by David Crow
NOT FAR FROM WINDOW ROCK on our way back, the car jolted to a sudden stop. Ahead of us were the Haystacks, a series of connected mounds of sculpted red stones, and a pickup, squashed like an accordion into a rock the size of an elephant. BIA license tags were visible on the back of the truck. Dad said the driver must have stopped off at the Navajo Inn after work and stayed too long.
As the safety officer, Dad inspected government accidents, and that included anything involving BIA vehicles. “Based on the condition of this pickup,” he said, “the guy went to the happy hunting ground, the place where drunks go when they exit the surly bonds of Earth’s grasp.”
Dad chuckled at his witty use of the English language and opened the car door. I got out to follow him.
“Stay here,” he said, grabbing a pen from the glove compartment. “You’re not prepared for this.” He reached into the back seat and picked up a clipboard, an accident report form, and cloth gloves.
I leaned out the window to get a better look, but I couldn’t figure out what I was seeing. Seconds later, curiosity took over, and I jumped out.
Sneaking up behind Dad, I saw rivulets of blood shaped like an elaborate spider’s web in the dirt near the front wheel. A bloody torso in a plaid shirt hung out the windshield like a headless scarecrow. Flies buzzed everywhere.
On the ground, Dad knelt next to a severed head. It had a smashed nose and deep gashes on both purplish cheeks, framed by a long braid of black hair resting on its right ear.
Dark brown eyes stared back at me.
When my brain could make sense of the scene, vomit surged through my mouth, violently emptying my stomach. My insides shook. I wiped my face with the bottom of my sweaty T-shirt.
Dad stood up. “I told you to stay in the car. Get your ass back there and wait for me. I’ll be finished with the paperwork soon.”
Several moments later, he opened the driver’s door and tossed the clipboard onto the seat and then went back and picked up the dead man’s head by the braid. It dangled like a tetherball that had come loose from the pole. He placed the head inside the smashed truck cab.
My throat burned, and vomit coated my mouth. I coughed several times, and Dad handed me the water jug. “Take a deep swig, spit it out, and take a drink to clean out your throat.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Toughen up, damn it.”
Dad got back on the highway, made a U-turn, and stopped in front of the Navajo Inn, a lone, nondescript bar. Drunks staggered in and out. Unconscious men cluttered the parking lot, and two guys lay facedown in the road. There were no streetlights, and at night the locals often ran over them in the dark.
“Navajo alcoholism is a terrible tragedy.” Dad panned the parking lot and shook his head. “Selling alcohol on a reservation is a federal crime. Isn’t it ironic that this guy got killed driving back to the reservation after drinking until he couldn’t see straight? This little bar is only a half mile from the reservation and the Arizona border—and it’s the largest liquor outlet in the entire state. The Mexicans running this joint have a license to steal. And the Navajo tribe helps them. They laugh all the way to the bank.”
Two men teetered out of the bar together, leaning on each other to stay on their feet. “The driver probably never knew what hit him,” Dad said. “Maybe he’s better off than the ones who freeze to death in the parking lot or get run over.”
He turned to me. “Half the PhDs in America study Indian alcoholism, but nothing changes because no one really gives a shit. And you’re worried about stealing tools.” He laughed. “Come on. Let’s go home to get some grub. We’ve had a helluva good day.”
Whenever Dad did something wrong, he told stories that made his actions seem acceptable, even reasonable by comparison—Mexican bastards killing Navajos with whiskey and white invaders stealing everything from Indians trapped on reservations. Examples of rough justice, as he called it, which included beating assholes who richly deserved it—and more often than not, I was that asshole.
CHAPTER 26
ONE FRIDAY THAT FALL, AFTER playing catch with Tommy in front of his trailer, my brother and I came home for dinner to find Lonnie, Sally, and Dad sitting around the kitchen table. Dad’s loud voice boomed, “Goddamn those bastards. I’ll go to your high school and kick their asses.”
Though only six years old, Sally listened in on most of our conversations. As Dad ranted on, she sat on her knees with her elbows on the table, her head resting in her hands, and took in every word. Lonnie mumbled something and then pushed back her chair and walked past Sam and me, her eyes shiny with tears. Soon we heard the Rambler’s engine start and the car rolling down the street.
