“That business last night,” Ralph began, glancing from his wife to his little boy—it wasn’t good to be too specific—“Father John says the guy’s from Oklahoma.”
“I was born in Oklahoma,” LuAnn said. “What’s his name?”
Father John repeated the name he’d learned an hour ago. It already had a familiar sound, like the refrain of a sad melody.
LuAnn was silent a moment. Finally she said, “Some Many Horses lived over by El Reno. Ran a big ranch. I always heard they was stuck up. Thought they was better’n everybody else ’cause they’d held onto their land back when a lotta Oklahoma Indians sold out to the white settlers. Like my great-grandfather. He sold his land.” She shrugged and looked into the distance. “He didn’t have no choice. He needed the money real bad.”
The opening of Oklahoma—Father John had taught the subject in his American history classes. Suddenly the story seemed real, as if it had happened yesterday and still mattered. Odd how history had a way of coming alive for him here, among the Arapahos. More alive than it had ever seemed in the classroom. He finished the sandwich and drained the last of his lemonade.
“Don’t matter how stuck up people get,” LuAnn was saying. “Nobody deserves . . .” She stopped, looked down at the little boy, and ran her fingers through his black hair.
Ralph said, “Heard the police arrested a couple of protesters this morning for blockin’ traffic over at Ethete. They can get real mean for peace-lovin’ folks. Wouldn’t surprise me none if one of ’em followed that Indian out to that old cabin and robbed him and . . .” Now it was his turn to glance at the boy, who sat sipping lemonade, eyes wide above the brim of the glass.
“It’s possible,” Father John said. Gianelli and Banner thought so. He might even believe it if he hadn’t spoken with the cowboy.
The wind picked up, curling the edges of the blanket; the sun had slipped behind a bank of clouds as heavy and gray as metal. Thunder rumbled over the mountains in the west, and LuAnn jumped up and pulled the little boy with her. Both Father John and Ralph got to their feet, the Indian hoisting the baby under one arm.
“I just wish all them outsiders would stay away from here and tend to their own business,” LuAnn said, scooping up the empty glasses in the blanket. They clacked together as she threw the blanket over one shoulder, and, holding onto the boy’s hand, stepped onto the front stoop. “They got jobs where they live. We got a right to jobs here.”
Father John let the remark pass. It wasn’t something he could argue against. He thanked the couple and patted the baby wriggling in the crook of his father’s arm. He’d enjoyed being here. He liked the sense, if only for a moment, of being part of a family.
Thunder cracked overhead. Out of nowhere came a gust of wind that slammed the screen door back against the house—the kind of gust that meant rain was close. Father John dipped his head into the wind, holding onto his cowboy hat as he walked to the Toyota.
By the time he backed past the stoop, the family had disappeared inside the house. Suddenly LuAnn burst past the screen door and ran toward the pickup, the wind steering her sideways, her black hair blowing in her face. He hit the brake and reached over to roll down the passenger window. She leaned inside, pushing back her hair with one hand, gripping the rim of the door with the other, as if to stop herself from blowing away. “I just thought of somethin’. Ain’t that woman that runs the big ranch south of Lander one of them Many Horses?”
“What woman?”
“The one married that white man.” The wind crashed against her, muffling her voice. She shouted, “I hear she’s a widow now. Never comes on the reservation. None of them Many Horses ever mixed with the People. Just stays out on her ranch.”
“What’s it called?”
LuAnn shook her head. “That big place west of the highway, rammed up there against the foothills. You can’t miss it.”
9
Big drops of rain splattered against the windshield as Father John drove south on Given’s Road. If what LuAnn said was true, the cowboy could have come home—home being where he had some family. And that meant Banner and Gianelli could be right. The cowboy could’ve flashed his cash in the wrong bar, and somebody could’ve offered him a ride, intending to rob him. It made sense, except . . . He thumped the edge of the steering wheel with his fist. Except for the phone call.
