The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste)

by Margaret Coel

  She pushed the thought away—it no longer mattered—and studied the menu. Then she stared through the plate-glass window at the pickups and sedans crawling down Main Street, the people hurrying along the sidewalk, dodging pieces of paper tossed in the breeze. The conversation with Weedly played over and over in her mind, like the cracked phonograph records in her grandmother’s house when she was a child. Had he really expected her to come up with some strategy that hadn’t occurred to any other tribal lawyer in the last decade?

  She smiled at the idea, so typical of her people. The Sioux and Cheyenne, they had taken up guns and bows and arrows and hatchets and gone out to right the wrongs, but the Arapahos said: Let’s eat and talk and smoke the pipe together. They would stay at the bargaining table, looking for some way out of an impasse, even when the soldiers were surrounding the villages.

  Madness. You couldn’t negotiate with people who didn’t want to negotiate. You had to fight white people with their own laws. The federal courts, she was sure, would support the tribe’s right to clean water in the Wind River. But before she could convince a federal court, she had to convince her own people.

  She spread the white napkin across her lap, then took a drink of the ice water the waitress had poured. Laughter erupted over the buzz of conversation from the nearby tables.

  Still no sign of Ben. She was beginning to wonder if she’d gotten the right day. He’d been calling since she’d returned to Lander. Morning and afternoon calls to her office, and she, training a new secretary, installing the fax machine—a thousand details. Calls in the evenings to her apartment. I have to see you.

  He’d called this morning, his voice tense, rushed. He was going to be in town. Dinner at the Peppermill? Six-thirty? “Fine,” she’d said, managing to squeeze the word past the tightness in her throat. Ben was the father of her children, Lucas and Susan. The ties between them, she knew, would never be completely severed.

  He was striding through the restaurant now with the purpose and confidence of a warrior, tall, still-in-shape, dressed in blue jeans and a starched white shirt that she knew instinctively he’d worn for her. She recognized the bolo tie with the silver eagle clasped below the opened collar. She had given him the tie on their tenth anniversary. The sight of him—when had she seen him last? four months ago?—sent a shiver running through her.

  “Sorry.” He yanked the chair from the table so hard that it floated free from the floor, like a piece of driftwood in his hand. Then he squared it a couple of feet from the table and sat down, not taking his eyes from her.

  Vicky felt her mouth go dry. The memories came, unasked for, unwanted: Ben slamming into the house, shouting at the kids, kicking at the dog. And the smell of whiskey permeating the air, and she in the kitchen, standing over the sink, retching with the odor and the fear.

  She made herself take a sip of ice water and tried to detect the odor now. Only the slightest whiff of aftershave.

  “It’s okay, Ben,” she said, falling back into that other time. It’s okay, honey. Take it easy.

  “Business problem. Took longer than I thought.” He waved the waitress over, a short, slim woman probably in her thirties with the stooped shoulders of someone much older and black, curly hair that emphasized the lines of fatigue in her face.

  “Couple juicy burgers and some coffee, Lucy,” Ben said.

  Vicky started to change her order—a bowl of soup and a salad had sounded good—then stopped. It was barely perceptible, the silent acknowledgment between Ben and the waitress, as if they shared some secret. The woman nodded, then moved away.

  Ben took a drink of water. He was gripping the glass hard. She could see the white peaks of his knuckles poking through the brown skin, and she felt her own muscles tighten with the effort—curious how familiar it seemed—to position herself somewhere out of the line of his anger.

  “Goddam busiest season.” He spat out the words, as if they’d been talking for the last hour. She couldn’t remember when they’d last talked. The hurried telephone calls—she’d been in a hurry to end them—hardly counted.

  She tried to concentrate on what he was saying about the Arapaho Ranch, where he was the foreman: shorthanded as hell right now, moving the herds to the high pastures, blasting out new roads, a couple of ponds. “Hell of a time for two Lakota bastards to rip me off.” He shifted his gaze to some point across the restaurant, as if he wanted to reel the words back in.