Dad waved for Sam and me to sit with him and Sally at the table. “David, tonight you’re going to make things right for your big sister.”
“How?” I asked.
“Some of Lonnie’s classmates are having a hayride but she wasn’t invited.” Dad reached into the cupboard from his chair and pulled out plates for Sam and me to load with Spam and corn. “It’s not an official event, but the school is providing chaperones. You’re going to fix this hayride, but good.”
He got up from the table. “You two eat while I get what you’ll need.”
Sam and I were on our second helpings when Dad came back from his car with a grocery bag and unloaded several potatoes onto the table, along with a bag of sugar. He kept his trunk filled with supplies, always ready for anything.
“Here’s the plan, David.” He took a tool from his pocket that looked like a short screwdriver but it had a notch instead of a flat head. “This is a valve core remover. It’s easy to use. As soon as it’s dark, you’ll sneak into the high school parking lot and remove all the tire valves from the hayride trucks.”
“How will I be able to find the valves in the dark?”
“You’ll rub your hands along the rim of the tire until you feel the cap. Untwist it and reach for the core. It’ll feel like the tit of a cow.”
Sally poked at Sam’s chest and they both giggled.
“The core has grooves that screw into the tire valve,” Dad said. “Put the remover over the valve and turn it counterclockwise.” He demonstrated with his little finger. “The core will twist out. Stick it in your pocket and don’t forget to replace the cap.”
Smirking, he handed me the tool. “Removing the valve will flatten the tire. You can’t add air without the valve cores, and no one will have extras. It’ll seem like the tire hit a nail and needs a patch.”
“That makes sense.” I smiled, happy to be the star in his prank. Who’d think the valve core had been removed if the cap was there? Dad was brilliant.
“Now, the next step.” He picked up a potato and waved it at me. “You’ll put one of these in the exhaust pipe on each truck. Use this to trim them.” He pulled a penknife out of his pants pocket and handed it to me. “Push the potato deep inside and carefully wipe away the residue from the peel so nothing’s visible. Understand? If you don’t think you’ll have time to get every valve core, put the potatoes in first.”
“What do the potatoes do?”
“The exhaust can’t escape if the muffler’s clogged.” His face beamed. “The engines will stall and won’t restart.”
“Then we won’t need the potatoes and the valve cores,” I said.
“You always need a backup plan.” Dad tapped me on the shoulder. “And if you do this right, this’ll be the worst hayride Window Rock ever had.”
I nodded, filling a small paper bag with the tools and potatoes.
“What about the sugar?” Sam asked.
Dad stared at the bag on the table. “If David pours sugar in the gas tanks, it could clog the carburetor and disable the trucks, but it isn’t a sure thing. Besides, it’ll be too bulky to carry that big ol’ bag of sugar. Let’s forget about it for tonight.”
Sam jumped from his chair. “Let me go. I can help.”
“When you get older, you’ll be a big help,” Dad said, “but not tonight.”
Sam lowered his eyes and shook his head. Sally reached over and held his hand.
“I can handle this,” I said, feeling a mixture of pride and fear. If I got caught, Dad would beat me and Lonnie would be embarrassed. But if I pulled off the prank, I’d be a hero.
Just after dusk, I threw on my coat and left for Window Rock High School, about four hundred yards beyond the elementary school. I could stay hidden in the dark, but the school grounds were lit to daylight status. Four hayride trucks lined the perimeter of the parking lot, and Lonnie’s classmates milled around, going in and out of the auditorium, laughing and talking. It seemed impossible to get near the trucks unnoticed.
After studying the area for a few minutes, I realized that no one was in the trucks yet, and the passenger sides faced away from the lights—in total darkness. If I did this right, I could remove the valve cores on that side without being seen. And the tail pipes would be a cinch to reach.
In case I ran out of time, I started with the potatoes. Crawling under the first truck, I tried to shove a potato into the tailpipe but it was too big, and I had to use Dad’s penknife to carve one to fit. Then I wiped the residue from the outside of the pipe with my coat sleeve and jammed the peels into the paper bag. When I finished plugging each tailpipe, I moved on to the tires.
