I let it go. I can’t believe it, but I did. I just wanted to keep these things at a distance. Kurt continued to press the staff at “Cloaca” about whatever Mother might be saying that others would hear. He was obsessed by the unfamiliar nature of her coarse remarks, which he said reflected the lowlife thrills she had experienced with Wowser. I had dinner with Kurt and his wife at the point that things seemed to be deteriorating. Their two boys were displeased to have me, their uncle, even in the house. These are two weird, pale boys. I don’t think they’ve ever been outdoors. I always ask if they’ve been hiking in the mountains. They hate me. Beverly was quite the little conversationalist, too. She asked why I didn’t have any girlfriends.
“They just haven’t been coming along.”
“They may find you drab. I know I do.”
Beverly had made some desultory attempt at meal preparation. She’d been drinking — nothing new — and there was not much left of her former high Texas sleekness besides her aggressive twang. Kurt always looked a bit sheepish around her and was anxious when, over the sorry little meal, she brought up Mother, a subject Beverly found hilarious. Years ago when Mother was at her best, she had made no secret of her disapproval of Beverly, whom she called a tart. Local wags said that she and Beverly were competing for Kurt, and there may have been something to it, as I could bring around a rough customer with a gold tooth or neck tattoo and Mother would greet her like a queen. Of course I resented it, and of course I was pleased when Beverly, having gotten wind of Mother’s new interest in Junior, said, “Old Doctor Kurt got his tail in a damn crack, ain’t he?” I haven’t really liked Beverly since the day of their marriage, when she called me a disgrace. There’d been a bunch of drugs at the bachelor party, and I had an accident in my pants; the word got out, thanks to Kurt.
“It’s just all part of the aging process, hon,” Kurt said pandering to Beverly. “The sad aging process.”
“That right, Doc? Just don’t drag your mother over here and give her a shot.”
Like I said, she’d been drinking.
Mother had nearly hit bottom. She was still following things with her eyes, like a passing car or a cat, but not much. No, not much. I continued to see her, but I didn’t know why. No, it’s hard to say why I went. I’d say now that she was damn near a heathen idol, propped here or there, in a window or facing something, a picture, a doorway; it didn’t seem to make much difference. It wasn’t pretty at all. But Kurt kept at it until something went wrong. Evidently he broke some furniture, kicked down a door, shouted, cried. Police were involved on the assumption he was drunk. Fought the cops, got Tased, booked, released, and then a day later fucked up his rotator cuff yanking on a venetian blind. It was a week before I felt I could go near him. I thought it might be best to quietly approach Ms. Lowler.
“It has been a nightmare,” she said. “And not just for me. The other residents were terrified. We’ve had the doctor here for them. It’s a full moon, and they don’t sleep well anyway. Ever since your brother started pretending to be your mother’s boyfriend, she has become more and more agitated. I personally think it has been quite cruel. Then he wanted to move her to his own house, which seemed I hardly know what.”
He wanted to put Mother to sleep like an old cocker spaniel. I don’t know why this agitated me so; she was all but asleep anyway — I suppose it was the unexpected memories that rushed back at the thought of her no longer existing — Mother hurtling along in our old Econoline with a carload of kids, bound for a dinosaur exhibit, an opera, a ball game, or off to Crow Fair to watch the Indian dancers and eat fry bread. Crow Fair was right in the middle of when Dad and I liked to fish the Shields, which I would have preferred, while Kurt was happy to drink in all the culture with the possible exception of Crow Fair, which he considered just a bunch of crazy Indians. Maybe not fishing with Dad was why my memory was so sharp.
Or why it came to me: Mother was herding a little mob of us like a border collie through the tepees and concessions, thousands of Indians and spectators, smoke drifting from campfires, Crow elders in lawn chairs talking in sign language, young dancers running past us to the competitions in a rush of feathers. Our guide was Mr. White Clay, who helped Mother lead us to the rodeo grounds, the powwow, the fry-bread stands, and the drumming of the Nighthawk Singers. Mr. White Clay looked more like a cowboy than an Indian in his jeans, snap-button shirt, and straw hat. He was tall and dark like many Crows, and it was surprising how Mother deferred to him and how well they seemed to know each other. He had quickly familiarized himself with our group and was vigilant in rounding up anyone who strayed. It was wonderful to see Mother so relaxed, so willing to let Mr. White Clay handle things. We kids had to call him Mr. White Clay. Mother called him Roland.
My face was burning. I cut my conversation with Ms. Lowler so suddenly she was startled. I went home, burst through my front door, and picked up the phone. I called information for Crow Agency and requested a number for Roland White Clay. He answered. He answered! I told him who I was, who my mother was, who my brother was, how old we were then. Mr. White Clay was silent. I asked if we could come to see him, and he said with odd formality, “As you wish.”
I had found Wowser.
I will never know why I told Kurt, but that’s what I did. It took him a while to absorb this and determine for himself if I was imagining it. But he remembered, too. He remembered. He said that when he was “Wowser,” “Doozy” had given him the impression that after the war Wowser no longer belonged in a tepee. Kurt said, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I have forensic skills.” I told him I hadn’t noticed; but he went on rather plausibly. Evidently Wowser’s stationing in Southern California had briefly transformed him from Plains Indian to Zoot Suiter; and more troublingly, Mother had gone from den mother to tart. Maybe they had fun. But Kurt wasn’t happy. He said it looked like he would have to move. My brother move away? After all these years? I couldn’t possibly face that. Kurt was there at the Grass Dance with Mother on that faraway and now sadly beautiful day. He said, “We’re gonna drag that Indian back up here and let him and Mother have a grand reunion. That’s when this Wowser retires.”
We drove to the Rez in his little MG, which he stores most of the year. I couldn’t think of a worse car to drive on a hot day on the interstate, our hair blowing in the heat, our faces getting redder. Kurt thought it would cheer him up, but by the time we got near Laurel, where fumes from the refinery filled the little two-seater, tears were pouring from his eyes. At first I thought it was the appalling conditions of driving this flivver among the sixteen-wheelers, pickup trucks, and work-bound sedans. But that wasn’t it. He was remembering throwing a fit at assisted living. Surely I knew that. I waited until we slowed for the Hardin exit to ask him what happened. He unexpectedly swerved onto the shoulder. Our dust cloud swept over our heads and dissipated downwind. Kurt stared at me.
“She came on to me.”
“It’s your own fault!” I shouted.
“Searching for the truth about our mother? You’re actually calling that my fault? To my face? You never cared about Mother!”
“Mother never cared about me!”
Kurt lowered his voice. “Earl, there was a problem of course. The problem was that you were uneducable.”
“Ah. I thought Dad was uneducable. That’s what she said. What luck she had you.”
“I think she felt that way,” he said with a slight toss of his head.
“Was this when she was fucking the Indian?”
“You need to be careful, Earl.” I could see violence rising in Kurt’s face. “You need to be very, very careful.”