Look here, the black robe said. This is my favorite one.
Victor looked at the painting. A battle scene. Two armies fighting. Guns, horses, men, flags, horses, smoke, blood, horses. Victor stared at the painting until he smelled blood and smoke.
Please, Victor said, let me down.
The black robe set him down. Victor rubbed his head, scratched his head, and looked at his hand. Blood.
I’m bleeding.
So you are, the black robe said, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at Victor’s wounds. When the cloth was saturated, the black robe rolled it up into a little ball and swallowed it.
Here, the black robe said, I want to show you something.
The black robe held Victor’s hand and led him through a series of doors. Victor lost track of place and time. He closed his eyes and followed the black robe. He heard the black robe sing.
Here, the black robe said. We’re here.
Victor opened his eyes in a room filled with the stink of burning hair. Other black robes shoveled hair into burning barrels, furnaces, and open fires. Long, black hair.
Here we are, the black robe said. We made it.
Victor ran from the room. He ran past doors into strange rooms. He ran until he lost his breath and collapsed on the cold, hard floor of a barren room. He lay there for hours, until the floor grew warm, then grew grass. He dug his fingers and toes into the grass, the dirt. He dug until his fingers and toes bled with the effort. He dug because he had forgotten how to stand. He dug because his father, Emery, and mother, Matilda, waited on a better reservation at the center of the world.
Samuel dribbled the ball between his legs, between William and Wilson, who crashed into each other in their defensive effort, then breezed past Phil, Art, and Scott Heavy Burden, and jumped over WalksAlong for the bucket.
SAMUEL & LESTER—3
TRIBAL COPS—0
“That shot was for every time one of you assholes wrote somebody a traffic ticket on this reservation,” Samuel said. “I mean, how could you fine some Indian who doesn’t have enough money to feed his kids?”
“Yeah,” Lester said. “They wrote old Moses a ticket for failure to stop when there wasn’t another car on the reservation even working at the time. Moses had to pawn one of his eagle feathers to pay that fine. Never got it back either.”
“Fuck both of you,” the Chief said. “Quit talking smack and play ball.”
“Shit,” Samuel said. “I should be writing you all tickets for failing to stop me.”
Samuel gave the ball to Lester, who dribbled it to his left, off his feet, and into the hands of Officer Wilson. Enraged by his turnover, Lester played tough defense by breathing on the officer with Thunderbird Wine breath. Wilson nearly threw up but recovered well enough to break Lester’s nose with an elbow and throw a nice pass to the Chief for an easy basket.
SAMUEL & LESTER—3
TRIBAL COPS—1
Lester kicked and screamed on the ground. The Tribal Police celebrated their first basket, while Samuel stood with hands on hips and knew it was the same old story.
“That was a foul,” Samuel said.
“We didn’t see nothing.”
As Victor, in one corner of the house, dreamed of black robes, Junior fell into his own dream in another corner. In his dream, Junior was in the back seat of his parents’ car outside the Powwow Tavern. Below freezing, so he shared a sleeping bag with his two brothers and two sisters. Junior struggled to remember his siblings’ names.
Run the heat for a little while, his siblings pleaded, because he had the car keys.
No, Junior said. Mom and Dad said I have to save gas. We just got enough to get home.
In his dream, Junior tried to remember his parents’ names, but they eluded him. Those names always eluded him, even in waking. In his dream, Junior’s siblings tried to wrestle the keys away, but he fought them off. They wrestled and argued until their parents staggered out of the bar.
Oh, good, his siblings said. We’re going home.
Junior’s parents knocked on the window; he rolled it down.
You warm? they asked.
Warm enough, Junior said and silenced his siblings with a mean look.
Here’s some food, mother-and-father said, and shoved potato chips and Pepsi through the open window into the arms of their children.
We’ll be out soon, okay? mother-and-father said.
Junior and his siblings watched their parents stagger back toward the bar. Mother-and-father turned and waved. Then they danced a clumsy two-step.
Jeez, Junior said in his dream. They love each other.
Mother-and-father wove their way back inside the bar, and Junior turned back to his siblings.
Make sure everybody gets enough, Junior said.
They ate their potato chips and Pepsi.
I’m bored, his siblings said after dinner, so Junior sang to them.
I’m bored, his siblings said again, and Junior started to cry. He cried as each of his siblings climbed out of the car and ran away on all fours. They ran into the darkness; hands and feet sparked on the pavement. They ran to other reservations and never returned. They ran to crack houses and lay down in the debris. They ran to tall buildings and jumped off. They joined the army and disappeared in the desert. Junior cried until his parents came out of the bar at closing time.
Where is everybody? mother-and-father asked.
Gone, gone, gone, gone.
Mother-and-father cried. Then they drove down the highway and looked for their children.
I don’t mean to say it’s all your fault, mother-and-father said. But it is all your fault.
They drove and drove. Mother-and-father sat behind the wheel and drank beer. When finished, they rolled down the window and threw the empty bottles into the dark. Junior heard them shatter against road signs. He saw the little explosions they made at impact. Impossible reds, impossible reds. He lost count of the bottles.
Ya-hey, Junior called out, but his parents pushed him back.
I don’t want to hurt you, mother-and-father said. But I might hurt you.
Junior leaned back, curled into a ball in the back seat. He heard the road sing under the wheels of the car. He heard his parents’ soft tears and quiet whispers. Then he noticed the car moving faster and faster, his parents’ tears and whispers growing into sobs and shouts.
Wait, Junior said, but the car suddenly rolled. Junior counted the revolutions: one, two, three, four, all the way to twenty. The car came to rest on its wheels, with Junior still tucked into a ball in the back seat. He listened to a faint song in the distance. He heard something dripping in the engine. He heard coughing.
Ya-hey, Junior said as he climbed out of the car and saw his mother-and-father completely still on the grass. He grabbed his parents by the arms and dragged them across the grass. It took hours. He dragged his parents up stairs and into a strange house. It took days. He dragged his parents into a bedroom and laid them down on the bed. It took years. He kneeled at the foot of the bed. He folded his hands to pray.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He strained and strained, his vocal cords ached with the effort, but nothing came out. Then he heard music from the radio beside the bed. He turned up the volume until the walls and bed shook. His parents stared with fixed pupils. They danced on the bed. Their arms and legs kicked wildly, until their fingers locked, and they pulled each other back and forth, back and forth.