Reason To Believe (15 page)

Was he
taking
pains
or
feeling
pain?

"Ben, he looks so fragile."

"He's been... I don't know how to describe it. It's like he's living in the past. Talks about his grandparents like he just saw them last week." The old man put his hand to his mouth and turned away. His shoulders shook. "That damn cough's gettin' worse," Ben grumbled.

"Has he seen a doctor?"

"Says he has, but I doubt it." He sat back, tucked his thumb in his belt, and continued to watch his father. "I can't change his mind about going on this ride. I've tried. He just gets mad, like he thinks I'm trying to take something away from him."

"The pipe? I thought he wanted you to—"

"I'm not taking his damn pipe. He can take it with him to his grave, for all I care." He stared so hard, the old man sensed it. He looked up and stared back, for one pregnant moment. Then he went about his business beneath the "Last Call" sign with the other old men.

"I told him I'd do it for him this once if he'd stay behind and take it easy." Ben shook his head and turned to Clara, his eyes suddenly seeking sympathy from hers. "I thought he was gonna bite my damn head off when I said that."

"Anna's very touchy about it, too. Well, I
had
to make it clear that we couldn't go if she got into any more trouble," she explained. "She said I was holding it over her head, and I guess maybe I was. I'll admit, I've had more than a few second thoughts."

There had been times when she'd almost hoped Anna would break a rule so that she could call it off. She had also chided herself for that sorry sort of thinking. It was a kind of insincerity. It was a game her parents had played with her. Be especially good, Clara, and we will be especially nice. But Clara had seldom managed to make the grade, and she'd finally wised up. The definition of "especially good" was ever-changing. No matter what she did, she never quite hit the mark.

With Anna there would be no games. Clara was determined to be straight with her. She had to make up for all the losses, all the failures, all the unfairness of things. On top of all that, she had to deliver where Ben fell short. Anna had done her part over the last two months, and this adventure was her reward. In order to deliver on her promise, Clara would endure two difficult weeks in the company of Anna's father.

And surprisingly enough, it looked as though Ben might actually do the same, in the company of Anna's mother.

"I'm being summoned," Ben said as he rose from his chair. A subtle gesture from his father had been sufficient this time. "He probably forgot something, and I'll probably have to go lookin' for it. Wish they'd just get this part of it over with."

"What part?"

"All the damn ceremonial stuff." He grinned down at her, shoved one hand in his jeans pocket, and touched the brim of his hat with the other. "You know me. I just want 'em to open the gate and let me ride."

"Yes," she said quietly, watching him saunter across the dingy linoleum floor. "I know you."

The "ceremonial stuff" was launched, appropriately, by Alec Red Horse, who assumed the role of master of ceremonies by virtue of the fact that, of those who were "in the know," he was the first to claim the microphone. Alec spoke of Sitting Bull as his grandfather "in the Indian way," of Sitting Bull's family, of his own family, of the generations between them and how they all fit into the seven Lakota council fires, among them the Hunkpapa, the Minneconjou, the Oglala, which were the principle bands represented on the ride.

"I know most of you riders." Alec's dark, dispassionate gaze skimmed the room like a well-fed hawk cataloging the inhabitants of a prairie dog town for future reference. "And I know who your cousins are and your uncles and grandmothers. So we're all together in this.

"And even the ones who join us from other bands— the Germans and the Norwegians and the Japanese—" With a wave of his hand he included the blond heads, the down-filled parkas, the crepe-soled Oxfords, and the Nikon cameras. A few chuckles sounded in response, some a little nervously. Alec nodded, his stone face slowly cracking a smile. "They are our relations, too. That's why they're here. The ones who come to us and ask to join us on the ride, they must have come to realize that they are two-leggeds, just like us. So we say, come on along." He opened his hand in a welcoming gesture. "If you can say you're related to us, then come on along. Because a hundred years ago, when you broke faith with us, the sacred hoop was broken. And it's been hard for us to mend it. We haven't been able to do it yet. Maybe you can help us.

"But we don't want you to try to take it from us, that broken circle, and try to fix it for us. First of all, you've got your own fixing to do. So you come on along, and you do your mending. Let us do ours. Let each one of us take care of the little rips and tears we've made in the circle.

"Like fixing up our houses, where we live. You know, I look around our reservation here, and I see houses with broken screens, broken doors, junk all around, old cars full of boxes, and I say, 'Why do we live like this?' Loss of self-respect, that's why. We don't respect ourselves, we don't respect our women. We continue to use alcohol even if it kills us. Parents lose their children. We have to get our self-respect back. That's why we're making this ride.

"So come on," he invited with a smile in his eyes. "But bring your blankets with you. It's gonna get plenty cold. They talk about Indians goin' back to the blanket. Well, you guys with the cameras are sure gonna find out why."

Alec's remarks were followed by the traditional invitation to anyone else who felt called to "say a few words." First came Harriet Bone Club, who spoke proudly of her two grandsons who would be riding and of her hope that the community would take a hint from the young people and find ways to get along. "Like nobody should be lettin' their dogs run loose in another person's yard," she admonished seriously. She turned to offer the microphone to Alec, but she snatched it back before he could claim it, bowing her head over it to add one more remark. "I just might have to cook up a big pot of puppy soup pretty soon, so... I might have to put on a big feed. And that's all I have to say."

There were others who spoke, offering concerns, praise, reminiscences, and donations to the fund to help pay for meals for the riders and feed for the horses. Elliot Plume, one of the founders of the Big Foot Memorial Ride, recalled that he and his brother Eddie, who had been killed in a car accident six months ago, had conceived of the ride as a challenge, a test of endurance, a commitment to honor the past and restore hope for the future.

