RavenShadow (12 page)

So, one way and another, I didn’t feel the same about the Monopoly game. I mean, I didn’t feel like money was green blood.

One night when Li Ming partnered with Delphine instead of Dennis, something odd happened.

First came the usual. Webs of relationships, bands of power, shifts of wealth from one monopolist to another. (Never to a janitor or groundskeeper, of course.) Dennis played superbly, I played badly, he tried not to show his impatience. Finally my incompetence landed me on Marvin Gardens when I couldn’t hack the rent. “Think I’m done,” says I.

“You can pay me if you mortgage everything,” says Li Ming.

I shrugged. “Let’s not kid ourselves. Myself.” I looked at Dennis. “Make an offer.”

“I offer what you owe Li Ming.”

“Hey! The bank would give you more than that,” puts in Delphine.

So I said to Dennis, “I’ll sell you all my lands for what I owe Li Ming and a promise that the Black Hills will be mine as long as the grass shall grow and waters flow.”

“Deal!” said Dennis with a big grin.

The women gave us dirty looks but protested no more.

I headed to the kitchen to make popcorn. “I’ll do a play-by-play of the rest of the game,” I called.

“Noo-o-o!” the three of them chorused.

Sounds of dice clattering, small victories and defeats. I dumped the popcorn on the hot oil. Loud popping. Finally I took the pan off the heat.

Low from Li Ming’s voice, “I’m reneging on our deal.”

“What?” Delphine couldn’t believe her ears either.

I went to the doorway to hear better.

“I’m reneging on our deal,” Li Ming said simply.

“What? You can’t do that!”

Delphine not only sounded mad, she sounded like she’d never dreamed of such treachery.

“You know I can. This is business. Partners change.” Li Ming was calm.

I was tickled.

“You’re my sister in business.”

“He’s Chinese.”

Delphine jumped up and charged down the hall to the bathroom. I had the impression she was about to bawl or brawl. She reappeared in a minute, perfectly composed.

I made a mental note that Delphine didn’t really fight hard. When things went against her, she accepted her fate, as though she expected to be a victim.

Now Li Ming looked across at Dennis. “Want to make a deal?”

“Sure.”

Delphine gave them the fish eye.

“No rent either way.”

“Right.”

It was a good deal. Delphine owned the railroads and the purple properties just past the jail. Li Ming and Dennis owned everything else.

Of course, had Li Ming kept Delphine as her partner, their monopoly would have been almost as powerful. The end would only have come a little slower.

Delphine studied the board and fought off the feelings that competed for her face. Her cheeks got darker in spots.

I served the popcorn.

“I don’t think …”

Delphine fell silent.

“I don’t think I have a chance any more.”

Silence.

“I quit.”

“Dah-
DAHM
!” sang Li Ming. She stepped over to Dennis,
held a hand high. He took it, and they did a little parade around the table, their arms making a tent. Dennis lah-lahed “Pomp and Circumstance” for the procession of the king and queen.

I ate popcorn. Delphine stepped across the living room.

I heard the hiss of an LP, and Creedence Clearwater Revival came on the stereo. Delphine was trying to recoup her poise.

“That wasn’t really fair,” said Li Ming. Her tone said,
But it was fun
.

I could guess how much Delphine wanted to say, “Damn straight.” But she held her tongue.

Chairs scraped, and I saw that they were all sitting back down.

Hands dived into the popcorn.

Delphine’s color was still mottled. Amazing how seriously white folks take a game, if it involves money.

We chatted another half hour, but Li Ming and Dennis left early. The conviviality never did come back that night.

For the most part, though, I thought Delphine and I were happy. More or less happy, sort of happy. We didn’t quarrel. We were affectionate. We enjoyed ourselves in bed. (I was gentle and persuasive, she was either avid or slightly indifferent. For some reason we never let our wolves howl in the sack.) We had enough money (hers was from a trust fund) to do what we wanted. A good life. Since we were each up and coming in different ways, we were headed for
THE
Good Life. We kidded ourselves you can have a good life in the shadow of Raven’s wing.

