Dakota Dream (5 page)

Delbert Bear began chanting again and burning sage to the four corners. Donny took me up above where there was a small clearing among the group of pine trees, a nice cushion of pine needles on the ground. We were on a high spot, so the view was sensational in all directions. The clearing seemed like such a mellow place, I asked Donny if I had to spend the whole
hanblecheya
in the cave, or was it okay to come up here?

“You can be where you want to be,” he said. “According to Delbert and the other old-timers, when Black Elk went vision seeking he came here. He spent most of his time pacing and smoking his pipe.”

It was truly awesome to think that the Dakota were putting me on the very spot used by Black Elk himself. “Is it really true?” I asked him.

He smiled. “I don't know for sure, but I like to think it's true.”

We climbed back down to the cave opening; some of the prairie grass was so tall, you had to push it out of your face. I guess Delbert Bear must have been getting weary, because he went ahead and burned up all the sage left in his bundle.

Then Donny said it was time for them to leave. He gave me the Dakota embrace, where you grip the back of each others' upper arms. So did Delbert.

“Good luck, good vision,” said Donny.

I told him thanks. I was scared again, and I guess afraid what words might come out.

“If you have to come back early, you'll be able to find the village, right?”

I licked my lips. “I could find it, no problem. But I don't intend for that to happen.”

“Good.” He smiled again.

Then Delbert said something long to me in Dakota, but the only words I could understand were
Wakan Tanka
and
Hanblecheya.
I could tell it was some kind of a blessing. I nodded my head and said, “Thank you.”

After that, when they started to leave, he said something else to me, but I couldn't understand any of his words. Donny said, “He's reminding you to get naked. Clothes are things of the world.”

“Do I have to do it right now?”

He laughed. “You can wait.”

Then the two of them were headed down the hillside. I just stood there for the longest time, watching them get smaller and smaller. I could see clear to the woods we had come through, and way beyond that. As a matter of fact, I could've seen all the way to Chief Bear-in-cave's trailer, except there was a mountain blocking it. But it was a radical thought to realize I could see six or seven miles in any direction. It was pretty obvious why this was considered an ideal spot for vision seeking.

I stood there watching until Delbert and Donny were just specks and I realized I wouldn't be able to make them out when they went into the woods.

Now that I was all alone, it felt like it was just me and the universe. I wasn't sure what to do, but then I remembered not to think too much. I went inside the cave to check it out better. Even though it was large, most of the ceiling was too low to stand up straight. The roomiest part was close to the entrance, which was also the part with the strongest light.

There were several sage branches scattered on the dirt floor, probably used in the past by Dakota vision seekers for sleeping on. It seemed like a comfortable idea, besides giving me the good feeling of a history link; I gathered the sage together to form a makeshift bed. Right next to it, I emptied my backpack and laid out my things side by side. My blue jeans and my two T-shirts. My ceremonial pipe. My journal and two Bic pens. Toothbrush, soap, and washcloth. The denim jacket. I decided the jacket would make a good pillow, so I rolled it up and laid it on the sage. The light from the opening was good once your eyes got adjusted, because the opening faced south. But I knew when the sun went down, the cave would be completely dark.

I remembered then about leaving all the things of the world behind, and I took off my moccasins and my blue jeans. I decided to go up and sit under the pine trees, so I picked up my pipe and my journal. At the entrance I hesitated because I was about to go out naked, but then I realized that was foolish because who would look at me? There wasn't a soul for miles.

After I got up there, it took me a few moments to find a comfortable seat. Pine needles make a nice cushion underfoot, but your bare ass isn't as tough as your feet. I either got myself comfortable or I got used to it; anyway, I packed my pipe with some of the willow bark and lit up.

It was almost completely silent, except for a few birds high up in the pines. As far as I could see in any direction, there was the rugged terrain of the Black Hills, mountains, valleys, and prairies. This could have been a hundred years ago or a thousand.

Somewhere out there was the Little Bighorn, and the Rosebud, and Wounded Knee. How many hundreds of years of Sioux history? I was sitting on the spot where Black Elk himself once came for vision seeking. Maybe more than once. When I got into the
hanblecheya
head, the right zone for visions, maybe the spirit of Black Elk would visit me. Maybe I would make contact with my former self, the warrior from the dream who was riding from Willow Creek.
Maybe a lot of things, when it comes to your destiny
, I told myself.

The whole experience was giving me a big-time head rush. The best thing of all, probably the most important thing, was that I
belonged
here. I wasn't sneaking or pretending, I was only twenty-four hours on the reservation, but it didn't get any more authentic than this. This was my
hanblecheya
, on ancient, holy ground, directed by Chief Bear-in-cave himself.

As soon as the pipe was smoked out, I opened up my journal. Anything as major as my own vision quest should be written down, and here I was looking at four days' free time with no distractions. There ought to be enough time to receive my vision and also write out all the notes I wanted.

I thumbed past my story contest entry, the one called “Mask,” which had freaked Mrs. Bluefish out, and then I flipped by some of my notes on the Stone Boy legend. When I got to a fresh page, I wrote
hanblecheya
across the top.

I sat there thinking for a while, and then decided to go right on back in time to that day in April when I moved into Gates House.

CHAPTER THREE

Since I'd never been to Joliet before, I didn't recognize any of the city landmarks, but Gates House looked familiar, anyway. It looked just like most of the dipshit places that are run by social services anywhere you go. It was a dull brick rectangle, with no porch and a few small windows. Not old, but real tacky. It looked like it didn't belong in the neighborhood. There was a parking lot in front, but no trees.

Leonard, my social worker from Peoria, was driving me. He helped me get my stuff inside and then he introduced me to Mrs. Grice, who was the supervisor of the house. She was short and dumpy and old, with no upper teeth.

