Chapter One
Death had a way of screwing up the best-laid plans.
Helen Ketterling was a heavy-duty plan maker. Keeping
things in order required a plan. She very much resented
any form of plan bomb, and death was atomic.
She stood next to her car in the graveled parking lot
across from the Bad River tribal offices and puffed on a
cigarette as she watched a trio of old Indian men mount
the steps to the front door. Two of them were older than
the man they'd come to visit for the last time, but the
third one might have been a classmate of Roy's in about
1940 or so.
In the brief time Helen had known Roy Blue Sky, she
hadn't gotten around to asking him whether he'd finished
high school. She didn't want to offend him by asking the
wrong questions. He was a wonderful storyteller, but he
preferred folk tales to personal reminiscences, although
she'd managed to get a few of those out of him, too. She
now knew that he'd fought in the Battle of the Bulge and
that he'd been married twice, to young wives, both of whom
had died much too soon. He'd told her less about the
second wife, the mother of his children, than he had about
the first, which was how she knew that the memory of the
second loss still pained him.
Or had. Nothing pained him anymore. He had found peace
now, and as a member of the Bad River Lakota Tribal
Council, he was lying in state beyond those bright blue
doors.
He was also her son's grandfather, but no one knew
that. No one but Helen.
She turned her back on the building and the
mournersmounting the steps as she puffed madly on her
cigarette like a sneaky kid. It was the only way she ever
smoked. The only good cigarette was a secret cigarette.
Sidney had caught her at it a couple of times, and he'd
read her the riot act, saying, "You're supposed to be a
teacher, Mom." She'd been proud of him, the way he'd
whipped those health-class facts on his mother, who still
called herself a teacher even though she'd gotten into
this other business because ... well, partly because it
paid well. But Sidney was always holding her to her own
high standards, and she'd felt guilty about her lame claim
that this was such a rare indulgence that she could hardly
be called a smoker. He'd asked her what it did for her,
and she couldn't tell him. She hated it when she needed a
good answer and realized there wasn't one.
Helen had come to Bad River to look for answers. She
had a job to do, and she told herself that learning
everything she could about the Blue Sky family was simply
part of that job. She needed to know about their
involvement with the casino she was investigating. Roy had
asked the Bureau of Indian Affairs for an investigation, a
fact that was particularly interesting because his son
Carter was Pair-a-Dice City's general manager. In the time
Helen had spent around the two men, she had observed, as
was her habit, she'd listened, and she'd put a lot of
pieces of a still patchy picture together, which was her
job.
But she had motives beyond the duty to her assignment.
She had a duty to her son. Sidney had always been her son,
hers alone. It was a necessary selfishness on her part,
but now that he was barreling headlong into adolescence,
she had to start thinking about who he was besides her
only child, and who he would become. He had questions, and
God only knew how she was going to answer them when the
time came for a mother's full, unambiguous explanation of
the ways of the real world. So she was angling for family
history, and she had been reeling it in quite nicely since
she and Roy had become friends.
There were times when she was sure he knew what she
was up to, and she decided he didn't mind. She sensed that
he actually approved. Tacit approval counted as approval
in Helen's book. It wasn't such a huge leap from knowing
to not minding to approving, one small hop at a time. She
wanted the old man's approval. She liked him and she knew
that Sidney would like him, that they ought to meet, that
Sidney ought to hear his grandfather's stories; and
knowing these things pained Helen, still pained her, for
she was very much alive. Her secrets were very much alive,
as was the risk she was taking just by coming to Bad
River. The risk was huge.
The risk was over six and a half feet tall. Thirteen
years ago she had known Roy's other son, who must surely
be waiting behind those blue doors, too. She turned and
stared at them, tried to bore a hole through them, tried
to see how he looked now, how much the very public end to
his illustrious professional basketball career had changed
him, and how he carried his grief.
Helen had loved Reese Blue Sky once.
She had lusted after him, anyway. From the moment her
craving for him had hit her—and it had hit her hard—she
had told herself that this was the Romeo-and-Juliet kind
of love that could never last and should never be declared
unless you wanted corpses lying all over your personal
stage. Reese believed, even if no one else did, that he
was on his way to becoming a sports star. Helen was on her
way to graduate school, after adding Indian-reservation
teaching experience to her résumé. She was too busy for
love, and he was too young, too unsettled, too quiet, too
sexy, too improbable by half.
