by Thomas King
Lionel must have known that the van and the six cars that were following close behind were headed to Wounded Knee, but he could not recall knowing. Still, all the details were there. Cecil was driving the van. Eddie was in the passenger seat. Billy and Rita were stretched out on the mattress in the back, and Lionel Red Dog, Canadian citizen, government employee, and status Blackfoot Indian, was sitting cross-legged among the groceries and the guns. There was a box of bumper stickers that said “American Indian Movement” and a margarine container half full of red buttons that just said “AIM.”
“Put one on,” said Eddie. “Red and proud!”
The police stopped the van just outside Green River. Lionel could remember the flashing lights and the loudspeaker telling them to get out of the van with their hands on their heads. Cecil told them all to stay put and wait for the television trucks, which were no more than five minutes behind the police. Everybody got out, but as Lionel stepped from the van into the bright Wyoming sun, he hooked a wing tip through the sling of one of the rifles and pitched forward into a policewoman who shouted, “He’s got a gun,” deftly stepped to one side, and hit Lionel across the head with something long and hard.
It took eleven stitches to close the wound. Lionel spent a day in the hospital, four days in jail until the police could verify his identity, and despite his pleas, another five days in jail for disturbing the peace. He called Duncan to tell him what had happened, how the whole thing was one very funny mistake.
Duncan was sympathetic and told Lionel not to worry about anything. Talking with Duncan made Lionel feel much better, and it was only after he hung up that he remembered that he was in Green River, Wyoming, and that he was broke. He went back to the phone and dialed the D. I. A. office in Blossom.
“It’s a collect call.”
“Your name?”
The operator told the secretary who answered that she had a collect call for Duncan Scott from Lionel Red Dog and would he accept the charge. The secretary put the operator on hold and came back a minute later to say that Mr. Scott had left the office for the day and wasn’t expected back until the middle of next week. Lionel tried three more names, but the secretary said that they were out of the office too. The operator asked him if he would like to try back later. Even before he hung up the phone, Lionel realized that no one at the office was going to talk to him. Not today. Not tomorrow.
It was a long, hot walk from town to the highway, and Lionel had to stand there with his thumb out for over three hours before he caught a ride. The man was nice enough, but he was only going as far as Little America. The next ride got him just outside Lyman. The next dropped him off in downtown Evanston. It was the next day before he got out of Wyoming, and through a succession of starts and stops he arrived in Salt Lake City at two the next morning. Lionel walked the four miles from the gas station just off the highway to the Hotel Utah.
The man at the front desk was young and blond, and Lionel had to explain the situation to him twice.
“I was in room two forty-six.”
“Are you checking out?”
“Not exactly. I need to get my clothes and my suitcase so I can pay the bill.”
“Where are they?”
“In the room.”
The young man smiled and looked at the computer. “We don’t have a Lionel Red Dog in two forty-six.”
“That’s right. I was supposed to check out nine days ago.”
“But you decided to stay.”
“No, I was in Green River.”
“You checked out and left your clothes and suitcase?”
“No,” said Lionel, keeping up his good spirits, “I didn’t check out. All I want to do is to get my clothes and suitcase and check back in.”
“I see,” said the blond man. “Why don’t you give me a minute to look into this.”
The lobby of the hotel was an inventory of draperies, columns, paintings, tapestries, and chandeliers. Lionel felt important sitting there in the wingback chair surrounded by blond men in blue uniforms with gold braid who moved effortlessly back and forth through the lobby bringing drinks, cleaning ashtrays, carrying luggage.
At the far end of the lobby, under the decorative pilasters, cornices, and coves, was a painting of the Battle of the Little Bighorn. George Armstrong Custer stood at the center of the drama, looking splendid in a fringed leather jacket, matching gloves, and black riding boots. He wore a broad-brimmed cavalry hat and carried shining guns in both hands, and even from where Lionel sat, he could see Custer’s blue eyes flash while all around him Indians and soldiers swirled in a whirlpool of color and motion.
Lionel considered the painting for a time, remembering the convoy of police cars that had descended on the van. He was still shaken and embarrassed by the whole episode. Maybe that’s how Custer had felt when he discovered his mistake. Embarrassed.
Sitting there, Lionel realized he was hungry. Once he got back in the hotel room, he decided, he’d call up room service and treat himself to a large steak with a baked potato, some vegetables, a thermos of coffee, and something chocolate for dessert. And after that, a long, hot bath.
“Maybe you should run for council,” said Norma. “Try to do some good.”
“I don’t want to run for council.”
“Charlie’s father ran for council and he was famous.”
“Charlie’s father was in a few movies. He wasn’t famous.”
“If you ran for council, you’d be on the reserve and you could see your parents before they die.”
“I see them all the time.”
“They don’t have that many more years left. Your father just set up his lodge at the Sun Dance. Said he hoped he would see you there this year.”
“I see them all the time.”
“Course I’m not sure I’d vote for you.” Norma cleared her throat and looked at Lionel. “You know who you remind me of?”
“Not again.”
