Green Grass, Running Water

by Thomas King

  When Alberta stepped through the entrance, the first thing she noticed were the people. More than there had been when they arrived. The center of the camp was filling up. Alberta looked around the circle, but she did not see Lionel.

  “Hello, Alberta.”

  Eli and Harley were leaning against a pickup, watching the people gather.

  “You looking for Lionel?”

  “No,” said Alberta, looking around. “Have you seen him?”

  “He was here,” said Eli. “But he’s not now.”

  “Have you seen Latisha?”

  “No,” said Harley. “Haven’t seen her, either.”

  Alberta left Eli and Harley and worked her way through the lodges to the open ground. It was going to be a beautiful day after all, and she had almost forgotten about standing in the parking lot of the Dead Dog. Her car was another matter.

  As she came around the side of a tepee, she saw Latisha standing across the circle. She was talking to a man, and at first Alberta didn’t recognize him.

  And then she did. George Morningstar. And across the distance between the two women, Alberta could feel Latisha’s body tense up, could feel her hands clench as she set her feet hard into the ground and waited.

  Alberta turned quickly and went back to Norma’s tepee. Eli and Harley were still at the pickup truck. Even before she reached the men, they stood up and began moving toward her.

  Latisha looked past George to the mountains. The sun was above the mountains now, and they had softened to deep blues and purples.

  “I called a couple of times, but you were busy.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I wrote you to say I was coming. Thought I’d say hello and see the kids. You get the letter?”

  “Sure.”

  George hadn’t changed much. He still had that innocent, vulnerable look to him. His hair was shorter and he had grown a weedy mustache. He was carrying a thick black case, the kind that salesmen use.

  “I got a new job.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I’m a photojournalist. Just had a story published in New Age. Maybe you saw it?”

  Latisha looked around, hoping she would see Norma or Alberta or her parents.

  “They’re crazy about Indians,” George said, watching Latisha, trying to catch her eye.

  “Who?”

  “The magazine. The magazine is crazy about Indians.”

  Latisha moved so that the sun was not in her eyes, so she could see George better.

  “Look,” he said, “I wanted to ask you if you thought people would get upset if I took a couple of pictures.”

  Latisha felt her face flush.

  “Be nice to get inside the big tent,” he said, pointing to the double lodge. “But a couple of shots of the men dancing around would be okay.”

  “You know cameras aren’t allowed.”

  “Sure, but that’s for strangers. Not family.”

  Latisha shifted her weight and locked her knees. As she did, there was a faint clicking sound as if she had stepped on something brittle. “That’s for everybody, George.”

  George looked at the crowd that had gathered around the circle. He swung the case around as he looked. “That’s pretty old-fashioned talk,” he said. “You’re not just mad at me, are you?”

  “George,” said Latisha, “I don’t even think about you. I don’t even read your letters.”

  “Well, there,” said George, smiling. “See. That’s why you’re surprised to see me. If you had read the letters, you would have known I was coming. I even called the restaurant a couple of times, but you were busy.”

  “I’m still busy,” she said. And Latisha tried to maneuver past George.

  But he moved with her, small movements, nothing aggressive, cutting her off from the rest of the people. The sound returned just at the edge of her hearing.

  “I’ve got work to do, George. Nobody cares if you stay. But you can’t take pictures.”

  “It’s almost the twenty-first century, Country. Look, they let you take pictures in church all the time. Hell, everything the pope does is on television. People are curious about these kinds of things. And the more people know, the more they understand.”

  “George—”

  “I mean, it’s not exactly sacred, is it? More like a campout or a picnic.”

  “George, go away.”

  George set the case on the grass. He fiddled with it for a moment, getting it to stand upright. “I really want to see the kids. If that’s okay.”

  “I don’t know where they are.” Latisha motioned toward the people. “They’re over there somewhere.”

  “Well,” said George, working a smile out of his mouth, “maybe I’ll just stay here out of the way and watch. If you see them, send them over.”

  The sound returned, louder. Clicking. Like an insect. Hard. Metallic.

  Latisha looked at George. He shrugged and looked off at the people.

  “George!” said Latisha. “Damn it, George.”

  George continued looking at the people and he continued smiling. “Looks about the same, Country,” he said in that soft, singsong manner he had. “Hasn’t changed much at all.”

  “We would have gotten here sooner,” said the Lone Ranger, “but Coyote knew a short cut.”

  “Who?” said Lionel.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” says Coyote. “Everyone wants to blame me.”

  “How’s the jacket, grandson?” said Ishmael.

  Lionel rolled his shoulders around in the jacket. “Look, it’s very nice. I mean, I like leather. And the fringe is . . . elegant. But I really can’t keep it.”

  “It looks a little tight,” said Hawkeye.

  “Well, it is a little tight.”

  “It looks hot, too,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  In fact, Lionel felt as if the jacket was suffocating him. Worse, the jacket had begun to smell. A stale, sweet smell, like old aftershave or rotting fruit.

  “It’s okay, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger. “We got to take it back, anyway.”

  “Take it back?”

