Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Dr. Faulkner,” Mather said. “Please put an end to this ridiculous digression.”

But Faulkner, fascinated by Marie now, was silent.

“So maybe this Indian Killer is a product of the Ghost Dance. Maybe ten Indians are Ghost Dancing. Maybe a hundred. It’s just a theory. How many Indians would have to dance to create the Indian Killer? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe this is how the Ghost Dance works.”

“Ms. Polatkin, the Ghost Dance was not about violence or murder. It was about peace and beauty.”

“Peace and beauty? You think Indians are worried about peace and beauty? You really think that? You’re so full of shit. If Wovoka came back to life, he’d be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she’d be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they’d see what you white people have done to Indians, and they would start a war. They’d see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They’d see the fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They’d see the sorry-ass reservations. They’d learn about Indian suicide and infant-mortality rates. They’d listen to some dumb-shit Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They’d read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians, too.

“Dr. Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life, they wouldn’t crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn’t smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn’t go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They’d kill you. They’d gut you and eat your heart.”

OLIVIA WATCHED HER SILENT husband eat his food so quickly he could not have said what he had eaten. Then, without a word, he left the table and continued his isolation in his study. He pulled an atlas from a shelf. A map of Korea, of Vietnam. Wars, wars, wars. One inch equals one hundred miles. One inch equals ten miles. The scales were always different. Nothing was ever the same as it was before. He fixed himself a vodka Collins, sat down at the desk with his atlas, and switched on the radio. For reasons he could never explain to himself or anyone else, Daniel had been a fan of Truck Schultz’s since the early days. Daniel listened.

In the study, a leather couch, an oak desk and chair, maple bookcases filled with unread books and dog-eared atlases. Daniel loved maps. He would study them for hours, dreaming of places he had never been. Daniel replaced the Southeast Asia atlas on the shelf and pulled down a Montana state map. He studied Montana as he listened to Truck talk about the Indian Killer. For a brief moment, Daniel wondered if John could be capable of such violence. Then he dismissed the thought and worried about John’s safety. If people thought some crazy Indian was committing the crimes, then John would be a likely target for revenge. Daniel, unaware that Olivia was eavesdropping outside the study, sipped at his vodka.

Olivia Smith hated Truck. Right now, she hated her husband for listening to Truck. And her hatred for Truck was growing rapidly. He was talking about Indians as if they were animals. It had been weeks since John had quit his job and disappeared.

“Daniel!” said Olivia and walked into his study. “Did you hear that? Nobody knows if an Indian is doing this killing. This is just evil.”

“Calm down,” said Daniel. “I’m just listening. Besides, he isn’t serious.”

“I’m tired of you apologizing for that man. He’s going to get somebody hurt. Maybe John.”

“Look, it’s just Truck.”

“But what about John?”

“He’ll be all right,” Daniel said and turned off the radio.

He leaned over his map of Montana. Billings, Bozeman, Butte. Poplar, Wolf Point, Glendive. There were so many places to go. Olivia watched her husband ignore her and immerse himself in the Montana map. He silently read his way across the whole state. Missoula, Harlem, Crow Agency. Little Bighorn, Yellowstone, Glacier Park. He tried not to think of his son, who could be dead, or lost, without a map, a legend.

“Daniel,” Olivia said softly, knowing he would pretend not to hear. If she said his name louder, he would look up with feigned surprise. If she touched his shoulder, he would jump in his seat, turn on her with anger. He hated to be scared. She thought of her options and left the room.

Olivia walked into John’s old bedroom. It was decorated with photographs of brightly lit fancydancers. R. C. Gorman’s and T. C. Cannon’s prints. A Laguna pot, a miniature totem pole, a Navajo rug stapled to the wall. A gigantic dreamcatcher, which was supposed to entrap nightmares, was suspended over the bed.

Olivia thought back to John’s nightmares. How the child often screamed himself awake. Night terrors, the doctor said, he’ll grow out of them. Olivia became an insomniac, unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because she constantly waited for those screams. When she rushed to John’s bedside, he would be sitting upright, eyes and mouth open wide. John, she would say, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s Mom. But he could not be comforted. Some nights he did not even recognize Olivia. His eyes would be locked on some distant, invisible object: a monster, a raging river, flames. He would punch and kick Olivia when she tried to hug him. This happened a few times a week from the time John was a toddler until he was twelve years old.

Still, during waking hours, John was a bright and happy boy, if somewhat quiet. He was affectionate, laughed easily, smiled more often than not. The doctor who measured the spaces between his bones said that John had so much room to grow. He was going to be tall and handsome.

The change in John happened quickly. Or perhaps the change was happening all along and Olivia had simply failed to notice. Perhaps it was so subtle as to create an illusion of speed. However it happened, John had changed.

Olivia stood in John’s old bedroom and prayed. She had watched her son, a stranger when he was first put into her arms, become a stranger again. Now, she listened for the sounds of her husband in his study. It was quiet. She could hear cars passing by their house. One, then two close together, then a long pause before another, and a fourth not long after. She could hear the dull hum of the refrigerator and the slow ticking of the grandfather clock. Neither worked well. She left the bedroom and quietly walked into Daniel’s study. He was asleep at the desk, his face pressed against a map of Alaska, the last frontier. She wondered how many vodkas he had finished. His face was damp. She touched his cheek, briefly wondered if he had been crying. Perhaps. Probably. Daniel Smith was a decent man. He worked hard for his family, brought home more than enough money, and loved his wife and son.

Olivia stared at her husband as he slept at his desk. She thought about waking him and taking him to their bed. But she did not want to talk to him. She thought about John, all alone in the world. Then she made a decision. Olivia slipped on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes, found her car keys, locked the front door behind her, and stepped away from the house.

REGGIE’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL but surprisingly clean, with a huge stereo and television, a small bookcase holding college textbooks and a few novels, including both of Jack Wilson’s. Reggie, Ty, and Harley were watching John Ford’s classic western, The Searchers , starring John Wayne and Natalie Wood. Both Reggie and Ty tried to translate for Harley, who couldn’t read John Wayne’s lips all that well. Still, with his friends’ help, Harley understood the plot of the movie. Natalie Wood had been kidnapped by Indians, and her uncle John Wayne had spent years searching for her. He planned on killing her if he ever found her, because she’d been soiled by the Indians.