I am going back down to Bismarck tomorrow, my father said. I want to meet with Gabir. He will not decline this. But I have to keep him connected. And it's good to see my old friend. We're going to get our ducks lined up even though there isn't anyone to prosecute yet. But there will be, I am sure of that. We are finding things out little by little and when you are ready to tell us about the file and the telephone call we will certainly know more, I feel certain of it, Geraldine, and there will be justice. And that will help, I think. That will help you even though you seem to believe now that it won't help you, that nothing will help you, even the tremendous love in this room. So yes, tomorrow, we won't have dinner in your room and you can rest. I can't ask Joe to wait you out like this, to make conversation with the walls and furniture, although it is surprising where a person's thoughts go. While I'm in Bismarck, I'll see the governor, too; we'll have lunch and a conversation. Last time he told me that he'd attended the governors' conference. While there, he spoke with Yeltow, you know, he's still the governor of South Dakota. He found out that he is trying to adopt a child.
What?
My mother spoke
What?
My father leaned forward pointing like that gundog, motionless.
What? she spoke again. What child?
An 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 relation 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.