“Your uncle Eli. He went to Toronto. He taught university there. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Hundred times at least.”
“Married a white woman. Brought her out to the Sun Dance one year. Should have seen him.”
“White shirt and slacks and fancy shoes.”
“White shirt and slacks and fancy shoes.”
“And now he’s a hero.”
“And now he’s a hero,” said Norma.
Lionel yawned. “He can’t hold that dam back forever.”
“Ten years, nephew,” said Norma, “and he’s still there. Coming to the Sun Dance is what did it. Straightened him right out and he came home.”
“He went back to Toronto. He went back to Toronto after the Sun Dance. He came home after Granny died. That’s all that happened. And he came home then because he had retired.”
“He came home, nephew. That’s the important part. He came home.”
Lionel was just getting really comfortable in the chair when two large men in tight suits came over and introduced themselves.
“I’m Tom, and this is Gerry.”
“We’re with the hotel.”
Lionel told Tom and Gerry what had happened and then he told the story again to the two policemen who drove him to the Salt Lake City jail.
“It was all sort of an adventure,” said Lionel.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Chip. “Everything’ll get straightened out in the morning.”
“Things like this happen all the time,” said Dale.
At the arraignment, Lionel went through the whole story once again. The judge ordered the hotel to return Lionel’s clothes, and Lionel paid the outstanding bill with the traveler’s checks in his jacket. The hotel manager apologized for any inconvenience and hoped that Lionel would visit them again in the future. The judge gave Lionel thirty days for leaving town without paying the bill.
“Seeing as you’re Canadian, I’ll reduce it to ten days,” the judge told him. “If it was your first of
fense, I could let you off with probation.”
“It is my first offense.”
“That’s not what Wyoming says.”
One day less than a month after he left for Salt Lake, Lionel was back in Blossom, an unemployed ex-con. He explained everything to Duncan.
“It was all a big mistake.”
“My hands are tied, Lionel.”
“If you had been there, you would have laughed.”
“You’re probably right.”
The new Woodwards store in the mall was hiring. Lionel didn’t mention the incident in Wyoming and he got a part-time job as a salesclerk. Three weeks later, the police arrived to question him about a rally that the American Indian Movement had planned for the following weekend.
“I don’t know anything.”
“Is that what you told them in Green River?”
“That was a mistake.”
“Always a mistake to get caught.”
“I don’t know a thing about AIM.”
“Report we saw says you were one of the leaders.”
The police talked to him for over an hour, and by the time they left, Lionel was unemployed again.
“You look like a smart fellow,” one of the officers told him.“Get your life together. With your record, you’re running out of options.”
There was the matter of children. Alberta wanted at least one, perhaps two. And, as she saw it, she had several options.
Option one was to ignore her anxieties and good sense, swallow her fears, and marry Lionel or Charlie.
Option one was obscene.
Option two was to sit down with Lionel and/or Charlie, explain to them her desire to have children, and see if either would be willing to help, without seeing their role as anything more than a considerate donor. Of course, she told herself, she could manage option two without the excruciating heart-to-heart talk. She could simply forget her diaphragm. Or she could neglect to put it in. Option two was inviting but fraught with pits and traps. Both men would want to know who the father was, a sort of masculine muscle-flexing contest. And she knew herself well enough to know that she would have trouble lying about something like that. As soon as Alberta said the name, the winner would insist that he marry her on the spot and the loser would disappear. There she would be with one man instead of two and back to the first option.
Option three was to get dressed up and go to one of the better bars in town, pick out a decent-looking man, and use him as a willing but uninformed father. Option three, Alberta reasoned, should be the answer to her dilemma. But even putting the question of disease to one side, she found just the thought of crawling into bed with a strange man paralyzing. Where would they go? Certainly not to her house. What would he expect her to do? Would he be content simply crawling around under the covers or would he expect something more elaborate and spirited? What would she say to him after they had finished? Would he want her phone number? Would he want to see her again?
What if he offered to use a condom?
And worst of all, how many times would she have to do it? She knew of married friends who had been trying for years to have children.
Still, option three was the lesser of two evils, and when she turned it over in her mind, the merits seemed to outweigh the problems. So five months ago, fourteen days into her cycle, Alberta got dressed and caught a cab to the Shagganappi, an upscale lounge in the financial district. She put on her good green silk dress. High heels, nylons, perfume, lipstick, gold bracelets, eye shadow. The cab dropped her off across the street. Through the bank of windows she could see the people leaning over the tables in their fine clothes, and she imagined herself floating among the ferns and the brass fixtures, smiling, laughing, touching.
It was cold on the street, yet Alberta felt as though her whole body were on fire. As she waited for the light to change, she caught her reflection in the glass building behind her. She was surprised at how good she looked. Dark, sleek, luxuriant hair, thin ankles, good legs, nice smile. It would be all right.
The night sky was cobalt and black. The lights of the city were amber and warm. She turned back to the corner and waited as the light changed to green. It changed to yellow and then to red and back to green again. When the light got to green for the third time, Alberta crossed the street and hailed a taxi.
