by Bill Adler
Innis had gotten the idea. We had to find some way to explain the new dent in the car. It wasn’t as if the car were new or anything, or that it didn’t already have some dents in it. This dent, however, would not go unnoticed. It wasn’t just the fender that was dented. The mailbox had impacted with the hood and had left its own noticeable mark. We knew that we could get away with this if we had some really good reason for the dent. We also knew that if we said it happened because of the radio, we’d be walking to the store for quite some time to come. We were in this together.
My mother loved cats. We had eight of them. When our cat had kittens, my mother just couldn’t bear to give them up. The survivors from the second litter were already grown up, and the mother was pregnant again. It appeared we were going to have more. Virtually the entire population of the res knew of my mother’s love for cats. Innis thought if we told my mother that we had hit the mailbox while trying to avoid running over a cat, that would be a good enough excuse. We agreed.
He thought he had seen a dead cat along the side of the road as we had headed to the store, but he couldn’t remember exactly where. He did say that it was after Ardra’s house. He was quite sure of that. He thought if we brought the dead cat home with us, it would be even more convincing. Kay thought this was really gross, but she was a desperate woman. We had to hurry, too. We were only supposed to have gone down the road.
Kay warmed to the idea the closer we got to the house, and the closer she got to not being able to drive for a while. She even told us that she hoped it was a fresh one, and not stiff and loaded with maggots. It was, after all, the middle of summer. A rotting cat would not be too convincing. My mother would probably insist on a burial, and she would most certainly notice the odor of a high-summer dead cat. We hoped along with Kay. None of us really wanted to handle the cat. The anonymous plastic Indian sat casually on the backseat.
I spotted the cat. Innis was right. It was beyond the spot of our collision, but not much. It was in front of the field next to Spicy’s house. On the other side of the field was Ardra and Enoch’s. As we got out of the car, we could see the lounging mailbox. Enoch apparently hadn’t gotten home yet. We walked over to the cat. It was an orange one, the color of Creamsicles, my mother’s favorite cat color. It was still alive.
Someone had hit it not long before Innis had seen it the first time. It was lying in the gravel and dirt that edged the road. There was a trail of streaky blood from the place on the road where it must have been hit to the place it now rested. It must have dragged itself. The blood had come from its rear end. Its back legs were bent at impossible angles. It was breathing heavily, panting. Its eyes stared up at us as we surrounded it.
I squatted down to pet it. I didn’t know what else to do. Kay yelled at me and pushed me aside before I could reach it. She said that the cat might try to bite. She said that she couldn’t do it.
“Sure you can, just do this,” Ace said, moving closer to the cat. He was out of reach for any of us. I was still sitting in the weeds. Kay and Innis had already turned and started moving toward the car.
Ace stomped hard once on the cat’s neck. The cat made a small squeaking noise and then did not make another. The cat expired under the hot summer sun. We had all seen it go. I wondered who would be putting food out for it tonight, how long those scraps would sit before they knew the cat wasn’t coming home.
We started walking back to the car.
“Hey, aren’t we takin’ this?” Ace was holding the cat by the tail, lifting it out to his right, like a fisherman showing off his prize catch of the day. Innis told him to put it down and to wipe his hands on the weeds. He dropped the cat back to the ground and did as he was told. The cat stirred up a little dust which blew away in a couple of seconds.
My mother didn’t ask about the dent. She had been on the phone when we walked into the house. As soon as she finished talking to someone she would dial someone else’s number and begin with her one greeting which always meant some serious bad news.
“Did you hear?”
My other sister, Gretchen, told us what had happened. Fred Howkowski had shot himself in Hollywood. The cavalry must have finally come.
My mother glanced at the old clock hanging on the wall near our phone, got off the phone, and rushed out the door. She still had curlers in her hair. She was going to drive Fred’s mom and dad to the airport. They were bringing him home to be buried on the reservation. The plastic Indian chief rode in the backseat with Fred’s dad.
I wondered why Fred went and did that. Maybe he just couldn’t find someone to stomp on his throat.
I asked Kay if we could walk back and bury the cat. She said sure. We buried it in the mountain. We wrapped it up in an old flannel shirt which didn’t fit her anymore. We put it in an old cardboard canning jar box. We did this so the dogs wouldn’t find it.
We told Mom about the dent when she got home. The plastic Indian chief joined the tribe. We continued to play in the mountain, being careful not to dig where we had buried the cat. Whenever we went to the store the rest of the summer, we walked. We drank a lot of Pepsi. We occasionally bought a Mountain Dew.
We never bought another Plastic Fred.
“The Language We Know” by Simon Ortiz. Reprinted from I Tell You Now: Autobiographical Essays by Native American Writers, edited by Brian Swann and Arnold Krupat, by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright © 1987 by the University of Nebraska Press.
“The Warriors” by Anna Lee Walters from The Sun Is Not Merciful by Anna Lee Walters. Reprinted by permission of Firebrand Books, Ithaca, New York 14850. Copyright © 1985 by Anna Lee Walters.