She started showing me and Leonard around, beginning with the dining room and lounge, which were close to the front door. I really didn't need this guided tour because I knew exactly where everything would be; besides which, Mrs. Grice had this annoying habit of popping her loose lip back and forth.

When she showed us my room I was glad to find it was at the end of the hall, next to the fire escape. That always feels like a good location, but I don't know why. The room was empty and smelled like paint. There was one small window, fairly high up.

“This room's been empty for a couple of weeks,” Mrs. Grice said, “so we've had it cleaned and painted. Both beds are empty, so you can choose either one. We expect a roommate soon, but some of his material is being processed, so we don't know exactly how soon.”

I didn't say anything.

She said, “You may decorate your half of the room if you like with pictures or posters, but I don't allow any vulgar material. And you're not to make marks on the walls or deface them in any way.” She was looking at me and popping her lip again. I didn't say anything.

She showed me some more stuff around the house, I can't remember what all, and then Leonard said it was time for him to hit the road. We said good-bye, and he wished me good luck. It wasn't exactly an emotional farewell, since I'd only known him a couple of months. That's the way it is in social services, they come and they go. High turnover is how it's usually put. It's probably good that that's the way it is, because the worst mistake you could make in the system would be to get attached to someone.

After Leonard was gone, Mrs. Grice put on these Scrooge glasses and started reading all the rules you had to go by when you live in Gates House. Since it was just me now, the polite tone was gone out of her voice, but I didn't care. I knew all about group home rules and which ones you had to watch out for.

She showed me the bulletin board between the dining room and the lounge. “You need to check it every day,” she said, “for announcements, work schedules, and so on. If a resident is put on probation for any reason, it's posted here.”

I spoke for the first time: “I've never been on probation in my life.”

She looked at me over the top of her glasses before she answered. “Good. Let's keep it that way, shall we?”

When she was done with the rules and procedures, I told her I'd like to take a walk.

“You may, if you use the sign-up sheet. You need to write your name, the time, your destination, and the time you're going to return.”

“How can I write a destination if I don't have one?”

Again, she looked at me over the top of her glasses. “Are you using a tone with me?”

“No tone at all,” I said.

“Because one thing I've noticed with youngsters over the years, where you find a tone of voice you usually find an attitude problem.”

“I'm not using a tone,” I said again. “But I've never been to Joliet before, so I wouldn't know what to put for a destination.”

She pushed her glasses back up. “Just for this time, you may write that you're taking a walk.” She looked at her watch and added, “Make sure you're back no later than two. Your social worker called and said she might come by later this afternoon.”

That was about all the time I wanted to spend one on one with Mrs. Grice, so the walk was a relief. The neighborhood was a little uneven, with some of the houses kept up nice but others run down. After three blocks I came to a big park called Vale Park, which had a few hills and a stream and lots of old shade trees. I sat under one of the trees for a while, just glad to be off by myself. I thought about Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs; I probably wouldn't be seeing them again.

As soon as I got back to Gates House, I went straight to my room to unpack my stuff. There was a guy there, sitting on the other bed, the one I didn't plan to use. He said his name was Greg Kinderhook. I asked him if he was going to be my roommate. “No,” he said. “They're holding this open for Nicky. He's been in Gates House before, but not lately.”

I took a good look at Kinderhook, who was wearing a pair of khaki walking shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He reminded me of the Pillsbury dough boy. His skin was white as chalk, and he was pudgy, but all his fat was slack. It was loose fat, like all he had was bones with fat attached.

I opened up one of my suitcases and started putting some clothes away in one of the dresser drawers. I asked Kinderhook why he wasn't in school.

“I had a doctor's appointment, so I got out early. I have gastrointestinal problems.”

I took another look at him. Even his knees and elbows were loose fat; I'd never seen a body quite like it. I felt like telling him some exercise and a little muscle tone would be good for him, but what would be the point?

He asked if he could sit there and talk to me while I unpacked my stuff. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “If you want to.”

I started unpacking more stuff, and Kinderhook started in with the questions. “Where are you from?”

“I've been living in a foster home downstate,” I said.

“How come they took you out?”

“The lady got sick. They couldn't be foster parents anymore.”

“What was she sick with?”

“Diabetes,” I said. Then I stood up straight. “Kinderhook, I said you could sit here, but you can kiss off the twenty questions.”

“Sorry,” he said.

The thing is, I knew exactly what he was up to. In group homes there are alliances. These sort of pecking orders are established, just like you find in any institutional residence. Since I was new, and since he was out of school early, he was taking the opportunity to get a jump on finding out how I might fit in, and whether I was somebody whose good side he should be on.

He changed the subject back to the guy named Nicky, my future roommate. “He's been living with his mother, but it looks like they're going to pull him out.”

I didn't say anything.

“He's hung out while they have staffings on him.”

“I figured.” I said. I've been hung out enough times myself, so I knew this guy Nicky might show up in one day or one month.

After I had all my clothes and bathroom stuff unpacked, I started to get out a few personal items. A few paperback books, mostly about Indians, such as
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
and
Black Elk Speaks.
I got out these half a dozen posters I have, which are prints I ordered from an art museum. They are photographs of Indian art from caves and tipis.

The posters, which have a beige-colored background, are depictions of important tribal symbols and activities, such as the bear, the eagle, the raven, the elk, the buffalo hunt, and the capture of horses. The art is stick-figure art, because that is the Dakota tradition, especially when the pictures are used to tell a story.

I started putting the posters up with masking tape, being careful to get them mounted in a straight row.

“You must really like Indians,” said Kinderhook.

“I don't just
like
Indians,” I told him, “I have a connection with Indians.”