He turned east on Seventeen-Mile Road, which shimmered in the rain like an Impressionist’s painting. Still the rain. The Eagles wouldn’t be practicing this afternoon, he realized with an acute sense of disappointment. But the other teams in the league wouldn’t be practicing either. That was some consolation.
He was anxious for baseball to start. He loved the practices, the games, the sun streaming over fields that changed from green to brown as the season wore on, the Indian kids connecting with the ball, racing around the bases, sliding into home, uniforms smudged with dirt, brown faces laughing. The shouts and cheers. The unbearable tension when the count was full, the bases loaded, and the best hitter up at bat. Even the errors and fumbled balls and strikeouts—he loved it all.
There was a part of himself he recognized in baseball. Recognized in the Arapaho kids. He hadn’t been a whole lot different from them, back when he’d played on the sandlots of Boston. He’d believed in possibilities then. He still did. Just like the kids here. No matter what happened in the past, with each new season came new possibilities, a new beginning.
“It can’t rain forever,” he said out loud, the sound of his own voice surprising him. Now he was talking to himself. The season had better get underway soon, he thought.
As he turned right into the mission, he spotted the cars and pickups blocking Circle Drive. People were milling about, sweatshirts and jackets flattened against their backs by the rain. Two BIA police cars had drawn in behind the other vehicles, and several policemen, dark slickers snapped over their uniforms, stomped back and forth, like traffic cops, directing the crowd. Father Geoff was sheltering under an umbrella at the top of the stairs, intent on the scene unfolding below.
Father John stopped the pickup and jumped out. Rain lashed at his shirt; the wetness crept across his shoulders. Spotting Chief Banner at the edge of the crowd, he started toward him. “What’s going on?” he called.
Banner swung around, anger and determination in his eyes. Thin strands of water ran off the beak of his blue cap. “They’re leavin’,” he said. An ultimatum. “Real peaceful-like. If the whole lot of ’em isn’t off the mission grounds in two minutes, I’m arrestin’ ’em for trespassing and disturbing the peace. They’ll be guests over at the county jail tonight.”
Thunder ripped overhead and, seconds later, lightning flashed around them. One of the protesters turned toward Father John. “You in charge here?” He had a round, fleshy face. Water dripped off the end of his nose, and clumps of blond hair lay flattened against his forehead. His gray sweatshirt had turned wet-black. “Randolph March,” he said, “professor of literature, University of Colorado. It is immoral and outrageous to establish a nuclear waste facility among the indigenous peoples. We are here to ask the priests of St. Francis Mission to stand with us for what is right.”
“They’ve been chanting and shouting for an hour.” This from Father Geoff, now planted next to the police chief.
“Because you refused to meet with us,” the professor said, turning his gaze on Father Geoff. “A sad day, indeed, when even priests refuse to face the serious moral consequences of storing nuclear waste.”
“I informed them they had to leave,” Father Geoff shouted, as if to affirm he’d taken the correct action. Water dripped off the black bulge of his umbrella and onto Banner’s shoulder. Another clap of thunder, then lightning split the sky, but farther away now, out on the plains.
“Everybody’s leavin’,” Banner said, stepping forward, as if to herd the professor toward the dispersing crowd.
“I’d like to discuss this with you,” Father John said.
A mixture of surprise and wariness cross
ed the professor’s face.
“Come back after the public hearing. I want to hear what the speakers have to say first.” Most of the crowd had disappeared amid a chorus of slamming car doors.
March let out a long guffaw. “You’ll hear rave reviews. You’ll hear how the facility will be the safest scientific experiment since Marconi transmitted a message across the Atlantic. Nobody who opposes the facility will have the chance to speak. The opposition won’t be on the agenda.”
“Vicky Holden will be speaking.” Father John assumed it would be true.
Randolph March was shaking his head. “I’m afraid you are misinformed, Father. Some of the indigenous people, misguided as they may be, intend to build the facility here. Believe me, they have no intention of allowing that attorney to speak, not with the articles she’s written.” He stepped past them and headed toward one of the remaining pickups. A line of cars and pickups had begun moving around Circle Drive, water splattering in the wake of the tires.
