Reason To Believe (31 page)

Dewey spoke of seeking
wolakota,
which would manifest itself as an extraordinary peace that would be more than an absence of war or a wary truce. And, as always, he spoke of the importance of harmony, trust, and respect.

"This ride is a sacrifice. It is a prayer for
wolakota.
Each day, from now on, we pray for a special piece of
wolakota.
We dedicate tomorrow to the children. And not to ours only, but to children everywhere. We remember those who were cut down on the banks of Wounded Knee Creek a hundred years ago. But the same thing happens now, today, for lack of caring, for lack of respect, for lack of remembering. We pray for those who are cut down in the streets every day, here in this country."

He lifted his gnarled hands and made a circular gesture. "Everywhere, in all countries. The children who have no place to go, who have nothing to eat. We pray for them. The children who are betrayed by the ones they depend on to care for them. We pray for them.
Wolakota
for the children. This is what we ask. Tomorrow we ride for the children."

That night there was no camp. Some of the riders stayed with local families. Others, including the Pipe-stones, slept on the floor of the community building. The following morning was the coldest so far. It took the rising sun to edge the mercury above the zero mark. After breakfast the drum summoned the riders into the circle, where Dewey offered prayers. Some of the riders sang a strong-heart song, and many of the women trilled, "Li li li li!" The drum continued to sound the steady rhythm after the echo of the voices had faded, becoming the rhythm of the earth's heartbeat. Clara hugged her daughter, the child who would soon be a woman, then watched Anna saddle her own horse, kiss her father's cheek, mount up, and join her friends.

Clara did not want to be pregnant again. Not now. Anna was nine years old, and Clara had begun to enjoy the fact that she no longer had a baby in the house. Anna was becoming less dependent on her parents for the little things. She dressed herself for school. She could get herself a bowl of cereal or a glass of juice without making a mess. She could walk to the sitter's house after school. She could read. She could write. She could use the telephone. Clara loved her job at the museum, and even though she believed that she was a good mother, certainly a responsible parent, she had to admit that she liked feeling less tied down. She wanted another child, but not right now. Ben wanted another child, but he wasn't in any hurry, either. Lots of people spaced their children further apart nowadays.

They had moved to Bismarck for better jobs. For Ben it meant a steady job with a regular paycheck, which was what he'd said he wanted. For Clara, it was a career goal come true. For both of them, it was a piece of the American dream. After years of reservation housing assignments, renting, moving, renting something else, they'd finally bought a house.

In some ways they were finally settled. In others, they were not. Even though Ben had initiated the move, there were times when Clara knew his whole heart wasn't in it. He'd get used to it, she told herself. He made friends easily—more easily than she did, in fact. She didn't mind if he went out with his buddies from work on occasion. She didn't mind if he went back to Little Eagle once in a while for a weekend. Sometimes she and Anna went along. Other times he didn't tell her he was going, and those... well, true, those were the bad times, but that didn't happen very often. It wasn't a regular habit. It wasn't a threat. After all, he was her husband; she was his wife. They both knew the full meaning of those words.

But another pregnancy, this one unplanned, this one not on Clara's master schedule. She wasn't unhappy about it, but she wished—and she made the wish often— that it had not happened. Not now.

It couldn't be erased, but in the end it was undone.

She was in her fourth month. Nothing showed. Hardly anyone knew. And because the undoing was caused by a fall—-an icy sidewalk, the turn of an ankle, a terrible tumble and a hard landing—she had a ready reason to be out of commission for a few days. She didn't have to discuss it with anyone. She didn't want to discuss it, and neither did Ben. It wasn't meant to be, she told herself. All for the best.

The fact that she'd been angry wasn't mentioned. Working late, waiting for him to pick her up at the museum, worried about Anna getting picked up late, too, pacing, pacing. The instant she'd seen the headlights, she'd headed out the door and down the steps. The slip, the fall, all of it had all happened so quickly. He was at her side immediately to help her, to lift her off the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps and put her in the car. She didn't ask where he'd been—she could smell the smoke and the beer—but his balance was sure and steady.

And thank God it was, for she was in pain. She'd strained her back, and she was hurting deep inside her belly. Fear seized her, along with insidious guilt. She sat beside him in the car, suffering silently, trying to stem the tide of pain by sheer dint of her will. But there was blood seeping between her legs. God forgive her, she had caused this to happen. The careless blink of an eye, a misstep, a secret wish. This was her fault.

Ben rode flank much of the day, watching out for the newcomers, especially the younger ones. Toby Two Bear was back in action, bobbing along with more assurance at the trot. Another girl Annie's age had joined the ride. She showed Billie and Annie how to keep their legs warm the way the women had in the old days, simply by draping a wool blanket over the saddle and folding it back over their legs. Annie shared the trick with her mother, and they all rode together in a bunch. He watched them surreptitiously, taking fierce pride in their strength and beauty. His wife. His only child.

Ben couldn't believe Clara was pregnant. He'd given up on the notion of having another child. He'd given up on a lot of notions. He'd never quite made it as a bronc rider. He'd been a big name in his own backyard, but he'd never turned pro. He earned his living as an auto mechanic. His wife worked fewer hours and earned more money than he did. She enjoyed her job more all the time. He liked his less.

Over the years he'd moved in and out, over and up, through the gate and down the road, but whatever he was trying to get away from kept following him. Whatever he was looking for kept eluding him. He felt boxed in. He wasn't sure who he was or who he wanted to be.