But he was a powerful temptation, and she had made
little attempt to resist. She had denied love and fallen
headlong in lust because he was the essence of her secret,
silly female fantasies. The American West was etched on
his angular, rough-hewn face, and he moved like a wild and
natural creature, wondrously agile for his size. She knew
full well that her fanciful fixation with the myth of the
noble warrior had followed her into early adulthood, and
it embarrassed her to think about it.
She was an intelligent woman, mostly. Responsible to a
fault, but when her faults shifted and her shield cracked,
she had a bad habit of folding in on herself and tumbling
into the fissure. That tiny vein of romanticism was one of
her weaknesses. She indulged in a private love affair with
the myth and mysticism of the stark plains that rolled
beyond the little clutch of boxy brick buildings across
the street. Behind the tribal offices, the Bad River
flowed between the Missouri and the Badlands, and beyond
the river, the hills harbored history, the buttes
remembered days of triumph and tragedy. She loved this
place, and she was enchanted by its history. She had read
about a man named Touch The Clouds, a name that had
flashed inside her head the first time she saw Reese.
He'd been shooting hoops against an old backboard with
a group of children who had been chased off the playground
by the high school boys. School wasn't in session, but one
of the elementary school teachers had complained about the
bullies on the playground. Helen had gone in search of the
dispossessed youngsters with the intention of championing
them in their claim to their rightful territory. But the
little ragtag group had found its champion in the form of
a lean and lanky giant who could lift them close enough to
the netless hoop for even the smallest child to score. He
was Touch The Clouds, dressed in snug, threadbare jeans, a
black tank shirt, and shoes that looked like ordinary
Nikes until she'd seen them, two weeks later, lying beside
her bed next to her own size sevens. A small child could
have canoed in Reese's shoe.
He was a very big man with very big dreams, and, oh,
what a very big time they had had that summer. What a
short, sweet, grand and lovely season.
Now she would see him again after almost thirteen
years, and she would offer commonplace condolences, and
she would be collected and polite. It was the proper time
for collected and polite.
To go in there and see him in the flesh again after
all this time would be foolish, but she'd made up her
mind. She ground her cigarette into the gravel and waved
to her friend Jean Nelson, who'd just gotten out of her
battered Bronco. Jean was still teaching at Head Start,
still seemed to enjoy her job as much as she had when
Helen had first met her, when they'd been young and
idealistic and questing. Neither of them had gone back to
school as they'd planned, but Jean was now in charge of
her program. Helen was working hers.
"Let's do this together," Helen suggested when Jean
drew close enough to link elbows.
"Have you seen him?"
"I haven't gone in yet. I just got here."
Jean gave her a knowing look. "I meant Reese."
"No, I ..." Helen glanced at the blue doors. "I just
got here."
"Nervous?"
Jean thought she knew how Helen felt about Reese. She
was one of those frustrated would-be counselors who was
always trying to pick the emotional garbage cans of her
friends' brains. She was too damned intuitive to suit
Helen, who returned a blank look.
Jean tightened down on the elbow link as they
walked. "How long has it been since you've seen him? In
person, I mean. For a while there, he was all over the—"
"Since I left," Helen said, cutting her off. "I
haven't seen him since then."
"We didn't see much of him around here, either. Once
in a while he'd show up at a high school basketball game,
but that was rare. And it sure created a stir."
"He's a celebrity." Helen said this with an easy
shrug, but the concept wasn't so easily managed. "No, I'm
not nervous. He probably won't even recognize me. I'm here
for Roy Blue Sky, Jean. This is about him."
"He and Reese were sort of estranged lately, I guess."
"That's too bad. I was just getting to know Roy." And
what she knew was that if Reese had shut his father out in
recent years, his loss would be magnified. The old man had
been a delight. He'd had a dry sense of humor and an
anecdote for every situation. "He said I could come over
and ride his horses anytime, and that's what I've been
doing for recreation."
"While you played cards for a living," Jean
admonished.
"It actually pays better than teaching summer school."
"Almost anything you can name pays better than
teaching."
"Roy was hoping to change that. He wanted to use some
of the casino profits for education." Except that there
had been scant profits. A little-known fact that Helen had
not discussed with Roy, even though it concerned them
both.
"He'll be missed," Jean said as they threaded their
way among the parked vehicles, most of them sporting a
dried crust of summer bug guts and South Dakota clay. "He
was a man who was just coming into his own, late in his
life. There was talk that he was going be the next tribal
chairman."
