Neither Wolf nor Dog (42 page)

Almost in a swoon, somewhere between trance and unconsciousness, I heard the echo of Dan's words from years before come floating back to me: “You're here for a reason. The Creator has given you a task. It is not for you to decide. If you are afraid or if you are too small, it is too late.”

It was as if I was being reminded that my involvement with Dan's story was not a choice; it was a gift and an obligation. Dan's words — “I am reaching out for the grandchildren. You must help the grandchildren, too” — echoed deep in my conscience.

I thought of the young people at Red Lake, sitting rapt at the tables of the elders, trying to take in the truth of what they were hearing. I thought of the elders themselves, so hungry to help shape the lives of the young people with their stories. I thought of the quiet words of the man in that dusty café: “I am no longer myself. I am somebody else.” And I thought of Sitting Bull's earnest entreaty, “Come, let us put our minds together to see what kind of lives we can create for our children.”

I emerged from that sweat knowing what I had to do.

I had to tell more of Dan's story.

I had to tell it so that Native children do not lose who they are, so they do not become somebody else. I had to tell it so that an America that has closed its ears and hearts to the presence of its first inhabitants would be reminded that there is more to the Native experience than hatchets and tomahawks and casinos and powwows. I had to tell it so that the dry bones of historical fact could be animated with the heartbeat of a human story.

I had to tell it because it was the only honorable way to fulfill the
promise that I had made on the Red Lake Reservation almost twenty years earlier.

This, then —
The Wolf at Twilight
— is the fruit of that promise. It is the part of Dan's life I had left untold. It takes us to places that for too long have been hidden in shadow and reveals truths about what has been taken from Native people and what the rest of us have lost in that taking. But it also reveals what we may all yet become if we heed Sitting Bull's poignant entreaty and put our minds together to see what kind of lives we can create for the children.

I hope you find it worthy of your time. If it opens your eyes to another way of understanding, I am grateful. If it simply entertains you, I am pleased. But what matters most is that it touches you.

For it is, above all, a story of Native America, and its goal is to lodge deep in your heart.

CHAPTER ONE

“FATBACK'S DEAD”

T
he words on the slip of paper struck me like a blow.

“Fatback's dead.”

It was not just the news itself, though the words cut deep. It was the very fact of the note, stuck on my windshield on the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota, hundreds of miles from where Fatback had lived and, apparently, died. That, and the small deerskin pouch of tobacco that was tied to it.

Fatback was a black Lab — a good dog — who had belonged to Dan, an elderly Lakota man who lived far out on the Dakota plains. Years before, as a result of a book of elders' memories I had done with students at Red Lake, Dan had contacted me to come out to his home to speak with him. His request was vague, and I had been both skeptical and apprehensive. But, reluctantly, I had gone, and it had changed my life. We had worked together, traveled together, and created a book together in which the old man told his stories and memories and thoughts about Indian people and our American land.

However, for reasons that I cannot easily explain, after the book
was published he and I had not stayed in touch. Perhaps it was because we were from such different worlds. Perhaps it was because the intimacy we had achieved was uncomfortable to both of us — he was, in some measure, allowing me to make up for my guilt about what I had left unsaid and undone with my father at the time of his passing, and I, in some measure, had served as a surrogate for Dan's son who had died an untimely death in a car accident and to whom he had initially entrusted the task of writing his story and collecting his thoughts.

But whatever it was, when we had stood together on the dusty Dakota roadside fifteen years ago, hands clasped in a bond of promise and friendship, we had both known, in some deep part of ourselves, that our time together was finished. We had shared a moment in time; we had done something worthy; and that, for each of us, was enough.

But now it was all coming back to me. He had reached out to me again — if, indeed, it was him — and had reopened a door that I thought had been closed forever.

“
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK IT
'
S REAL
?” Louise asked. “You
were
on the rez, and there are lots of practical jokers up there.”

“Tobacco's no joke,” I said, pulling out the small deerskin pouch.

To the Indian people, tobacco is the Creator's gift. It comes from the earth and rises up to heaven. When the Creator sees it, he pays attention. So when tobacco is presented to someone, it's a sacred statement. It means that the Creator is being called upon to witness the interaction. I knew of no Indian people who would use it as part of a hoax or a trick.

“I can't just let it rest,” I continued. “I've got to find out.”

“You could go back up to Red Lake and ask around.”

