All I See is Violence

CHAPTER 1

I LEAN AGAINST THE KITCHEN COUNTER, the cold metal edge cutting into my lower back. I feel myself sigh; the color of the sick green linoleum is only slightly improved with the light off, I think, watching the light from the living room cast shadows all around me. The gurgling of the percolator fills the kitchen with noise. I hear the light clinking of metal and glance at the open doorway to the living room.

Nancy? That you in there?

I already know who it is from the scent of mineral spirits. Its sharp odor drowns out the aroma of coffee, making me crinkle up my nose.

Yeah, Dad, it’s me. Want some coffee?

It’s not that mule one, is it?

I smile. No, Dad, I made sure to get the Folgers.

I’ll have a cup.

My smile stays on my face as I push off the counter and go to the cupboard, grabbing two mugs. I pause and look at our dishes. No two are alike—years of just getting through the day, I think. My thoughts stop as the fluorescent lights flicker on, casting their unnatural brightness over me. I close the cupboard and look at the pale green linoleum of the table, counter, and matching floor. They look sicker than ever, I think, my smile fading.

I look at Dad and find my smile return. He is fully dressed, his white hair slicked back. I look at his feet; his boots are on and laced neatly.

He looks me up and down. Big day today?

I look away and pour us each a cup, mine an overly cute baby chicken, and his a Best Dad. I try not to look at that one too long.

The first day is always a big day, I say, handing Dad his mug. I watch as he takes his seat, the one closest to the door where you can watch the whole house, the chair’s yellow linoleum seat squeaking under his trousers. I sit down across from him and bring the edge of the hot mug to my lips, letting it warm my nose.

Are you wearing makeup? Dad asks me as I brush some of my hair off my face and glance at the dark kitchen window. The sun wasn’t even hinting at rising yet.

I’m worried about Timothy, I say.

I glance over my mug at Dad, and he nods. We sip in silence.

It’s a strange thing, war, he says.

I look at Dad. He looks me straight in the eye, his lips pursed. I want to hear more, but at the same time I don’t.

They tell us violence is wrong, he says. They tell us if we hurt one another we will be punished, then they tell us that they need us to kill another man, and that killing that man is not only good but necessary, necessary for us to survive in the way we know it.

Dad pauses now, looking through me to a place I don’t think I’ll ever see. He said he was there, the day they landed on the beach. He looks back at me, his hazel eyes bright. He’s back.

You never forget the men you killed. For some, it’s not just the men, but the women and children too. They stay with you, and they don’t know—the white man doesn’t know—how to get rid of them so they don’t come back with you into the next lifetime.

Have you … have you talked to Timothy about this? I ask carefully, quietly.

He’s not ready to listen.

Dad drains his coffee. I get up to get him another one.

There was a time, Nancy, when we killed with god. In that time, the women were just as powerful warriors as the men—some would say the women were better, slower to forget.

I hear it before I see it, its long tail trailing behind it on the counter.

Jesus fucking Christ! I scream and throw the mug in my hand. The mug explodes, the shattering ceramic shooting off in a thousand directions. I watch as the rat disappears behind the radiator. I hear Teddy cry and his door open. Dad shoots from his chair into the living room, running in at the same time as Teddy.

Dad, you might wanna put that down, I say, nodding at his Garland he has already cocked on his shoulder. Teddy, in his blue fuzzy sleeper, wails, waddling toward me. I scoop him up and take him back to his room.

Mama, I had the dream.

I nod and put him back under the quilt.

It’s not morning yet, I say, brushing back his black, tear-soaked hair.

He nods as he shuts his eyes. I sit there staring down at him. He still has the brush of baby to him, a little too round. I stroke his hair one more time and make for the kitchen, closing Teddy’s door softly behind me.

I pause in the kitchen’s entry. A dark shadow came home with Dad from the war he fought and hasn’t ever left.

When did you get in? I ask, glancing over at Dad sweeping up the bits of mug.

Killing rats with Dad’s mug? Timothy asks me, holding up the piece that says Best. I make a noise that’s the closest I can to a laugh.

Timothy grabs at where his right arm would have been.

Are those disco waves? Timothy asks looking at my hair. I try not to look at him as he helps Dad put the remnants of the mug in the trash.

Dick Wilson wants to sell the Black Hills.

Dad and I both look at Timothy.

I thought the government purchased that from us in 1876? I say.

Timothy laughs a laugh I’ve only ever heard since he’s been home.

