The Night Watchman

by Louise Erdrich

  The Torus

  The next morning, Patrice waited on the road for Doris and Valentine, impatient to get away from the baby, who was desperately hungry. His bawl was like a tap turned on full blast. Zhaanat was still letting him nurse, but also trying to get him to accept the juice strained from boiled oatmeal. Pokey had walked to the school bus early. Nobody was on the road. Had they forgotten? Patrice paced in their direction. Her thoughts zipped around, landing here and there like flies. Skittering away. “I know,” she said aloud. “I know I may be crazy. But I have to believe that my sister is still alive.” She picked up a smooth piece of cloudy quartz and stared at it in her hand.

  “I’m going nuts,” she said and flung it into the brush.

  She heard the growl of a motor, then gravel crunching underneath the tires of Doris’s car, and closed her eyes in relief. The car pulled alongside her. For five days she had been another person, on another planet, in a different time.

  “Gracious good morning!” she said, opening the car’s back door.

  “We stop for hoboes,” cried Valentine. “Get in!”

  “Did you find Vera?”

  “No, she didn’t turn up yet. I brought her baby boy home.”

  “A baby boy!”

  They talked of nothing else the entire way. By the end of the day she had promises, so many promises. More bottles. Weeks worth of diapers. A diaper bucket with lid. Baby clothes and a blanket. Everything a baby needed, except a mother.

  “I know somebody with leftover baby formula,” said Betty Pye. “She wanted money but when she hears I’ll bet she give it to you for free.”

  “I can pay,” said Patrice, the waterjack. “I can pay her whatever she wants.”

  But that was for show because she was pretty sure Zhaanat’s pipe bags would come through.

  * * *

  If you revolve a circle around a pole, the surface of the revolution would be a torus. An inner tube. You can have a hollow torus or a solid torus, which is the torus plus the volume inside the torus—a doughnut, a jewel bearing. A metal spindle turns in a jewel-lined pivot hole. The hole is shaped like a torus, and the mechanism makes possible the ideal of frictionless eternal motion.

  You cannot feel time grind against you. Time is nothing but everything, not the seconds, minutes, hours, days, years. Yet this substanceless substance, this bending and shaping, this warping, this is the way we understand our world.

  Zhaanat was lying on her daughter’s bed, in a slat of cool fall sunshine, the exhausted baby in her arms. They were drifting in frictionless eternal motion when Patrice entered, slipped out of her shoes. She took her hat off, lay down beside them, and opened her blue coat like a wing.

  Metal Blinds

  The big meeting in Fargo was held at the judicial building, an imposing pillared structure made of pale smooth limestone. The halls with their brass sconces and polished oak wainscoting opened into majestic paneled courtrooms, judges’ chambers, deliberation rooms for juries, and many other small apertures and offices. The room that Thomas and his fellow tribal members entered also had the beautiful wooden wainscoting. The upper portion of the wall had recently been painted a dull chalky white. Through the north-facing windows a bland gray light seeped. A small woman in a black skirt and heels opened a set of flexible metal blinds.

  The hushed light fell in bars on a polished table beneath the window. Four men sitting behind the table rose as Thomas and the other tribal members came into the room. Each was dressed in a suit and tie, all in various shades and patterns of brown and gray. They were from the BIA office in Aberdeen, South Dakota. Each man came forward to shake hands with Thomas, the other members of the committee, and the tribe’s attorney, John Hail. Then each man retreated back behind the table.

  Thomas put his briefcase down on a chair in the front row of chairs, between John Hail and Moses Montrose. The others filled seats to the right and left and in back, more than forty-five tribal members in all. Thomas passed his hand across his eyes, and looked down to hide that he was moved that so many had made the difficult trip.

  “Welcome,” said the area director, John Cooper. “Let it be noted that this meeting is taking place on October 19, 1953, and the time is one p.m.”

  The secretary’s fingers began to rapidly tap the keys of her machine.

