last night. Sheâs dead, Vicky.â
Vicky lifted herself to her feet. Sheâd known Denise and T.J. all her life. She and T.J. had been in the same class at St. FrancisSchool. Denise was a few years behind, but after she and T.J. were married, theyâd been like family. They knew why sheâd had to leave Ben. Theyâd understood, even though sheâd never put it into words. One summer, at a powwow, T.J. had pulled her aside and, the tip of his finger tracing the bruise on her cheek, said, âHow long you going to put up with it, Vicky?â It had helped her find the strength to leave.
And it was T.J., she was certain, who had tried to get the business council to hire her to file a request with the BIA for a new environmental impact study on the proposed methane drilling. Afterward, when the Gazette had reported that a firm in Cheyenne would be advising the tribe, T.J. had called. âDamn it, Vicky.â He spat the words down the line. âYou were best for the job. The council has gotta start trusting our own people. So what if youâre a woman?â
âWhereâs T.J.?â Vicky was at the coat tree, pulling on her coat, barely aware of having walked across the office.
âOver at Veraâs. Heâs been calling all morning.â
âBetter reschedule todayâs appointments,â Vicky said, scooping her bag off the desk and starting back across the office.
âWant me to call T.J. and tell him youâre on the way?â
âHe knows Iâll come.â Vicky pulled the front door shut behind her.
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FROST TRACED THE reservation, like white moss clinging to the brown prairie and outlining the stalks of wild grass and clumps of brush that flamed gold and vermillion in the October sun as far as Vicky could see. The wind had picked up, knocking at the sides of the Jeep and sending little clouds of dust swirling across Highway 287. She squinted against the glare of the sun on the windshield and tried to wrap her mind around the impossible.
Impossible that Denise Painted Horse was dead! When was it that sheâd run into Denise at the grocery store? Last week? Vicky had beenhurrying down the aisle, pulling items into her cart, when sheâd heard a familiar voice calling her name. She glanced around and saw Denise coming at a run behind a half-filled cart.
âIâve been meaning to call you, Vicky.â Denise had thrown a nervous glance behind her. There was no one else in the aisle. âI have to talk to you.â
âWhat is it?â Vicky had asked.
âNot here.â Another glance along the aisle. âIâll call you.â
Sheâd never called.
Vicky felt herself squinting now against the moisture welling behind her eyes. She should have called Denise. Why hadnât she called? Chances were that Denise had some legal question. Something about her job at Fort Washakie School, or about one of the field days she was always planning for her studentsâher kids, she called them. Theyâd wanted a family, she and T.J., but it hadnât worked out, Denise had once confided. T.J. had thrown his energies into politics, and sheâd thrown her energies into her students and her passion for teaching them about the Old Time, so that theyâd know their own history, she said, and be proud.
Onceâah, Vicky could picture her at the powwow, watching the dancers coming into the arenaâshe said that she wished sheâd lived in the Old Time, when Sharp Nose was chief, and the people lived free on the plains.
âWhy?â Vicky remembered asking. âYouâd like butchering buffalo? Traipsing across the plains looking for wild vegetables and berries? Cooking all the meals and looking after the children and putting up the tipis and taking them down when the village moved? The women did all the work and catered to the men.â
âSo whatâs different?â Denise had thrown her head back
Carol Durand, Summer Prescott