House Made of Dawn (15 page)

He was unlucky. You could see that right away. You could see that he wasn't going to get along around here. Milly thought he was going to be all right, I guess, but she didn't understand how it was with him. He was a longhair, like Tosamah said. You know, you have to change. That's the only way you can live in a place like this. You have to forget about the way it was, how you grew up and all. Sometimes it's hard, but you have to do it. Well, he didn't want to change, I guess, or he didn't know how. He came here from prison, too, and that was bad. He was on parole, and he had to do everything right the first time. That made it a lot harder for him; he wasn't as lucky as the rest of us. He was going to get us all in trouble, Tosamah said. Tosamah sized him up right away, and he warned me about him. But, you know, Tosamah doesn't understand either. He talks pretty big all the time, and he's educated, but he doesn't understand.

One night I was up here by myself—he was out someplace—and Tosamah came in. I didn't much want to talk to him, you know, because he's always showing off and making fun of things. He was feeling pretty good, I guess, and he started right in the way he does. “You take that poor cat,” he said. “They gave him every advantage. They gave him a pair of shoes and told him to go to school. They deloused him and gave him a lot of free haircuts and let him fight on their side. But was he grateful? Hell, no, man. He was too damn dumb to be civilized. So what happened? They let him alone at last. They thought he was harmless. They thought he was going to plant some beans, man, and live off the fat of the land. Oh, he was going to make his way, all right. He would get some fat little squaw all knocked up, and they would lie around all day and get drunk and raise a lot of little government wards. They would make some pottery, man, and boost the economy. But it didn't turn out that way. He turned out to be a real primitive sonuvabitch, and the first time he got hold of a knife he killed a man. That must have embarrassed the hell out of them.

“And do you know what he said? I mean, do you have any
idea
what that cat said? A
snake
, he said. He killed a goddam
snake! The corpus delicti
, see,
he threatened to turn himself into a snake
, for crissake, and rattle around a little bit. Now ain't that something, though? Can you
imagine
what went on at that trial? There was this longhair, see, cold sober, of sound mind, and the goddam judge looking on, and the prosecutor trying to talk sense to that poor degenerate Indian: ‘Tell us about it, man. Give it to us straight.' ‘Well, you honors, it was this way, see? I cut me up a little snake meat out there in the sand.' Christ, man, that must have been our finest hour, better than Little Bighorn. That little no-count cat must have had the whole Jesus scheme right in the palm of his hand. Think of it!
What's-His-Name v. United States
. I mean, where's the legal precedent, man? When you stop to think about it, due process is a hell of a remedy for snakebite.

“They put that cat away, man. They
had
to. It's part of the Jesus scheme.
They
, man. They put all of us renegades, us diehards, away sooner or later. They've got the right idea. They put us away before we're born. They're an almighty wise and cautious bunch, those cats, full of discretion. You've got to admire them, man; they know the score. I mean they see through us. They know what we're waiting for. We don't fool them for a minute. Listen here, Benally, one of these nights there's going to be a full red moon, a hunter's moon, and we're going to find us a wagon train full of women and children. Now you won't believe this, but I drink to that now and then.”

He's always going on like that, Tosamah, talking crazy and showing off, but he doesn't understand. I got to thinking about it, though, anyway. About
him;
about him being afraid of that man out there, so afraid he didn't know what to do. That, you know, being so scared of something like that—that's what Tosamah doesn't understand. He's educated, and he doesn't believe in being scared like that. But he doesn't come from the reservation. He doesn't know how it is when you grow up out there someplace. You grow up out there, you know, someplace like Kayenta or Lukachukai. You grow up in the night, and there are a lot of
funny things going on, things you don't know how to talk about. A baby dies, or a good horse. You get sick, or the corn dries up for no good reason. Then you remember something that happened the week before, something that wasn't right. You heard an owl, maybe, or you saw a funny kind of whirlwind; somebody looked at you sideways and a moment too long. And then you
know
. You just know. Maybe your aunt or your grandmother was a witch. Maybe you knew she was, because she was always going around at night, around the corrals; maybe you saw her sometimes, like she was talking to the dogs or the sheep, and when you looked again she wasn't there. You just know, and you can't help being scared. It was like that with him, I guess. It might have been like that.