Father John turned back to the police chief, who raised both shoulders in a long, deliberate shrug. Father Geoff moved in closer, hoisting the umbrella a little higher. “He could be right,” Banner said. “It’s lookin’ like that nuclear facility business is decided. Folks wantin’ to bring it here don’t want any opposition. Vicky’s steppin’ around land mines. Somebody tried to kill her this morning.”
“What?” The sound of his voice startled Father John, as if it had come from someone else. Everything seemed to stop, even time itself.
Banner said, “Didn’t she tell you? I thought you two were friends. Somebody tried to run her down in Lander. Detective Eberhart called me about it. Seems she’s been getting some threats the last couple weeks.” The chief kept his gaze on Father John. “Didn’t tell you about any of it, huh?”
Father John looked away. This was the emergency. This was why she hadn’t called back. Somebody had tried to kill her. He was aware of his assistant watching him, and he struggled to keep his voice calm. “Is she all right?”
“Scared,” Banner said. “Takes a lot to scare that woman. We don’t know for sure it has to do with this nuclear waste business. Eberhart thinks it could be something else. Anybody that messes with families the way lawyers do—divorces and all that—well, they pile up enemies. Lander police’ll keep a close watch on her. And my boys’ll be all over the public hearing in case there’s any trouble.” The chief placed a gloved hand on Father John’s arm. “Don’t worry about her. She did the smart thing takin’ it to the police.”
The chief removed his hand and started toward the remaining police car, where a lone officer waited in the passenger seat. The other police car had followed the last of the protesters’ vehicles out of the mission.
“Come to think of it, John,” Banner said, starting to get behind the wheel, one booted foot still set on the ground. “You might wanna reconsider gettin’ involved with this nuclear waste business. Father Geoff there”—he nodded toward the younger priest—“was right callin’ us. This is volatile stuff. A lot of money ridin’ on the outcome. You never know what folks’ll do if somebody gets in the way of their gettin’ some big money. And another thing, if I was you I’d stay away from the public hearing. No use lookin’ for trouble.”
Father John started toward the car. “I have no intention of staying away, Banner.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” The chief lowered himself onto the seat. “You’re just like Vicky—way too stubborn for your own good. Neither one of you knows when to back off. Well, this nuclear facility’s somethin’ you oughtta think about backin’ away from. Let the experts make the decisions. Look where her meddling has got Vicky. Somebody warnin’ her off, tryin’ to scare her. Some screwball even tryin’ to run her down. Neither of you gets paid for takin’ those kinds of risks, you know. We’re the ones getting paid for that.” He pulled the door shut, and the police car started around Circle Drive.
Father John walked past the other priest toward the rain-washed steps of the administration building, his shirt soaked against his back. As he passed Father Geoff, he saw the judgment in the man’s eyes.
10
Headlights streamed across the parking lot in front of Blue Sky Hall as pickups and 4×4s rolled between rows of parked vehicles searching for empty spaces. A crowd gathered at the front door, holding signs overhead—white flags shimmering in the glow of the lights. Vicky stared past the rain on the Bronco’s windshield, her stomach tightening into a knot: Her articles had brought the protesters here. Her own people had to dodge past them to enter the hall.
She punched down on the accelerator and swerved around a couple of cars waiting to turn into the lot. A little farther, and she wheeled to the right, sending the Bronco bumping through a shallow ditch. Water spurted over the windshield, and suddenly she was rolling across the graveled lot toward the west side.
Just as her grandfather used to do, with the whole family packed into the pickup, four adults up front, kids on the hard, ridged floor in back, bundled in scratchy wool blankets. He would pull around the traffic on Ethete Road and plunge downward across the ditch—a shallow ditch, any good quarter horse could bound across—and park on the west side for the powwows, the wakes, the meetings, all the excuses for the People to come together, just as they did in the Old Time. She felt a momentary surge of satisfaction: She wouldn’t have to walk past the outsiders.