  “We just borrowed the jacket,” said Ishmael.

  “To see if it would make you feel better,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t,” said Hawkeye.

  Coyote sat in the grass and spread his ears. “Listen,” he says to the old Indians. “You hear that?”

  The Lone Ranger, Ishmael, Robinson Crusoe, and Hawkeye turned their faces into the wind.

  “There,” says Coyote. “Hear it?”

  “Oh, oh,” said the Lone Ranger. “We got a problem.”

  Lionel looked around, but all he saw were the mountains and the camp and the people. “What’s wrong?”

  “Come on, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger. “You can give us a hand.” And the old Indians began walking back to the camp.

  “See,” says Coyote. “See. I can be helpful.”

  Lionel trailed after the old Indians. As they got near the edge of the camp, the old Indians turned and headed for the south side. And as they entered the cluster of lodges, Lionel saw a man and a woman standing, talking. The man was carrying what looked to be a large briefcase, and the woman was standing back with her arms folded across her chest.

  “Can you hear it, grandson?” said the Lone Ranger.

  Lionel couldn’t hear a thing, just the sound of the drum and the wind, but he recognized Latisha. Then he saw George, and he began walking faster, closing the distance between himself and his sister.

  “Wait up,” says Coyote. “Wait up.”

  Lionel was almost to Latisha when George felt the motion and turned around.

  “Hello, Lionel,” said George.

  “Hello, George.”

  “Nice-looking jacket,” said George. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” said Lionel.

  �
��Looks a lot like my jacket.”

  “Yes,” said the Lone Ranger. “It’s your jacket all right.”

  “If you look closely,” said Ishmael, “you can tell.”

  “We let Lionel borrow it for a while, but it didn’t help,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t,” said the Lone Ranger.

  George looked at Lionel, and he looked at the old Indians.“Who are you?”

  “I’m the Lone Ranger,” said the Lone Ranger. “And this is Ishmael and Robinson Crusoe and Hawkeye.”

  “Right,” said George. “And I’m General Custer.”

  “I’m Coyote,” says Coyote. “I really am Coyote.”

  Latisha moved toward Lionel and the old Indians. “He’s taking pictures.”

  George laughed. “Come on, Country.”

  “I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s taking pictures. With that case.”

  “I think you should probably give me my jacket back,” said George.

  Lionel looked at Latisha, and he looked at George. And then he heard it. A hard snap, a click, a mechanical movement.

  “I won’t even ask how you got it,” said George. “Just give me the jacket, and I’ll get going.”

  “What about the case?” said Lionel.

  “What about it?” said George.

  “About the right size for a couple of cameras.”

  “Come on,” said George. “Do you see me taking pictures?”

  “I don’t mind if you want to take my picture,” says Coyote.

  “What’s in the case?” Lionel said again.

  “Look,” said George, picking up the case and retreating one step, “you guys have your beliefs, and I have mine. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Open the case,” said Lionel.

  “No problem,” said George, and he began moving toward the edge of the camp.

  “Better open the case, George,” said Eli.

  Lionel turned to see his uncle and his father. And Alberta.

  “Hi, Alberta.”

  “Hi, Lionel.”

  “Open the case!” shouts Coyote. “Open the case.”

  George was surrounded. For a moment he looked as if he wanted to run. Instead, he smiled and shrugged and released the snaps on the case.

  There was a camera inside on a mount. The lens was pressed against one side of the case, and as George raised the flap, the shutter clicked and the motor drive automatically advanced the film.

  Eli looked in the case and nodded.

  “So what,” said George. “No harm in a couple of pictures.”

  “You can’t take pictures at the Sun Dance,” said Eli. His voice was flat and hard.

  “No law against it,” said George. “What are you going to do, scalp me?”

  “Scalp!” says Coyote. “Yuck! Where did you ever get an idea like that?”

  “Get the film, nephew,” said Eli.

  As Lionel moved toward the case, George stepped in front of it.

  “I’ll do it,” George said. “This is expensive gear.”

  George bent over the case and rewound the film. He took his time, making each movement slow and exaggerated, shielding the case with his body.

  “Here,” he said, and he tossed Lionel a canister of film.“Now what about my jacket?”

  Lionel turned to the Lone Ranger. “What about it?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Lone Ranger. “That’s a good idea. It’s time he got his jacket back.”

  Lionel slipped out of the jacket and handed it to George. George snapped the lid on the case and smiled at Latisha.

  “Good to see you again, Country,” he said.

  Lionel didn’t even see Eli move until he was on George, pushing him back, snatching the case from the man’s hand.

  “Hey, come on,” George shouted, and he came forward, reaching for Eli. But as he did, Lionel stepped in between the two men, forcing George back.

  “That’s mine, damn it.” George looked past Lionel. Eli was bent over the case.

  “Hey!” George yelled. “Hey, get out of there.” And he tried to shoulder his way through Lionel. But Lionel moved with him, blocking, keeping himself between his uncle and George.

  Eli released the camera from its mount, opened the back, and took out a roll of film.

  “You can’t do that!”