  “Thank you,” said Thomas. “We are here to discuss the purpose of the proposed legislation in connection with House Concurrent Resolution 108, which will terminate all federal recognition and support at the Turtle Mountain Agency.”

  He took a deep breath to try to loosen the grip of tension in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten enough for breakfast, out of nerves. He asked if John Cooper would read the legislation for the benefit of his fellow tribal members, and then he sat down. Mr. Cooper passed a sheaf of papers to the lawyer for the BIA, Gary Holmes, who began to read each section.

  After the first few pages, Thomas could feel the air leave the room. Brief phrases caught his attention and then the next packed sentence pulled it away. His voice was calm and scratchy. He paused often to clear his throat or utter a prolonged ummmmm.

  disposition of federally owned property

  with to such Indians may be discontinued as no longer necessary

  cause such lands to be sold and deposit the proceeds of sale

  trust relationship to the affairs of the Band and its members has

  terminated

  termination

  terminating

  Worse than listening to the reading of the bill himself was the silent consternation behind him. Thomas could not turn around without seeming rude to the speaker, yet he longed to exchange glances with Juggie and Louis, with Joyce and Mary, with the others who’d shown up from here in Fargo and from Grand Forks. They’d heard about the situation and trickled to this obscure office. Martin Cross had driven all the way across the state to support them. About twelve of the people there did not speak English, or understood it very poorly, and yet they had gone to great effort and expense to come to this meeting. As the words tapped like dry little hammers, Thomas thought about the places where his people lived. John Summer, old Giizis, Clothilde Fleury, Angus Watch, Buggy Morrissey, Anakwad, lived in pole-and-mud dwellings tucked into swales and hills, sheltered against the wind. They drew their water from sloughs or tiny springs, lighted their homes with kerosene. Yet here they were, each person, presenting themselves in worn immaculate clothing. As Indians had for generation after generation, they were attempting to understand a white man reading endlessly from a sheaf of papers.

  Holmes paused to speak to Mr. Cooper, and Thomas turned around. His people wore a look of intense concentration, which, in the absence of the speaker, they turned upon him. He returned their gaze, sweeping his eyes to each person. Nobody looked away, as people would normally. All rested their unguarded expressions upon him and he accepted the gravity of their regard. When he turned back, he felt that something had been communicated to him. He felt it up behind his eyes as dry tears. Holmes picked up where he’d left off.

  When at long last the reading of the bill was finished, Thomas rose and again turned to look at his friends and relatives. He asked for comments from the audience.

  Louis Pipestone: Thank you. And now would it be possible to explain the bill so a hard-of-hearing old ranchman can get the gist of it?

  Mr. Holmes: Simply, once and for all, it provides that there won’t be any more Indian service for the Turtle Mountains. You will now be equal with whites as far as the government is concerned.

  Joyce Asiginak: Well, equal is not the way we see it. Our rights go down. So this bill does not suit me in any way. The government is backing out of its agreement. You left us on land that is too small a size and most of it cannot be farmed. The government should give more land back, not kick us off the leftovers.

  Mr. Holmes: Oh, good news! You will be relocated to areas of equal opportunity. It says so right in the bill.

  There was utter silence in the room. Then an urgent
rustling as people repeated, and interpreted, what he had said.

  Juggie Blue: We don’t want to leave our homes We are poor, but even poor people can love their land. You do not need money to love your home.

  Anakwad: Gawiin ninisidotoosinoon.

  Louis Pipestone: Anakwad here says that he does not understand, nor do many who have come to this place to learn their fate. He asks that this bill be translated into his language so that he may understand it.

  Mr. Holmes, turning to his colleagues, raised his eyebrows and smiled. They, too, smiled indulgently, shook their heads with some exasperation.

  Clothilde Fleury: I will sit beside the Indian speakers and translate.

  The audience reshuffled their seats, Clothilde spoke quietly to Thomas, and then everyone waited, expectantly.

  Giizis (translated by Clothilde): I would like to respectfully request that Mr. Holmes read the bill again. Half the people here did not understand it.