We got along all right; we had some pretty good times. I remember the first time he came around. It was pretty early. I had been there about an hour, I guess, and the foreman called me. I thought he was going to bawl me out because I had punched in late, but I guess he didn't know about that. I went into the office, and there
he
was, with the foreman and some other guy, a Relocation officer. We shook hands and the foreman said he was going to start him out on my line, and would I show him around? I was glad, because DeBenedictus had been laid off the week before, and there was nobody across from me on the line and I didn't have anybody to talk to. I needed a stapler pretty bad, too, because I was having to do two jobs and a lot of orders were piling up. Well, I showed him how to punch in and took him around to meet some of the guys. I could tell he was kind of shy and scared—you know how it is when you start to work in a new place—and then I took him over to my line and showed him how to staple. He was good with his hands, and he caught on all right. He was just learning, you know, and it was kind of slow at first. He made some mistakes, too, but I played like I didn't notice, and after a while we were turning those things out pretty good.

He was looking right down at his work all the time, like I wasn't even there. I knew how he felt, so I didn't try to talk to
him, and every time it slowed up we just stood there looking up the line for the next piece, like we were really busy thinking about it, you know, and it was part of the job. It was getting on toward noon, and I noticed that he hadn't brought a lunch bag. I was trying to think what I ought to do about that. I didn't know if he had any money. It's funny, but I hadn't thought about that before, and I got to worrying about it. I didn't want to embarrass him or anything, and I guess he was thinking about it, too, because when the whistle blew he acted like he didn't know what it was and went right on working. Anyway, it turned out all right. We punched out, and I took him over to the Coke machine. He had some Relocation money, I guess. He had some change, anyway, and I was glad. We got a couple of Cokes and went on out into the yard. Everybody was sitting around out there eating lunch. They were being pretty friendly, too, but I didn't want to get in with them because I knew he would have been embarrassed. They kid around a lot down there, those guys. They're always calling you chief and talking about firewater and everything. I don't mind, but I didn't know how he would take it. I was afraid it might hurt his feelings or something. He was used to it, though, because he had been in the army, and in prison, too, but I didn't know that then. Right away we went off by ourselves. I had a sandwich, and I asked him if he wanted to split it with me, but he said he wasn't hungry. I ate about half of it and acted like I didn't want any more. I put the rest of it down on the plank between us and kept hoping he would change his mind and take it, but he didn't. Finally, I had to throw it away.

He didn't have anyplace to stay. The Relocation people were looking around, I guess, but they hadn't found a place, and he was going to spend the night at the Indian Center. There's a storeroom down there in the alley, where they keep the food and clothing that people have donated, you know. You can stay there sometimes if you don't have anyplace else to go. It's just an old frame building, and you can see through the cracks in the walls, but you can make a pretty good bed out of those old coats and
things, and you can keep warm. But there's no toilet and no lights, and somebody's always bringing a girl in there to fool around. A lot of guys get sick in there, too, and it always smells kind of sour and bad. I told him about that and said he could move in with me if he wanted to. He didn't say anything, but after work he went down and talked to the Relocation people, and that night he came with that little suitcase up to my room.

 

It was a long time before he would talk to anyone. Oh, after a while we talked a whole lot, him and me, but it was about things that happened around here. You know, Milly and those other social workers would come around sometimes, and we kidded around about them afterward. We got in with some of the other guys and got drunk and fooled around. But it was a long time before he would talk about himself—and then he never said much. I guess it's that way with most of us. If you come from the reservation, you don't talk about it much; I don't know why. I guess you figure that it won't do you much good, so you just forget about it. You think about it sometimes; you can't help it, but then you just try to put it out of your mind. There's a whole lot more to think about, and it mixes you up sometimes if you don't just go along with it. I guess if we all came from the same place it would be different; we could talk about it, you know, and we could understand.

We were kind of alike, though, him and me. After a while he told me where he was from, and right away I knew we were going to be friends. We're related somehow, I think. The Navajos have a clan they call by the name of that place. I was there once, too. That was eight or ten years ago, I guess, and I was going to the Santa Fe Indian School, and some of us went over there for the big dance they have in November. It was cold that winter, and there was a lot of snow all around. It's a pretty good place; there are mountains and canyons around there, and there's a lot of red in the rocks. Except for the mountains, it's like the land south of Wide Ruins, where I come from, full of gullies and brush and red
rocks. And he didn't have any family, either, just his grandfather. He said his grandfather used to have a bunch of sheep. I herded sheep from the time I could walk.

