“It’s okay, mom,” John says. “Nobody gets hurt.”
John smiles, beams really, and tries to hide his glee. Just that day, he had climbed into a cave beneath the pipes, a small cave with an even smaller entrance. When John climbed inside, he saw Dawn, the most beautiful Indian girl in the world, face smudged with dirt, stray grass in her hair, holes in her jeans.
“Shh,” she said. “I’m hiding from Verla and them.”
“Oh, okay.”
They sat quietly, listening to the laughter and voices of other Indian kids. Somebody ran through the pipe directly above their cave. The echoes sounded like music. More kids ran through the pipe. The music was so loud that John worried the pipe was going to collapse. He was afraid. The fear felt wonderful.
“Do you like me?” asked Dawn, bold, as Indian girls and women always are.
“Yeah, sure,” John said.
“Well, kiss me then. Now or never.”
John kissed her then, quickly and dryly, chapped lips against chapped lips. He could feel her teeth clenched tightly behind her lips. His jaw ached with the effort. His heart sounded louder than the kids running through the pipes above his head. He wanted to sing a love song. The pipes were the best place in the history of the world.
“What are you smiling about?” asks his mother. John shakes his head. He fills his mouth with fry bread and stew, hoping his mother will not ask him any more questions. She smiles. She knows about Dawn. His whole family knows about Dawn and John.
No matter how much he enjoys breakfast and lunch, John knows that dinner is the best meal of all. No. After dinner is the best time. He is sixteen years old. His whole family sits in a circle in the living room and tells stories. His grandparents tell stories of the old times, before the white men came, when animals still talked. Coyote this, Coyote that. Raven flying around messing with everybody. Bear lumbering and rumbling across the grass. Mosquito mistaking urine for blood. His mother tells stories about other relatives, long since passed away. The uncle who was crushed beneath a falling tree. Another uncle who moved to the city and was never seen again. The aunt who went crazy. They are sad stories, but still filled with humor and hope, so the family is only half-sad. John knows that storytelling is a way of mourning the dead. His uncles and aunts, who are still alive and sharing the circle, tell stories about their travels. One uncle was in the Army, fought against Hitler, and came back with a medal. Another uncle built skyscrapers. A third fished for salmon in Alaska. The fourth fell in love with a Italian girl in Chicago, even though he only saw her a few times on a bus. So many stories to tell and songs to sing. John’s cousins, the little girls, sing Christmas carols, the only songs they know, no matter the time of year. Ninety degrees outside and the girls singing “Winter Wonderland.” John tells the longest stories, with many characters and changes of location. His stories are epic. They go long into the night. He invents ancestors. He speaks the truth about grandfathers and grandmothers. He convinces his family that Shakespeare was an Indian woman. The laughter and disbelief, the rubbing of bellies and contented sighs. His family listens to every word. His mother yawns once, twice, rubs her eyes, and listens some more. She can never get enough of her son. During his stories, John’s family laughs in the right places and cries when tears are due.
5. How It Happened
THE KILLER BELIEVED IN the knife, a custom-made bowie with three small turquoise gems inlaid in the handle, heavy but well-balanced, nearly long enough to be considered a sword. A beautiful weapon, polished until the killer could see clear eyes, curve of cheek, and thin lips in the silver sheen of the blade. During those moments, with knife in hand, the killer felt powerful, invincible, as if the world could be changed with a single gesture. Snap of the fingers, one step forward, a hand closed into fist. With the knife, the killer became the single, dark center around which all other people revolved.
At home, the killer had sharpened the blade until it could cut away a thin layer of skin when just lightly run along a forearm. Everything had a purpose. The knife needed to be sharp. The killer wanted to carry the knife at all times, but its size and weight made it difficult to conceal. A special knife needed a special sheath. Since the killer could not sleep, there was plenty of time to build a sheath, fashioned from irregular leather pieces and nylon cord. With the knife resting comfortably in its sheath, hidden beneath a jacket, the killer could move freely. More importantly, the killer had quick access to the blade as it sat just above the left hip. For hours, the killer practiced pulling the knife from its sheath, then slashing, cutting, and thrusting the blade into imaginary enemies. Faster and faster. The killer practiced, as hands blistered and arms ached with pain, until exhaustion. Only then did the killer fall asleep.
At night, the killer dreamed of the knife. Of the search for a perfect knife. It had not been easy. There were many choices. Paring, chef’s, boning knives. Bread, utility, carving knives. Wooden handles, plastic handles. So beautiful, the parts of a knife. Blade, bolster, tang, handle. Indestructible. Lifetime guarantees. Large sets. One knife at a time. Knife blocks with blade sharpeners included. Demonstration videos. County fairs. Mail order. Department stores and discount chains. Garage sales and secondhand stores. A Short Guide to Cutlery. In a large kitchen, the meat carver decided which piece of meat each guest received. The neck for the journalist, the breast for royalty. The killer had touched so many knives, studied their blades, tested their heft. The knife is the earliest tool used by humans, over two million years old. Knife, knifing, knives, to knife, to be knifed, knifelike. The killer sliced open test fruits and vegetables, ran fingers over the deep grooves cut into carving boards. Four thousand years ago, humans learned to separate elements, and discovered the power of iron. The killer shifted a knife from left to right hand, and then back again. How to hold a carving knife: last three fingers behind the bolster point, index finger on one side of the blade, thumb on the other side. The paring knife is an extension of the hand. The bread knife is perfect for cutting through objects with hard exteriors and soft interiors. Ancient and elemental, the knife. The Illustrated History of Swords. Blade against blade against blade. A knife must be sharp, clean, and stored properly. A blade should be sharpened before and after use. The mirror of a polished blade. The mirrors in a department store. The mirror of the sky visible between department stores. The Rockwell scale measured the hardness of steel. The higher the number, the sharper the blade. Steel tends to shrink back into itself after long periods of disuse.
Hiding that beautiful knife in the sheath beneath a jacket, the killer followed white men, selected at random. The killer simply picked any one of the men in gray suits and followed him from office building to cash machine, from lunchtime restaurant back to office building. Those gray suits were not happy, yet showed their unhappiness only during moments of weakness. Punching the buttons of a cash machine that refused to work. Yelling at a taxi that had come too close. Insulting the homeless people who begged for spare change. But the killer also saw the more subtle signs of unhappiness. A slight limp in uncomfortable shoes. Eyes closed, head thrown back while waiting for the traffic signal. The slight hesitation before opening a door. The men in gray suits wanted to escape, but their hatred and anger trapped them.
The killer first saw that particular white man in the University District. Confidently, arrogantly, the white man, Justin Summers, had brushed past the killer. With his head high and shoulders wide, Summers took up as much space as he possibly could. He strolled down the middle of the sidewalk, forcing others to walk around him. So when the arrogant white man rudely brushed past, the killer wanted to teach him a lesson. Nothing serious, just a simple and slightly painful lesson. Then, without reason or warning, the killer suddenly understood that the knife had a specific purpose. But the killer had to be careful. There were rules for hunting.