Helen had heard the talk, and she'd mentioned it to
Roy. Just talk, he'd said. He wasn't sure old age was much
of a qualification for office. "We need an educated man,"
he'd said, and then he'd laughed and amended his last word
with a gender-neutral noun. Then he'd told her that he'd
heard Reese had gone back to school. He'd heard. And what
she'd heard in his voice was the distance mixed with a
father's heartache.
"Roy will be missed," Helen echoed quietly as they
passed through the blue doors.
She spotted him immediately. Surrounded by people, he
stood head and shoulders above all of them and could
easily see over their heads. He looked straight at her
when she came in the door, but there was no change in his
face, no sign of recognition or welcome or displeasure. He
simply looked at her, kept on looking at her in a way that
drew her directly.
She made an attempt to smile, then let it slide away.
She'd thought about what she would say if he didn't
recognize her right away. Something witty and flippant. A
casual quip, some sweet, private little joke to jar his
memory and maybe throw him slightly off balance. Then
she'd have the upper hand. But he was still looking at
her, his dark eyes completely unreadable, and she couldn't
think of a single clever thing to say.
So she offered a polite and collected
handshake. "Helen Ketterling."
"I remember." His big, warm hand swallowed hers up
completely. "It's been a long time."
"Yes, it has."
"Ten years?"
"More than that. You're looking—" Casting about for
her wits had left her suddenly short of breath.
"Yeah, I'm looking." His smile was slow in coming, but
finally his eyes befriended hers. He wasn't releasing her
hand. She wasn't drawing it away. "You haven't changed."
"Yes, I have. I'm really very ..." She shook her head
and glanced away. She was going to say "sorry," but it
felt like a pale, simpering word, and it had little to do
with his comment. Different. She was really very
different, but she didn't want to say that, either,
because part of her wished she hadn't changed so much.
He'd changed, too. She'd known him when he was
rawboned and edgy, when his everlasting hunger burned in
his eyes, but now she beheld a cautious, confident man who
had made his mark. "I've only been back for a short time,"
she said quietly, suddenly noticing Jean's absence and
wondering when she'd moved away. "But your father had
become a friend."
Reese looked surprised. "To you?"
"He remembered me from ..."
His surprise turned to expectancy. Would she say it?
From the time he'd introduced her as "his girl" and she'd
teased him about using a schoolboy's term? She'd used his
greenness against him at times, embarrassed him in a
shameless attempt to gain the upper hand in their
impetuous courting game.
Unable to look him in the eye, she sidestepped,
withdrawing her hand. "He invited me to ride his horses
anytime, and of course I jumped at the opportunity. We
visited about politics, history, folklore, all kinds of
things. He had so much life in him, so many stories."
"What brings you back?"
"A job. The quest for the perfect job."
"And you came back here to Bad River?" He chuckled,
shook his head in disbelief. He'd always worn his hair
long, neatly trimmed, touching his shoulders in
back. "Well, it's good to see you."
"Not like this, though."
"Why not? It's good that you came to say good-bye to your
friend. You forget to do that sometimes."
A stab. So unlike him. She had to remind herself that
she really didn't know him anymore. She had to remind
him. "We said good-bye. In the rain that night. Remember?"
As soon as it was out, she was sorry she'd said it.
She could feel the cold rain on her face, his wet shirt
beneath her hands, his warm, promise-making breath in her
ear. He'd said he figured he had one shot and now was the
time to take it. He would call. He would be back. He would
catch up with her.
Cold rain, she remembered, shivering inside as she
noted the cooling in his eyes. "It was a long time ago,"
she said quietly.
"I didn't realize it was meant to be a final good-
bye."
"It wasn't meant to be. As it turns out, it wasn't."
She lifted her chin and offered a tight smile. "Hello
again."
"Hello again." He stepped around her, turning his back
to the room, as though he was putting her in his breast
pocket to keep her to himself. She'd always liked the
subtle way he had of positioning himself as her
protector. "You never know, do you?" he said quietly, his
gaze drifting to the coffin that stood several steps
away. "Which good-bye will be the last."
"No." She laid her hand on his dark blue sleeve, and
she realized she'd never seen him in a sport jacket
before. She wondered whether he'd bothered to own one back
then. "I guess the gods think they're being charitable,
keeping us in the dark as we go our merry way."