  Holmes opened his mouth, closed his mouth. Coughed. He conferred with his colleagues. After ostentatiously pouring water into his glass, he took a long sip, and began to read. After a few minutes, he was stopped by Mr. Cooper.

  Mr. Cooper: I propose that we take a short break.

  Thomas Wazhashk: Sir, with all due respect, we have just this one day to understand a bill that is meant to take everything from us. Could those who need a break discreetly do so while the rest of us continue with this meeting? I further propose that Mr. Holmes repeat the simple version of the bill. He seemed to capture the meaning in a few sentences.

  Thomas was surprised by his own boldness, but he stood firm. The meeting continued on in its flow with people leaving as needed, and returning so that the concentration in the room was not broken.

  Mary Montrose: This relocation isn’t my wish. How about you relocate some of our neighbors who aren’t Indians? They are sitting on our best land.

  Mr. Cooper (abrupt laugh): That is out of the question. We are here on your behalf, but we cannot do such a thing.

  Mr. Hail: We know the Indian Department did not initiate this move that included the Turtle Mountain Chippewa Indians and the reservation. It was an act of Congress. Some members of Congress heard or seem to believe that the Turtle Mountain Chippewa are so far advanced that they should be relinquished by the government.

  Moses Montrose: We are advanced in some ways. That is true. We have a lot of smart Indians in this room. But most of us are plain-out broke. We are working, but even if we did become rich, that would have no bearing on our agreement with the government. Nothing in the treaty says that if we better ourselves we lose our land.

  Thomas Wazhashk: I am not sure what study the information about our advancement, financially speaking, was based on. But I will tell you it was faulty. Most of our people live on dirt floors, no electricity, no plumbing. I haul my own water like most Indians in this room. I consider myself advanced only because I read and write. Should I not be an Indian person because I read and write?

  Mr. Cooper: There is no move to take away your identity as an Indian.

  Joyce Asignak: That is exactly what is happening.

  John Summer: We are still ourselves even if we advance. As for myself, I haven’t advanced yet.

  Mr. Hail: Congress is attempting to abandon its commitment to treaties that were made with Indians to last through time. You have heard the phrase “as long as the grass grows and the rivers flow.” I represent a people who have survived quite a bit and need help getting on their feet.

  Mr. Holmes: We didn’t come up with this bill.

  Eddy Mink (standing steady, stroking his limp silk tie): I would like to say a few words. May I be recognized? Thank you. The way I see it is the great state of North Dakota will have to take over services to our remote area, provide for education, and so on. The county will have to start caring for our bridges, maintaining the roads. They will also need to step up law enforcement and so on. I wonder if our wonderful county and state are eager to take on these rewarding opportunities?

  Mr. Cooper: I am not sure that—

  Eddy Mink: Of course, if the government carts us away and dumps us here and there—excuse me, relocates us—mostly we will end up down in the Cities. And if the BIA sells off our land, problem solved.

  Anakwad (translated): Do you see any rich persons here? I don’t know of anyone. I got a few cents in my pocket. That’s all I got. Ever since the white man came in 1492, they started robbing the Indian of his riches.

  Juggie Blue: They are just going to take our land away from us. In five years all the land on the reservation would be in white hands and we would be trudging up the road with our children, trying to find a place to light.

  Giizis (translated): We don’t want anything to do with this bill. We are going to fight it down. That is how it stands. We want things just as they are at the present and to go on as they are until something new comes out that is better than it is.

  Mr. Holmes: Now can we take a break? This seat is getting pretty hot.

  (Laughter)

  Buggy Morrissey: I myself happened to be in Washington a few years ago. I talked with the secretary of the interior and the commissioner of Indian affairs. They said it would take several decades for the Indians to become independent. So I don’t understand this bill. Maybe the future will show we can do it.

  Moses Montrose: There was no provision like that in our original agreement. It was supposed to last in perpetuity. Even if we are to get independent, we should still be in the treaty.

