The Blue Between the Clouds Read online

  The scare was goin’ away then, and I figured fishin’ was better than sittin’ in his parlor and talkin’ about the good ol’ time I never had. So we went fishin’.

  The old guy loaded some gear into a beat-up Plymouth. Two Moons and me climbed in the backseat while Simmons fell into the front. When he turned the engine over, a scraggly hen flew through the window and landed right in the old man’s lap.

  “Uncle Sam here likes fishin’ almost as much as I do,” Simmons said.

  Two Moons and me tried to laugh, but I think we were too busy tryin’ to figure a way to get out of there. I mean, the old man had some feelin’s we ain’t never seen. You don’t just up and run off when a man thinks you’re his son. Be different if he whupped us. Then if we runned off he might figure out it was the beatin’ that caused it all. But the man was takin’ us fishin’. What could we do?

  “Let’s go at her from the north side today, boys,” he said, scratchin’ the chicken’s head. “Uncle Sam and me about fished out that south side.”

  We bumped along in that old car right up next to the reservoir. Then old Simmons climbed out and sat on the fender with his fishin’ pole. He put a few salmon eggs on the hook and cast the line out into the water.

  “Ain’t nothin’ but God take you away from this world and never bring you back,” the old man said, starin’ at me.

  “I wish I was your son,” I said. “You’re a good pa.”

  Old Simmons didn’t look up. His chin was kinda tremblin’. He raked his hand through his dirty hair and stared out at the water. Me and Two Moons baited our hooks and sat on the car. It was a beautiful day. The sun was gettin’ hot for the first time that spring. The water was smooth and clear, and the sky stretched out like a blue field. It was as if we were standin’ between two worlds. The fish in the lake dodged and swam like they were callin’ us, while the clouds were like one huge open door. I wished right then that the three of us could fly away, roll and loop, dive deep into the water, then turn around and burst into the sky and be lost in it forever.

  We caught seven small fish that day, just enough for lunch. Old Simmons fried ’em right there beside the car. We stayed there until the sun started to set. We skipped rocks and even went skinny-dippin’ with the old man. Funny, though, he never really swam. He just walked out until the water was up to his waist and splashed himself. He says he does it every Sunday except when the water is froze.

  “You know how to swim?” I shouted to him.

  “No,” he shouted back. “No, I never learned. I never learned Eldon either. I wish I had. I wish…”

  I couldn’t hear the rest of what he was sayin’, but by the look on his face I knew the story. The old man was there when his son drowned. Wasn’t nothin’ he could do about it. Maybe he blamed himself. Maybe he’d been waitin’ for his son to come back to forgive him.

  He didn’t say much the rest of the day. Just kinda looked at the sky a lot. By the time we got back to his place it was dark. He walked with us to the pond and we stood under the sycamore tree.

  “Wouldn’t be a bother if you stopped by again,” Old Simmons said.

  “I think I’d like to wander by sometime,” I said. “How ’bout you, Two Moons?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Kinda like it up here.”

  The old man smiled so big you could see his black teeth, what he had left of ’em. Then he turned and walked through the tunnel of trees toward his dark little house.

  7

  MAN WITH NO EYES

  All the way home I thought about old Simmons. He was trapped, tethered to this town like an old dog. He spent every day layin’ in the sun, waitin’ for his boy to come back and lead him away. I just had to find a way to get into the air, fly away from this place.

  Anyway, it was awful dark when we got home. No moon that night, and some storm clouds rolled in so there weren’t any stars, either. You could hardly see your hand in front of your face. When we got back to the house, the bats were out. More than we had ever seen. They were flyin’ all around the barn and down by the holdin’ pond. Now, me and Two Moons love to play baseball. And with the weather turned the way it was we should’ve been playin’ every evenin’ after school. But we got to thinkin’ about flyin’, and we had us a plane, so we didn’t even consider some baseball. That is, until we saw the bats.

  “Two Moons,” I said. “Be a good night for some hittin’ practice, don’t you think?”