"It's shadowy," he told her. "It's never completely
dark. But if you pay attention to the shadows, you can get
along pretty well." He shifted his big body again, turning
her attention toward a pass-through window and tables
laden with kettles and trays full of food. "Did you get
something to eat?"
"No, I ..." She looked up, all set to excuse herself.
Uncollected. Impolite. "But I will."
"Good. The frybread's great. I haven't had any in a
while." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks
and inhaled the aroma of deep-fried yeast bread as he
edged her toward the table. "Ah, the smell of home."
"That was the first thing I looked for when I came
back. I went to a powwow just to find a piece of ..."
With a subtle chin jerk, he signaled one of the women
who was tending the table. "Gramma, Helen needs some food.
Some frybread to start with, right?"
"You come with me," the old woman said.
He touched Helen's shoulder, and she turned and found
gratitude in his eyes. "It really is good to see you,
Helen."
She was more interested in helping at the serving
table than eating. From that vantage point she watched the
people pay their condolences to Roy Blue Sky's sons. Roy
had been a community leader, and there was a kind of honor
due that was readily understood and easily managed. But
Reese was a hometown hero, and that honor was not as
easily managed. Not by Reese. It surprised her to see the
underpinnings of his shyness in gestures she remembered so
well. Surprising to see a man as big as he was, as
physically imposing and adroit, fumble over an old man's
handshake when the recollection of a particular play
during a particular game was mentioned.
"No one could touch you that night," the man
said. "You were unstoppable."
Shoulders back, head bowed, Reese gave a small nod and
muttered an acknowledgment.
"We've got something we want to talk to you about
later," the man said. "Not now, but pretty soon. Toksa. Me
and some friends. Friends of your dad's, relatives,
friends of ..."
Reese lifted his chin, questioned with a look.
Somehow the look connected with Helen, although his
eyes did not stray. He knew she was listening, even as she
made a production of scraping the last of the potato salad
from one bowl on top of the fresh mound in a bowl she'd
just set out on the table. She scraped louder, faster, but
still she listened. It was part of her job.
The man tapped Reese's chest with the back of his
hand. "Not now, but before you head back to the Cities. We
have things we want to say."
"Sure. You know where to find me."
"Out to your dad's place?"
Reese nodded, and the man motioned to a small boy who
was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the name Minneapolis
Mavericks, Reese's former NBA team. "This is my grandson.
He wanted to meet you."
Reese shook hands with the child, then squatted to the
boy's level and gave his full attention, as though they
were the only two people in the room. The child had a
story to tell, his small hands describing shapes and
sizes, and Reese was right there with him for every
detail. Helen pictured Sidney standing in the boy's place,
his lanky arms measuring the size of a fish he'd caught or
the length of a pass.
Reese looked up and caught her smiling. She turned
away quickly. She knew what a silly look she'd permitted
to cross her face and what sentimental notions were bound
to follow, and she could allow herself none of that now.
Just seeing him, even after all this time, was risky
enough, but seeing how open he was to the child's
interests, how he made the boy's whole face light up ...
oh, lord. She hadn't intended to see him again, not until
Sidney was older. Her son's grandfather, yes, even his
uncle, but his father wasn't part of the plan.
Reese's warm smile pricked that pouch of guilt she
swore her obstetrician had stitched into her belly during
her C-section. He'd probably been a basketball fan. A fan
of the man who stood beside her now because she'd been
eavesdropping and he'd caught her at it.
"How was the frybread? As good as you remembered?"
"Almost."
"For me, too. Almost. They say you can't go home
again." He took a piece of frybread from the blue roaster
pan on the table, tore it into two pieces, and offered her
half. "Do you think that's true?"
"Not always. I think it depends on how long you've
been gone and where you've been." Whether you had the good
sense to insist on a female obstetrician. "And maybe on
what you're looking for."
"Just a little taste of home." He ripped off a big
bite of the chewy bread. She nibbled at the piece he'd
given her. He swallowed and smiled. "Can't get it anywhere
else. Why did that amuse you before—me and that kid?"
"Just the way he was so starstruck."
"That is funny, isn't it? I was probably all done by
the time he could even say the word `basketball.' His
grandfather and the o1' man used to hang out together."
"They were on the council together, weren't they?"
"Before that." He waved frybread at their
history. "They go way back."
"Do you ..." She was about to play her hand unwisely,
and she knew it, and she couldn't stop herself. "... have
children?"
He shook his head. "Haven't had time for any of that.
