The Ghost Walker (10 page)

“We need a place to practice since they won’t let us use the gym anymore.” Howard tilted his head toward the school.

Father John got the picture. The BIA had cut back on funds, and frills such as afterschool activities for the kids were the first to go. But where would he find enough money to heat the gym even a few hours a day? And he couldn’t turn a bunch of kids loose without supervision; they would need a coach. What’s more, if they stayed after school to play basketball, they would
miss the bus, which meant he would have to figure out some way to get them home. The problems were mighty.

“Listen, kids . . .” he began haltingly, aware they were waiting for an answer. He hated to let them down.

Disappointment descended over the young faces like a roiling cloud of dust. It would be better to tell them the truth now, rather than later, but a part of him persisted in believing in the little miracles that sometimes occur when everything seems impossible. He said, “Let me see what I can work out. Okay?”

“Okay.” Howard shrugged. The kids turned back toward the schoolyard, kicking at the slabs of snow. A couple of them looked back and waved as if to wave him away.

Father John followed the fence to the white stucco tipi, the laughing, yelling voices of the children behind him. Howard and the others needed a place to play some real basketball and a coach to develop their skills, get them ready for basketball at Indian High School in a few years. Of all the problems, finding a coach would be the hardest.

For a second he flirted with the idea of coaching them himself. He liked coaching. He did a pretty good job with the Eagles baseball team, which went 22-3 last summer. But basketball? He’d only played one year at Boston College Prep, after the coach, who was also the math teacher, had pulled him aside and explained that any kid over six feet tall had a duty to play basketball. And if he didn’t play, he could expect an F in math. It was another two years before Father John had topped out at almost six-feet-four, but by then he’d proved his talent on the pitcher’s mound, and, he suspected, the baseball coach had warned his colleague against any
more creative recruiting. Baseball was his sport. He could have pitched in the majors—that was a fantasy he sometimes allowed himself. But then, he wouldn’t have been who he was.

The irony struck him as he swung open the glass door of the tipi and stepped onto the concrete floor. He was trying to figure out how to start a basketball program when, at the same time, two fancy suits were plotting to shut down the mission. He made his way along the empty school corridor, between walls draped in papers covered with crayon drawings and numbers and letters and gold stars. There was a faint odor of barbecue sauce.

The corridor led into the cafeteria, a spacious square with rows of tan formica tables glowing under fluorescent lights. Behind the metal counter at the far end, Loretta Dolby was stirring something in a large pot. The smell of barbecue sauce was so thick he could almost taste it.

“You’re early for lunch,” Loretta called as he walked to the counter. She was probably in her forties, but she looked older, with dark, sun-blotched skin and gray hair pulled into a knob at the base of her neck. She wore a light blue dress that hung loosely from her shoulders and flowed around her like a nightgown.

Suddenly she set the long metal spoon on the counter and came toward him. “Heard about that body.”

It was a statement, not a question. Until the body received a proper burial, it would be on everyone’s mind—the lost spirit wandering the earth, trying to find the afterworld.

“I seen it last night,” she said.

“The body?” For a moment, he wondered if it had been found and he hadn’t heard.

“The ghost.” Loretta smoothed back a strand of gray hair that had fallen across her forehead. “It was out in the field back of my house. I heard it in the middle of the night, wailing like the wind. I looked out, and there it was, like a dust devil gettin’ madder and madder. The police don’t find the body pretty soon, no tellin’ what that ghost’s gonna do. The Day of the Death’s gonna go too long.”

Father John nodded. She meant the time the spirit spent on the earth after death, before it was sent to the afterworld. It was similar to his idea of purgatory, except the Arapahos believed the Day of the Death ended on the third day, when the body was buried. It had been almost two days now since he saw the corpse.

“Chief Banner’s trying to find the body,” Father John said, wondering how to bring up the fact that Marcus Deppert seemed to be missing. He didn’t want to alarm her by suggesting the lost, half-mad ghost she was convinced she’d seen was Marcus. It was bad enough for a ghost to be anonymous. Its fate would seem even more terrible if it acquired a name.

“Where can I find Rich?” Father John asked.

The atmosphere seemed to change between them, as if someone had opened a door and let in a blast of cold air. Loretta pulled herself upright, squaring her shoulders and gazing steadily at him. “Rich is on the good road now. He hasn’t been in no trouble for a long time, I don’t care what nobody says.”

“I’m looking for Marcus Deppert, and I was hoping Rich could help me find him.” Father John kept his tone reassuring.

Loretta’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Only time Rich ever got into trouble was with that no-good creep. He don’t see Marcus Deppert no more, he promised me.”

“He might have an idea of his whereabouts.”

“Father John, I’m telling you, Rich don’t have nothin’ to do with him. Rich’s doin’ good for himself now. The first money he made on his new job he brought straight to me. Five new hundred-dollar bills. He said, This is for you, Mom.’ That’s the kind of son Rich is.”

“I know Rich is a good son,” Father John said. He meant he knew Loretta believed Rich was a good son. The only connection Rich ever had to work, as far as he knew, was three years ago when he and Marcus were peddling pot, an enterprise that earned them both a stay in Leavenworth. He wondered how Rich had come by five hundred dollars cash.

“Sounds as if he has a good job,” Father John said. He was trolling carefully.