She cried for a long time that night in her bed, and in the morning, for all her trouble, she was back to option one.
“Boy,” says Coyote, “that silly dream has everything mixed up.”
“That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention to what you’re doing,” I says.
“It’s not my fault,” says Coyote. “I believe I was in Toronto.”
So that GOD jumps into that garden and that GOD runs around yelling, Bad business! Bad business! That’s what he yells.
You got to put all that stuff back, that GOD tells First Woman.
Who are you? says First Woman.
I’m GOD, says GOD. And I am almost as good as Coyote.
Funny, says First Woman. You remind me of a dog.
And just so we keep things straight, says that GOD, this is my world and this is my garden.
Your garden, says First Woman. You must be dreaming. And that one takes a big bite of one of those nice red apples.
Don’t eat my nice red apples, says that GOD.
I’ll just have a little of this chicken, if I may, says Old Coyote.
Your apples! says First Woman, and she gives a nice red apple to Ahdamn.
Yes, says that GOD, and that one waves his hands around. All this stuff is mine. I made it.
News to me, says First Woman. But there’s plenty of good stuff here. We can share it. You want some fried chicken?
“Fried chicken!” says Coyote. “That certainly looks delicious.”
“Never mind the chicken,” I says. “We got to see what happens.”
What bad manners, says First Woman. You are acting as if you have no relations. Here, have some pizza.
First Woman and Ahdamn eat those apples and that pizza and that fry bread. Old Coyote eats those hot dogs and the melon and the corn. That GOD fellow doesn’t eat anything. He stands in the garden with his hands on his hips, so everybody can see he is angry.
Anybody who eats my stuff is going to be very sorry, says that GOD. There are rules, you know.
I didn’t eat anything, says Old Coyote.
Christian rules.
I was just looking around.
Is that chicken I see hanging out of your mouth? says that GOD.
No, no, says Old Coyote. It must be my tongue. Sometimes it looks like chicken.
What a stingy person, says First Woman, and that one packs her bags. Lots of nice places to live, she says to Ahdamn. No point in having a grouchy GOD for a neighbor.
And First Woman and Ahdamn leave the garden.
All the animals leave the garden.
Maybe I’ll leave a little later, says Old Coyote.
You can’t leave my garden, that GOD says to First Woman. You can’t leave because I’m kicking you out.
But First Woman doesn’t hear him. She and Ahdamn move west. They go looking around for a new home.
“Maybe I should stay in the garden with Old Coyote,” says Coyote. “Somebody should keep that GOD and Old Coyote and all that food company.”
“We can eat later,” I says. “Right now, we got to catch up with First Woman and Ahdamn.”
So First Woman and Ahdamn go west and they look all over and pretty soon they find a really nice canyon and at the bottom of the canyon are a bunch of dead rangers.
Oh, oh, says First Woman to Ahdamn. Here we go again.
And she is right. There is that canyon. And there are those dead rangers.
What are we going to do with all these dead rangers? says Ahdamn.
Better yet, says First Woman, what are we going to do with all those live rangers?
What live rangers? s
ays Ahdamn.
First Woman is right. Pretty quick a big bunch of live rangers ride into the canyon. All of those live rangers have guns.
Yes, says those live rangers. We are live rangers, and we have guns.
Now what are we going to do? says Ahdamn. Maybe we should have stayed in the garden.
So, those rangers ride up, and those rangers look all around. They look at the canyon. They look at the dead rangers. They look at First Woman. They look at Ahdamn.
Say, they says, Who killed these dead rangers? Who killed our friends?
Beats me, says First Woman. Maybe it was Coyote.
“Ah, excuse me,” says Coyote. “I was asleep at the time.”
“What time was that?” I says.
“When were the rangers killed?” says Coyote.
It looks like the work of Indians, says those live rangers. Yes, they all say together. It looks just like the work of Indians. And those rangers look at First Woman and Ahdamn.
Definitely Indians, says one of the rangers, and the live rangers point their guns at First Woman and Ahdamn.
Just a minute, says First Woman, and that one takes some black cloth out of her purse. She cuts some holes in that black cloth. She puts that black cloth around her head.
Look, look, all the live rangers says, and they point their fingers at First Woman. It’s the Lone Ranger. Yes, they says, it is the Lone Ranger.
That’s me, says First Woman.
Hooray, says those rangers, you are alive.
That’s me, says First Woman.
Boy, says one of the live rangers, that’s good news. I’ll just shoot this Indian for you.
No, no, says First Woman. That’s my Indian friend. He helped save me from the rangers.
You mean the Indians, don’t you? says those rangers.
That’s right, says First Woman with the mask on. His name is Tonto.
That’s a stupid name, says those rangers. Maybe we should call him Little Beaver or Chingachgook or Blue Duck.
No, says First Woman, his name is Tonto.
Yes, says Ahdamn, who is holding his knees from banging together, my name is Tonto.
Okay, says those rangers, but don’t say we didn’t try to help. And they gallop off, looking for Indians and buffalo and poor people and other good things to kill.