Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light Series) (30 page)

"And you prayed for her to die," I said.  "You prayed to the angel to kill her, and when he didn't, you named her after him."

It was one of the most bizarre, most twisted things I had ever heard.  I reflected on that now.

"You..."  Noel trailed off.  "She told you that?"

I nodded.  I felt oddly as though I had lockjaw, but I forced myself to reply:  "And other things."

Noel drummed her fingertips on the table.  She stared at the clipped edges of her nails.

"She must like you..."

"I like her, too."  I love her.  If I said that to Noel, I thought, she might fly off the handle, and then I'd never get her to agree to relinquishing custody.

"You're trying to take my kid away," Noel said.  "Why?  She's mine..."

We're talking in circles, I thought.  My head was starting to hurt.  "Because you hurt her very badly," I reasoned.  "And I can't let you hurt her again."

"I won't!"

"Do you know that for sure?"

She didn't answer me.  That was an answer in itself.

"We'll take good care of her," I said.  "Rafael and I.  We'll--"  I couldn't help it.  "--we'll love her.  We'll give her a good home.  Nobody will ever hurt her again.  She'll be safe...happy..."

Noel slumped in her seat.  I thought she was going to start crying.

I thought wrong.  I should have known better.  I'd seen what fifteen years of prison did to my father.  A part of Noel was locked away now.  I couldn't say for certain whether it would ever come back.

"Why doesn't anybody ever love me?" Noel asked.

She sounded so much like a child that I wanted to put my arms around her.  I wasn't sure the guard on duty would appreciate that.

"You deserve to be loved," I told her.  "You do, Noel--so very much.  But that doesn't give you the right to kill your child."

She rubbed her broad hands across her face.  I noticed she wasn't wearing shackles.  This definitely wasn't a federal prison.

"If you love Michaela at all," I said, "then let her live with the people who can take care of her."

"Will I ever see her again?"

"When she's older," I said.  "When she's not afraid anymore.  But only if she wants to."

Noel dropped her hands to the table.  She shrugged her shoulders, reminding me--achingly--of her daughter's feigned nonchalance.

"Didn't like her all that much anyway," she said, the bitter words of a child at heart.

16

No Man's Land

The Three Suns Reservation looks the same in autumn as it does every other day of the year.  The saffron canyons and the old-fashioned hogans, the burnished plateaus and the steep ocher valleys--every part of the reservation is steeped in xeric mystery.

Except for the town, at least.  If you want modernity, look no farther than the Navajo.  They've got motels and an RV park, a casino, a media center and a mall, two restaurants and a helicopter runway.  Forget about adapting to the 21st century.  They practically own it.

I parked the car in the RV lot; getting it into the town proper was something I didn't trust myself to do.  I climbed out and locked the doors, and I found Kaya waiting for me outside the public restrooms.

Man, is that woman chic.  She made a halter top and dress pants look like modern-day regalia.  She smiled at me and waved.  She has a quiet way of smiling, like she knows all the secrets in the universe but doesn't feel like sharing.  A lot of people--Rafael included--find that infuriating about her.  I've always found it endearing.

We walked together down the mulchy desert terrain, umber and unspoiled.  Up above the looming valley was a wide, vast plateau.  At the top of the plateau, I knew, was the university.

"So nice of you to join us today," Kaya said.

I was silent throughout the walk up the plateau, huffing and puffing for breath.  Alright, I told myself, you're going on a diet.

Jeez, I thought, looking around the town.  There may have been streetlights and bus stops scattered about like nobody's business, but the houses were still mudbrick.  I guess that's perfectly acceptable when you live beneath hot suns and dry nights.

We crossed the street together.  A young woman hung her clothes on a clothesline beneath her apartment complex.  A square block was sanctioned off for a children's playground; behind it was the elementary school.

"You've lectured in other schools, I take it," Kaya said.

"Only a few," I said.  Even the thought of public speaking makes me nervous.  I really should have picked a different career.  "How are things between you and Mary?"

"Very well.  She'll be visiting tomorrow.  Did she tell you she was thinking of opening an auto shop?"

"Is she really?  Don't get me wrong--I love her, but...I don't trust her attention span."

"Me, neither.  We shall see."

Dine University loomed just ahead of us on the other side of an intersection.

I don't think any description I might give the building would do it proper justice.  It was at once the most beautiful and the most ugly building I had ever seen.  Panes of tinted glass stretched across the strong steel structure towering into the cloudless sky.  I couldn't make out where the residential halls started and ended, but I knew they were a part of the mammoth even if I couldn't see them.  Dine University doesn't just service the Navajo.  Thousands of Native Americans from every tribe you can think of get their education here.

"The Shakopee have nothing on us," Kaya boasted.

We walked into the lobby.  Good God, was it huge.  The plain walls were splashed in traditional turquoise art, the floors carpeted in crimson.  An elevator stood next to the main stairwell.  Opposite them were a lounge with a television screen and a water cooler.  A few sleepy students sat yawning on the couch cushions.  One of them waved at us.

"I'll get you set up," Kaya said.

She took me up a few flights of stairs and brought me to a room labeled 503.  Inside was a lecture hall: rising wooden carrels and a nice, flat projector screen.  I didn't know that I was actually going to use the projector.  I'm old-fashioned, I suppose.  I'd rather rely on my memory.

Kaya left me at the lectern while she went about the hall and flipped the lights on; the microphone, too, I assume.  And then the students started filling into the hall and taking their seats.  And I just about hurled on the spot.  I hate anything that brings unnecessary attention my way.  I was starting to wish I hadn't agreed to this.