Those good times were coming on quick. I got more and more chances to babysit listeners through the dark hours, and compliments on my performance. It was fun, spinning the grooves that keep people connected to the radio through the black hours, connected to the music, connected to life. It’s not a finger-snapping, strike-up-the-band kind of time. It’s mellow, soft, deep, with edges of darkness. A bass clarinet like me goes
well in those hours. I quickly learned the tone to hit, the cuts to play, the way to help people stay tuned. Soon I was a Saturday night regular, and I liked the job.

Since we were all music all night, I especially liked taping the show Friday afternoon and walking out into the winter sunset. Delphine would pick me up at the curb and we’d go down to a place on Elliott Bay and have a drink and watch the sun set. On clear winter afternoons Seattle is gorgeous. And I liked getting a window seat in that bar that time of day. The light came in off the water and turned Delphine’s skin a creamy gold. She knew I liked to look at her that way.

We’d talk about my job, politics at the station, how I could build my listenership, how I could appeal to sponsors. She’d mention getting her father to ask the marketing director of the chain wholesaler of audio equipment to listen to the show some Saturday night. The idea was to get me lined up for a permanent slot of my own, daytime or evening, a spot I was identified with as the host. Hey, you have to shoulder to the front of the line.

I never thought until later how I felt about a lot of things. Did I really want a career in radio? (
I don’t know, radio’s a good thing, uh … It’s a door that is willing to open, and I’m walking through, dammit!
) Did I really want Delphine? (
Delphine’s a good person, and we’re friends, and we both understand how it feels to be on the outside, and
… ) Did I really want Seattle? (
It’s beautiful here, and they accept me, mostly, and
… ) Did I want to be white? (
Dammit, Indian people can do everything white people can do, and do it better! If you don’t know that, I’ll prove it!
) Did I mind being dependent on Delphine? Was it okay that the wind in my sails was hers?

I never asked myself if I missed my grandparents. Never asked myself if I missed my mother and father and my sisters. If I missed the Badlands. If I missed my people. When you give up the road of the Pipe, you give up all the rest. I would have to walk forward and find a new family, a new tribe.

How did that feel?

Screw you, Buster, I can do it
.

But what about the parts of myself I lost? The desires? My love for my family? My people? Our sacred ways? Our land? What about things that nourished my heart, my imagination, my spirit?

I pretended they didn’t exist. I pretended I didn’t have any feelings about that.

I was a man standing on one foot, standing very erect and with excellent balance, and feeling slam-bang about how erect I was. But standing on one foot.

Delphine and I got into a Friday night habit. We’d have that drink and then walk in a little park on the north end of Elliott Bay. It was a small park, flat, with grass and some trees, a place for strollers or runners or Rollerbladers. I remember it was the first day of spring, or at least the first Friday, and we were holding hands. I felt good toward her, good enough to ask what had been on my mind. “What do you want with me?”

She rotated that Nefertiti head slowly toward me, one eyebrow raised. For Delphine that was a big gesture.

“I mean, I don’t know what you see in me.”

She cupped my face in her hands and kissed me lightly on the lips. “You mean, aside from a gorgeous hunk who’s talented and brilliant?” She kissed me more sensually. “You foolish boy,” she murmured, and looked at me with that eyebrow cocked.

I felt like I still didn’t know, not really. We walked on.

I will say this. Delphine acted good to me. I never was around anyone who was so consistently good. We hardly ever quarreled. Everything she did showed she’d thought of me. Sometimes I felt like the niceness was her training, not her response to me. Sometimes her answers didn’t seem real, like when I asked what she saw in me. She seemed withdrawn, silent. She was living in dark spaces where no one else was allowed
to go, or she wouldn’t invite anyone else, not even me. She never invited me to read her journal.

I wondered what she wrote there. I supposed it was about color. Being black is damned hard in America. But black in a white family, the black sheep.
Not to know if your father is your father
.

I checked out the situation on turning up black in white families. It happens. Yes, even when the father is known for sure. It can happen several generations down the line—
the dark outshines the light
. Mike could have been her father. Or maybe she was picked by fate to carry the blackness in the family past. I was betting on an act of infidelity, and I bet that’s what Delphine suspected in her heart. Suspected that the man she loved wasn’t her father. Tried to get closer to him. Always yearning for …

Now I wonder why I didn’t speak up, ask her what was going on, what kept her up writing late at night and put her in the dumps. What shadow fell on her life. How it felt. Whether I could help her find the light.