“Darn right.” The woman’s tone was defiant, but he sensed she’d taken the bait. “He drives Jeeps down to Denver for rich people. They buy ’em here ’cause it’s cheaper. You know how rich people are. Money sticks to their hands, ’cause it’s the most important thing in the world to ’em. He’s drivin’ a Jeep right now. So how could he know anything about Marcus Deppert or Annie Chambeau or the rest of that lousy gang?”

The girl’s name rang a bell. Banner had said the Lander police broke up a party Friday night at Annie Chambeau’s apartment. “Is she a friend of Rich’s?” he asked.

Loretta laughed, a pinched, forced sound. “That breed’s nobody’s friend and everybody’s friend, you know what I mean? Says she’s Arapaho, but her daddy came from one of those traders in the Old Time. I hear she’s hangin’ around Marcus Deppert now. Birds of a feather.”

Father John asked if she knew who Rich was working
for, but she shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “All I know, it’s a real good job.”

*    *    *

Father John tried to sort through what Loretta had said as he walked back along Circle Drive. She may wish her son had broken with Marcus Deppert, but it looked as if the two young men had taken the same job. Chances were, they had both gone to Denver. But, then, why was there a half-packed suitcase in Marcus’s living room? And who had hired them to drive Jeeps to Denver? Maybe the girl who had thrown the party, and who seemed to know both Marcus and Rich, would have some answers. He decided to swing by the Grand Apartments in Lander this afternoon.

But first he intended to pay an unannounced visit to Eden Lightfoot, the economic development director.

10

T
he afternoon sun slanted across the red bricks of the Arapaho tribal headquarters at Ethete as Father John nosed the Toyota into the parking lot. He climbed out of the cab and crossed the snow-patched sidewalk in a couple of steps. Large black letters on the glass door spelled the Arapaho word
Ne:hi:3ei
, the Center.

A young woman with thick black hair that flowed like a shawl over her shoulders looked up from the desk in the lobby. “Well, hi, Father,” she said, pedaling her chair back a few inches, as if to welcome a conversation.

“Is Eden Lightfoot in?” Father John asked. Odors of perfume and stale coffee permeated the air. The building was designed in a V shape, with the offices of the business councilmen down one corridor and tribal offices down the other. From somewhere came the muffled sound of a ringing telephone.

“I’ll tell him you’re here.” The young woman pedaled back to the desk, picked up the phone, and punched in a couple of numbers. “Father O’Malley to see you,” she said. There was a long pause, confusion and surprise mingling on her face. Then, “I’ll tell him.”

Cradling the receiver, embarrassment in her eyes, she
said, “I’m sorry, Father. Mr. Lightfoot is tied up. He suggests you make an appointment for later.”

“Where will I find him?”

“Third door.” The woman nodded toward the left corridor. “Only don’t tell him I . . .”

Father John started down the corridor. Light from the intermittent ceiling fixtures bounced off the beige walls and scattered over the green tile floor. He paused at the door with the small lettered sign reading
ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT DIRECTOR
. Tapping on the door and opening it at the same time, he called, “Eden Lightfoot?”

A stocky man—probably Cheyenne, judging by the broad, flat face—not more than thirty, rose slowly from the chair behind the oak desk. He was short, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders that seemed to support his head without benefit of a neck. He was wearing blue jeans and a light blue, silky-looking shirt with a black leather bolo tie clasped in silver. The surprise on his face gave way to something resembling confusion—a slip, perhaps. Recovering quickly, he lifted a pudgy hand and combed the fingers through his dark hair. “This isn’t the best time, Father O’Malley.”

“What is the ‘best time’ to discuss closing St. Francis Mission?” Father John said, shutting the door behind him. The director stood in front of a wide window that framed a view of the snow-packed plains. Light glimmered off the top of the polished desk, which held a telephone, computer keyboard, and monitor. A series of sleek, black-framed documents decorated the wall on the right. In the center was an oblong degree with the director’s name sandwiched between the words “Harvard University” and “Masters of Business Administration.” A large multicolored map of Wind River Reservation sprawled across the opposite wall.

Eden Lightfoot resumed his seat and began tapping the palm of one hand against the desk. It made a flat, hollow sound. “We have every intention of discussing the matter with you as soon as the plans become definite. This is very premature.”

“We?”

The director shifted his bulky frame. His hand went still. “The Z Group has created the opportunity of a lifetime. Any Indian reservation in the country would jump at it. Surely you can understand the importance of new jobs on the reservation.”

The room felt stuffy and hot. There was the soft swish of air emanating from a vent somewhere. “What I don’t understand,” Father John said, “is why the Z Group wants to close a mission that has been part of the Arapaho community since the last century.”

Leaning back in the brown leather chair, Eden Lightfoot said, “You’re speaking of the past. Your own people have taught me the past is dead. We must live in the present and position ourselves to move into the future. Surely you can understand an enterprise that is no longer profitable must give way . . .”

“Profitable? A mission?”

“Perhaps the better word is productive.”

“St. Francis is productive.”

The director began tapping again. In a good imitation of a Harvard accent, he said, “We are speaking of economic considerations, are we not? The mission happens to lie at the edge of the reservation, close to major thoroughfares. It is the best location to attract large numbers of outsiders without the disruption of bringing them into the heart of our country.”