A chill wind whipped thru Pine Ridge, slowing to caress the abandoned automobiles and boarded up shacks that litter the reservation before regaining its strength to scatter the abandoned hopes and dreams of the people who live there, scatter them like so many tumbleweeds. Tendrils of that wind seep into one of many disintegrating housing units, and we follow that wind inside.
Millie Poor Bear stands on a chair, tattooed hands making an adjustment to her final ensemble. It was a snug fit, but that was for the best. She gazed across the room into a cracked mirror that reflected back several Millie Poor Bears, ranging from a smiling round-faced toddler to the ravaged features of a once beautiful young woman. All had their stories to tell.
The tall man strides past the small child, whose upraised arms and pleading eyes signal her desperate need for affection. The child trails behind her father as he opens drawers and cupboards in an increasing frenzy, his anxiety curtailed by the discovery of a bottle of 30% alcohol mouthwash under the bathroom sink.
Dropping the now empty bottle into a bathtub, Lester Poor Bear notices his daughter gazing at him wide eyed. Bending down to scoop the child into his arms, he teeters bowlegged into the kitchen and returns to the cupboards, finding a can of government peanut butter with a little remaining at the bottom. Spreading it on a cracker and filling a bottle with water, he sets Millie onto his knee and gives her breakfast. The memory of these few moments will be treasured by the girl.
Alone again in the house, the youngster sits and looks out the window, awaiting her father’s return. Much time will be spent in this manner in the coming years, a child’s lonely vigil.
The tall girl strides past her shorter half siblings, the more favored offspring of Grace Broken Wing, who has bequeathed raising Millie and the rest of her children to their diabetic grandmother. Grace has departed for parts unknown. Some say she met an American serviceman, others say she dances for money and favors in Grand Island. Truth be known Grace’s ancestors have sung her death songs, for she sleeps in the Badlands, nestled in a bedspread at the foot of an embankment, victim of an unfortunate accident in a Cottonwood motel room.
There are no pizza parlors or malls or video arcades for young people to go for entertainment; there is little money for those things in any case. Children combat boredom and hopelessness by drinking alcohol and sniffing paint thinner or gasoline; casual sex and random violence follow. Soon enough the tall girl will join these children in their pastimes. Soon enough she will bring her own child into the desolate remains of Turtle Island.
If anyone cared to ask the tall young woman’s occupation, they might have been told she was a dancer. Sometimes she danced in the clubs, lost in a haze of music and drugs and alcohol. Other times she worked the fields, occasionally she got factory work. But dancer sounded better.
Once at closing time a man who’d tipped heavily all evening offered the tall young woman a ride home. She accepted, not understanding the man expected a return on his investment. A knife held to her throat convinced her to oblige his needs. While the rapist swore and grunted, her mind sought solace in the only happy time she could remember, memories of her father scooping her into his arms and carrying her.
After satisfying himself, the man withdrew his knife and shoved her out of the car. She would not be joining her mother tonight. No death songs would be sung, only the chirping of crickets and the hum of power lines above would serenade the tall young woman as she slowly and painfully made her way home. Only the field mice and owls shared in her shame.
Later she dreamed of being home, a houseful of relatives sitting in folding chairs eating from bowls filled with corn stew. Lester Poor Bear proudly carried a baby, Grace fussed over it and smiled back at her daughter. Millie chattered with relatives, many of them long dead. Later there was cake, and strong black coffee for the adults. When she missed her period the following week, the tall young woman knew what she had to do.
At first glance little appears to have changed. The same signs informing those arriving they are now entering the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the same dilapidated shacks, the same abandoned vehicles dotting the properties. Her home is quiet, asking around she determines complications from diabetes have cost grandmother her legs, the old woman is seldom home. Her sisters and brothers have scattered, going to live with various family members. Indian Health Services is far away and their hours have been cut back. She gives birth alone to a baby boy.
The tall young woman does her best to raise the infant son she has christened Lester Junior. She no longer drinks, doing her best to meet his needs with tribal and government assistance. She tickles him to make him laugh, sings songs to him. His smiles are immediately returned by smiles of her own. When he begins to bleed profusely from his nose she hitchhikes to Indian Health Services. She is sent home with aspirin and instructions to return in a few days if the condition persists. During the night the infant begins to bleed from the mouth. The frantic mother and hemorrhaging child are taken by tribal police to Indian Health Services, where a duty nurse pronounces the baby dead.
Family members pool their sparse resources for a coffin and a church burial, then they do their best to provide a wake following the services. A table is laden with a pot of corn stew, apples, soda and coffee. Most attending are well acquainted with loss and pain, they share with Millie what they themselves have heard. The young woman spends the next few days gazing out the window, waiting for something that will never arrive. Then she makes her decision.
Millie Poor Bear stands on a chair, ensemble complete, eyes still riveted on faces reflected back from the cracked mirror. As she begins to gasp for breath, one face comes to the forefront. Her father smiles and reaches out to her. Seeing he has finally returned, she steps forward to greet him, the chair tipping over onto the floor.
In this world, a shoe drops onto the floor as a young woman’s body slowly twists, her ancestors singing her death songs.
In another world, Lester Poor Bear scoops up his daughter. Millie Poor Bear is going home.