start.”
Ernest exhaled a long breath. His shoulders sagged, his whole body seemed to relax, and Father John felt himself begin to relax. “Let me have the rifle,” he said, taking a chance on the moment.
Keeping the barrel pointed down, Ernest held out the wooden stock, as if he were handing over a stab of beef. Father John took the gun. The wood felt cool and clammy. Tears were running down Ernest’s cheeks, and he lowered his face into the palms of both hands. After a moment he looked up, his cheeks streaked with gray dust. “Jenny took the kids and went away. I ain’t got nothin’ left. No family. No job. No money.” He swung around and kicked the metal oil pump.
“Where did she go?”
“Vicky took ‘em to those shelters at Ethete, but they ain’t there no more. Nobody’ll tell me where they went. I didn’t mean to hurt Jenny none,” Ernest said. “I just had a little too much to drink was all.” He started to sob.
Vicky hadn’t said anything about taking Jenny and the kids to the shelters, but it didn’t surprise Father John. “Come on,” he said, putting enough pressure on the Indian’s arm to nudge him forward. They started walking across the field, Ernest swaying side to side. Father John kept one hand on his arm to steady him.
Banner and the other BIA men had stepped out from the patrol cars and were coming slowly across the field toward them. Father John kept talking quietly to Ernest “We’re going to help you straighten everything out. Trouble is you’ve been tryin’ to handle this alone. It’s not easy alone. We all need help every once in a while. Have you talked to your grandfather?”
“He don’t wanna talk to me,” Ernest said.
“Maybe that’s not true.”
Ernest stopped and turned toward Father John. “Will you ask him?”
Father John nodded. He intended to talk to Will Standing Bear anyway, right after Harvey’s funeral. Maybe the elder would be willing to meet with his grandson. God knows Ernest needed his grandfather now. Being a mediator in family disputes—that was something Father John was used to.
After handcuffing Ernest and reading him his rights, Banner ushered him into the back seat of one of the patrol cars. The Arapaho slumped against the car window, looking exhausted and, oddly enough, almost sober.
“You like givin’ heart attacks?” the chief asked, taking the rifle from Father John.
Father John stuck both hands in the pockets of his blue jeans to keep them from shaking. He could feel the muscles in his legs twitching. “Not really.”
Banner exhaled a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said. Father John saw the mixture of relief and concern in the Indian’s eyes.
“We could have Harvey’s murderer here,” Banner said, nodding toward the patrol car.
“Seems to me Ernest w
as shooting at all the forces that took Jenny and the kids away. He might’ve mistreated them, but he doesn’t want to lose them. I don’t think he’d commit murder. That would drive them away permanently.”
“Maybe you’re right,” the chief said. He didn’t look convinced.
Father John guessed he must have convinced himself. Why else had he walked into the barrel of a rifle held by a drunk? The patrol cars and policemen looked like ghostly figures in the gathering darkness. The sky had turned violet, and the sigh of the wind sounded far away. Nothing made sense; it was as if balance and order and harmony had disappeared from the earth. It would not be restored, he knew, until Harvey’s murderer was found.
The stars twinkled overhead like lights in some faraway city as Father John turned onto Circle Drive at St. Francis Mission. The evening air was warm with no hint of rain. All it had done this summer was threaten to rain, with gray clouds obscuring the sun and stars awhile before blowing over. He wondered how much longer before the hay dried up in the fields and scattered in the wind across the plains. He felt weary, bone weary. He wanted to hit the bed and sleep a long time and blot out all thoughts about Harvey and Anthony, about this woman at the edge of his mind, about the poor drunken slob he had just helped to get arrested.
In the headlights he saw Dorothy Bennett swing out of the front seat of the white Cadillac parked in front of the priests’ residence. Father John pulled in alongside her. He took his time turning off the ignition, pushing the button on the tape player to stop Don Giovanni in the middle of “Il Mio Tesoro,” and flipping off the headlights. Immediately Circle Drive, the Cadillac, and the house were swallowed in darkness.
“This is a surprise, Dorothy,” he said, getting out of the pickup. It wasn’t a surprise at all. He knew he’d hear from her eventually.
“Is it?” Dorothy’s voice was cold. As his eyes adjusted in the light from the stars and the full moon, he saw she had stepped back against the side of the Cadillac, shoulders rigid, jaw thrust out. Her eyes were flashing.
“I can put on a pot of coffee,” he said.
“This isn’t a social call,” she snapped. “I just want you to tell me one thing. What gives you the right to mix in people’s lives?”
“Why don’t you come inside and we can talk,” he said soothingly, the same tone he had just used on Ernest.
“We’ll talk here,” she said. “How dare you encourage my daughter and some Indian in this preposterous romance. You just don’t get how things are around here, do you?”
Father John swallowed hard, trying to keep his temper in check. It was so quick to flare, to interfere with the reasonable, logical way to handle a situation. “How are things around here?” he asked finally.
“Melissa Bennett will never marry an Arapaho, that’s how things are. Anybody with any sense would know that. But you ... ”
Dorothy was spitting out the words, and Father John could feel the tiny stings of saliva on his face. “You encourage an Arapaho, and not just any Arapaho—a murderer—to think he can actually marry a girl like Melissa.”
“Hold on,” Father John said. He could feel the heat rising in his face. “Anthony Castle is no murderer. He’s a fine young man. Any girl would be lucky to have him as a husband.”
“Oh, my God,” Dorothy said. She seemed to sink against the Cadillac, her whole body collapsing. “You really believe that, don’t you? Your trouble is you’ve been here too long. You’re nothing but an Indian masquerading as white.”
