Gives Light(Gives Light Series) (19 page)

"Play Greensleeves," Rafael said.  I guessed that meant he was throwing in the towel for now.

I watched the sun drag westward, slowly, across the sky.  Rafael's arms were around me, his fingers brushing my freckles.  A stupid sensation of complete contentment crept through me.  It struck me as kind of crazy, kind of amazing, that one person could make me feel so serene just by being.

A spittlebug fell into the cupola from a nearby oak tree.  I watched it skitter curiously on the floor and laughed.  I dropped my fingers to the aged wood and let it crawl up my arm.  Green and tiny, with big brown eyes, it was one of the cutest things I'd ever seen.

"You're so--"

Rafael broke off, embarrassed.  I didn't want to make him uncomfortable, so I didn't press the matter.  Rafael seemed to find solace in that, because he went on as though he'd never stopped.

"You're so...  You're just
good
," he burst out.  "You're a good person.  You don't hold grudges.  I'll bet you've never had a bad thought about anyone."

I wasn't sure how true that was, but I found it very flattering that he thought so. 

"Sometimes," Rafael mumbled, sounding embarrassed again, "I just know I'm not good enough to be friends with you."

That was as far from the truth as could be.  I turned my head sharply to cast a disapproving look at him.  The spittlebug jumped off my arm.  Rafael made a derisive sound.  "Bull," he said.  "We're as different as night and day."

I was determined to prove him wrong.  I opened his notebook again.

"Now what?"

I waved away his inquiry and jotted down two short lists, one for each of us, the questions identical.  Rafael caught on right away.  For a while, we sat in complete silence, him writing on one page, me on the other; my handwriting big and loopy, his tiny and cramped.

I guess there really was some truth to Rafael's claim, after all.  None of our answers were remotely similar.  My list looked something like this:

Favorite Color: Green

Favorite Story: Peter Pan

Favorite Animal: Dogs!  And a lot of bugs.

Favorite Food: Ketchup & Eggs

Favorite Sport: Baseball

Favorite Song: Under the Same Sun (Scorpions)

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn

His looked more like this:

Favorite Color: Blue

Favorite Story: The Tempest

Favorite Animal: Horse

Favorite Food: Samosas

Favorite Sport: What?

Favorite Song: Beauty and the Beast.  The Nightwish song not that Disney crap.  I never saw that movie but it looked dumb because the Beast wasn't even that scary looking.  Villeneuve's version is the best.  The story I mean.

Favorite Time of Day: Night

"Told you," Rafael said dryly.

But I couldn't see how this was supposed to prove that Rafael was a bad person.  I pointed that out to him and he rolled his eyes.

Dinner that evening was mostly a quiet affair, after which Granny helped me practice some more for the ghost dance.  We sat by the lit hearth, her singing, me playing the flute, and she nitpicked a lot--about my posture, of all things.

"I won't have you slouching and looking less than your best," Granny said irritably.  "This is an occasion which deserves the utmost respect.  Hundreds of our people were slain performing this dance.  Its continued celebration is as symbolic as it is religious."

I dropped my flute and felt the blood drain from my face.  Oh, God, I thought.  This was
that
dance?  Had I known that, I never would have agreed to participate--not that Granny had given me much of a choice, but I'm sure I would have at least tried to opposite it more vehemently.  How could I play music for an event that carried with it such memories of heartache and loss?  White colonists had pushed the Native Americans out of their homes, and then they had slaughtered them for expressing their beliefs.  And here I was, looking whiter than whitebread.  It was completely inappropriate.  I couldn't do it.

Granny waved away my qualms and sent me up to bed, but I didn't sleep much that night.

18

Calamity

"I don't see what the problem is," Annie said mildly.  "Your father is Plains Shoshone, isn't he?"

The two of us were covered in flour.  We took turns kneeling by the water pump outside the Little Hawk house and rinsing our hair and skin.

But I'm white
, I signed.