  “Rip you off?” she said.

  Ben jerked back against the chair. “Forget it.” He locked eyes with her, and she felt herself becoming small. “Those slimy bastards didn’t reckon on who they’re dealing with. I caught up with them a couple hours ago. This time tomorrow, there’s not going to be any problem.”

  A chorus of laughter and the sound of clinking glass floated over from the next table. Ben turned and glared at the two couples. “Jesus, what I wouldn’t give for a drink right now,” he said, locking eyes with her again. “That’s over. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m glad for you,” Vicky said after a moment.

  The waitress set two mugs of coffee on the table, then delivered the plates of hamburgers with french fires piled on the side. “You and me, Vicky. We’ve got unfinished business,” he said after the waitress had stepped away. He was shaking the ketchup bottle over the fries.

  Vicky held her breath. She knew the rest of it. It was as familiar as a wound that refused to heal, always there, festering. “Listen, Ben . . .”

  “First thing we have to do is get Susan home.” Ben lifted his hamburger and took a bite.

  “Susan?” Vicky hadn’t anticipated a discussion about the kids. “What are you talking about?”

  He swallowed quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Eat.” He nodded toward her untouched hamburger. “You don’t eat enough. You’re too thin. You need to get some meat on your bones.”

  Vicky took her knife and sawed the hamburger in two, then picked up the smaller piece. Going through the motions now. She had no appetite.

  “Lucas is working in Denver,” Ben went on. “Not the same as living here, but Denver’s only seven hours away. You finally came to your senses and moved back. Now all we gotta do is get Susan here, and our family’ll be together again.”

  Vicky set the hamburger down. There was no family to reclaim. There were only individuals trying to make their way, and Ben, determined to round them up into a corral, the way he rounded up the herd on the ranch. “Susan has a good job in Los Angeles,” she heard herself saying. “She has friends. She has a nice apartment.”

  “She can work at the ranch. I need another bookkeeper, and she’s good at computers.”

  “You expect Susan to live on the ranch? A hundred miles from anywhere, surrounded by a bunch of cowboys?”

  “Any of the bozos touch her, he answers to me.”

  “Ben, for godssake.”

  “Listen to me, Vicky.” He leaned over the table. “We gotta start somewhere, you and me.”

  “We’re never going to start again.”

  “Lucas can drive up on weekends.”

  “My God, Ben.”

  “We’ll be together,” he went on, and Vicky realized he was talking to himself, repeating what he probably told himself in the middle of the night, like some madman, unhinged from reality. “We’ll go to the celebrations and the powwows, like we used to. Remember? You and me and the kids. We had a great time. We’ll go out to my brother’s place for dinner. Get to know one another again.”

  Vicky threw her napkin on the table and got to her feet, aware of the other diners craning around to watch. “I’m going to call Susan and tell her to stay in Los Angeles where she’s happy,” she said. “I’m going to tell her she can’t live out your fantasy of the perfect family that we never were.”

  The color drained from Ben’s face, something changed behind his eyes. He laid his hands flat on the table and pushed himself to his feet, rising toward her, his chest heaving with the gulps of brea
th. Instinctively she drew back, the restaurant swam around her. She felt sick.

  “You don’t care about the family.” He drew out the words until they hung between them like black smoke. “All of us broken apart like these here dishes.” He grabbed a fistful of the white tablecloth and yanked it off the table. Plates, mugs, glasses lifted into the air, then crashed onto the carpet in a crumpled heap of white cloth, hamburger, fries, ketchup, shards of glass. Coffee and water pooled over the table and gathered into creamy puddles on the chairs.

  “You listen to me.” He took hold of her shoulder. His fingers dug into her flesh. She was aware of the stunned silence around them, the diners leaning toward them. “I’ve had enough of people taking what belongs to me. Susan’s coming home. Lucas is gonna come home sooner or later. We’re gonna work everything out between us, Vicky. You and me.”