She set the Bronco close to the building. The headlights washed over the red paint faded to the color of dried raspberries. Hers was the only vehicle in the side lot, which gave way to the open spaces beyond, the wide expanse of darkness. She flipped off the headlights. Except for the thin splotches of moonlight falling through the clouds, darkness crept around her. She grabbed her purse from the seat and leaned over to retrieve the briefcase that had slipped to the floor.
As she stepped out into the rain, she saw a small group approaching, blurred, bulky shapes moving in and out of the moonlight. She couldn’t tell whether they were men or women. They walked with assurance, as if they intended to overtake her, to place themselves between her and the side entrance.
She drew in her breath, slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, set the briefcase against the Bronco’s door, and slammed it hard. A sharp whack in the darkness. Then she started toward the hall, her high heels tapping the gravel. She ignored the shadowy figures drawing so close she could sense the moist heat of their bodies. “Vicky, wait.” A woman’s voice.
She swung around, facing five women in parkas and slickers, hoods pulled low over their foreheads against the prickly rain. One of the women stepped forward. She recognized Liz Abel; they’d gone to St. Francis Mission School together until the eighth grade, when Liz had dropped out. She’d had a son that year. Now deep creases ran at the edge of her cheeks; her lips looked chapped. There was tiredness in her eyes, and a blend of fear and confusion. “Maybe you don’t wanna go in there,” Liz said.
Vicky was quiet, waiting. The sounds of tires crunching gravel floated from the front; a headlight bounced into the side lot and caught the faces of the women in a brief glow.
“A lot of folks are real mad about you writin’ those articles,” Liz continued, moving closer. Vicky could smell the cigarettes on her breath. The other women moved hooded heads, up and down, up and down, like balls bouncing on their shoulders. “They got the place packed. Nobody who ain’t for the facility is gonna get to talk. They ain’t even lettin’ in them protesters. They got people at the front door tellin’ ’em they gotta wait ’til all the Indians get here.”
“I’m on the agenda.”
“No, you ain’t.” This from another woman, stepping around Liz. Vicky didn’t know her. So many changes in the ten years she’d been away, people marrying Arapahos and moving to the reservation. Even if she were to move back on the rez, she wondered if she would ever feel at home again. She forced herself to focus on what the woman had said.
“How do you know?”
Liz dug into one o
f the pockets of her parka and thrust a white paper at Vicky. “You ain’t listed on the agenda. Only people gonna get to talk are gonna tell us how great it’ll be havin’ that nuclear waste here.”
Vicky glanced at the paper. It was too dark to make out what it said. Then she stepped to the building’s side door and attempted to yank it open. It shuddered and creaked, resisting her effort. Most people used the main entrance. Finally the door gave about an inch. A thin sliver of light escaped from inside, illuminating the faces around her, the moisture on the women’s cheeks, the dropped glances.
“You shouldn’t go in there.” Liz again.
“Did someone send you here to tell me that?” Vicky saw by the blend of embarrassment and shame in their expressions she had hit upon the truth. “Your husbands?”
Liz said, “Larry’s been out of work now a couple years. Just puttin’ up the buildings is gonna mean a lot of work. He does construction, you know.”
“Are you saying it’s okay to have radioactive materials on the reservation?”
The women were quiet, eyes turned toward the front, toward the sound of doors slamming, footsteps scattering the gravel. Toward the sky. Rain fell softly on their parkas.
Vicky decided to plunge on: “You have children. Doesn’t it concern you how radioactive waste will affect the air they breathe? The water they drink? The earth they play on?”
“It’s not about that,” Liz said, raising a hand to wipe the moisture from her face. Vicky saw the slight tremble in the motion.
“What is it about?”
“Our gettin’ back somethin’. Our gettin’ somethin’ of our own, Larry says.”
“What do you say?”
“Maybe it ain’t for us to say.” Liz glanced quickly at the other women, all nodding in agreement. “It’s like this, Vicky. We can’t talk against our men. I mean, they come here tonight ’cause they need work. So what’re we supposed to do? Stand up and say don’t bring no jobs here?”
The Dream Stalker Page 7