big heads.
Or maybe the bluff was once a burial ground. Maybe at one time we buried our dead there and then forgot about it. Maybe if you dug down a little in the grass and the clay, you’d find entire tribes scattered across the prairies. Such things probably happen all the time. A little rain, a little wind, and a skull just pops out of the ground.
Lum comes over and sits down in the doorway and dangles his feet off the side of the boxcar. The sun bends in from the south, rushes past us, and pours into the car. Lum reaches out and taps a round dance rhythm on the metal door.
“If we don’t get jobs,” I tell him, “we won’t have any money.”
“So, what else is new?”
Lum picks up the rhythm and the power, using his knuckles to drum the door. “I know guys who make their living on the powwow circuit.”
“Like who?”
“Nobody from around here,” says Lum. “But we could.”
“Drumming?”
“Drumming, singing, dancing.” Lum switches to an intertribal. “You spend the winter learning to sing and dance, and as soon as spring comes, you pack everything into a pickup or a van and you head out on the circuit.”
“We don’t have a car.”
“We’d have to get one.”
“What do you make?”
“Gas money, food, if you’re just average. Prize money if you’re good.”
“Sounds okay.”
“You know how to sing?” says Lum.
“Nope.”
“Drum?”
“Nope.”
The whole time he’s talking, Lum is hammering the door with his fist. It’s as if he’s forgotten what his hand is doing. The fist is moving pretty fast, but you can see that the skin around the knuckles is beginning to redden and crack.
“That’s what I want to do.”
“Go to powwows?” I say.
“No,” says Lum, “get out of Bright Water.”
One time, when I took some bones over to my grandmother, I asked her why everything came in threes.
“Who told you that?”
“Dad mentioned it.”
“Ah,” she said. “That explains it.”
“So, he’s right?”
“Wouldn’t know. My mother said everything came in fours.”
“Fours, huh?”
“Deer,” she said, “have four legs.”
“What about birds?”
“And turtles have four legs.”
“Yeah, but people only have two legs.”
“In the olden days, when we were smarter,” my grandmother said, looking straight out the kitchen window, “we had four.”
Lum stops drumming the side of the car and wipes his hand on his jeans. “Did I tell you we got skins at Happy Trails?”
“Cherokees, right?”
“They pulled up in a bunch of beat-up trailers, like the one your grandmother has.”
“They’re here for Indian Days, right?”
“Why else would they come?”
“Lucille and Teresa are praying for Germans.”
Lum jumps down onto the gravel between the long strings of boxcars and flatbeds and tankers, and unzips his fly. “My father’s hoping for a bunch of Americans. He’s got this new scheme.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to see it to believe it.” Lum rocks his hips back and forth as if he’s trying to write his name in the gravel.
“Give me a hint.”
Lum zips his pants up and starts jogging along the line of cars. Soldier and I jog with him. As long as he doesn’t go any faster, I can keep up. Our shoes crunch on the stones as we go, and the echoes carry off the railway cars, strange and dangerous, as if we are stepping on eggs. Or running on bones.
Lum takes the stopwatch from around his neck and hands it to me. Up ahead, I can see where the boxcars end. Lum presses the pace, and we leave the shelter of the cars and angle out across the corner of the yard to where an old wooden trestle bridges an open oil pit. In the distance, a locomotive comes towards us, dragging a string of cars.
“What about jobs?”
“Time me!”
Lum breaks ahead of me, and I can see that he’s not going to wait, that he’s decided to race the train to the trestle. Soldier goes with him. I’m already slowing down when the train roars past me. The
Or maybe the bluff was once a burial ground. Maybe at one time we buried our dead there and then forgot about it. Maybe if you dug down a little in the grass and the clay, you’d find entire tribes scattered across the prairies. Such things probably happen all the time. A little rain, a little wind, and a skull just pops out of the ground.
Lum comes over and sits down in the doorway and dangles his feet off the side of the boxcar. The sun bends in from the south, rushes past us, and pours into the car. Lum reaches out and taps a round dance rhythm on the metal door.
“If we don’t get jobs,” I tell him, “we won’t have any money.”
“So, what else is new?”
Lum picks up the rhythm and the power, using his knuckles to drum the door. “I know guys who make their living on the powwow circuit.”
“Like who?”
“Nobody from around here,” says Lum. “But we could.”
“Drumming?”
“Drumming, singing, dancing.” Lum switches to an intertribal. “You spend the winter learning to sing and dance, and as soon as spring comes, you pack everything into a pickup or a van and you head out on the circuit.”
“We don’t have a car.”
“We’d have to get one.”
“What do you make?”
“Gas money, food, if you’re just average. Prize money if you’re good.”
“Sounds okay.”
“You know how to sing?” says Lum.
“Nope.”
“Drum?”
“Nope.”
The whole time he’s talking, Lum is hammering the door with his fist. It’s as if he’s forgotten what his hand is doing. The fist is moving pretty fast, but you can see that the skin around the knuckles is beginning to redden and crack.
“That’s what I want to do.”
“Go to powwows?” I say.
“No,” says Lum, “get out of Bright Water.”
One time, when I took some bones over to my grandmother, I asked her why everything came in threes.
“Who told you that?”
“Dad mentioned it.”
“Ah,” she said. “That explains it.”
“So, he’s right?”
“Wouldn’t know. My mother said everything came in fours.”
“Fours, huh?”
“Deer,” she said, “have four legs.”
“What about birds?”
“And turtles have four legs.”
“Yeah, but people only have two legs.”
“In the olden days, when we were smarter,” my grandmother said, looking straight out the kitchen window, “we had four.”
Lum stops drumming the side of the car and wipes his hand on his jeans. “Did I tell you we got skins at Happy Trails?”
“Cherokees, right?”
“They pulled up in a bunch of beat-up trailers, like the one your grandmother has.”
“They’re here for Indian Days, right?”
“Why else would they come?”
“Lucille and Teresa are praying for Germans.”
Lum jumps down onto the gravel between the long strings of boxcars and flatbeds and tankers, and unzips his fly. “My father’s hoping for a bunch of Americans. He’s got this new scheme.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to see it to believe it.” Lum rocks his hips back and forth as if he’s trying to write his name in the gravel.
“Give me a hint.”
Lum zips his pants up and starts jogging along the line of cars. Soldier and I jog with him. As long as he doesn’t go any faster, I can keep up. Our shoes crunch on the stones as we go, and the echoes carry off the railway cars, strange and dangerous, as if we are stepping on eggs. Or running on bones.
Lum takes the stopwatch from around his neck and hands it to me. Up ahead, I can see where the boxcars end. Lum presses the pace, and we leave the shelter of the cars and angle out across the corner of the yard to where an old wooden trestle bridges an open oil pit. In the distance, a locomotive comes towards us, dragging a string of cars.
“What about jobs?”
“Time me!”
Lum breaks ahead of me, and I can see that he’s not going to wait, that he’s decided to race the train to the trestle. Soldier goes with him. I’m already slowing down when the train roars past me. The
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