  He let go of her so abruptly that she staggered backward, groping for the edge of the table to steady herself. Ben was already heading toward the front, a sure and unhurried pace, as if the most serious negotiations had just been settled. The hostess moved sideways as he shouldered past, and then he was out the door. The restaurant was quiet.

  Vicky fumbled in her bag for a couple of bills, which she tossed on the table—they fluttered into a pool of water—aware of the waitress frozen in place a few feet away, staring at the mess strewn over the carpet. Outside the window, Ben’s brown truck screeched into the street, black clouds fuming from the exhaust pipe. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dark truck pull in behind.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled toward the adjacent tables. Then she made her feet carry her through the dining room. Outside she kept close to the brick building, her legs shaking beneath her. She turned the corner and crossed the parking lot to the Bronco. Gripping the keys in the bottom of her bag, unlocking the door. She sank gratefully into the front seat and made herself take a deep breath. She had to be calm. It was only a scene—there had been others. And she knew the next scene: the ringing phone, Ben’s voice at the other end. He was so sorry. Didn’t know what had gotten into him. Could she ever forgive him?

  No, she could not. Whatever talent she’d had for forgiveness was gone.

  She turned the ignition and drove out of the lot, aware of the other diners inside the restaurant, mannequin heads turned toward the street, eyes following the Bronco.

  She continued north, then turned west, driving aimlessly, eating up the time until Ben was out of town before she returned to her apartment.

  5

  My relations, the ancestors are crying for the pain you have endured. They stumble and fall with their tears as they walk through the clouds. They cry because the evil people want to stop our dancing and prevent the new world from coming, just like in the Old Time. I say to you, the evil ones must not prevail. We must dance on and on.

  Father John parked in front of the apartment building, a flat-roofed, red-bricked, two-story affair with arched windows and a glass entrance that, with the exception of the enormous blue spruce over the front sidewalk, probably hadn’t changed in fifty years. The sun had begun to slip behind the mountains, sending layers of red, orange, and violet through the sky. A few vehicles slowed past; a car door slammed down the street.

  Father John let himself into the small entry. A bank of metal mailboxes lined the wall on the right. He found DEAN LITTLE HORSE among the typed names in the windows. Apartment 2D.

  He took the stairs on the left two at a time, came out through a steel fire door, and started down the corridor. The bronze fixtures dangling from the ceiling cast an eerie shade of yellow over the beige walls and worn beige carpet. The black numbers were barely visible on the doors. New Age music, soft and melodious, drifted past one of the doors. A baby was crying behind another.

  He knocked on 2D. Silence. He rapped again, louder this time.

  He waited a moment, then rapped on the door across the hall. Another moment passed before the door opened. A stocky, blond-haired man in his mid-twenties with fish eyes that blinked at him from behind thick glasses, wedged himself next to the frame.

  Father John said he was looking for Dean Little Horse.

  “You got the wrong place, partner.”

  The door started to close, and Father John placed his hand against the panel. “Look,” he said hurriedly. “I’m a priest at St. Francis Mission. I’m trying to find the man across the hall. How long have you been here?”

  The door opened wider. Interest flashed in the fish eyes. “Honey?” he called without looking away. “When we move in? Thursday? Friday?”

  “Thursday.” A woman’s voice came from inside. Beyond the man’s thick legs, Father John could see the stacked cartons, the plastic bubble wrap scattered over the green carpet.

  “Ain’t seen nobody over there,” the man said.

  Father John felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Dean had been missing since Thursday.

  Father John thanked the man and started back down the corridor. The door slammed behind him, creating a kind of vacuum that trapped the muffled sounds of flutes, the faint smell of onions.

  He stopped at 2B and knocked. Beyond the door, the scrape of footsteps. Finally the door inched open, held in place by a brass chain that bisected the face of a tall, good-looking woman with curly red hair. The sound of flutes rose around her.

  “What is it? She peered under the chain and ran her fingers through a tangle of curls.