The valve cores twisted off easily, and the tire whistled like an untied balloon. Everyone was too far away to hear, but to be safe, I slowed down the twisting to soften the noise. Each truck had a double set of back tires, so I worked on three tires before hurrying to the next vehicle, remembering to put the cores in my jacket pocket as Dad instructed.
I had just removed the valve on the last tire when someone shouted, “Let’s go!”
Fumbling with the cap, I gave it a couple of quick twists and then dashed off to the edge of the parking lot and rolled into a gully.
My heart pounded in my ears. For sure, they were going to see me.
“The apple cider is over here,” another kid called out.
I took a deep breath and rolled out of sight into the dark field that separated the high school from the elementary school. Lying on my stomach, I watched high schoolers climb on top of the hay bales and their adult chaperones get inside the cabs. The engines fired up.
I felt powerful and invisible again.
WHEN I GOT BACK HOME, Dad was pacing by the kitchen table, his eyes bugged out. “What took you so damn long?”
Sam and Sally clapped when I dumped out the potato peelings onto the table and then emptied my pockets, producing a dozen valve cores. A smile spread across Dad’s face.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No. I got the tires on the passenger side, and there were double sets in the back, but I couldn’t get the other side.”
His eyes flashed with anger. “Why didn’t you flatten them all?”
“There were kids and chaperones in the parking lot. I would’ve gotten caught moving to the other side of the trucks in view of the lights. But I jammed a potato in all the tailpipes. They won’t get far, and half the tires are completely flat, so they won’t go very fast.”
“You’re like a real-life spy,” Sally said.
Dad smiled and rubbed my head. I sighed with relief that I had succeeded. No beatings that night.
“Those bastards needed to pay for not inviting Lonnie. It shouldn’t take long for the potatoes and flat tires to do their magic.”
Lonnie spent the evening with the other students who’d been left out of the hayride. She didn’t know what we had done on her behalf and wouldn’t have wanted it. But the rest of us believed a great wrong had been righted.
CHAPTER 27
“I’M TAKING THE THREE OF you to Gallup today,” Dad said the next morning as Sam, Sally, and I ate our cereal in front of the television. “We’ll be going with Vance and his two kids.”
Dad had become increasingly restless. On the rare occasions he was home, he couldn’t seem to sit still, his eyes darting here and there. He’d close his bedroom door and talk on the phone, often yelling. This trip to Gallup would be the first time we’d do something as a family besides just shop for groceries. Lonnie had to stay home to work on a class project.
Vance had the same job as Dad but in a different BIA office in Navajo, New Mexico, twenty minutes from Fort Defiance. Dad called him the Drunken Kraut.
There wasn’t much to like about the guy. He had beady eyes, pasty white skin, puny arms and legs, and the smell of cigarettes and whiskey on his breath. The sadness in his eyes made me think of Mom.
“David, you need to watch over Sam, Sally, and Vance’s kids,” Dad said. “They’re the same age as Sam and Sally, so that won’t be hard. We’ll drop you off at the movies and pick you up later. Can you handle that without getting into trouble?”
I nodded, preferring to get into lots of trouble by throwing cherry bombs and Black Cats from what remained of the arsenal I’d bought from Mr. Pino.
Vance pulled up in a brand-new silver Buick Electra, the last person in the world you’d imagine owning such a nice car. Was he in the tool-stealing business too? Sam, Sally, and I squeezed into the back seat with his two silent kids, who stared out the window, clearly unhappy to meet us or to go to Gallup with their dad. As the Buick bumped over the ruts on our street, Vance pulled a bottle of whiskey from underneath his seat and told Dad to have a snort.
“I know where we can get some nice, tight Mexican ass,” Vance said, retrieving the bottle from Dad and taking a gulp. His blond, slicked-back hair had a big bald spot on the back with a scab on it.
“I didn’t know there was any left.” Dad laughed.
“Over at the Shalimar, there are lots of easy Mexican women, and drinks are half price. They have a live band too.”
