Indian child, my father said, trying to keep his voice normal.
He rattled on.
And so of course the governor of our state, who well understands from our conversations the reasons we have for limiting adoptions by non-Indian parents via the Indian Child Welfare Act, attempted to explain this piece of legislation to Curtis Yeltow, who was very frustrated at the difficulty of adopting this child.
What child?
She turned in the bedclothes, a skeletal wraith, her eyes deeply fixed on my father’s face.
What child? What tribe?
Well, actually—
My father tried to keep the shock and agitation out of his voice.
—to be honest, the tribal background of this child hasn’t been established. The governor of course is well known for his bigoted treatment of Indians—an image he is trying in his own way to mitigate. You know he does these public relations stunts like sponsoring Indian schoolchildren, or giving out positions in the Capitol, aides, to promising Indian high-school students. But his adoption scheme blew up in his face. He had his lawyer present his case to a state judge, who is attempting to pass the matter into tribal hands, as is proper. All present agree that the child looks Indian and the governor says that she—
She?
She is Lakota or Dakota or Nakota or anyway Sioux, as the governor says. But she could be any tribe. Also that her mother—
Where’s her mother?
She has disappeared.
My mother raised herself in bed. Clutching the sheet around her, groping forward in her flowered cotton gown, she gave a weird howl that clapped down my spine. The she actually got out of bed. She swayed and gripped my arm when I stood to help her. She began to retch. Her puke was startling, bright green. She cried out again and then crept back into the bed and lay motionless.
My father didn’t move except to lay a towel on the floor, and so I sat there in stillness too. All of a sudden my mother raised her hands and waved and pushed this way and that as if she was struggling with the air. Her arms moved with disconcerting violence, punching, blocking, pushing. She kicked and twisted.
It’s over, Geraldine, my father said, terrified, trying to hush her. It’s all right now. You’re safe.
She slowed and then stopped. She turned to my father, staring out of the covers as out of a cave. Her eyes were black, black in her gray face. She spoke in a low, harsh voice that grew large between my ears.
I was raped, Bazil.
My father did not move, did not take her hand or comfort her now in any way. He seemed frozen.
There is no evidence of what he did. None. My mother’s voice was a croak.
My father bent near. There is, though. We went straight to the hospital. And there is your own memory. And there are other things. We have—
I remember everything.
Tell me.
My father did not look at me because his gaze was locked with my mother’s gaze. I think if he’d let go she would have collapsed forever into silence. I shrank back and tried to be invisible. I didn’t want to be there, but I knew if I moved I’d snap the pull between them.
There was a call. It was Mayla. I only knew her by her family. She’s hardly ever been here. Just a girl, so young! She’d begun the enrollment process for her child. The father.
The father.
She’d listed him, my mother whispered.
Do you remember his name?
My mother’s mouth dropped open, her eyes unfocused.
Keep going, dear. Keep going. What happened next?
Mayla asked to meet me at the round house. She had no car. She said her life depended on it, so I went there.
My father drew a sharp breath.
I drove into that weedy lot, parked the car. I started out. He tackled me as I was walking up the hill. Took the keys. Then he pulled out a sack. He dragged it over my head so fast. It was a light rosy material, loose, maybe a pillowcase. But it went down so far, past my shoulders, I couldn’t see. He tied my hands behind me. Tried to get me to tell him where the file was and I said there’s no file. I don’t know what file he’s talking about. He turned me around and marched me . . . held my shoulder. Step over this, go that way, he said. He took me somewhere.
Where? said my father.
Somewhere.
Can you say anything about where?
Somewhere. That’s where it happened. He kept the sack on me.