No wife. No kids. You?"
"I do have a son, yes. But his father and I are no
longer together." It sounded so funny and formal the way
it came out. Cover-up came with the territory she'd
ventured into as a casino investigator, and she'd gotten
pretty good at it, but this was rough. Reese was looking
at her with too much interest, and her stomach was getting
itself in a twist. "And he's not with me. My ... my son
isn't."
"That must be hard."
"I miss him." He was looking at her with some new
feeling. Sympathy? Oh, Lord, not that. She found a sunny
smile and pasted it up front. "He's in camp this summer.
He loves it. He loves ..." If you're smart, you'll say
anything but ..."Sports."
"How old?"
"Ten." She'd said the number too quickly, and it
reverberated, mocking her. This was more than custodial
cover-up now. She was back to telling those "necessary"
lies. "Almost eleven." He'd turned twelve.
"What sports does he like?"
"Everything. You name it. Swimming, hockey, baseball,
anything involving ..." Games, games. Oh, God, the man was
tall. Looking right down into her devious brain. "Horses.
He loves to ride."
"Like his mom, huh? How about basketball?"
"Any kind of ball. He loves ..." Part of her didn't
like the way this conversation was going, while another
part of her was dying to go there with this man, to tell
him, show him, and let him share in her parental pride. It
was past time to get a grip, to clamp down on that foolish
second part. "Well, he's an active boy."
"That's good."
She nodded, the words Yes, you'd get along fine
burning in her brain.
"You have to share him with his father?" When she
didn't look up at him, didn't answer, he quietly
apologized. "None of my business."
"That's not it. I just ... it's complicated."
"Seems like it always—"
"Hey, Blue!"
They'd both been so absorbed that the interruption
startled them. It was a tribal police officer, stopping to
help himself to half a bologna sandwich on his way over.
Reese scanned the room, looking for help. "I don't
know where my brother is. I gotta talk to this guy,
but ..." He touched Helen's arm. "I want you to meet my
sister. She's around here somewhere. Don't go away."
She didn't. She still had a job to do. In fact, she
used his request as an excuse to stay within earshot of
another of his conversations. She didn't catch all of it,
but she gathered that the driver who had killed his father
had still not been found and that the police had plenty of
questions but no answers.
They were questions she'd already been asked. She had
left Roy's place at about ten the night he died. She was
the last person known to have seen him alive. She had
already recounted much of the discussion they'd had,
explaining to the police that she and Roy had become
friends, that she enjoyed his sense of humor and the
stories he told her. She sensed some skepticism on the
investigator's part. Why would a young white woman be
paying a social call on an old Indian man alone at ten
o'clock at night? He was telling her stories? Strange he
should turn up dead.
But then, Bad River was a strange place. An unusual
place where the people were living in the detached
backwater of the mainstream and where they had gotten by
on so little for so long. Policy after policy, one
government program after another, had failed to do much
except compound the problems that isolation, lack of
resources, and a history of injustice had caused.
Then, suddenly, the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act arose
in the East like the promise of a new day. Here was new
possibility for new enterprise, although, according to Roy
Blue Sky, gambling was not a new enterprise for his
people. But the form it was taking now was new. In the
form of casino gaming, the pastime had taken on some new
wrinkles, and Roy was suspicious of wrinkles. "Trouble can
hide in the folds," he'd said once. She'd waited for him
to elaborate, but he had given her a fable instead.
Finding trouble was her job. He must have known, she
thought as she gazed down at the inanimate mask that had
once been his warm face.
Coyote loves to gamble. They say he lost his whole
tribe one time to the Knife River People. So he turned
himself into a really good-looking man, and he talked Gray
Badger out of three of his daughters. Then he took those
daughters back to the Knife River village, and he said he
wanted to play a dice game. And he said he would bet his
fine new brides, who could breed some muscle into those
bandy-legged Knife Rivers. Got them ail snorty, talking
like that. But all the while, Coyote had this little bird
hidden in his thick hair, right behind his ear, and when
they got to playing—
"They did a good job, didn't they?"
Helen looked up as Carter Marshall joined her at his
dead father's side. Carter favored his father more than
Reese did. Carter and Roy were closer to the same height,
same build, and she now saw they had exactly the same
ears, turned out like half-open doors. It seemed ironic
that Roy had given this likeness of himself away when
Carter was a baby, given him up for adoption and later
taken him back. She knew little about either deed except
that a change in the law had permitted the latter. The
Indian Child Protection Act had returned Carter to his
father's house when he was a teenager. She knew all about
that law. She had a copy of it tucked away at home.