“Let’s go.” Dad reached over for more whiskey.
When we arrived in Gallup, they let us out in front of the Chief Theatre, on Coal Avenue, a block from El Morro Theatre where I’d torn the screen with the ice ball. The marquee advertised a sizzling double feature: MEN IN WAR — TWO MEN WHO HATE EACH OTHER’S GUTS and POOR WHITE TRASH — SEE HOW THEY LIVE. I could’ve written both scripts.
The dads gave us enough money to see the movies and buy a hot dog and a drink. “We’ll be back later,” Dad said. “Stay at the Chief.”
The chairs were thick and fluffy, and the previews and cartoons were almost as good as the main movies. When the double feature ended and the lights came on, we went to the bathroom and returned to different seats. The ushers didn’t seem to notice. By the time Men in War had begun again at seven o’clock, I’d been checking regularly for Vance and Dad. All I saw were loads of drunken men in pickup trucks weaving down the road.
Nine o’clock rolled around, but still no sign of the Buick. I went back to my seat just as the curtains opened for Poor White Trash. The theater would close in a couple of hours.
We’d eaten our hot dogs hours before, and our stomachs were growling. Sam had scrounged through the trash cans for food throughout the afternoon. The rest of us walked through the seats between films, looking for half-empty bags of popcorn, bits of hot dogs, and candy spilled on the floor. Sam found a full box of Sugar Babies under a seat, but he wouldn’t share it.
“Make him give us some,” Sally whined at me.
“I found them,” Sam said, downing the entire pack in one giant gulp. Brown juice ran down his full, freckled cheeks.
On one of Sally’s many bathroom runs, I heard her crying and ran out to help her. An usher had her by the arm. “You’ve been here all day without paying for the extra movies,” he said.
“Our dad dropped us off and hasn’t come back,” I said. “We have nowhere else to go.”
The usher looked from me to Sally and released her arm. “Stay out of trouble.”
Sally and I met Sam back at our seats. Vance’s kids took the endless hours at the theater in stride, like they had lots of experience waiting for their dad. I wondered if they had a mom or if she’d gotten ditched like ours.
/> Shortly afterward, Sally left her seat again and reappeared with a hot dog. “The man who was going to kick us out gave me the last one,” she whispered.
When the movie ended at eleven o’clock, all the lights went up and the ushers swept the aisles and cleared the trash. We didn’t budge from our seats, hoping to stay out of the cold night air as long as possible.
A young, skinny usher bumped our chairs with his broom. “You have to leave now. We’re closed.”
Dragging our feet, we shuffled through the door as the lights went off inside the theater. The white-and-red neon Chief logo flickered out too. We looked up and down Coal Avenue before sitting on the curb. Drunks stumbled by without paying any attention to us. One peed on the nearby light pole.
Another full hour went by. Either Dad and Vance were in trouble or they were still having some Mexican ass and whiskey and had forgotten all about us. Our teeth chattered and our knees knocked. Soon my ears and feet went numb. Sally and Vance’s daughter cried softly. Sam and I each put an arm around Sally to try to warm her, and Vance’s son did the same for his little sister.
“What happened to Dad? Is he dead?” Sally kept asking.
I shook my head each time, but I wished he had died and someone would come along to rescue us.
Finally, squealing tires startled me, and Vance’s Buick swerved to a stop in front of us. Dad jumped out of the driver’s side. “Get in, goddamn it. We have to find the Navajo sons of bitches who beat the shit out of Vance.” Dad glared at the girls slowly climbing into the back seat. “Hurry up!”
Vance slumped against the front passenger door. Under the glow of the streetlight, I could see that his tan jacket was covered in dirt and blood. A bruise ran the length of his cheek, his nose looked squished, and he had a bloody gash on his bald spot. His ear had a notch missing, as if a dog had taken a bite out of it. The smell of puke, whiskey, and stale cigarette smoke filled the car.
“Thurston, my jaw is broken.” Vance’s words came out garbled. “Shit, I just swallowed a tooth.” He gagged with dry heaves. “My ribs feel broken too.”