But he knew that whenever he got to drinking, nobody could touch him. When he was drinking hard, nobody wanted to, which was the whole idea. He was still a cowboy, and goddamn it, nobody could stop him from doing anything he damn well pleased.

The night Clara lost the baby, he'd damn well pleased to stop in at the Silver Dollar in Mandan for a beer. Clara was working late, so he had time to unwind a little bit before he picked her up. He was supposed to be working on his pickup so she could have the car back, but hell, he'd been working on other people's transmissions all week. His own could wait another day.

He also damn well pleased to shoot some pool with Marian Anders, who'd let him know on more than a few occasions that she would be available for a quick tumble if he were ever interested. She hadn't told him in so many words, but she had a way of pouring on the body language. Not that he planned to take her up on it, but it was nice to know he hadn't lost his appeal after being out of circulation for so long. That night they more or less ran into each other in the parking lot and ended up feeling each other out. Physically.

He was feeling pretty good when he left Mandan, but as soon as he crossed the bridge and saw the sign for the exit to the state capitol, he got hit in the face with a bad case of the guilts. To boot, he was late, but with a few beers under his belt and late autumn ice glazing the roads, he had to hold the speed down.

The minute Clara shoved the door open, he knew she was pissed. He could tell by the purposeful way she tossed her hair and shifted an armload of books from one hip to the other. He figured he'd better get his ass in gear and help her. He threw the car into park, sneaking a peek at himself in the rearview mirror as he stepped on the parking brake. His eyes glowed like a sonuvabitch, and pure wickedness was written all over his face. But at least it wasn't written in lipstick.

He didn't see Clara miss the first step, but he caught the motion of her fall out of the corner of his eye.
Holy Mother.
Instantly sober, he ejected himself out of the car on a prayer and a curse—the former for his wife and unborn child, the latter aimed at himself.

Punish me, not them.

He lifted her into his arms, put her in the car, and made up his mind to head for the emergency room only a few blocks away, all without saying a word. He couldn't speak, couldn't bring himself to ask, couldn't say what he was thinking.

Punish me, not them.

"Ben, I think I'm bleeding."

Oh, Jesus, God.

He ran a red light.

"Ben, I'mmmm—" Eyes shut tight, she dropped her head back against the neck rest. "Clara?"

She clutched her middle with one hand and grabbed his thigh just above his knee with the other, squeezing the muscle until he thought his kneecap would pop off. But he had no objections. He had no
words.
No help, no comfort, nothing. He was afraid to take his eyes off the road or his hand off the wheel, afraid if he touched her, he'd make it worse.

"Take me to..."

"We're almost there."

But it was too late. He came away from that night convinced he'd caused Clara's fall as surely as if he had pushed her down the steps. They spoke little of the loss. Guilt oozed into the fissures in their marriage, festered and bloated, eroding the rift into a gulf between them.

And guilt begat more of the same.

Anna reclaimed her bed in the little tent that night. She and Clara zipped their sleeping bags together and heated the greater pocket with their bodies, which took some time. Time to huddle and shiver and whisper in the dark, like two friends at a slumber party. They shared Anna's remedy for chapped lips, giggled about how funny Cheppa Four Dog had looked when his saddle had slipped that afternoon, shared their concern for Dewey, and bemoaned the fact that Anna's period was due any day. It was the first time Anna had mentioned her period in such an easy, matter-of-fact way, at least to her mother. For Clara, it was a benchmark.

They had always been, would always be, mother and daughter. But
friends,
Clara marveled. Anna was growing up so fast. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to lose her little girl if she was gaining a close woman friend.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

A long pause prefaced the change of subject. "How do you pray?"

"Well, you... you talk to God."

"No, I mean, how do
you
pray? Out loud, or inside your head?"

"Both," Clara said after a moment's consideration. "Probably more inside my head."

"I asked Dad, and he says sometimes he prays the way Lala does, out loud in Lakota. Like when they do a sweat, each one offers his own prayers. It's dark inside the lodge, so it feels private, but there's not much room, so you're close to the earth and close to the other people. So Dad says you share things more easily."

"Like now?" Clara asked.

"Yeah. But they've got steam." Anna snuggled against her mother's side. "That's what we need in here. Some steam."

"If we keep talking, between us we should be able to generate plenty of hot air, don't you think?"

"You, maybe, if you start lecturing."

"I won't," Clara promised. "Let's just talk." And she waited quietly for Anna to take the lead again.

There was a long silence. Then, "Is it all right to talk about Dad?"

"Behind his back?"

"About how we feel about him and how he's... how he's really doing now."

"We can try," Clara ventured. "But we have to remember that I'm not his daughter, and you're not his wife."

"Yeah, well, that's easy enough. But we both still talk to him." Pause. "Right?"

"Right." Clara patted Anna's arm. "Recently Dad and I have been talking. Honestly."

"And not just about me," Anna pointed out. "Right?"

"Right."

"That's good. Because there's other stuff you could talk about that's
almost
as important."

"Like what?"

"I can't think of anything myself, but..."

Clara laughed.

"I think Dad oughta be the next pipe carrier, don't you?"

"I think that's between him and your grandfather." And maybe Anna, too. In another life, Clara had hoped he would, but she had nothing to say about it now. Nothing.