Olivia walked into John’s old bedroom. It was decorated with photographs of brightly lit fancydancers. R. C. Gorman’s and T. C. Cannon’s prints. A Laguna pot, a miniature totem pole, a Navajo rug stapled to the wall. A gigantic dreamcatcher, which was supposed to entrap nightmares, was suspended over the bed.
Olivia thought back to John’s nightmares. How the child often screamed himself awake. Night terrors, the doctor said, he’ll grow out of them. Olivia became an insomniac, unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because she constantly waited for those screams. When she rushed to John’s bedside, he would be sitting upright, eyes and mouth open wide. John, she would say, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s Mom. But he could not be comforted. Some nights he did not even recognize Olivia. His eyes would be locked on some distant, invisible object: a monster, a raging river, flames. He would punch and kick Olivia when she tried to hug him. This happened a few times a week from the time John was a toddler until he was twelve years old.
Still, during waking hours, John was a bright and happy boy, if somewhat quiet. He was affectionate, laughed easily, smiled more often than not. The doctor who measured the spaces between his bones said that John had so much room to grow. He was going to be tall and handsome.
The change in John happened quickly. Or perhaps the change was happening all along and Olivia had simply failed to notice. Perhaps it was so subtle as to create an illusion of speed. However it happened, John had changed.
Olivia stood in John’s old bedroom and prayed. She had watched her son, a stranger when he was first put into her arms, become a stranger again. Now, she listened for the sounds of her husband in his study. It was quiet. She could hear cars passing by their house. One, then two close together, then a long pause before another, and a fourth not long after. She could hear the dull hum of the refrigerator and the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. Neither worked well. She left the bedroom and quietly walked into Daniel’s study. He was asleep at the desk, his face pressed against a map of Alaska, the last frontier. She wondered how many vodkas he had finished. His face was damp. She touched his cheek, briefly wondered if he had been crying. Perhaps. Probably. Daniel Smith was a decent man. He worked hard for his family, brought home more than enough money, and loved his wife and son.
Olivia stared at her husband as he slept at his desk. She thought about waking him and taking him to their bed. But she did not want to talk to him. She thought about John, all alone in the world. Then she made a decision. Olivia slipped on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes, found her car keys, locked the front door behind her, and stepped away from the house.
6. The Searchers
REGGIE’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL but surprisingly clean, with a huge stereo and television, a small bookcase holding college textbooks and a few novels, including both of Jack Wilson’s. Reggie, Ty, and Harley were watching John Ford’s classic western, The Searchers, starring John Wayne and Natalie Wood. Both Reggie and Ty tried to translate for Harley, who couldn’t read John Wayne’s lips all that well. Still, with his friends’ help, Harley understood the plot of the movie. Natalie Wood had been kidnapped by Indians, and her uncle John Wayne had spent years searching for her. He planned on killing her if he ever found her, because she’d been soiled by the Indians.
“What would you do if some Indians took your niece or your child?” Harley signed the question to Ty.
“I’d wonder which powwow they were going to,” signed Ty.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously, I don’t have a child. I don’t know.”
“I’d kill her,” signed Reggie. “I understand what John Wayne is feeling. How would you feel if some white people kidnapped an Indian kid? I’d cut them all into pieces.”
Reggie slashed the air with his empty hand. He thought of Bird, that brutal stranger who pretended to be Reggie’s father. Reggie wondered if he’d been stolen away from his real family. Maybe there was an Indian family out there who was missing a son. Maybe Reggie belonged to them.
“Hey, Reggie, you got to calm down,” Ty said.
Reggie glared at him.
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” asked Reggie.
“Now, listen,” said Ty. “Me and Harley talked it over, man. I mean, you’re just taking it too far. Beating up that white guy was one thing. Fucking up his eyes was something else. We got to stop this. People are going to think we scalped that guy. And then you recorded it, man. That’s just sick.”
Reggie, thinking of Dr. Mather’s precious tapes of traditional stories, had listened to the recording a number of times. Who can say which story is more traditional than any other?
“And now we’re beating up Indians. We ain’t supposed to be hurting our own kind, are we?”
“And how do you feel about this?” Reggie signed the question to Harley.
“You’re going to get us in trouble,” signed Harley.
Reggie leaned close to Harley’s face.
“Hey, Reggie, leave him alone,” said Ty.
“There you go,” Reggie signed to Harley. “Are you afraid?”
Harley shook his head.
“Yeah, you’re scared,” Reggie spoke now. “Read my lips, chickenshit. You know the name of the Cavalry soldier who killed Crazy Horse?”
Harley shook his head.
“Well, I don’t know either, but I know the name of the Indian who was holding Crazy Horse’s arms behind his back when that soldier bayoneted him. You know his name?”
Harley shook his head.
“His name was Little Big Man. You understand what I’m getting at?”
Reggie touched Harley’s nose with the tip of his finger. A single drop of blood rolled from Harley’s nostril. Ty jumped to his feet in shock. Harley pushed Reggie away and stood, signing so furiously that neither Reggie nor Ty knew what he was saying.
“Slow down,” Ty said.
“I’m leaving,” Harley signed to Ty. Then to Reggie. “You get yourself caught, but I’m not going to get caught with you.”
Harley grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the apartment.
“Chickenshit!” Reggie screamed after him. “Pussy!”
“Reggie,” Ty said. “You know he can’t hear you.”
“Fuck you.”
Shaking his head, Ty sat back down and turned up the television volume. John Wayne riding down on an Indian village. Yet again.
“What the hell are you doing now?” asked Reggie.
“I want to know how this ends.”
7. Testimony
“MARK? MARK, CAN WE talk to you?”
“Do I have to?”
“You could really help us. We need you to talk, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Can you tell us about the man who kidnapped you?”
“It wasn’t a man.”
“Was it a woman?”
“No.”
“We don’t understand, Mark. Was it a man or a woman?”
“It was dark there.”
“Yes, we know it was dark, but did you see anything? Did you see the person who took you? Did he talk to you? Did you see his house? Anything?”
“I saw what it shone with the light. Hair on the wall.”
“Yes, Mark, and anything else? Maybe feathers?”
“Yes, feathers.”
“Owl feathers?”
“I don’t know. Lots of feathers.”
“And where did you see the feathers, Mark?”
“On the wings.”