Part 9 (1/2)

'Joe said it was gambling.'

'Smoking, gambling, drinking, six of this and one half dozen of the other. I do whatever I want. I'm a free agent. In my mind at least. And that Doctor Mengele downstairs can't stomach it, the weird pervert.'

'I thought his name was Director Steve,' says a bewildered Lionel.

'It is,' says Bea. 'Doctor Mengele was an evil n.a.z.i who did gruesome experiments on living people. Sometimes I get them confused. Gloria, would you mind?' she says, a simple toss of her chin carrying with it one pure and unmistakable meaning.

Gloria takes a cigarette from the case and hands it to Bea and Bea bends and reaches down into her white shoe and produces a wooden match and rises and puts her hand out the window and strikes it on the same concrete wall that hems her in, then brings the match in carefully, so as not to kill the flame, aware of its delicacy more now than ever in her life, and fires the long thin smoke between her lips.

After a few good pulls she says, 'It must be fun being a ballerina.'

'Yeah,' says Gloria. 'You know, it has its ups and downs. A lot of practice. A lot of traveling. I'm taking a little break now 'cause I hurt my leg.'

'She's the best,' says Lionel. 'Don't let her fool you. I seen her do it.'

Gloria takes a glance at the Marine but says nothing.

'I used to dance,' says Bea. 'All night to the big band. Then when I met Joe's father he taught me rain dances. He was a full-blooded Mohawk, you see. And I learnt a war dance. And a special fertility dance. Though I'm sure he made that one up to get me out of my knickers. Guess it worked like a charm,' she laughs.

'What was Joe like when he was a kid?' asks the girl.

'Not much different from most kids, I guess. But I know he hated being part Indian. I'd hear the other boys say stuff like mixed-breed and Geronimo and sometimes he'd come home upset and with marks on his clothes, sometimes his face.'

'He gave me his tomahawk,' says Lionel.

'You must be kidding?'

'No. It was a gift.'

'He must really like you. That old thing was his pride and joy. In those days there was no Nintendo. No web, or whatever they do now. The kids played Good Guys and Bad Guys, all of them running though the woods and across the road without a care, Cops and Robbers, Kill the Commie, Cowboys and Indians. And of course the Cowboys always won. Look at the Marlboro Man.'

'Yeah, but Interstate f.u.c.ked him right up!' shouts Lionel. 'Killed him fair and square. I was eleven, saw it with my own eyes.'

'Well, then look at the Wild West. You ever been on a reservation? It's enough to break your heart.'

'I rode past one on my way here, but I didn't stop,' says Gloria. 'Somewhere in Oklahoma. Or maybe Michigan. There was a big wooden sign that said the name of the place but I forget it. Something Nation. All I remember is the fence. It seemed to stretch on for hours.'

'A fence for what?' says Black Jesus.

Bea Two-Feathers sucks at her cigarette. Then she says, 'A fence to keep in the sadness.'

And that's all she says, looking out the open window where she stands, waning, defiant, very pretty. Every inhale her delight. Every inhale her creeping death. A warm late summer breeze plays at the branches of the dogwood she loves. Robin in the gra.s.s. Dumpster at the edge of the lot. A thin diagonal wisp of hanging carcinogen easy to mistake as a summer cloud lingers far in the sky above, the faint spectre of a jet plane's path, jet plane long gone by.

'Will we leave something behind?' says Bea at last.

'I'm not sure what you mean,' says the girl.

The rain-dancer points to that fading plume in the sky. The stripper gets up from the bed and joins her at the window.

'I don't really know, Bea. I'm sorry. I wish I could say.'

'Maybe there'll be a trail left to show our steps when we're gone. You know, Gloria? Like Hansel and Gretel in the book. Breadcrumbs. The turns we take. A fork in the road. The different ways home.'

'I don't think I really know what home even means.'

'I used to think I did,' says Bea. 'Till I ended up in a HOME. Pretty funny, huh?'

Gloria makes a small obligatory laugh and turns her head from the window to check on Lionel.

He's fast asleep on the woman's bed. Lying on his side with his arms to his heart and his legs drawn up in that pose we all know, and knew, even before the first breath of air came to sting our lungs.

'Is he okay?' asks Bea.

'Not right now. But I think he will be. I want to help him if I can.'

'What's wrong with him?'

'The military's got him on some crazy dope. But I get the feeling it's hurting him more than it's helping.'

'Poor kid. He doesn't look like he'd harm a fly.'

'I know what you mean. I don't think we can even try and imagine what he's been through.'

'h.e.l.l on earth,' Bea says and blows a thin mouthful of smoke through the open window. 'Do you mind if I light a candle for him when you leave?'

'What for?'

'To ask the Great Spirit for healing. Some call it the Big Medicine.'

'Sure. That would be nice.'

'And one for your leg?'

'Don't worry about me. I'm okay.'

'No you're not. You're just like me. You'd run yourself into the ground for everybody else before admitting you're in the slightest bit of trouble.'

'Okay, fine. Do one for me too,' says the stripper. 'But light his first.'

Bea smiles and the two of them gaze out the window to the yard, the dogwood, the sky. Whatever ragged line the jet plane left in its wake is nearly gone now. A pale trace here, pale trace there.

'Maybe home is a whole lot different from what we've dreamt it up to be,' says the old woman, finished with her cigarette, her white braid frayed and blowing, a feather pinned to the back of her head. 'It can't just be a name painted on a mailbox. Or a mortgage paper. Or a new bedroom set from Sears. What if all it is is a place where we feel okay? Somewhere we can be whatever we want. And everyone we love is just a tin can telephone call away.'

On their way back to the Dairy Queen, Gloria takes them on a detour. Turning at the white church they make their way down the hill, across the tannery and up Mill Road along the creek. They go at a snail's pace. No yarn to drag the soldier this time. In fact, he walks at her side, where she barely works the throttle. Cars pa.s.s them by and necks crane, some folks wave and some don't.

'Where are we going, Gloria?'

'I want to take you down by the water.'

'What for?'