Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

AT TWO IN THE MORNING on that last day, John Smith was softly singing a Catholic hymn that Father Duncan must have sung before he went to the desert. A song about water and forgiveness. John sat in his customary chair at the long counter, which carried three chairs, or four, sometimes even five. But John recognized his chair because strange chairs were dangerous for John. They shifted shape, became unrecognizable. Once he learned to trust a chair, it stayed a chair. People worked that way, too. If John learned to trust somebody, like Paul and Paul Too in the donut shop, then those people became chairs. Comfortable, predictable. A safe chair and safe people were the most valuable things in the world. Rain fell outside, on the pavement brightly lit by neon and streetlights, where there were no chairs. John knew that Father Duncan would welcome this rain as he walked through the desert, as he tripped, fell to his knees, and began an accidental prayer. John could see Duncan with his delicate hands clasped tightly together, fingernails grotesquely long and dirty. Those nails would cut into Duncan’s palms if he made a fist. Duncan made a fist with his right hand. A few drops of blood fell to the sand.

Paul was flipping through the latest issue of Artforum . Paul Too sat in his favorite chair, reading the newspaper. Both men understood John’s need for repetition, the ceremony of a donut and coffee at two in the morning. Paul Too had already sipped at John’s coffee and nibbled on his donut to prove they were not poisoned. Both noticed that John was in an especially bad state. His face was bruised and dirty. He smelled like a week of bad weather. He was talking to himself.

“How are you, John?” Paul asked.

“I met a woman.”

Paul and Paul Too exchanged a quick glance.

“Really?” asked Paul casually. “And what’s her name?”

“Marie. She’s the Sandwich Lady.”

Paul and Paul Too were relieved this woman existed only in John’s head. They were frightened at the thought of a woman who might be interested in John.

“So,” Paul humored John. “What does the Sandwich Lady do?”

“She gives out sandwiches.” John was irritated at Paul’s ignorance. “What else would the Sandwich Lady do?”

“Oh, of course. What kind of sandwiches?”

“All kinds. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Paul raised his hands in surrender. John was definitely in a bad mood. Olivia and Daniel had visited the shop a few times lately looking for John. They had been frightened, although Daniel tried to hide it. Paul wanted to call John’s parents; their number was written beside the telephone, but he knew that John would panic if he did. Paul looked to Paul Too for help.

“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “When was the last time you were home?”

John ignored him.

“Your mom and dad been looking for you,” said Paul Too. “Have you talked to them?”

John shook his head.

“They must be worried about you,” said Paul Too. “With all this Indian Killer stuff floating around, you know?”

“I didn’t do anything,” said John.

“That ain’t what I’m saying,” said Paul Too. “You looked at the news lately? Indians in the hospital, Indians in jail. It’s ugly out there. Makes me happy I’m black.”

John looked at Paul Too, then down at his hands. They were dark, smudged with sugar, flour, and maple. John figured he was as black as Paul, if not as dark as Paul Too. John understood slavery, how the masters whipped the darker ones more than they whipped the lighter ones. A dark Indian was better than a light Indian, John knew. For black men, it was best to be lighter, more like whites, to look like a cup of coffee with cream. A dark black man was the most dangerous kind. Indians wanted to be darker; black men wanted to be lighter. Was that how it worked?

John was five years old when he first realized his parents were white and he was brown, and understood that the difference in skin color was important. He had walked into his parents’ bedroom without knocking. He was supposed to knock. His father, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, was standing at the foot of the bed. His mother sat on the edge of the bed. She wore just a pair of black panties and a bra. His father was thinner then, with a hairless chest and flat stomach. His skin was so pale that John imagined he could see through it. Olivia was beautiful as milk. Large breasts, long legs, wide hips all creamy. Only the small mole, a few inches above her belly button, was dark. She was drying her hair with a blue towel.

“John,” said Olivia, surprised and embarrassed. John was supposed to be napping. She and Daniel had just made love, then showered together. John had no way of knowing this, but Olivia somehow assumed he did.

“Hey, buddy,” said Daniel. “You’re supposed to knock, remember?”

John slowly nodded his head and turned to leave the room.

“Wait,” said Olivia. She rose from the bed and walked across the room toward John. Her bare feet on the hardwood floor. John remembered that. She kneeled in front of John. Her skin still pink from the hot water, the soft towel. John expected punishment.

“It’s okay,” she said and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You go and play now.”

John ran from the room. His body rebelled. He felt heat and cold, excitement and embarrassment. All that pale skin. Outside, he sat in his favorite tree and studied his own skin. The pale brown of his palms, the dark brown of his arms, his legs. He did not look like his parents, especially when they were naked. They were even more pale in their nudity. A pink shirt, tan pants, navy blue shoes could make his mother look like a rainbow, but underneath, she was a snowbank, a bolt of lightning, a blank piece of paper. John understood he was not only darker without clothes, but he was different shades of darkness. His penis was very dark, the darkest part about him. John felt disturbed by all this knowledge. He wanted to look like his parents. He rubbed at his face, wanting to wipe the brown away.

Inside the donut shop, John rubbed his face against the counter. Paul and Paul Too watched with curiosity and concern. They had learned to let these episodes run their course. Sometimes, John would come back. Sometimes, he would fall further into his own little world. There was nothing to do but watch. John rubbed his face against the counter for ten minutes. His face had changed when he looked up at Paul and Paul Too.

“I could be famous if I wanted to be,” said John.

“Sure you could,” said Paul.

“You don’t believe me?” asked John, sensing Paul’s condescension.

“We believe you,” said Paul. “Don’t we believe him?”

“Damn straight we believe you,” said Paul Too.

John stood. He raised his right fist above his head. This gesture, he had learned, forced people to react. It frightened Paul and Paul Too.

“I could kill somebody,” said John. “Then I’d be famous. They’d put me in the newspapers, wouldn’t they?”

John stepped up onto his chair, then up onto the counter, his fist still raised above his head. Paul Too carefully moved the coffee and donuts away from John’s feet, then he stepped back.

“What would you do if I killed a white man?” John asked Paul Too.

“No,” said Paul Too. “I don’t want anybody to die.”

“You liar,” said John. “You’d kill white people if you could.”

John looked out the window and saw the rain. It was a light, constant rain, like many Seattle rains, which mistook persistency for power. If Father Duncan were here, he would be dancing in the rain. The priest was crazy. If God decided to send a lightning bolt, Duncan would be a perfect target. Bare feet in rain puddles. A priest who wanted to be closer to God. A priest who walked into the desert without telling a soul. A priest who never came back. Or John could be wrong. Maybe Duncan was the lightning.