"He looks peaceful, doesn't he?" Carter said.
Helen nodded as she extended her hand. "I'm so sorry."
"Thank you." He smiled, but he was already looking
around the room for something or someone else, as though
he'd been signaled. She was tempted to check behind his
ears for birds, but Carter was like a bird himself, always
keeping an eye out for the next perch. "Just got here. So
many details to look after, you wouldn't believe it. I had
to stop in at the casino, plus call my wife and make sure
she's bringing the kids over." He squeezed her hand
quickly before drawing his away. "You're on the schedule
tonight."
"I know."
"Everything's going to be closed tomorrow for the
funeral. Even the casinos. He'd like that. Show of
respect. His favorite word." He glanced at his father's
corpse again, then back to Helen. "Did you get something
to eat?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Well, look at this. Isn't that Rick Marino, the
basketball player?" Carter nodded toward the door, where
the man who had just entered with a small entourage was
turning heads. If he wasn't a basketball player, his
height had gone to waste. He was the only man in the room
who stood taller than Reese, who was welcoming him with a
handshake.
"He's got a hell of a nerve," Carter said. "He wants
to build a big casino over by Spearfish. He's trying to
get the state to change the laws and up the betting limits
to suit his plans. Must be nice to be famous." He shoved
his hands in his pants pockets as he eyed the two
giants. "We'll have to raise the roof to accommodate my
brother's friends, won't we?"
"The door frames at least."
"I gotta meet this guy. Come on, we'll get an
autograph." This remark made Helen draw a quick
scowl. "Just kidding," Carter said. "A handshake's
plenty."
"But you just said he had a hell of a nerve."
"So do I. Hell, we were here first. We're established.
We've got Ten Star behind us, and Ten Star has deep
pockets." Carter smiled, still watching the two once-
famous rivals, who were plainly exchanging friendly
words. "Let him pay his respects to both of us. And to my
father." He tapped her on the arm. "Don't be shy, Helen."
"I'm not. I have to be on the floor in ..." She
checked her watch, even though they both knew she had
plenty of time. It was a good opportunity to quietly
withdraw.
"On second thought, I don't think I want to introduce
my best dealer to a prospective competitor." Her boss
excused her with a nod. "Thanks for coming."
She left without saying another word to Reese or to
Jean. Suddenly there was only one person she wanted to
talk to, and he was five hundred miles away. She found a
phone at the Standard station.
It was suppertime at camp, the best time to get hold
of her son. She tried not to call too often, but staying
away from the phone wasn't easy. This was the first time
he had been away from her for more than a week, and a week
had seemed interminable. Yet he'd wanted this particular
summer camp for his birthday. It had been a major expense
for Helen, but he was such a gifted child, and gifted
children needed special gifts, special opportunities.
Helen wanted to make up for what was missing in Sidney's
life by giving him more opportunities, often expensive
ones. It was right that she should pay. It was the way of
the modern, guilt-ridden parent.
She managed a casual greeting when he came on the
phone. He'd been too old for a gushy mother since the day
he'd started kindergarten.
"Everything's great, Mom. Tomorrow we're going
backpacking up in the San Juan Mountains. We're only going
to eat what we can harvest on the trail."
Across the road, three boys were playing marbles in
the dirt. She didn't know kids still played marbles. She
smiled. "What if there's nothing to harvest? It's pretty
late in the season, isn't it?"
"There's always food, Mom. This is a survival test."
"But you'll have a little trail mix along just in
case."
"No way. That would be, like, wimping out. The
counselors might have something stuffed away in their bag
of tricks, but I'll just be roughing it."
"I sent them a boy; they're sending me back a man?"
"That's what you're paying them for. I scored fourteen
points in basketball last night. I'm getting pretty good."
She closed her eyes and nodded, picturing him in his
oversized shorts, his hair sweaty, sticking to his neck.
He wanted to let it grow, maybe wear it in braids. He'd
suggested that when he'd been mad at her for a remark
someone had made at school. Someone who was white, like
his mother, had made a remark about his being a half-
breed, and he'd told her he didn't like the word, didn't
like it that he never seemed to be or have or do any more
than half of something. He just didn't like the sound
of "half," so he was going to go the whole way and the
hell with the white part of him that didn't count for
anything because it was the Indian part that showed more.