“Where? It was a powwow. There were hundreds of cars parked in that field — folks from North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, Canada.”

“Maybe you should try to contact Dan or his family.”

I looked down. I knew she was right. But, in truth, I was scared. I had never really talked to any of the participants since
Neither Wolf nor Dog
— the book Dan and I had created together — had been published. I had heard that it had been well received. But there were depictions within it that might have given offense, and I was afraid of the disapproval and recriminations that might surface if I allowed myself to get involved again.

And then there was the deeper, more tawdry issue: Dan had received nothing for the book. Though this is the way he had wanted it, I had always harbored the gnawing guilt that I should have done more for him and his family.

I looked down at the small pouch in my hand. It was not just a gift, it was a command. If it really was from Dan or someone close to him, it was a reaching out I could not ignore.

I placed it carefully back in my shirt pocket and turned toward the phone. Perhaps this was just a necessary contact too long deferred. Perhaps this was a chance to return the gift that his friendship had given to me.

When I had last been in contact with Dan, he had been unwilling to speak on the telephone — an elder's quirk. I assumed nothing had changed — if, indeed, he was even still alive. But in the intervening years phone service had increased, cell phones had come into existence, and I was certain that some of the other people I had known would now be able to be contacted without difficulty.

However, it did not prove to be so simple. As I scoured the Internet and dialed up directory assistance, I realized, much to my chagrin, that I hadn't learned anyone's last name. The only person who had ever been called by a last name was me — I was always just
“Nerburn.” They had all been simply Dan, Grover, Wenonah, or whatever strange nickname they were known by on the rez. When you were introduced at all, it was without any air of formality. Just, “This is Nerburn. This is Wenonah.” So I had no reasonable way to proceed.

Finally, it came to me that the only chance I had was to look for the number of a business establishment. There was only one business establishment on the rez whose name I could recall.

“
YEAH
?”
CAME THE VOICE
. It was as I remembered — deep, dark, and slow, as if coming from the bottom of a well.

“Jumbo?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I could almost see him standing there in his huge sagging jeans and filthy laceless tennis shoes, with a dirty white T-shirt hanging like a tent over his astonishing belly, his massive ham of a hand wrapped around the grease-covered phone receiver.

“This is Nerburn. The guy...”

“The Nissan,” he interrupted. “We got a lot of 'em out here now.”

The comment made me smile. Who but Jumbo would answer a business phone with “Yeah?” But, then again, his had not been an ordinary business. His primary occupation had been car repair, but he worked on toasters, pumps, and anything else that had springs or levers or any moving parts. His sign had been a dripping, hand-painted affair that said something about “broke stuff fixed” with a variety of quotation marks and underlinings that corresponded to no grammatical rules that I or anyone else had ever learned. His tool collection had run toward pipe wrenches and hammers, all covered with layers of grease and scattered randomly on a filthy black workbench. Close tolerances and delicate repairs were not his forte.

“Truck got troubles?” he asked.

“No, no. I sold it years ago,” I said.

“I'd have took it,” he answered. “Good truck.”

“Good as a Chevy?” It was an inside joke.

“What you got now?” he asked.

“A Toyota wagon.”

He emitted a low grunt. The meaning was indecipherable.

It was good to hear Jumbo's voice, but I knew I was pressing my luck by engaging him in too much conversation. The last time I had been with him he had seldom said more than two words at a time, and those had usually concerned meals or machines. So I cut to the chase. “Jumbo, I got a note on my car in Red Lake. It said Fatback was dead.”

“Yeah, just keeled over last winter. Really old.”

“But Dan's still alive?”

“Was yesterday.”

I could hear the rustling of a wrapper being opened, followed by a chewing sound.

“So, when you coming out?” he said.

The question caught me by surprise.

“Coming out? I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Probably should. The old man's counting on you.”

“Counting on me? For what?”

“Don't know. Just counting on you.”

“How do you know this?”

“Just do.”

I probed for more information, but he had nothing more to say.

I hung up the phone completely mystified. None of it made any sense. Fatback had been dead for months, so why the note now? And how did Jumbo know that Dan had contacted me? And what was he counting on me to do?

Again, reservation protocol had put me in a box. Jumbo was not
about to speak for Dan or attempt to assay his motives. He simply passed on information.

For Jumbo, it was enough that Dan wanted me out there. “Why” was none of his business, and how he had known was none of mine.