Green Grass, Running Water

by Thomas King

  “What happened to that GOD?” says Coyote.

  “He’s still in the garden,” I says.

  “He’s missing all the fun,” says Coyote.

  “That’s the truth,” I says.

  Boy, says First Woman, that was close. And she takes off the mask.

  Yes, says Ahdamn. But who is Tonto?

  Just then, some soldiers come along, and before First Woman can put on her ranger mask, those soldiers grab First Woman and Ahdamn.

  You are under arrest, says those soldiers.

  What’s the charge, says First Woman.

  Being Indian, says those soldiers.

  Not another adventure, says Ahdamn.

  Yes, says First Woman, and it looks like a very nice day for one, too.

  The trouble had started in the spring, seven years before. There had been a blight and all the elm trees in the garden had died. Even the huge oak that stood at the center of the grounds had been affected. Several large branches had turned gray, and though the tree was still alive, the leaves were sparse and dull.

  It had grieved Dr. Hovaugh to watch the men in yellow uniforms with their silver and purple chain saws slice each of the elms into short, round blocks and cart them away. The branches were fed into a square leaf green machine and ground into sawdust. It made a terrible wailing noise. The stumps were ripped out of the ground, and in two days you could hardly tell that the elms had ever been there. New trees, thin and fragile, were brought in to complete the illusion, but the death of the old trees, which were almost as old as the garden itself, left Dr. Hovaugh burdened with inexplicable remorse and guilt.

  “Dr. Hovaugh, Sergeant Cereno is here to see you.”

  Dr. Hovaugh pressed the button on the intercom and braced himself behind the desk, hooking his feet under the crossbar. “All right, Mary.” He placed his hands on the desk, folded his fingers together, consciously willed his shoulders to drop. “Show him in.”

  Sergeant Cereno was wearing a green polyester suit. It was the first thing that Dr. Hovaugh noticed about him. Dr. Hovaugh couldn’t recall ever seeing one quite so green. It reminded him of outdoor carpet.

  “Dr. Hovaugh, I’m Sergeant Cereno.” And Sergeant Cereno opened a leather case that had a badge inside and placed it on the desk. “I’ll be handling the investigation.”

  Dr. Hovaugh motioned Cereno into a chair, looked at the badge, nodded, and pushed it back toward Cereno. He pushed it too far, and it slithered over the edge. But Sergeant Cereno reacted with surprising quickness, uncrossing a leg, lurching forward, and catching the badge before it hit the floor.

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Not at all,” said Sergeant Cereno, and he flipped the case shut. “I know you’re busy.”

  Dr. Hovaugh extended his hands, palms up. “How may I help you?”

  Sergeant Cereno pulled his coat open and took a pen from his pocket. As he did, Dr. Hovaugh saw the handle of a gun. “I see you carry a gun, sergeant.”

  “We have to carry them,” said Cereno. “It’s the rules. Don’t let it bother you. I don’t like them myself, but there you are.”

  “I suppose there is a certain amount of danger in your work.”

  “It’s a Smith and Wesson,” said Sergeant Cereno. “Thirty-eight caliber. It’s not your standard issue.” Cereno pulled the gun from its holster and held it against the light.

  “I’m sure it’s very nice.”

  “It’s just a tool. I load my own ammunition. You can’t be too careful.”

  “Of course, we don’t see many guns in the hospital. My father had a gun. Actually it was a rifle. It was black, I think. Yours is so shiny.”

  “Stainless steel.”

  Sergeant Cereno was still looking at the gun. The handle was rather large, more a club, Dr. Hovaugh thought, and there was a bright red dot on the front sight. He wondered how it felt to have such a thing tucked under your arm. He wondered how Cereno would describe the sensation.

  Sergeant Cereno put the gun back in its holster. “Are they dangerous?”

  “The Indians? I don’t think so.”

  “But there might be some danger?”

  “These are very old men, patrolman.”