"You're Shoshone," Annie said.

My mom wasn't.

"Oh?" Annie said.  "And what was she?"

She was white
, I signed, confused.  I thought that was kind of obvious.

"I know
that
," Annie said patiently.  "But where was her family from before they came to America?  They had to have come from somewhere.  Otherwise," she pointed out, "she would have been Native American."

Oh. 
Her family's from Finland
, I signed. 
I think.

"Well, then," Annie said.  "There you have it.  The early colonists weren't Finnish.  Finns in America are comparatively recent immigrants, aren't they?  The only ancestors you had at Bear River and Wounded Knee were Plains People.  You have nothing to feel guilty about."

Grimacing, I signed,
I'm pretty sure there's English in me, too.
  St. Clair didn't exactly sound like the average Finnish surname.

"Oh, Skylar.  Honestly!"

We went back inside the house once we had cleaned up.  Mr. Little Hawk was sitting in the alcove off the kitchen; he didn't look our way.  Annie stirred the simmering stew on the stove--rosemary elk--and I checked on the hotbread in the oven.

Annie let out a shriek of pain.

I started and closed the oven door.  Annie hissed, clutching her left hand in her right.  I tried to take her hand in my own, but she wouldn't release it.  Through the spaces between her fingers, I saw a bright red weal on her palm.  She must have touched the burner by accident.

"I can't believe I'm so
stupid
!"

I got a piece of ice out of the icebox and wrapped it in a dishcloth.  Annie calmed down long enough to give me her hand.  I slid the ice against her burn; she hissed again.

"This never happened to Mom," Annie said, her voice strangled, dabbing the tears from her eyes with her other hand.

I put the ice away once she said she'd had enough.  Still, that burn was pretty bad; it probably needed a dressing.  I sent a meaningful look Mr. Little Hawk's way.  He got up from the alcove, wordlessly, and left us.  I felt angry again.  I didn't want to be, but I couldn't help it.

"I'm going to make sure Lila's awake," Annie said distractedly.

She left me standing in the kitchen on my own, lost in thought.  I knew it wasn't my place to intrude; and Aubrey had told me how the Shoshone ideal was to avoid confrontation.  But Mr. Little Hawk hadn't even reacted to Annie's injury. 

I went out the front door and found Mr. Little Hawk wrapping the remainder of Annie's elk meat on a folding table.  The fumes from the raw meat made me feel a little sick, but I pressed forward; now that I'd decided to speak up, I couldn't rationalize backing down.

I stood opposite Mr. Little Hawk.  He pretended he didn't see me.  I put my hands on the slimy table and leaned all the way across.  He jumped, startled. 

Annie's fine, if you're wondering
, I signed.

"Oh?  Oh, that's good..."

Do you have any salve for her burn?
I asked. 
I've got lavender oil at home, if you don't.

"Hm?  No, no, there's salve.  On the medicine shelf, in the sitting room."

Maybe you want to help her put it on?
I asked. 
I bet she'd really appreciate it.

Mr. Little Hawk stalled.

I rubbed my forehead.  Not a good idea; there was still elk slime and diluted blood all over my hands.  For a second, I thought I would puke.

Mr. Little Hawk
, I said.  That's one of the things I like about surnames in Nettlebush; they correspond with real words, so you don't have to fingerspell them. 
I know you're probably going to yell at me for imposing like this, but you're her dad.  Not some stranger who just happens to live in her house.

Mr. Little Hawk didn't look like he was going to yell at me at all.  He looked me directly in the eye.  His lower lip moved independently of his upper lip.  He was just about my father's age--which was thirty-nine--but he reminded me much more of a child than a grown man.  I don't mean to sound sarcastic, but I honestly wondered if he might have had some form of brain damage.  In light of that thought, I couldn't bring myself to feel any hostility toward him.

Mr. Little Hawk wiped his hands on a towel.  He offered it to me.  I thanked him and cleaned my hands to the best of my ability.