  Two Moons smiled. He knows a good idea when he hears one.

  “I’ll go fetch a lantern,” I said. “You go find a good board.”

  It wasn’t long before we were standin’ on the bank of the holdin’ pond. I stood ready with the board, like a batter waitin’ for a pitch. Two Moons was ready with a handful of pebbles.

  “Okay,” I said. “Give me the first pitch.”

  Two Moons lobbed a pebble toward me. A small bat swooped down and went after the pebble like it was a box elder bug. I swung madly, but the bat was too high.

  “Strike one,” Two Moons said.

  I tapped the side of my shoe with the board, waiting for the next pitch.

  Two Moons eyed me, then lobbed another pebble. A bat swooped down and I swung hard. Just before I was about to knock that bat deep into center field, he moved. I hit nothin’ but air.

  “Strike two!” Two Moons hollered.

  “I can count,” I said, straightenin’ my shoulders and tappin’ my shoe again. I stood with one foot out of the batter’s box, glarin’ at the pitcher.

  Two Moons lobbed another pebble. It was going to drop right next to me. Inside pitch, I thought. Out of nowhere a bat flew right into my chest and fluttered in my face. I swung madly and backed out of the batter’s box. I stumbled in the loose sod and fell down.

  “Brush-back pitch!” I yelled. I don’t think Two Moons heard me, though. He was laughin’ too hard. He kneeled down on one knee and tried to catch his breath.

  I got up and stood in the batter’s box again.

  “Get up,” I said.

  Two Moons brushed himself off and delivered another pitch. I waited, but no bat went after it.

  “Ball,” I said.

  Two Moons pitched again and I watched a big, gray bat swoop down out of the sky and go after the pebble. I stepped toward the bat and swung as hard as I could.

  “Strike three!” Two Moons hollered.

  I dropped the board and walked out to the pitcher’s mound.

  “Your battin’ average is goin’ down,” Two Moons said.

  “It’s early in the season,” I said.

  Two Moons spit on his hands and grabbed the board. I lobbed a pebble toward him, but it was too high. A bat swooped down and went after it before it was close enough to hit.

  “Ball,” Two Moons said.

  I pitched a slow, inside pitch. Two Moons stepped back, and quick as a light flash a black shadow darted after the pebble. Two Moons swung and clobbered that skinny little bat. The thing took off like a line drive halfway across the pond before it splashed down.

  “Home run!” Two Moons shouted.

  “Double at best,” I said.

  Two Moons laughed and laughed. I threw a handful of pebbles at him, but he didn’t care. He loped around the bases like Babe Ruth.

  That’s when Pa came out.

  “Boys,” he said. “I need to talk to the both of you.”

  There was somethin’ serious about the way he said it, not like we were in trouble or anything, but concerned like. We walked over to him and the three of us sat down on the back porch.

  “I just got word from your clan, Two Moons,” Pa started. “They need you to come back to the reservation tomorrow. Your grandpa died this morning. I’m sorry to be the one to tell ya, son.”

  Two Moons isn’t one to show much sorrow, but deep inside he started to sing a mournful song. Pa and I could barely hear it, but I’m sure it was as loud as the roar of spring runoff to Two Moons. You see, that’s how the Navajos show sadness. By song, not by tears.


  “I want you to take somethin’ with you, Two Moons,” Pa said. Then he led us around to the front of the house to where the truck was parked. Tethered in the bed of the truck was a good-sized sheep.

  “You’re like a son to us, Two Moons,” Pa said. “I want you to take this sheep to your clan.”

  Pa hugged us both and started to walk away, then he called me to his side.

  “You know, son,” he said. “With Two Moons’ grandpa dead, there’s a good chance he’ll have to go live with that sister of his in Bozeman.”

  “I know, Pa,” I said.

  I didn’t want to admit that Two Moons would have to leave, but I had feared it for some time. I knew he would have to move to Bozeman soon and there was nothin’ I could do about it. Maybe the clan will want Two Moons here, I thought; besides, we haven’t heard from Little Crow for some time now. Maybe she doesn’t want him anymore. It was hard to think about, so I put it aside for a time and thought about the funeral.