I should have asked. I was her mate, the one person who’s supposed to share everything with her, and hear her speak her heart.

I never did. The reason is simple—I was afraid of rocking the boat. I felt like I had to move gingerly, always, around Delphine, be careful of her. So I let her flounder without help.

O Delphine, you were living in the shadow
.

I was living in hers and mine both.

The whole Ryan family went to the island for a week for Christmas. The invitation came with caution words from Delphine’s mother, “Come every bit of you—don’t bring any work. Let’s just be together for this time.” Delphine and I knew the words were ritual and really meant for Meg and Bess. Her sisters were young women on the make. Bess would bring manuscripts to
read (she worked for a publisher of self-help psychology books in Los Angeles). Meg would bring files on the cases she was prosecuting. It worked. Mom and Dad sent plane tickets to L.A. and D.C., respectively, and the sisters arrived without briefcases.

The only extra baggage was me, in fact, as Delphine’s sisters came without male friends. I arrived late, halfway through the week, on Christmas Eve, a Wednesday. Mike made me feel hugely comfortable. That was a great part of his charm. No matter how often I told myself he’d done the same for other boyfriends of his daughters in years past, I was taken in by his warmth, and the warmth of the whole Ryan clan.

Mike even talked me into sending a telegram to Grandpa and Unchee, wishing them a merry Christmas. It was a preposterous idea, really. Our family sure didn’t celebrate any holidays of Christians, and I never even heard anyone say “Merry Christmas” until I was a teenager and at Kyle school. But I got a kick out of the idea of them getting one of those yellow-on-yellow ticker-tape-looking messages from Western Union. So I sent one to Mom, my sisters, and Senior too (on the chance that he was hanging out with the family those days). “Merry Christmas,” I wrote, not being able to think of anything else to say. I wondered if they would think I’d become a white man. “Wish we were together. Maybe next year.”

The sentiment was sort of genuine, even if the wording was off. Later I was disappointed to find out Western Union didn’t go for the ticker-tape-like messages anymore, they just sent telegrams that looked just like ordinary letters.

Christmas was a big day. As though on command, the sea brought in a heavy snow, which they said almost never happened on the island. Marooned by impassable roads, we were tickled pink. There were wagonloads of presents (in bed that night Delphine called it “the Neiman-Marcus catalog parade”). Fortunately, she had shopped extravagantly for everyone and signed all the cards with both our names.

I don’t remember what all I got, except for a Chinese dressing
gown (they didn’t call it a “robe”) so gleaming I loved to put it on but nearly refused to be seen in it. Delphine gave me a set of tapes of live performances of old-time blues, completely illegal and absolutely unique. There was an involved story about their origin. This friend’s father recorded them secretly in Chicago clubs over forty years before, the friend inherited them but didn’t much care for blues, etc. I had to promise to treat them like they belonged in the Smithsonian, which they did.

An embryonic yuppie, before the word existed.

One of Mike and Poe’s gifts to Delphine was really special. It was a group of a dozen matched frames and mats, and in the frames were … blueprints? Mike and Poe were grinning huge as they arranged them artfully on the dining table. I didn’t get it. Meg and Bess were watching Delphine closely.

“Oh!” Delphine squeezed out a half-smothered cry. I couldn’t quite read her face—conflicting feelings, looked like, behind the regal eyes.

“Delphine’s first ambition,” Mike explained for my sake, “I mean, after kissing a frog until it became a handsome prince, was to be a marine architect. These are some of her drawings.”

“Oh, thank you!” Delphine managed. She put an arm around her dad’s waist, squeezed, and laid her head against his shoulder. She was always far more affectionate with him than with Poe.

The blueprints showed various views of boats: side, top, bottom, sectioned, like that. They were schematic—diagrams, not art.

“We think she showed real talent.”

“I copied them out of textbooks,” Delphine said in a pooh-poohing tone. “I learned to draw them, not engineer them.”