For this investigation, George Darkmoon in Arlee, a town near St. Ignatius, where my birth father lived, would be the obvious person to start with. The problem was, I would have to call Elwood.
Elwood was not an easy man to deal with on the phone-or in person. The first two times I’d tried to talk with him he’d rebuffed me-telling me to come back to his house when I’d had time to “assemble my thoughts.” Then he’d grudgingly allowed me into his simple log home and acknowledged that I was his daughter. Since then we’d established a tentative relationship, but it had its rough edges: on my part because he’d suspected all along he had a child, but had made no effort to locate me; on his part because I’d disrupted his quiet, traditional life as an artist who volunteered to fund and teach art workshops in the schools at various area reservations.
I steeled myself and dialed his number.
“Elwood, it’s Sharon.”
“Yes.”
“How are you?”
“Doing well. How are you?”
“Doing well.”
Long silence. I asked, “How are the workshops going?”
“Excellently.” Excitement lightened his voice. “Those young people are amazing. Their enthusiasm… it makes me feel young again.”
And where were you, when my enthusiasm could have made you feel young?
Not fair, McCone. At the time he wasn’t even certain that you existed.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he added. “Are you sure everything’s all right? Those bombings…”
Did he really want to know? I decided to lay it on him; talked about my burn-out and my flight to the ranch, my doubts about my professional future.
He didn’t speak immediately. I heard puffing sounds-he was lighting a cigarette.
“It may be a time for change, Daughter. That kind of empty feeling is a signal that we need to use our gifts in different ways. Me, when I was making all that money from my art in New York City and living high, I felt the kinds of pressures you were feeling. When I met Leila and we came here, I could let go of the things I thought were important back there, and get on with what really counted.”
“Your art, and giving to others.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Well, I’ve taken on one last case, as a favor to friends, and I have a problem. D’you know a man in Arlee named George Darkmoon?”
“No. These days, I stay apart from the community more than I used to. But I can put you in touch with him.”
“Moccasin telegraph.”
“Moccasin telegraph. I’ll find someone to relay the information to George. He’ll probably have to call you collect.”
“If he calls my cellular, it’ll be charged to me anyway.” I gave him the number.
“Good. As you know, most of our people can’t afford long distance in the middle of the day. And Daughter, be in touch with me more often.”
When I hung up, my eyes were brimming. Elwood had called me “Daughter” twice in one conversation.
“Is this Sharon McCone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m George Darkmoon, in Arlee, Montana. Donna Ferguson in St. Ignatius had a call from your father, saying you wanted to get in touch with me. She talked to Jane Nomee here in Arlee, and Jane called me.”
It had been ten minutes since I’d spoken with Elwood. The telegraph was working at higher speed than my computer ever had.
“Yes, thank you for calling. Mr. Darkmoon, did you ever live in Hawthorne, Nevada?”
“Never even been there.”
“Do you have any relatives who did? Say, twenty-five years ago?”
“Well… the Darkmoons have kind of scattered. Family is Paiute, mostly from northern California, but now we’re all over the map. Me, I married a Flathead woman, moved here thirty-five years ago. You want I should put it out on the wire?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“No problem. Don’t know your dad personally, but I hear about what he’s doing for the kids. Happy to help his daughter.”
There was that word again…
“Sharon McCone? This is Phyllis Darkmoon, in Vancouver, B.C. My husband’s cousin George says you’re looking for a branch of the family who lived in Hawthorne, Nevada, twenty-five years ago.”
“That’s right. Thanks for calling.”
“No problem. My husband wanted me to tell you that he has a second cousin in New Mexico who may have known them. He asked me to put you in touch with him.”
“Let me check with some Darkmoon family members in Portland. What number can they reach you at?”
“This is Essie Wilson, in Portland. I’m related to the Darkmoon family. My brother-in-law remembers the Darkmoons of Hawthorne, Nevada. In fact, we visited them once. There was some kind of tragedy with one of their daughters, and then they lost touch.”
“Do you recall their first names?”
“The father was Norm, the mother Dora. The kids, no, I don’t recall, but a relative in Tonopah, Nevada, might. I’ll give you her number.”
“Yes, I knew Norm and Dora Darkmoon-they were shirttail cousins. We visited them once, about fifteen years ago when they were living in Yerington. Kind of a sad couple. Their kids had all left home, and he was sick with some kind of lung thing. After that, we lost touch. There’s another shirttail cousin in Yerington who might be able to tell you more.”
“After the girl was raped, the family moved here to Yerington and stayed for maybe ten years. The girl ran off a short time after they got here. I never knew her name. But her sister, Joellen, still lives in town. You should talk to her.”
“You’re looking for Izzy? God, I haven’t heard from her since she ran away from home,” Joellen Darkmoon Knight said. “No, that’s not right. She sent a postcard saying the baby had been born and they were doing fine.”
“She had a child?”
“Well, yeah. From the rape, you know.”
“And she kept it?”
“Uh-huh, I guess.”
“Where was this postcard from?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in California?”
“What’s Izzy’s full name?”
“Isabel. She hated it because everybody would abbreviate it to Izzy, and she thought that sounded like some weird kind of lizard.”
“Is there anybody else in your family who might have heard from her?”
“Well, my parents are dead. Dad had emphysema, and they went down to Arizona, and I swear that hot, dry climate was what killed them both. My older brother, he took off before we moved down here from Hawthorne. Baby brother’s overseas in the army, baby sister too. My other sister I don’t have nothing to do with, but I’ve got a phone number for her in Seattle. She was two years older than Izzy, and they were close.”
“I’m surprised Joellen gave you my number,” Cheri Darkmoon said.
“She mentioned you didn’t have much to do with one another.”
A laugh. “Try total estrangement. I’m a lesbian, and she couldn’t handle it when I came out.”
“That’s too bad. Families…”
“Are not what they show in the TV ads. Take ours: I haven’t heard from Isabel for fifteen, sixteen years, since her last kid was born-and we were the closest of us all.”
“So Isabel had more children after…?”
“The child born of the rape. Yes, she did. After she ran away she sent me a postcard from Sacramento saying somebody she knew over in California had found her a nice family to stay with.”
“Who was this somebody?”
“I don’t know. She was only thirteen and had never been anyplace but Hawthorne, so how she had a friend in California I can’t imagine. Or how she got there. She didn’t have any money of her own; none of us did.”