  “Women,” said Sergeant Cereno. “And it’s sergeant.”

  “Sorry,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “What’s this about women?”

  “Ms. Jones said that the Indians are women.”

  “Who?”

  “The Indians.”

  “No, no . . . Ms. . . . ?”

  Sergeant Cereno crossed his left leg and flipped a page in his notebook. “Ms. Jones.”

  “Ah . . . yes . . .” said Dr. Hovaugh. “Secretary?”

  “Janitor.”

  “Ah . . . yes . . . janitor.”

  Sergeant Cereno uncrossed his left leg and crossed his right leg. “So they’re not women?”

  “We hardly ever make that mistake.”

  Sergeant Cereno uncrossed both legs. The leisure suit crackled and shimmered. “What were they being treated for?”

  Dr. Hovaugh winced. “Well, now, that is a little complicated.”

  “Are they senile?”

  “It would be difficult to discuss the specific prognosis in lay terms. I suppose I should say at the start—”

  “Are they women?”

  “ . . . that many of the problems we face are those created by the divisions in the medical sciences and the social sciences, particularly in the—”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “ . . . areas of gerontology and cultural anthropology and the lack of—”

  “And they just walked away from the hospital?”

  “ . . . any substantive crossover research . . .”

  Sergeant Cereno raised his head from his notebook. There was a light wet sheen on the doctor’s face. Sergeant Cereno scribbled something in his notebook. “So, what exactly were they being treated for?”

  “Depression,” said Dr. Hovaugh.

  “Are they sociopaths?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “But you said they might be dangerous.”

  “Did I?”

  Cereno leafed back through the notebook. “Question: Are they dangerous? Answer: The Indians?”

  Dr. Hovaugh pushed down on the desk. “I see.”

  “So, they could be dangerous.”

  “Anything is possible.” Dr. Hovaugh swiveled back and forth in his chair. “The escape is a mystery. The door is always locked and there’s that heavy mesh on the windows.”

  “The door is always locked?”

  “Yes . . . Well, most of the time.”

  “But always at night?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “Always at night.”

  Sergeant Cereno leaned forward in the chair and stared at Dr. Hovaugh without blinking. He stayed like that, staring, until Dr. Hovaugh had to turn away. “Why do you lock the door?” he said finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If these Indians aren’t dangerous, why do you lock the door?”

  The desk swelled slightly. Dr. Hovaugh pressed down hard with his hands and feet. His eyes felt surprisingly heavy. “I’m afraid, sergeant, you’ll have to talk with the government about that.”

  “State or federal?”

  “Federal. As I’m sure you know, Indians come under their jurisdiction. We simply provide the services they need.”

  “The government?”

  “The Indians.”

  “Ah.”

  “The lock was their idea.”

  “The government?”

  Dr. Hovaugh closed his eyes for a moment and felt his body begin to relax. He could picture the desk he wanted—black slate and brass, thin and sleek. A desk with drawers that opened and closed regardless of the weather.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Hovaugh, trying to think of something else to say. “Yes.”

  “Yes?” said the Lone Ranger.
/>
  “What I would like to know,” said Ishmael, “is when we are going to eat.”

  “Yes,” said Robinson Crusoe. “I am very hungry.”

  “It would be nice to have a warm meal and a nap,” said Hawkeye.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ishmael. “A nap is a very good idea.”

  The Lone Ranger nodded and got down on his knees. He put his ear to the asphalt and listened. “Stay awake,” he said. “Our adventure is about to begin.”

  “Lionel! Lionel! Stay awake! You think any harder, you’ll be snoring. You better let me drive.”

  Lionel blinked. The car was straddling the yellow line. “I’m okay,” he said. “Wind is blowing pretty hard. Steering’s tricky.”

  Norma snorted. “Want to get back to the reserve in the same condition I left. I got other nieces and nephews besides you.”