 

It didn't snow much out there, but when it did the whole land as far as you could see was covered with it. It went on sometimes all night, and you could see it outside through the smoke hole, swirling around in the black sky. And sometimes the flakes came in and melted on the floor around the fire, and you were glad there was a fire. You could hear the wind, and you were little and you could get way down under the blankets and see the firelight moving around on the logs of the roof and the walls, and the floor was yellow and warm and you could put your hand in the dust and feel how warm it was. And you knew that your grandfather was there, looking out for you. You woke up sometimes, and he was there stirring the fire to keep it going, and you knew that everything was all right. And the next morning you got up and went out and it was cold and there was snow all around. Maybe the sun was out and the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes. It drifted up against the hogan and covered the top of it, and the hogan looked like a little hill all covered with snow and you could see the smoke coming out of it and smell the coffee and the mutton. You put your hands in the snow and rubbed your face with it and it made you come alive and feel good and your hands were red and wet with the cold snow. You were little and you looked all around at the snow; it was piled up on the brush and you could see the dark branches under it, and the sheep were bleating in the corral and the poles of the fence were heaped high with snow, and underneath you could see the wood, how it was almost black with water. There was a gully a little way off, and inside of it, where the snow had fallen off, the earth was a deep red and there were bits of brush growing out of it and covered with snow. They looked like handfuls of cotton or wool. Everything was changed. It was bright and beautiful all around, and you felt like yelling and running and jumping up and down. You went in and put your hands to the fire. Your grandfather scolded you and smiled, because you were little and he knew how you felt. He cut off a piece of mutton and put it down for
you. You could smell the coffee and hear it boiling in the pot, even after he took it off the fire and poured it into the cups. You could see it, how black and hot it was, and there was a lot of smoke coming out of the cups. You had to let it set a while because the cups were made of enamelware and they could burn your hands. It was hard to wait, because you were cold and you knew how good it was going to taste. But the meat cooled right away and you could pick it up and it made your fingers warm. The fat was full of juice and smoke, and sometimes there was a little burned crust on it, hard black flakes that you could feel on your teeth, and the meat was tough and good to chew. And after a while you could pick up the cup and hold it in your hands. It was good just to hold it. You could see the dull shine of it, where the grease from your fingers was, and the black smoking coffee inside. And when you drank it, it was better than the meat. You could feel it all good and hot and strong inside of you, and the good hard grounds on your teeth and tongue. You hurried, because you were little and the snow was outside and there was a lot to do. You took the sheep out in the bright morning and had to look for grass under the snow. It was hard to find and you had to brush the snow off of it and your hands were wet and ached with cold. But you were happy anyway, because you were out with the sheep and could talk and sing to yourself and the snow was new and deep and beautiful. You thought of going to the trading post for water. Your grandfather went once a week, and sometimes twice, in the wagon; and if he didn't need the water right away, he waited for you to bring the sheep in, and you went with him. He didn't like to leave the sheep alone, but it was only for a little while, and he knew how much you wanted to go. The water was low in the barrel; you had looked inside the night before and there was only enough for the morning. You thought about the road, the hillsides and the way through the flats, and you hoped the snow wouldn't melt too soon into mud. It would be all right; it wasn't like the long hard rains. It would be all right if you didn't stay out too long with the sheep. You hurried and looked hard for the grass. And afterward, when you brought the sheep back, your grandfather had filled the barrel with snow and there was plenty of water again. But he took you to the trading post anyway,
because you were little and had looked forward to it. There were people inside, a lot of them, because there was a big snow on the ground and they needed things and they wanted to stand around and smoke and talk about the weather. You were little and there was a lot to see, and all of it was new and beautiful: bright new buckets and tubs, saddles and ropes, hats and shirts and boots, a big glass case all filled with candy. Frazer was the trader's name. He gave you a piece of hard red candy and laughed because you couldn't make up your mind to take it at first, and you wanted it so much you didn't know what to do. And he gave your grandfather some tobacco and brown paper. And when he had smoked, your grandfather talked to the trader for a long time and you didn't know what they were saying and you just looked around at all the new and beautiful things. And after a while the trader put some things out on the counter, sacks of flour and sugar, a slab of salt pork, some canned goods, and a little bag full of the hard red candy. And your grandfather took off one of his rings and gave it to the trader. It was a small green stone, set carelessly in thin silver. It was new and it wasn't worth very much, not all the trader gave for it anyway. And the trader opened one of the cans, a big can of whole tomatoes, and your grandfather sprinkled sugar on the tomatoes and the two of you ate them right there and drank bottles of sweet red soda pop. And it was getting late and you rode home in the sunset and the whole land was cold and white. And that night your grandfather hammered the strips of silver and told you stories in the firelight. And you were little and right there in the center of everything, the sacred mountains, the snow-covered mountains and the hills, the gullies and the flats, the sundown and the night, everything—where you were little, where you were and had to be
.