  Eddy Mink: The services that the government provides to Indians might be likened to rent. The rent for use of the entire country of the United States.

  * * *

  The officials in the front of the room looked a little stunned by Eddy’s statement. And then the meeting went on for two more hours, but no one said anything new.

  As the meeting was about to be adjourned, Moses Montrose suddenly spoke out.

  Moses Montrose: Now I wonder and want to ask that in making a report after this assembly, just what manner are you going to put it to Congress?

  Mr. Holmes: The various statements made here have been transcribed.

  Juggie Blue: Then please transcribe this. We are all to every person against this bill.

  Thomas took a vote.

  For the bill—0.

  Against the bill—47.

  The meeting was adjourned. Everyone shook hands and left. As Thomas walked out the door, Louie stepped out next to him and said, “Remember my daughter Millie?” Thomas must have looked blank because Louie continued, “Checks, we call her?”

  “Oh, Checks, yes.”

  “My daughter from my first girlfriend. She was a Cloud, but not from around here. And Millie turned into a university girl. Remember she came out here asking questions? Putting together her information to get some letters behind her name?”

  “Oh, of course,” said Thomas. “Our Chippewa scholar.”

  “Maybe she could help us with her findings.”

  “Yes,” said Thomas. He was trying not to show despair. “Let’s throw everything we can at them. They’ve got us on the ropes.”

  Behind the cottony blanket of cloud, the sun’s light was so diffuse that it was impossible to determine the time of day. Thomas thought it had to be quite late in the afternoon. He heard Eddy trying to persuade Joyce and Mary to stop with him for a drink.

  “Eddy wants to wet his whistle,” said Moses.

  “So do I,” said Thomas. “But I better stick to a root beer with my dinner.”

  “Then so will your tribal judge.”

  Moses might take a sip of whiskey now and then, but never did get drunk enough for anyone to notice. It was one reason he was the judge. He was being loyal to Thomas’s vow by not drinking and Thomas knew it. And inside, he wanted a drink. It was like an ache in his brain. His thoughts swirled around the ache. A disquieted disgust gripped him, like the onset of an illness. As he walked along, it got worse. He was very large or very small, cou
ld not decide which. The absence of shadows, the flat surfaces of Fargo’s buildings and sidewalks, did not help. He felt it coming. Wanted to duck. Winced. A sensation like when he was chastised at school gripped him. Like when he went into a bank or bought something expensive in an off-reservation town. Their looks pressing down on him. Their words flattening him. Their eyes squeezing him. Isey, for shame. As his mother used to say. But it was so much worse in English, the word shame. It made him curdle inside. And the curdling became something hard and sour. It became a black sediment he carried around in his stomach. Or a thought that stabbed so hard he might cast it out in a flare of anger. Or it might stay in there hardening even further until it flew up to his brain and killed him.

  These official men with their satisfied soft faces.

  He hated their approval just as much as he hated their condescension. And yet this truth was buried so deep inside him that its expression only emerged, in their presence, as a friendly smile.

  Later, they emerged from the restaurant they’d chosen, an inexpensive Italian place where they’d filled up on spaghetti and meatballs, which cheered them all up. Outside, Thomas saw Paranteau. He was walking on the other side of the street, warring with gravity, tipping from side to side. Every few feet he stopped to steady himself, clutching a pillar, a windowsill, a mailbox. His coat hung slack and billowed around his shanks. Thomas sent the others on ahead and crossed the street.

  “Hello, niiji,” said Thomas.

  Paranteau was staring ahead, fixing his squint at the end of the street as if taking aim before starting to move. He did not register Thomas’s presence, but gathered himself and suddenly surged forward in an awkward gallop. He made it to an iron lamppost and held on to it like a man in a tornado. Thomas followed. Edged around Paranteau’s rickety frame. He stood in front of Paranteau and gripped his shoulder. What a sight. Paranteau’s hair was matted to his skull. His lip rolled out, thick as a wet cigar, and his mouth sagged. His wet red eyes bugged, all misery.