Father John had to step back to keep from getting hit as she swung open the car door. She marched around and stood in the fold between the door and the seat. “Well, you’ve gone too far this time. You’ve taken sides against the wrong people. My brother can snap his fingers”—she put one hand over her head and snapped her fingers, like a flamenco dancer—“like that, and you’ll be out of here. So pack your bags, Father O’Malley.” She dropped into the seat and pulled the door after her. The heavy thud of metal filled the air.
Father John stepped aside as she raced the motor, backed up, and pulled onto Circle Drive. He could hear the gravel scattering under her wheels like bursts from a shotgun.
He let himself into the house, switched on the hall light, and set his cowboy hat on the little table. The hallway was cast in shadows, and the whole house had the stillness of evening about it. Elena would have gone home by now, but not before frying some chicken and leaving it in the fridge. Sunday was fried chicken day. The sharp odor of burning flesh lingered in the air. He wondered where Father Brad was, then remembered that someone at Cooley’s pig roast had invited the priests at St. Francis to a barbecue tonight. He had declined, but Brad had probably gone.
He went into the study and slammed the door, more to confine the space for himself than to keep out anyone else. There was no one else here. He didn’t bother to turn on any lights. Slivers of moonlight filtered through the window and lay across the carpet. Sinking into the old leather chair, he thought about Ned Cooley. He would call the Provincial; he wouldn’t bother with a letter. And the Provincial would take a call from the next governor of Wyoming who would tell him how the superior at St. Francis Mission was causing problems. What kind of problems? Just problems that made it extremely difficult to work with him, and of course it’s important to have a man on the reservation state officials can work with. When it comes to allocating funds for social programs and such, it’s good to have someone on hand who is—trustworthy.
Then Ned Cooley would call all the important people he knew in Wyoming and all the bigwigs in Denver, including the archbishop, and ask them to call the Provincial. The Provincial would say, well, your six years are up September first anyway, and we’ll just stick to the rules on this one. Better to stay on the right side of the next governor. The Provincial expected superiors to run things smoothly. He didn’t like having to step in, and when he did he moved people around.
Father John studied the way the moonlight flowed along the carpet and cast the faintest light over the blue wing chair, the draperies, the stacks of paper on his desk. The thought of leaving Wind River made him inexpressibly sad. He knew if there were any alcohol in the house, he would drink it now. He understood how Ernest must have felt.
15
DENISE AND HOMER Lone Wolf’s baby was dying. The phone had jangled in the hallway at about six just as the sun had started to cast a red glow over the kitchen. Father John had already been up for more than an hour. He didn’t remember sleeping, only mentally pacing off the night until light rimmed the curtains at the bedroom window. He’d already showered, shaved, and brewed a pot of coffee when the call came. It took him about twenty minutes to get to Riverton Memorial Hospital.
Three nurses and what looked like the entire Lone Wolf family were crowded in the tiny room off the nursery: grandparents, Denise’s two sisters and their husbands, Homer’s cousin and his wife. Denise sat in a wheelchair at the foot of a crib, looking like a child herself, bewildered by an incomprehensible adult world. Homer stood behind her, gripping the bar along the top of the wheelchair. The infant lay with eyes half closed in a wavy, dreamlike manner, tubes running from the tiny body to machines on a nearby roller.
“His heart don’t know how to work,” Homer said, slicing his index finger under one eye, then the other, to wipe away the moisture. “They’re gonna fly him down to Children’s Hospital in Denver. I’m goin’ with him.” Father John caught the sharp odor of the Indian’s breath, a distillation of morning and coffee and whiskey.
Slipping a folded white stole and the silver compact containing bottles of holy water and oil from the pocket of his windbreaker, Father John asked the baby’s name. Denise answered so quietly he had to lean over and ask again. “George,” she said.
Denise’s grandfather, in his sixties with gray hair combed straight back from a pockmarked face, spoke up. “I was sickly, too, when I was born, and my grandfather gave me the name Little Wing. The name made me strong, so I give it now to my great-grandson.”
Father John draped the stole around his neck and opened the compact. He handed the bottle of holy water to Homer. Then he placed a drop of oil on one finger and made the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead. The skin felt as soft as the silk stole that folded over the top of his hand. He took the bottle of holy water and, letting one or two drops fall on the forehead, said, “I baptize you, George Little Wing, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Afterward he and Homer walked down the hall of the hospital and out to the parking lot. Suddenly the Indian doubled over coughing. Father John winced at the thought of this alcoholic Arapaho, used to the open spaces of the reservation, surrounded by his own people, alone in a big city like Denver. How long before he wandered into the nearest bar and got himself rolled and beaten up?
Father John opened the door of the Toyota and fumbled among the opera tapes in the glove compartment for a tablet and ballpoint pen. He jotted down a name and telephone number, and, ripping off the page, handed it to the Arapaho who had just spit a ball of green phlegm onto the asphalt. “This is a Jesuit at Regis. You call him soon as you get to Denver,” he said. Watching Homer reverently fold the paper, as if he’d just received a sacred gift—a friend—Father John hoped that Father Dave Kelly would come through one more time. Homer wasn’t the first Arapaho he’d asked Dave to keep an eye on in Denver. So far. the other Jesuit hadn’t objected, even though he and Dave were no longer good friends. He couldn’t say they were friends at all, not since the Great Fall. His, not Father Dave’s.
Homer bent over again in the throes of another coughing spell. After a moment he straightened partway up and, clasping his chest, said, “Little Wing’s gonna need me, and I’m gonna get myself together, don’t you worry, Father. I wanna take the pledge.”
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