"What can we do for our people?" he asked rhetorically, remembering, as he'd explained, the night they had first come up with the idea in their mother's kitchen. "How can we make our lives better? What will be left for these little kids that are running around here? We came up with this ride for something we could do. It isn't easy. It isn't meant to be easy. If you've done it before, you know it makes you think about how you've been living your life, and how you want to live your life. It changes you.

"So if you want to stay just exactly the same person you are tonight, this ride isn't for you. But you're the only one who knows that. We don't exclude anybody, and we only have a few rules. First, take care of the horses. Second, no negative thoughts. And don't eat around those who are fasting." He paused, staring at the floor for a long moment. Finally he raised the microphone close to his mouth once more. "If you have any doubts about what you should do or how you should act, it's mostly a matter of respect."

Now it was time for taking vows. Dewey assumed his place at the front, and Ben, somewhat to Clara's surprise, stepped forward to hand him the willow staff, wrapped with red cloth and curved at the end to form a hoop, symbolizing the circle of life. Then he helped with the smudging, dispersing the fragrant smoke of burning sweet grass from a coffee can for purification. At the proper time he handed his father a leather tobacco pouch, anticipating Dewey like a seasoned, if reluctant, acolyte.

Clara had watched Ben assist his father before, but only on rare occasions. When he was a boy, he had readily taken part, or so she'd been told. But Clara had only witnessed Ben's occasional participation as an adult, his stiff, almost shy compliance and his occasional covert glances toward the exit door. Tonight he seemed more at ease with it, but he was also more than ready to step aside when Dewey called the riders forward, lining them up to receive a pinch of tobacco, touch the hoop, and shake hands with each other. Those who had earned eagle feathers on previous rides tied them to the hoop.

Clara held her breath when Dewey turned to Ben. He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he might back away from making his vow. He looked almost frightened, which seemed impossible. Ben had never shied away from a horse in his life. It was the vow, she realized. He'd made promises, and he'd broken them. It was the vow that scared him.

But he took the step, finally, lifted his hand to receive his tobacco, then touched the hoop gingerly, the way Clara had so often seen him use his hands when they were dirty from his work. He was always scrupulous about not letting his touch ruin anything.

But it was the vow itself that he was afraid to touch. The vow scared the hell out of him because it would require something of him. And she caught herself pulling for him, thinking maybe now he could. Maybe this time he would.

Then, quickly, she closed her eyes, shook her head, and sighed, cursing herself for a fool.

No negative thoughts.
Oh, God, already she'd...

"C'mon, Mom." Anna tugged at Clara's arm. "We gotta take a vow."

"I made my vow." Clara's butt dragged, but she allowed herself to be drawn from the chair. "To you. That's the reason I'm here."

"Well, now you've gotta have a reason to go the distance. You're going, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm going. But what if..." She hadn't entertained the prospect until now. "What if it turns out to be too much for me? I mean, I hate to make a promise and then not be able to keep it. What if I wimp out?"

Maybe some vows scared the hell out of her, too.

Anna laughed. "You're not gonna pull out halfway there and let me go the rest of the way on my own, are you?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. I'm taking a vow to go all the way. But you can promise whatever you want. Nobody's asking you to write it down and sign it in blood."

"All right." Clara smiled wistfully, touching the silky hair tucks that formed Anna's neat French braid. "I'll promise to do my best, how's that?"

"Usually pretty good."

Clara and Anna came before Dewey, shoulder to shoulder, and silently made their vows. There was no eye contact with the pipe carrier, for in the old way he respected their privacy in this moment. But Ben's eyes said,
We're in this together.
And Clara found that somehow that much of a promise brought true comfort.

The singers began their tonal song. Their leather-bound beaters rose and fell in unison, pounding out a steady, solemn cadence on the bass drum. They sat in a circle. Their thighs formed a circle around the inner circle, which was the drum itself, the heartbeat of the honor song.

The honor dance accompanying the song was a slow-moving circle, a somber, loose-kneed step-together-step, with community members following the riders, paying them respect, holding them up in esteem and physical, rhythm-phrased prayer. The men doffed hats of all shapes and sizes and carried them in hand. The cowboys shuffled along in pointed-toe boots, their bowed legs ill suited to any two-footed gait. The younger women gestured to the little ones, universal hand signals saying,
Come join me,
or
don't do that,
or
take care of your brother.
The mature women held their heads high and moved with assurance.

But the photographers fussed over their cameras or questioned each other with a look or a whisper. "Is it okay now?"

When the drumbeat faded to a soft echo, the riders gathered near the far wall. Dewey took the microphone in hand and addressed them. "You have come to make this ride. No one asked you to. You did it on your own. It has to mean something to you."

He turned to the crowd, addressing them. "Look at these riders who have come to make this sacrifice. Remember them in your prayers."

Now all in attendance filed past the riders, each well-wisher delivering a kind of communal respect for the whole undertaking with a handshake. There was a solemn formality in the way one line moved past the other. Few words were exchanged. Clara caught herself wondering what these people thought of her. What was behind this enigmatic pair of eyes, or that bit of a smile?

Who did she think she was, anyway? She'd taken the trouble to get herself on a horse twice in the last two months, and before that it had been, what? Three or four years? Did she expect special treatment? People probably assumed she did. Most of the riders were men. Most of them younger than she was. Almost all of them were Indians. Just who did Clara think she was?

Ben Pipestone's wife?

For now, yes. But didn't most people know the truth by now? That their marriage was a dismal failure. That they had split up. That because she had not been all the woman he wanted, Ben had not been a good husband. No one had said anything. Probably too polite to say anything. Or maybe they felt sorry for her. They knew what "the ol' cowboy" was like; they'd known it all along. Which meant that she really looked like a fool, coming back here like this.