Selection from Waterlily by Ella Cara Deloria. Reprinted by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright © 1988 by the University of Nebraska Press.
Selection from Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims by Sara Winnemucca Hopkins. Originally published 1883. Copyright © 1969 by Sierra Media, Inc., Bishop, California. Originally published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
Selection from Night Flying Woman: An Ojibwa Narrative by Ignatia Broker. Reprinted, with permission, from Night Flying Woman: An Ojibwa Narrative by Ignatia Broker, copyright © 1983 by the Minnesota Historical Society.
Selection from Black Elk Speaks by John G. Neihardt. Copyright 1932, © 1959 by John G. Neihardt. Originally published by William Morrow & Co.
Selection from My Indian Boyhood by Luther Standing Bear. Reprinted from My Indian Boyhood by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 1931 by Luther Standing Bear. Copyright © 1959 by May M. Jones.
Selection from The Middle Five: Indian Schooldays of the Omaha Tribe. Reprinted by permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. Originally published in 1900. Copyright © 1963 by the Regents of the University of Wisconsin.
Selection from Lame Deer: Seeker of Visions by John Fire/Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes. Copyright © 1972 by John Fire/Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
“Saint Marie” by Louise Erdrich. From Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich. Copyright © 1984 by Louise Erdrich. Reprinted by Permission of Henry Holt and Co., Inc.
Selection from Indian School Days by Basil Johnston. Reprinted with permission from Indian School Days by Basil H. Johnston, published by Key Porter Books Limited, Toronto, Ontario. Copyright © 1988 Basil H. Johnston.
Selection from Sundown by John Joseph Mathews. Copyright © 1934 by John Joseph Mathews, assigned 1987 to the University of Oklahoma Press.
Selection from Mean Spirit by Linda Hogan. Reprinted with the permission of Atheneum Publishers, an imprint of Macmillan Publishing Company. Copyright © 1990 by Linda Hogan.
Selection from The Names: A Memoir by N. Scott Momaday. Reprinted by permission of the author. Copyright © 1976. Published by University of Arizona Press.
“Notes of a Translator’s Son” by Joseph Bruchac. Reprinted from I Tell You Now: Autobiographical Essays By Native American Writers, edited by Br
ian Swann and Arnold Krupat, by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright © 1987 by the University of Nebraska Press.
Selection from Bobbie Lee: Indian Rebel by Lee Maracle. Reprinted by the permission of Women’s Press, Toronto, Ontario. Copyright © 1990 by Lee Maracle.
“The Talking That Trees Does” by Geary Hobson. Reprinted by permission of the author. Copyright © 1983.
“The Water Witch” by Louis Owens. Reprinted by permission of the author. Copyright © 1988.
“Grace” by Vickie Sears. From Spider Woman’s Grandaughters by edited Paula Gunn Allen. Reprinted by permission of Beacon press.
“Uncle Tony’s Goat” by Leslie Marmon Silko. Reprinted by permission of author. Copyright © 1974.
Selection from A Yellow Raft in Blue Water by Michael Dorris. Copyright © 1987 by Michael Dorris. Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Co., Inc.
“The Ballad of Plastic Fred” by Eric L. Gansworth. Printed by permission of the author.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Inés Hernandez, Terry Wilson, Clifford Trafzer, John Purdy, and Jana Sequoya for their excellent scholarship, constant support, and helpful suggestions. I would also like to thank Gerald Vizenor for making me aware of this project and for his important work in the field, and Will Schwalbe for his patient editorial assistance.
Other GROWING UP Titles
GROWING UP ASIAN AMERICAN
Edited by Maria Hong
GROWING UP BLACK
Edited by Jay David
GROWING UP CHICANA/O
Edited by Tiffany Ana López
GROWING UP JEWISH
Edited by Jay David
Copyright
GROWING UP NATIVE AMERICAN. Copyright © 1993 by Bill Adler Books. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition DECEMBER 2007 ISBN: 9780061759680
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* Passages cited within this introduction may be found in the selections in this anthology.
*N. Scott Momaday, ‘The Magic of Words,’ in Survival This Way: Interviews with American Indian Poets, ed. Joseph Bruchac (Tucson: Sun Tracks and University of Arizona Press, 1987).
†N. Scott Momaday, ‘Man Made of Words,’ in Literature of the American Indians: Views and Interpretations, ed. Abraham Chapman (New York: New American Library, 1975).
*When asked to explain this, she said, ‘Oh, their eyes were blue, and they had long beards.’
* Long Hair, General Custer.
§ Colonel Dodge with 400 men and 75 wagons from Fort Laramie escorted a geological expedition into the Hills that spring and remained until October.
* Cheyennes and Arapahoes.
*The Bozeman Trail.
*The act of striking an enemy, dead or alive, with a stick conferred distinction, the first coup naturally counting most.
* Colonel Reynolds with six companies of cavalry attacked Crazy Horse’s village as stated in the early morning of March 16, 1876.