  Eli got to his feet and turned to face George. He held the film canister in his hand. “What’s this?”

  George was florid, a mottled yellow and orange. “Undeveloped film. Just blank film.”

  Eli reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.“Then this should cover it,” he said, and he caught the end of the film between his thumb and forefinger and stripped it out of the canister in a great curling arc.

  Eli dropped the exposed film into the case, turned, and walked back to where the dancers were beginning to come out of the main lodge.

  George watched Eli go. The case had tipped over on its side, was lying in the grass like a dead animal.

  “You can’t believe in this shit!” George shouted after Eli.“This is ice age crap!”

  Lionel moved forward, and George fell back several steps.

  “Probably time to go,” said Lionel.

  “Come on,” said George. “Come on! It’s the twentieth century. Nobody cares about your little powwow. A bunch of old people and drunks sitting around in tents in the middle of nowhere. Nobody cares about any of this.”

  “Go away, George,” said Latisha. “Just go away.”

  “You’re a joke!” George’s lips were wet with spit. “You all act like this is important, like it’s going to change your lives. Christ, you guys are born stupid and you die stupid.”

  Lionel picked up the case and set it on its feet. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  George’s arms were cocked at his side, quivering, as if they were hanging on springs. He stared at Lionel for a moment and then he grabbed the case and the camera and stomped off, staggering across the soft, uneven ground. As he got to the car, he turned and shouted, his mouth snapping open and shut like a trap. But the words vanished in the distance and the wind.

  Lionel and Alberta and Latisha and Harley and the old Indians and Coyote stood their ground and watched George throw the case into the trunk and climb into the car.

  “Well, grandson,” said the Lone Ranger, “that’s about as much as we can do for you. How do you feel?”

  Lionel jammed his hands into his pockets. “I feel fine.”

  “Fixing up the world is hard work,” said Ishmael.

  “Even fixing up the little things is tough,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Try not to mess up your life again,” said Hawkeye. “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

  “Let’s fix up some more things,” says Coyote. “I have lots of good ideas.”

  George’s car shot out from behind the lodges. It roared down the track to the lease road, throwing dirt and dust into the air. Lionel watched as the car hit the gravel, slid sideways, and bounced over the first rise and disappeared.

  Lionel looked at the old Indians. “That’s it?”

  “You bet,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “This is how you help me fix up my life?”

  “Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” said Ishmael.

  “Have I missed something?”

  “In the years to come,” said Robinson Crusoe, “you’ll be able to tell your children and grandchildren about this.”

  “You do this a lot?” said Lionel.

  “You don’t have to thank us, grandson,” said Hawkeye.

  “Come on,” said Lionel’s father. “Let’s go watch the men dance.”

  “Happy birthday,” said Alberta.

  “That’s right,” said Latisha. “Happy birthday, brother.” The circle was tightly formed now, the older people sitting in lawn chairs along the front edge, the younger people
standing at the back, the children constantly in motion. Norma caught them as they got to the circle.

  “Eli’s going to dance,” she told Lionel.

  “It’s okay, auntie,” said Lionel. “I need to calm down.”

  “No one’s begging you, nephew.”

  The sun was just above the mountains when the families gathered. Lionel watched as his mother and father made a space for Eli.

  Lionel looked around at the people. “Where’d the old Indians go?”

  Alberta looked up. “Who?”

  Lionel searched the camp again, but they were nowhere to be seen. “Never mind,” he said.

  Lionel stood with Alberta as the afternoon cooled and ran to evening. In a while, the dancers would return to the center lodge and the families would go back to their tepees and tents. And in the morning, when the sun came out of the east, it would begin again.

  Dr. Hovaugh sat in his hotel room in a sea of maps and brochures and travel guides. The book was lying open on top of the pile, and he hummed to himself as he consulted the book and then a map, the book and then a brochure, the book and then a travel guide. And, of course, there was the star. All the while, he plotted occurrences and probabilities and directions and deviations on a pad of graph paper, turning the chart as he went, literal, allegorical, tropological, anagogic.

  Slowly and with a great deal of self-assurance, Dr. Hovaugh took out a purple marker and drew a deliberate circle around Parliament Lake.

  “Tomorrow,” Dr. Hovaugh said, leaning back in the chair.“Tomorrow and tomorrow.” And he drew a second circle around the lake. And a third.

  “And tomorrow.”

  Charlie read through the magazine again. He was intrigued by the stunning three-bedroom condo in the West Edmonton Mall. Who would want to live in a mall? Perhaps you got free tickets for all the rides or a season pass for the wave pool. As he remembered, there was a car dealership in the mall and that would probably be handy if you lived there. And the restaurants and the bars and the movie theaters and the hundreds of stores.

  A three-bedroom condo in the West Edmonton Mall. Intriguing.

  Charlie looked at the phone, measured the distance for a moment, and picked it up. He knew the number by heart now, and he hit each key as if it were a musical composition.

  It had become such a routine—the dialing, the waiting, the busy signal—that he was already in the process of hanging up when he realized that the number was finally ringing.