  Now, I didn’t know a whole lot about Indian ways then, only what Two Moons had told me. When someone dies, the whole family, or what they call the clan, comes together for four days of mournful singin’. They all bring some kind of gift, food or money. Somethin’ like that. They burn all the dead one’s personal belongings except for his medicine bag, then they dress him in new clothes and bury him in his house beside a horse they kill for his journey in the hereafter. No one is allowed to say the dead person’s name or his spirit will stay behind and haunt the village.

  Two Moons started up the stairs.

  “We have a long journey tomorrow,” he said.

  The next morning, Pa was up early. He would drop us off at the reservation on his way to the mine. We got dressed quickly, and Ma handed us some biscuits on the way out the door. She was cryin’ and hugged Two Moons.

  “Your grandpa is with the angels now, honey,” she said. “He’s sittin’ at the feet of the Lord.”

  “Come on, boys,” Pa said. “We’ll be late.”

  It took a good part of the morning to get to the reservation. I fell asleep part of the way. Two Moons just looked out the window and sang. The road was long and dusty. Finally we came to a hogan beside a sweat house. The fire in the sweat house was already burnin’. Pa unloaded the sheep while four women embraced Two Moons and cried. Then they turned and spoke to my father in Navajo. I couldn’t understand their clicking tongues, but Pa could. He motioned to me and handed me the sheep rope. Pa must’ve told them the sheep was from me ’cause they came right over and started into huggin’ me. Pa drove away before I could say good-bye.

  One of the women took the sheep from me and tied him to the hogan. The other three spread out a blanket in the dust for me to sit on. It got pretty quiet then, and all I could hear was the chantin’ inside the sweat house. Two Moons was standin’ at the small openin’ covered with skins. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into the sweat house.

  You see, the sweat house is like a temple to the Navajo. It’s where they go to cleanse themselves, sweat out all the evil in their bodies. They build a sort of teepee out of poles, then cover it with skins. Then they build a fire inside and pour water on the hot stones. It gets all steamy and hot in there. The men sit in a circle on the ground and chant for hours. I knew they wouldn’t come out until they felt clean, ready to wash the dead body and get it ready for burial. That could take hours, even most of the day. I laid down on the blanket and watched the last half of sunrise.

  Late that afternoon, the men came out of the sweat house. They were drippin’ wet and wore only small loincloths. The women handed them bits of fry bread and gourds filled with water before they all gathered in a circle around a fire pit. Logs were dumped into the pit and a small fire was lit. Everybody was singin’ mournful songs while a brave kept rhythm on a drum. One by one, members of the clan threw the old man’s stuff on the fire: his hat, a string of beads, his blanket. They’d sing louder as the fire grew. This was the second day. The singin’ would go on for two more days. I tried to keep up with the chantin’, but late that night I fell asleep. The singin’ went on without me until the next morning when I awoke. The fire was still smokin’. Two Moons was standin’ with Spotted Deer, a very old man. Spotted Deer was pullin’ a silver chain from his medicine bag. His hands trembled and the silver chain looked like it was on fire in the early morning light. Two Moons bent forward and Spotted Deer hung the chain on his neck, then he drew his knife and cut a lock of Two Moons’ hair and put it in his medicine bag. Two Moons walked over and sat on the ground beside me.

  “My grandfather,” he said, “believed that in every village lives a warrior who cannot sleep. He leaves in the night to see what is beyond the mountains. But he always returns. He brings back with him great stories of war, storms, evil spirits, and drought. The tribe then makes preparations, and many lives are spared because of this one brave warrior. Grandfather told Spotted Deer that he believed I was such a warrior, and he gave him this silver chain to give to me when he died.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “He says I will have to learn it on my own,” Two Moons said.

