Mather sat up straight, adjusted his bolo tie, and cleared his throat.
“Well, first of all, I’d like to point out that I have the highest respect for Ms. Polatkin. She is an extremely intelligent girl. And certainly ambitious. But I think her ambitions outweigh her intellect. She is very much like a relative of hers, Reggie Polatkin, who we have some experience with.”
“I don’t know Reggie Polatkin,” said Marie. “I mean, he’s my cousin, but I’ve only met him once or twice. I don’t know anything about him.”
“As you know,” continued Mather, “I am teaching the evening course of the Introduction to Native American Literature class this semester. As a tenured full professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching an evening class, and as an anthropology professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching a literature class. But I felt there was a need the University simply wasn’t meeting. I took it upon myself to fill that need. Ms. Polatkin obviously had a need for such a class, and enrolled in my section.”
“Excuse me,” said Marie.
“Yes,” said Faulkner.
“Why isn’t an Indian teaching the class?”
“Why would you ask that?” asked Faulkner.
“Well, when I take a chemistry course, I certainly hope the teacher is a chemist. Women teach women’s lit at this university, don’t they? And I hope that African-Americans teach African-American lit.”
“Do you understand why I have problems with her?” Mather said. “She is incapable of reasoned discussion. I simply will not have her questioning my authority in my class. She must be forced to drop it.”
“Ms. Polatkin,” said Faulkner. “Dr. Mather is an expert in Native American studies. He has published many books and countless articles. He has worked with dozens of Indian tribes. He has been teaching for twenty years.”
“I have been involved with Native Americans longer than you’ve been alive,” Mather said to Marie.
“Listen,” said Marie. “As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been an Indian.”
“I hardly think this is appropriate,” said Mather with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Why should I have to prove myself to a student, and an undergraduate at that?”
“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you? You’re such an arrogant jerk.”
“Ms. Polatkin, I fail to see where this is getting us,” said Faulkner. “I mean, in light of the tension this Indian Killer situation is causing, I think we should reschedule this meeting for a more appropriate time.”
“I’ve been adopted into a Lakota Sioux family,” protested Mather.
“That just proves some Indians have no taste.”
“Ms. Polatkin, please!” said Faulkner.
“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you?” Marie asked Mather. “You think you know about the Indian Killer, huh? Well, do you know about the Ghost Dance?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, and you know that Wovoka said if all Indians Ghost Danced, then all the Europeans would disappear, right?”
“Yes, it was a beautiful, and ultimately desperate, act.”
“Yeah, you don’t believe in the Ghost Dance, do you? Oh, you like its symbolism. You admire its metaphorical beauty, enit? You just love Indians so much. You love Indians so much you think you’re excluded from our hatred. Don’t you see? If the Ghost Dance had worked, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be dust.”
“Dr. Faulkner,” Mather said. “Please put an end to this ridiculous digression.”
But Faulkner, fascinated by Marie now, was silent.
“So maybe this Indian Killer is a product of the Ghost Dance. Maybe ten Indians are Ghost Dancing. Maybe a hundred. It’s just a theory. How many Indians would have to dance to create the Indian Killer? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe this is how the Ghost Dance works.”
“Ms. Polatkin, the Ghost Dance was not about violence or murder. It was about peace and beauty.”
“Peace and beauty? You think Indians are worried about peace and beauty? You really think that? You’re so full of shit. If Wovoka came back to life, he’d be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she’d be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they’d see what you white people have done to Indians, and they would start a war. They’d see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They’d see the fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They’d see the sorry-ass reservations. They’d learn about Indian suicide and infant-mortality rates. They’d listen to some dumb-shit Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They’d read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians, too.
“Dr. Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life, they wouldn’t crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn’t smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn’t go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They’d kill you. They’d gut you and eat your heart.”
5. Olivia and Daniel
OLIVIA WATCHED HER SILENT husband eat his food so quickly he could not have said what he had eaten. Then, without a word, he left the table and continued his isolation in his study. He pulled an atlas from a shelf. A map of Korea, of Vietnam. Wars, wars, wars. One inch equals one hundred miles. One inch equals ten miles. The scales were always different. Nothing was ever the same as it was before. He fixed himself a vodka Collins, sat down at the desk with his atlas, and switched on the radio. For reasons he could never explain to himself or anyone else, Daniel had been a fan of Truck Schultz’s since the early days. Daniel listened.
In the study, a leather couch, an oak desk and chair, maple bookcases filled with unread books and dog-eared atlases. Daniel loved maps. He would study them for hours, dreaming of places he had never been. Daniel replaced the Southeast Asia atlas on the shelf and pulled down a Montana state map. He studied Montana as he listened to Truck talk about the Indian Killer. For a brief moment, Daniel wondered if John could be capable of such violence. Then he dismissed the thought and worried about John’s safety. If people thought some crazy Indian was committing the crimes, then John would be a likely target for revenge. Daniel, unaware that Olivia was eavesdropping outside the study, sipped at his vodka.
Olivia Smith hated Truck. Right now, she hated her husband for listening to Truck. And her hatred for Truck was growing rapidly. He was talking about Indians as if they were animals. It had been weeks since John had quit his job and disappeared.
“Daniel!” said Olivia and walked into his study. “Did you hear that? Nobody knows if an Indian is doing this killing. This is just evil.”
“Calm down,” said Daniel. “I’m just listening. Besides, he isn’t serious.”
“I’m tired of you apologizing for that man. He’s going to get somebody hurt. Maybe John.”
“Look, it’s just Truck.”
“But what about John?”
“He’ll be all right,” Daniel said and turned off the radio.
He leaned over his map of Montana. Billings, Bozeman, Butte. Poplar, Wolf Point, Glendive. There were so many places to go. Olivia watched her husband ignore her and immerse himself in the Montana map. He silently read his way across the whole state. Missoula, Harlem, Crow Agency. Little Bighorn, Yellowstone, Glacier Park. He tried not to think of his son, who could be dead, or lost, without a map, a legend.
“Daniel,” Olivia said softly, knowing he would pretend not to hear. If she said his name louder, he would look up with feigned surprise. If she touched his shoulder, he would jump in his seat, turn on her with anger. He hated to be scared. She thought of her options and left the room.