"Can you help me?" Mr. Little Hawk asked.

His request caught me off guard. 
Sure, sir
, I signed. 
With what?

He reached into his pocket and took out a letter--which he promptly handed to me.

At first I couldn't move.  Was it really okay for me to read his private mail?  Mr. Little Hawk waited without any sign of impatience.  Hesitantly, I reached inside the envelope--already torn open--and pulled out the thick paper inside.  I unfolded it and started to read.

From the very instance that I unfolded that paper, I could tell it was something important.  There was a coat of arms at the top of the header, an eagle with wings spread.  I thought I had seen that insignia somewhere before, but I couldn't place it.

Mr. Thomas Little Hawk
, the body of the letter began. 
Undoubtedly you have been informed of the death of your wife, Major Elizabeth Little Hawk, who on the date of June 17, 2000
...

I couldn't read any farther than that.  The paper in my hands trembled.  Annie's mom had been dead for nearly two months.

I looked across the folding table at Mr. Little Hawk.  He gazed back, earnest and uncertain.

"Can you help me?" he asked.  "I don't know how to tell them.  They're going to be sad."

My face felt cold, my hands like ice.  I returned his letter.

I can't
, I signed. 
I'm so sorry.

"You can't?"

They're your family, Mr. Little Hawk.  You have to tell them.

I wasn't at all certain that Mr. Little Hawk would take my advice.  And as I went through the rest of the day, I felt mechanical, and sort of numb; because if he did take my advice, my favorite family was about to receive some of the worst news a person could hear.  Rafael must have noticed something off about me; he sat prodding me in the church cupola until I shook my head.  He gave up after that.

I kept an eye out for the Little Hawks at dinner.  My heart fell into my stomach.  I spotted Annie on the far side of the bonfire, sitting alone on a log.  Her face was in her hands, her shoulders shaking. 

I laid my plate on the ground and immediately started forward.  The crowd on my side of the bonfire was hard to navigate; the whole of the teenage community seemed to have gathered with morbid curiosity around the At Dawn twins, who were arguing over a Pawnee boy they'd both dated last spring.  I maneuvered through the throng at last and darted toward Annie--but stopped.

Rafael approached Annie, shoulders hunched, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.  He reminded me of a wary snake treading into unknown territory, prepared, at any second, to spring away to safety.  Hesitantly, he sat at Annie's side.  He tapped her on the shoulder.  She looked up--my heart seized; I saw the tear tracks down her cheeks, the red around her eyes.  Rafael said something to her I couldn't hear.  The light from the fire danced over their faces with clarity, but Rafael's was expressionless, Annie's heartbreaking.  Rafael said something more; and then Annie broke down, shoulders rippling, and barreled into his arms.  It took Rafael maybe two seconds before he hugged her back.

"Did you hear what happened?" Aubrey said quietly.

I hadn't realized he was standing next to me.  I nodded.  Aubrey's features, plaintive, looked magnified by the firelight.

"Liz Little Hawk was...she was funny.  But she's always been in the army.  So I guess..."

I nudged Aubrey and nodded in Annie's direction.  Aubrey caught on.  We made our way to Annie and Rafael and sat with them.  The sounds of Annie's sobs pierced right through my heart.

"I thought she would live forever," Annie said, her voice watery and hollow in a way that frightened me.  She wiped her eyes with a bandaged hand.  "She's got a whole room filled with military awards.  I thought they would let her go after Daddy had his stroke..."

"Do her parents know?" Rafael asked.

"I don't know.  Granddad lives in Oklahoma."

"I'll ask Uncle Gabe to give him a call."  Rafael added, voice low, "I'm pretty sure he knows every Native just short of Wyoming."  I think he was trying to mollify Annie's grief with light humor, but understandably, it went over her head.

"Annie," Aubrey started.  He looked rather as though he was trying to swallow a very bad taste in his mouth.  "I'm sorry to ask this of you, but...does she have a grave?  Do you know?"