  The rest of it seemed like a blur to me. The singin’ and fires. On the final day, they dressed his grandfather in new clothes and buried him in his mud house. Then the feast began. They had slaughtered pigs and sheep, including the one we brought. Everybody was handin’ Two Moons money and gifts because he was one of the last members of his clan. We were free to talk about his grandfather then. They called him Man with No Eyes. I think it was because he was so old that he couldn’t see. Nobody could remember his name from before. They all laughed and told stories about how he used to lose at cards because he couldn’t tell what he had in his hands. The stories seemed to go on for an awful long time, and so did the food. Roast deer, duck, and fry bread. My stomach was tight as a stretched deer hide, but they kept handin’ me food, and I kept eatin’.

  About then, a rusty old Ford drove up. Out stumbled an Indian woman and a scraggly dog. It was Little Crow from Bozeman.

  Two Moons’ sister was meaner than a half-starved coyote. Seems she left the clan a long time ago and only came back when she needed somethin’. Now she needed someone around the house to do some chores. She stood there lookin’ like she was goin’ to slap the next person she saw. Her hair was dirty, and she looked like she’d been asleep for days in the same clothes. I moved closer to her. I wanted to try and talk to her, tell her that me and Two Moons were like brothers. I stood in front of her.

  “I’m Matt Canton,” I said. “Two Moons has been livin’ with me, and, well, we’d sort of like to keep it that way.”

  Now, I thought for sure she would talk about it, you know, ask me why I thought Two Moons would be better off in Thistle. But she didn’t. She stared at me with those dark eyes and I could tell there was somethin’ brewin’ in her head, like it was on fire or somethin’.

  “Don’t tell me my business,” she said as she walked past me.

  I knew then that Two Moons would be movin’ to Bozeman forever.

  8

  JUDGE TAGGART

  A few days later, Judge Taggart was at the house early in the morning. We had just sat down to breakfast after chores when he knocked on the door. Ma wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the front door. We all knew it must be someone formal or else they would’ve just hollered through the window.

  “Pa,” she said. “The judge is here and he wants to talk to you and Two Moons.”

  Nobody talks to just part of the family at our house. Well, they try, but pretty soon everybody is crowded around with bent ears. We all followed Pa into the sitting room.

  The judge was standin’ just inside the door. Even though it was early, he was sweatin’ already. His collar was damp and he daubed at his forehead with a hanky.

  “Hi, Tom,” he said to Pa. “I’m afraid I got some bad news for your family. I wanted to tell it in person.”

  “Have a seat, Judge,” Pa said. “Lay
it out straight so we can get a look at what can be done.”

  “Well, Tom,” the judge started. “Your family has always been one to rely on, always goin’ out of your way for others. And there are many who have benefited, and many who are grateful.”

  “Get to it,” Pa said. “We already feel good about ourselves.”

  “Well,” said the judge. “I just got an order from a federal judge in Bozeman. It says Little Crow is Two Moons’ legal guardian. He’s gonna have to go live with his sister.”

  Two Moons was sittin’ on the floor. He let his head fall between his hands.

  “The boy’s happy here,” Pa said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the judge said. “His tribe decides who the legal guardian is; the court has to honor their decision.”

  “His tribe?” Ma said.

  “I’m afraid so,” the judge said.

  “Well, don’t his tribe know he’s happy here?” Pa said.

  “They feel like he’d be better off with his own people. He’s got to be in Bozeman in one month.”

  I stopped listenin’ about then and started thinkin’ about those thirty days. What all could we do in thirty days? Then I got mad at the judge. Oh, I didn’t say anything, but a man that won’t stand up and fight for somethin’ makes me mad. Then I looked at Pa and I could tell there would be nothin’ we could do.

  Esther got up and left. I think she was cryin’. If she was, it was the first, and last, time she ever did.

  The judge stood up and shook Pa’s hand. Ma just kinda stared at him, rubbin’ her hands together. Two Moons squeezed by the fat judge and ran outside.

  “I’m sorry,” the judge said. Then he made his way out the door. He hesitated on the front porch, like he wanted to say something more. But he couldn’t think of anything else. Then he kind of jumped, and yelped.