  He told her his name, and she leaned into the opening, her gaze traveling from his cowboy hat to his plaid shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. “Priest?”

  He ignored the skepticism in her tone—it wasn’t the first time he’d encountered skepticism—and told her he was looking for Dean Little Horse, who lived down the hall.

  “Indian guy.”

  That was right. Did she have any idea where he might be?

  “He’s an okay guy.” The woman visibly relaxed against the edge of the door.

  “When did you last see him?”

  She shrugged. “Haven’t seen them around for a while.”

  “Them? Who else lives there?”

  The woman fastened her eyes on the chain for a moment. “Some Indian woman. Never got her name. She was weird, you ask me. Came and went around here like a shadow. Kept to herself. Wouldn’t even say good morning. Not like Dean. He was real friendly. Helped me dig my car out of the snow last March.”

  “Any idea where she might have worked?”

  The woman gave a little shrug and went back to pulling her fingers through her hair. “From the way she looked, I’d say check the bars.”

  Father John was quiet. Louise Little Horse was right. Dean had a girlfriend. He said, “Where can I find the manager?”

  The woman pulled a red curl toward the stairway. “First floor, first door on the left.”

  Father John made his way back through the steel door and down the stairs. He tried the manager’s door, waited a few seconds, then knocked again. A phone was ringing inside—four, five rings—and then it stopped.

  He headed outside. A middle-aged man in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, with a thick chest and a stomach that bulged over his belt buckle, was looming up the sidewalk. “You lookin’ for somebody?” he called.

  “Dean Little Horse.” Father John dodged around the branches of the Blue Spruce. “You the manager?”

  “One and only.” The man squared his massive shoulders. “What happened? Girlfriend couldn’t find him, so she sent you around?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Father O’Malley from the reservation.”

  “Oh.” The man chewed on his lower lip a moment. “Heard’a you, the Indian priest. Well, I don’t like them Indians around here. Nothing but trouble every time I rent to ’em. Got the correctness police now, swooping down if I say I ain’t renting to Indians, so I got to be careful. Dean, he seemed like a good guy, so I took a chance on him. Bad mistake. He takes off last Thursday. Girlfri
end comes around, gets hysterical. Says she’s gotta find him.”

  “When exactly was she here?”

  The man rolled his eyes to the sky. “Last night. Yeah, Sunday night.”

  “You know her name?”

  “That’s a problem I got with Little Horse.” The manager kept his eyes on the sky. “Never told me there was gonna be two of ’em in the apartment a lotta times. I charge more for two people. More wear and tear on the building, you know what I mean? Took a while before I figured out the girl was staying over a lot. I told Dean, your rent just went up, buddy.”

  “Her name.” Father John spoke through his teeth.

  “How should I know? Wasn’t like she was official here. Kept to herself. Didn’t like nobody getting friendly with her, know what I mean?”

  Father John wondered how friendly the manager had tried to get. He said, “If you hear from Dean, ask him to call me at St. Francis Mission.”

  The man shrugged, then shouldered past, stepping off the sidewalk into the dirt and throwing aside a branch as he went.

  Father John got into the Toyota, took the notepad out of his shirt pocket, and wrote: Last seen, Thursday. Girlfriend: Indian. Looking for Dean Sunday night.

  The manager had disappeared inside the entrance when Father John started the engine and pulled into the street, but he could feel the eyes watching him through the slats that covered the corner window on the first floor. He headed toward Main Street.

  The streetlights had flashed on, and little circles of white light shone into the dusk dropping over the cars parked at the curbs. Father John eased on the brake, trying to make out the numbers on the flat-faced brick buildings. Finally he caught an address illuminated by a neon sign blinking in the plate-glass window.

  He took the next intersection on the yellow light and pulled up in front of a white stucco building with a pair of plate-glass windows on either side of the blue paneled door. Painted across the top in large black letters were the words BLUE CROW SOFTWARE. He got out and walked to the door. Locked.