  Lionel opened his eyes wide and blinked them several times.“Boy, if it weren’t for the clouds,” he said, “you could see all the way to the mountains.”

  “You could see the mountains real good if you came out to the reserve once in a while.”

  “I can see the mountains from Blossom.”

  “You could see your parents, too.”

  “I see them all the time.”

  Norma folded her arms across her chest. “Sad thing for a son to be ashamed of his parents.”

  “I was out there two or three weeks ago.”

  “Parents know these things, Lionel. Waste of breath to lie. Alberta gets out regular.”

  “She works at the university. She has more free time.”

  “Latisha comes out regular, too. Nothing to do with time, nephew. Has to do with pride.”

  “What about Charlie? You never see Charlie on the reserve anymore.”

  “Listen, nephew, maybe you should talk with Eli or your father, get yourself straightened out.”

  “You should stop by the store and see the display that Bill and I built.”

  “Alberta’s not going to wait forever, you know. And she’s not going to marry a city Indian who sells appliances.”

  “It takes up an entire wall.”

  “Eli wanted to be a white man, but he got over it.”

  The third mistake Lionel made was taking the job at Bill Bursum’s Home Entertainment Barn. Bursum owned the largest television and stereo store in Blossom, and he had the best selection of movies in the area. Lionel was returning a video when Bill caught him.

  “Hey, Lionel. How you doing? I heard about the job. Bad break. Government’s got no sense of humor.”

  “Way things go, I guess.”

  “Hey, how could you have known the van was stolen.”

  “It wasn’t stolen.”

  “Some people get more than their fair share of bad luck. You got plans?”

  “Go back to school, I think.”

  “School’s expensive. You got money saved up?”

  “The band will probably help me out.”

  “That’s right, you guys get all that free money. Hey, you know Charlie Looking Back, don’t you?”

  “Looking Bear. Sure, Charlie’s my cousin.”

  “That’s right. All you guys are related.”

  “Doesn’t Charlie work for you?”

  “Used to. Good man. Brought in a lot of business from the reserve. But he left. Went to Edmonton. I’m looking for someone to replace him.”

  “I’ll probably go back to school.”

  Bill unbuttoned his gold jacket and leaned on the counter. “You know, in a good year Charlie would make thirty-five, forty thousand dollars. You ask him next time you see him. Damn good opportunity for the right Indian.”

  “Sure.”

  “I think I’ve got a gold jacket that’ll fit you.”

  “Probably go back to school.”

  “Hey, school’s the way to go, all right.”

  That evening Lionel went out to the reserve. His mother was trying out a new recipe from the Italian cookbook his father had given her at Christmas. “It’s Tortino de Carciofi with Ribollita,” his mother told him as he came in the door.

  “What is it?”

  “Vegetable soup and an artichoke omelet.”

  “Where’d you get the artichokes?”

  “I had to substitute.”

  “So, what’s in it now?”

  “Elk.”

  Even Lionel had to admit it was tasty. Not exactly Italian, but tasty.

  “I’m thinking about going back to university.”

  “Good idea,” said his father. “Maybe you want to give me a hand this weekend.”

  “You know if the band has any money for school?”

  “Going to go to the mountains and cut some new poles.”

  “Bill Bursum offered me a job at his store.”

  “The old ones are pretty shot.”

  “Televisions and stereos. Pretty easy to sell.”

  “Sun Dance is coming up. Got to get the poles fixed up before then.”

  “Charlie used to work for him. Made forty, fifty thousand last year.”

  “Take part of a day. That’s all.”

  “I told Bill I was probably going to school.”

  Lionel’s father settled back in his chair and finished his coffee. “Some of our young people are getting jobs with that university degree, I hear. Alberta just got a teaching job in Calgary.”

  “But I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to work for a while.”

  “Course, Everett James and Maggie Plume and Jason Whiteman got university degrees, too. But they don’t have jobs.”

  “You know, get some money ahead.”