She'd asked him not to swear, and he'd ignored her. Hell,
he was almost twelve.
"Sounds better than pretty good to me. How about your
writing?"
"I'm keeping a journal, which is, like, part of the
program. I try to write in it every day."
"I was thinking about a letter."
"Jeez, there's so much going on, Mom. I haven't had
time for any letters."
Good Lord, his voice was changing. He sounded so much
older, so much like a man, like ...
I haven't had time for any letters. The words could
have been Reese's echo.
"So what have you been up to, Mom?"
"Just dealing cards, sweetheart."
"Not just. You're on a case, right?"
She laughed. "You make me sound like `Bond. Jane
Bond.'" Sidney did the accent better than she did. "Yes,
but I'll have it wrapped up by the time your program is
over."
"You're letting me stay through both sessions, right?"
"Is that what you want to do?"
She heard her own hesitancy, and she wanted to
attribute it strictly to the fact that this would be a
long separation, the longest she and her son had ever
experienced, and it was too soon for him to be easy with
it. He was still a boy. She wasn't Mommy anymore, but she
was still Mom. And Mom didn't want that hesitancy to come
from any place but her lonely heart. Her son was so far
away, and at this point, she knew she was going to need
more time to get her job done. Mom would not allow Helen's
slightly shady job to cloud her noblest instincts. But
Helen had a job to do. Helen was the breadwinner.
"You know what's really cool?" Sidney was
saying. "Everybody else in the program is Indian. I'm not
the only one, you know? There's guys from Alaska and
Florida and Montana and New York. They're from all over
the place, Mom. But we're all at least part Indian, and
it's cool."
What had been even cooler was that Helen had not had
to provide proof of tribal enrollment for this program,
which was partly funded by federal money. Sidney's
teachers had recommended him, and all she'd had to do was
sign a statement that he had at least one Native American
grandparent. She hoped she hadn't risked any kind of
exposure by signing the document and filling in the
word "Lakota" under tribal affiliation. That seemed vague
enough. There were many Lakota tribes.
There was no documentation of Sidney's affiliation. In
the first year of a twelve-year history of haunting lies,
she had put "father unknown" on his birth certificate. She
had never come any closer to overturning that lie—other
than explaining that the reason he looked "different" was
that he was half Indian—than she had when she'd signed his
application for the summer program.
It had been a good move. He was having a ball. She
could hear it in his voice.
"You can stay, but I want at least one letter a week.
Deal?"
"There's a big deal for parents at the end."
"I'll be there."
"You won't believe how much I have to show you."
"I can't wait."
The boys across the road had finished their game, and
the smallest one was claiming the winnings. Something was
always wagered, Roy had said. Even the young ones learned
to bet what they valued against what they hoped to gain.
As long as you draw breath you will gamble. Everyone does.
"I miss you, you know."
"I know. I'll try to write sometime. Listen, I gotta
go." But he hung on, and she did, too, hoping there was
more. He cleared his throat. "I miss you, too, Mom."
The following day Helen attended the funeral of Roy
Blue Sky. She stayed at the edge of the crowd. She waited
in line to shake hands with his family. His two sons, his
grandchildren, the daughter Helen had never met but whose
stature and features and regal solemnity were unmistakably
Blue Sky.
An eagle hovered above the mourners as they lowered
the casket. It circled when they dropped gifts into the
grave, and it circled still, resplendent against the clear
cerulean sky, as they took turns at the shovels. Women
trilled, men pounded a drum and sang their ancient song,
and male and female tears flowed generously. Helen kept to
herself, but she would hold the memory for her son. He
should have been there. By all rights, she knew he should
have been there.
She also knew instinctively, while she listened to the
heavy clay fall into the hole, that Roy's death was no
accident. The old man had not been afraid to blow the
whistle, to call for an investigation that could implicate
some of the people who stood around his grave. Management,
employees, tribal officials, even Roy's own son. How many
of these people knew about the investigation? Roy had
bypassed Ten Star's in-house monitors and contacted the
Bureau of Indian Affairs, which was the reason Helen was
involved. Roy's suspicion that somebody was taking the
tribe to the cleaners was no secret, but had he told
anyone that he'd done more than just make some local
noise? Nobody loved a whistle-blower, and Roy no longer
had breath to blow.
But Helen did. She had breath, skill, and mandate. And
she had duty to a friend.