“Jonah,” he whispered. “That is your name, is it not? Jonah?”
“Yes,” I said. The pressure on my neck was painful.
“Jonah,” he said. “You’re irritating me. And I am sure you’re also irritating Dr. Clancy. Is he not, Dr. Clancy?”
“He certainly is,” she said.
“Jonah,” he said. “I know this is all very frightening for you. I wish there was something I could do about that. But there is simply nothing that can be done. Now, if you refuse to be quiet, we’ll have to gag you. And you don’t want that, do you now?”
“No,” I whimpered.
“Then I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said. I heard the anger in his voice and something beyond that, a kind of resignation, a weary acceptance of his role in that prison.
“The ten-gauge?” asked Dr. Clancy, the female doctor.
“Yes,” said the male doctor.
I wondered what kind of weapon the doctors were talking about. I felt two sets of hands on my body.
“You’re going to feel some pressure here,” said Dr. Clancy.
I felt a hot pain as a needle slid into my left hip, through the skin, through the muscle and into the hip socket, into the center of the bone. But more than that, I felt the pain deep in my stomach, and beyond that, in the very spirit of my stomach. I felt the needle bite into me, heard the impossibly loud hiss of the hypodermic syringe as it sucked out pieces of my body, sucked out the blood, sucked out fluid ounces of my soul, sucked out antibodies, sucked out pieces of all of my stories, sucked out marrow, and sucked out pieces of my vocabulary. I knew that certain words were being taken from me.
I cried out in surprise and pain, and my cries sounded like tiny prayers.
“Hush, hush, Jonah,” said the male doctor as he pushed the needle deeper into my body, as Dr. Clancy pushed another needle deep into my other hip. “You’re doing a brave thing. You’re saving the world.”
I woke naked and alone in a bright room. I stood with much difficulty and stared into a wall of mirrors that were really windows. Beyond the glass, doctors and soldiers watched me. I was afraid. I was without words. I was small and would not grow again. Arrested. The door opened. Two soldiers pushed a naked Indian woman into the room. The door closed.
She stood there, tall and proud. Perfect brown skin. Large breasts. Shaved head. She threw obscene gestures against the mirrors that were really windows. Then she looked at me. She saw me.
“You’re just a boy,” she whispered. Then she shouted, “He’s just a boy. Look at his penis.”
She was right. I crouched low, trying to hide what I did not have.
“He’s been tested,” said a disembodied voice, filling the bright room. “He’s fertile.”
“I’m not going to do it,” she said. “It’s wrong. It’s wrong.”
There was no response.
She walked over to me, kneeled beside me. She lifted my face and looked into my eyes.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I don’t remember,” I said. I would never remember.
She wiped the tears from my face with her fingers. She touched them to her lips.
“Why are they doing this?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve heard stories. But you know how Indians are.”
“Yes, we just talk and talk.”
We smiled together. She took my hand.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“I’m Spokane,” I said. “From the reservation.”
“I’m Apache,” she said. “I live, I used to live, in Los Angeles.”
I closed my eyes and tried to see that city, with its large spaces between people.
“What is it like?” I asked. “That city?”
“It goes on forever,” she said. “And there are earthquakes that shake you out of bed in the morning. And there are more Indians living there than in any city in the whole world.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yes, wow,” she confirmed.
“Please commence,” said the disembodied voice.
“Shut the hell up,” the Indian woman screamed at the walls. I startled, but she pulled me close, pressed my face against her naked breasts.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I hate them. I hate them.”
“Please commence,” said the disembodied voice again.
“No,” said the Indian woman. She whispered it, more to herself than to me, or to the doctors and soldiers on the other side of the glass.
She spoke softly.
“This is five times today,” she said.
“Five times what?” I asked.
She stood and took me with her. She marched up to the mirrors that were really windows.
“Look at him,” she said as she pushed me closer to the glass. “Look at him. He’s just a child.”
“Please commence,” said the disembodied voice.
“I’ve done it five times today,” she shouted. “Five times. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough?”
“Please commence. Or be punished.”
“Fuck you,” she shouted. “I’m not doing it, I’m not doing it.”
Two soldiers rushed into the room. I could not see their faces behind their helmets, but I imagined their eyes were ivory-colored and fragile, as fragmented as eggshells. They carried electrical sticks. They jabbed one of the sticks into the Indian woman’s belly and one into mine. The blue light rose from my belly, squeezed my heart, and stopped my brain for one breath.
The Indian woman screamed in pain as she fell to the floor. She kicked and punched at the soldiers. But I could only press my face against the cold floor and pray. I looked at my hands and remembered, briefly, so briefly, the feel of my father’s hands when he touched my face, when he whispered secrets to me. And then it was gone, all gone.
“Fuck you, fuck you,” shouted the Indian woman. She climbed to her feet and pushed against the soldiers.
“Please commence or punishment will continue,” said the disembodied voice.
“What are you doing to me?” asked the Indian woman. She pointed at the soldiers. “Take off your masks. Let me look at you.”
Like stained glass, the soldiers remained still and cold, all of their emotions created by the artificial light passing over their faces.
“Do you have mothers?” the Indian woman asked the stained-glass soldiers. “Do you have daughters? Look at me. I’m a woman. Would you do this to the women in your life? Would you?”
She pulled me to my feet. I retched, threw up what little food was in my stomach.
“Look at me,” she shouted. “He’s just a child. A boy. Look at him. Look at him.”
The soldiers didn’t move.
“Please commence or punishment will continue.”
The Indian woman lifted her face toward the ceiling and screamed. I imagined that all of the Indians in the world — all of those who had survived the blood parade — turned their heads when they heard the sound of her voice. I would never again see most of those Indians. For the rest of my life, I would see only rooms with white walls and the brown skin of naked Indian women. For the rest of my life, they would come to my room and lie down with me. Most of them would not speak; a few of them would die in my arms. They would surrender. I would survive and live on.
“He’s just a boy,” shouted the Indian woman and rushed the soldiers. The larger one swung his electric stick and bloodied her mouth.
“Do not draw blood,” said the disembodied voice. “Do not draw blood.”
The Indian woman screamed through the red glow in her mouth.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “What is wrong with you?”
“Please commence or you will be eliminated.”
She pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. I could hear the blood fall from her lips and felt it land on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But we have to do this. We have to do this.”