  “Jason says that no matter what your education, whites don’t want to hire Indians unless the government makes them.”

  “Make some firm plans.”

  “But that doesn’t sound like the government, does it? Making whites hire Indians.”

  “You and Mom should come down and see the store.”

  “Sure, son,” said Harley. “But me and your mother don’t need a new television right now.”

  Lionel called the band office the next morning, and Morris told him that all the money for the current year had been given out.

  “Lots of kids going to school, Lionel. Not like the old days.”

  That afternoon, he called Bill. The money wasn’t as good as Bill had said, but it was enough to allow Lionel to get some new clothes and a couple of credit cards. The next year came and went. So did the next one. Each year, Lionel swore he was going to get back to university, and each year he put off the application until it was too late.

  “If you’re going to go,” his father told him, “you probably better get going.”

  “No real rush. Get some of the bills paid off first.”

  “Maybe they got an age limit at that university.”

  “I’m only thirty-two. Don’t plan to sell televisions the rest of my life.”

  “When your grandfather was thirty-two,” his father said, “he was dead.”

  Lionel had almost stopped promising himself that next year would be the year when Charlie Looking Bear walked into the store one evening. Bill came out of his office and threw an arm around Charlie. “Lionel,” he shouted, “look who’s here.”

  “Hey, cousin,” said Charlie, “how you doing? Buffalo Bill treating you right?”

  “Can’t complain. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Just signed on with Duplessis International Associates. Got an office overlooking the river.”

  “Charlie’s into the big bucks,” said Bill. “You ought to sell him that new twenty-eight-inch set for his penthouse.”

  “Next time you’re in Edmonton, cousin, I’ll take you to lunch.”

  “Hey, I’ll bet you get all that easy Indian business,” said Bill. “Listen, you guys go ahead and catch up. Show him that new stereo system with the remote.”

  Charlie looked around the store. “Place hasn’t change
d much. How long you been here now?”

  “Not long.”

  “Thought you were going back to school.”

  “Next year.”

  “Hey, if I can do it, so can you. Look at me. You believe it? Come on outside. I got something to show you.”

  It was a red Porsche. The license said “L Bear.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Porsche is a good car.”

  “The best. It flies down the highway. You know what? They threw in a radar detector.” Charlie slid in behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. “Listen to this.”

  “Sounds great.” Lionel squatted by the side of the car.

  Charlie shook his head. “Bill’s an asshole, and the job is shit. You can do better.”

  “It’s just temporary until I payoff some bills.”

  “Smart move, John Wayne.” Charlie put on his driving gloves and turned on the headlights. “Mind the paint.”

  Lionel watched Charlie spin the car around and roar off down the street. Lionel watched him go, watched his taillights flash, disappearing into the dark. The night was alive with stars, and as Lionel looked west, he imagined he could see the outline of the Rockies reflected in the ocean of sky.

  Lionel sighed.

  Inside, through the plate glass windows, past the video posters and the clearance sale banners, he could see Bill, all smiles in his gold jacket, talking to a young couple and patting the new Panasonic.

  Outside, the night air was cold, but standing there, looking back at the store, Lionel felt exhilarated, intoxicated. For a long time, he stood there in the dark, smiling and swaying until the edges of his ears began to burn and he started to shiver. And as he came back through the darkness and into the light, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass.

  Alberta liked to drive. She liked to drive her own car, and she liked to drive alone. She didn’t like the idea of a trip, but once she was on her way, once the lights of the city were behind her and the road narrowed into the night, a feeling of calm always came over her, and the world outside the car disappeared. She rarely flew, hated planes, in fact. In a plane, she was helpless, reduced to carrying on an inane conversation with a total stranger or to reading a book while she listened for the telltale vibration in the engine’s pitch or the first groan of the wing coming away from the fuselage. And all the time, that faceless, nameless man sat in the nose of the plane, smiling, drinking coffee, telling stories, completely oblivious to impending disasters. Marriage was like that.