But he had a temper that flashed unpredictably at waiters, headlines, sometimes at her, but most often and most venomously at the government. He cursed every branch, department, and representative with equal vitriol. Lots of people — maybe most, these days — disliked the government. But Redhorse hated it. The longer they spent together, the more often that anger flared, usually after he’d had too much to drink.
“Where are they?”
“The Cheyenne River reservation in South Dakota.”
It seemed important to him, and she had never been to South Dakota, and she was ready for a few days away from work.
A few weeks later, they flew to Bismarck and drove south through frozen farmland that looked to Hallie like sheets of rusted, buckled iron. As they entered the reservation, the road changed from paved to dirt and passed under a crude, lodgepole-pine archway to which someone had nailed a hand-painted sign:
WELCOME TO CHEYENNE RIVER
Poorest rezervation in the US
Highest suacide rate
Enjoy your stay
What Hallie first took to be derelict shacks with cracked windows and unhinged doors were occupied houses, surrounded by piles of trash and dog shit. Despite the January cold, an inordinate number of children and teenagers were outside fighting, some for fun and more in earnest. Many adults seemed unable to walk normally.
They passed a headless white cat frozen into the rock-hard mud, then stopped in front of a yellow trailer tiger-striped with rust. Inside, it smelled like a bad nursing home. A frail woman reclined in a brown La-Z-Boy, watching a soap opera, and seemed neither surprised nor pleased to see them. She wore a dirty red robe and pink slippers. Her wrists and ankles looked as fragile as glass to Hallie, and her face was like dried leaves.
“This is Hallie, Mama. I wrote you letters,” Redhorse said.
“Don’t read no letters.” She lit a fresh Marlboro from the stub of her old one without looking away from the television.
“Well, then, this is Hallie Leland. Hallie, this is my mother, Aziel.”
“She your woman?”
Redhorse glanced quickly at Hallie, who shrugged. “Yes.”
Aziel raised her glass, gulped vodka, sucked hard on her cigarette.
“Mama, where is Francie?”
“She go with Nelson Iron Crow.”
“Who?”
“The crack man.”
They sat on a stinking green couch and Hallie asked polite questions. It was like trying to converse with the dead. Aziel grunted occasionally, but she might have been clearing her phlegmy throat.
Redhorse kept patting his thighs and looking at walls. Finally he said, “We have to go, Mama.” He walked over and kissed her on the forehead. She reached for something, his arm or maybe her glass, but passed out before her hand found what it sought.
Outside, a bulky man in jeans, cowboy boots, and a tight black shirt leaned against their car.
“Remember me?”
“No. Should I?”
“I used to beat your skinny ass.”
“Edward Knows-the-Moon. You were drunk a lot. We were what, twelve?”
“Why you come back here?”
“To see my mother.”
Knows-the-Moon laughed. He stared at Hallie. “Lucky you,” he said. It wasn’t clear which one he was pitying.
Driving back to the motel, Redhorse said, “Eddie did kick my ass. Then I would go and beat on some other kid. Drink, drug, fuck, and fight. Nice life.”
They were driving back to the airport that night when blue lights flared behind them. Redhorse pulled over, but the trooper blasted his siren anyway. They sat waiting for a long time. Looking over her shoulder, Hallie saw a match flare and a cigarette tip glow red in the cruiser.
The trooper came finally, a tall, bony man, military-creased brown shirt, flat-brimmed campaign hat tipped low over his eyes. Redhorse kept his hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. She saw his jaw clenching.
“License and registration, chief.”
Redhorse said nothing but Hallie saw his face tighten. He held up the documents between two fingers without looking at the trooper.
“I got you at ninety-two on radar, chief. What’s your hurry?”
“Catching a plane in Bismarck,” Redhorse said.
The trooper looked past Redhorse at Hallie. He drew in a long breath, let it out, staring at her the whole time, and said, “Huh.” Then: “Sit tight, chief. This won’t take long.”
The ticket was for $295—$75 for the basic violation, and ten dollars for every mile over the speed limit.
It was another two hours to the airport. After the stop, Redhorse said, “I hate those motherfuckers. My father was a Vietnam veteran. Marine. Two tours. When I was six, he drove an F-150 into a bridge abutment at a hundred and ten.”
“My God. Was it an accident?”
“No. But the cops said so.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t waste time on rigger deaths.”
“Rigger?”
“Cute little contraction of ‘red’ and ‘black.’ ”
“You don’t think it was an accident?”
“I think he tagged that bridge on purpose.”
“Why? To get the insurance money?”
“To get away from his fucking life.”
Hallie couldn’t think of an adequate reply. They rode in silence for a while. Then Redhorse spoke: “After the accident, one said, ‘Too bad we can’t train ’em to do that.’ Said it looking right at me.” He paused, looked over at her.
“And you wonder why I hate the fucking government.”
Day Four: Wednesday
7
Hallie left the hospital on Tuesday afternoon. At home she ate a platter of scrambled eggs and four slices of toast and slept for twelve hours.
The next day at about four P.M. she knocked and waited on the front porch of Kurt Ely’s house in Gaithersburg. She had gotten his address from the phone book. It had led her to a peeling, weedy neighborhood with rusting For Sale signs leaning in many of the front yards.
“Can I help you?” In the doorway stood a fortyish woman, short and stout, wearing jeans, a man’s white shirt with the tail out, and black clogs. Hallie had expected someone younger, prettier.
“Robin Ely?” she asked.
The woman frowned. “Who are you?”
“My name is Hallie Leland. I was on the expedition with your husband. I just got out of the hospital and—”
“He wasn’t my husband.”
“Excuse me?”
“What exactly was it you wanted?”
“I came by to see Kurt’s wife — Robin. Kurt mentioned her. I thought she might like to know more about the expedition than what was in the newspapers.”
The woman’s frown faded. “That was nice of you. I’m Madeleine Taylor. Robin was my sister, married to Kurt. Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve been packing, and I’m ready for a break. Coffee?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Call me Maddy.” They sat on stools at the breakfast bar. Hallie could see cardboard boxes and a pile of women’s clothing on the dining room table.
“It looks like you’re helping your sister move. She must be taking Kurt’s death hard.”
Taylor set her cup down. “My sister is dead.”
“What? I had no idea,” Hallie said. “I am so sorry. Kurt never mentioned that. I have brothers and …” She was still tired and raw inside, and just the thought of losing a brother made her eyes fill; Taylor’s did, too, and then they were both laughing self-consciously and wiping tears off their cheeks.
“Is that why you’re here? Retrieving her things?” Hallie asked.
“Yes. Let me ask you something. How well did you know Kurt?”