Pretend you're Mr. Red Clay, I told myself.  Mr. Red Clay is one suave son of a bitch.  I don't know how he does it, but he commands an entire classroom just by raising his eyebrow or gesturing with his hand.  Some people are just born orators.  I am not one of them.

I checked my wristwatch.  I couldn't postpone it any longer.

"So," I said into the microphone--and immediately stepped back.  Yikes, that was loud.  A couple of the kids laughed at me.  At once I started to relax.

I smiled.  "Hi," I said.  "I know my voice is a little raspy.  Sorry about that."

"Want a coughdrop?" said a boy in the front row.  Smartass.

"No.  Thank you, though," I said.  "Maybe later."

A few of the girls started opening their notebooks.

"What class is this, anyway?" I asked curiously.

A young woman in the middle row wrenched up her face with disbelief.  "Political science," she replied.  She raised her voice to the best of her ability.  I thought:  Why don't the kids get microphones, too?  But I guess that would be wasteful.

"Well, just so you know," I said, "I hate politics."

A couple of the kids were nice enough to laugh.

"Okay," I said.  "I'm sure most of you have encountered politics in day to day life.  Probably in some...not very nice ways.  Maybe a few of you could list some examples?  Yes?" I said, when I noticed a boy with a buzz cut had raised his hand.

"Like when modern historians act like there was never an America until the Europeans came along."

"Oh!" said a girl in a "Makah Do It Better" t-shirt.  No, I didn't ask.  "Like when the politicians get up on the podiums, and they're all, 'This country was built on the tenets of freedom,' which is so not true, because it was built on top of massacres.  And slave ships.  And...what are those funny-looking hats the Puritans wore, the ones that look like UFOs..."

"What are you talking about?" asked her neighbor, a harrowed-looking boy.

"Let me ask you something else," I said, because the Makah girl struck me as the conspiracy theorist type, and I'd much rather nip that in the bud.  "How many of you plan on having children?  Or already have children?"

A significant amount of hands shot up in the air.

"Okay," I said.  "Did you know America is considered the world's adoption capital?  4% of the entire population is adopted."

"You look adopted," called out a rude boy in the back row.

"Actually," I said, "I am."

The rude boy gave himself a pat on the back.

"But here's something else you don't know," I said.  I was starting to wish I'd taken the time to learn how that projector works.  "Every year there are 126,000 kids who need to be adopted.  Right here in America.  And they never are."

I could see that the confusion was starting to settle in at last.

"Let me explain," I said.  "Child protective services from forty different states polled prospective adoptive parents between 2008 and 2012.  Almost unanimously, the prospective parents said they wanted to adopt a small child.  A baby, or a toddler, or at the very least, a child who doesn't come from an abusive home."

"Oh," said the buzz cut kid.  "So the 126,000 kids are teenagers, or abused kids."

"Yes," I said.

The Makah girl piped up again.  "Then where's 4% of the population coming from?"

I should have brought a water bottle with me, I thought.  My throat was already starting to hurt.

"In the past," I said, "those children came from China and Ethiopia.  But," I said, "there's a problem with overseas adoption.  A political one.  Because if you're adopting overseas, where is the money going?"

"Overseas," said Buzz Cut.

"Right," I said.  "The money goes overseas.  And this is a government that wants to keep the money on American soil.  So, you see, the government needs to provide an alternative to international adoption."

I could feel the tension mounting in the room.  I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.  The sooner they knew, I thought, the better.

"Let me tell you something," I said.  "When I was sixteen, I spent some time in foster care.  Not one of my happier moments.  For a while I was living with a couple in Central Arizona.  And so was a Paiute boy named Danny Patreya."

I looked out at the students' faces.  I had no way of knowing which of them, if any, were Paiute.

"Now, I was just a foster kid to this couple," I said.  "But Danny--they actually adopted him.  And the problem is this.  Danny already had a father.  A very good father.  There were never any complaints against Mr. Patreya.  No homestudies, no abuse allegations.  One day CPS just terminated his rights and gave Danny away to these two blond strangers living in the middle of the mountains."

"Why?" asked a boy in a Ghostbusters shirt.  Nobody else asked why.  They had already figured out why.

"This country is not on your side," I said.  And it killed me to say that--but I hadn't come all the way out here to lie to them.  "This country is about money.  Every year, child services kidnap anywhere up to two thousand Native children so the families looking to adopt won't spend that money overseas."

"That's not true," insisted the rude boy at the back. 

"I wish it weren't," I said.

"It's true," said a burly girl hugging the wall.  Her deep voice carried from behind her carrel, her eyes lined with dark circles.  University kids.  They never get enough sleep.

"I'm Lakota," she said.  "I lost two of my brothers that way.  My tribe started a petition online.  It's not working, though."

"Why are they kidnapping our kids?" asked the Makah girl.  She leaned so far forward, I was afraid she would topple over her desk.  "I mean, what about black kids, or white kids, or..."

"Because when it's Native children," I said, "it's easier to cover up."  I nodded at the Lakota girl.  "Ask your friend here," I said.

"Pine Ridge doesn't have much tech," she said.  "Neither does Standing Rock.  Or Cheyenne River."

"Or Burnt Hope," called out a boy from the far back of the hall.

"And neither does Pleasance," I said.  "Danny's home.  The Pleasance Reserve is out in the middle of nowhere.  You won't find indignant reporters marching out there.  It's a No Man's Land.  A free-for-all.  In the eyes of the politicians," I said, and I couldn't help a small smile, an unhappy one, "it doesn't exist."

I paused.  "
You
don't exist."

"Then we'll stop this," said the Makah girl.  "Let's all take a trip to Gallup, and we'll break into a news studio!  And--"