"The government never bought shit, Mom; they stole it from us around that time before they forcibly relocated us to this shithole. Oh, and then they slaughtered us here for dancing."

I nod, saying nothing. I don’t want to egg him on.

Your mother knows that, Timmy. Watch your mouth when you speak to her.

Timothy looks at Dad.

Or what, Grandpa? You’ll take me out back and shoot me like them Nazis?

Timothy looks at me, and I glance at the piece of mug he’s cradling in his only hand. He shoots us a look that makes my heart stop. He doesn’t look at either of us again as we watch him make his way to his room, still holding the fragment of Best. I hear his heavy feet thump up the stairs.

I glance at Dad; his gold eyes meet mine. I turn, looking behind me at the wall, 5:04. I’ve got six minutes before I have to go. I look out the window above the sink.

We need to get out of this place, I find myself saying almost in a whisper. I watch as Dad gets out a new mug and pours one for me to go. I take it, the warmth seeping through to my hands. He pours himself a fresh one and looks at me before taking a sip.

The trouble is, Nancy, there’s nowhere for us to go. This is Oyate; this is home.

I feel tears coming to my eyes and blink, taking a deep sip of my coffee, and then look at the peeling linoleum floors. This is home.

CHAPTER 2

TRACE MY FINGERS OVER THE COLD, engraved wood. Spencer Carbine, those were the letters of the words that Sha Shunkawakhan had said were English words. It had cost us twenty deer hides. I’d spent the past fall shooting at anything I saw. It was like no rifle I’d ever shot—not that many young women even shoot guns. I think back to when I was a child, and I don’t remember the women getting to hunt; it was something I learned—someone had to—and Sha picked me. It was fast, fast enough to kill a rabbit or squirrel running. I’d feel my fingers dig into the cold metal, waiting to see where our bullet landed.

My fingers drop from the letters and rest on the trigger. I sense it before I see it. It freezes, its white tail like a flag; without antlers, it looks naked. I smile as I cock the carbine and steady it against my shoulder.

God, give us food. I pull the trigger. It explodes, the deer collapses, folds in on itself before the noise can even shock it. I slowly rise to my feet and tiptoe through the snow, so quiet I hear the soft flakes drifting from the sky trickle through the spruce’s branches.

I look down at it, its brown eye wide open. Its beautiful, still death is silent. I look around; all that greets me is the forest. I make my way back to the camp. I’ll get Bloka and White Elk to help me bring the deer back.

I smell the smoke and see the tipis peeking through the bare branches. I smile, but I feel my smile fade at the silence that follows me. I crouch and blend into the trees as I near the camp.

I see Sha at the fire with a man I’ve never seen. I weave through the tipis to them. She glances up at me, her face tight. I look at the man dressed in worn buckskin. His skin is browner than bark, and he is thick as the tree he is colored as.

Little Wolf, this is Standing Bear.

I want to smile; never did a man suit his name more. I nod, and he looks me up and down. It makes me shift in the snow, his eyes settling on the carbine on my shoulder.

What have you got there? he asks me, nodding at the rifle.

A Spencer carbine, I say, the English words feeling strange in my mouth. He nods.

What for?

I frown and look at Sha.

Little Wolf is our hunter.

I watch as Standing Bear hides his thoughts.

All the Indians are to turn themselves in to the agency, he says to me, chewing on the inside of his full cheek. I look at Sha.

What’s that got to do with us? I ask him. He laughs, a small laugh for a big man.

You’re an Indian, are you not?

I look around our small camp.

We can’t travel that far in winter, I say.

I told him the same, she says, not looking at him, her eyes forcing their way into my thoughts.

Standing Bear smiles a smile that is more of a showing of teeth. That’s what the White Chief wants.

Our babies to die? I know I shouldn’t have said that to him, a man I don’t know. I feel Sha’s sharp eyes on me, blacker than night.

Don’t think the White Chief cares, the massive man says.

What if we don’t come? I ask.

Standing Bear looks at my rifle. They’ll come and get you. They said once they do, they’ll starve you, he says as he straightens his fully lined fringed jacket, a trading post jacket.

What are you, Standing Bear? I ask.

He grins at me. A messenger. I’m seeking the last chiefs of the Black Hills. The White Chief found special rocks here, and he now says this land is his. You come in nice, and they’ll give you bacon and sugar; you come in mean, and they’ll give you blood.

I look at Sha; her face is pale.

Where are you going now?

He glances at the sky, then back at me.

To find the Chief of Thunder and tell him the same thing I just told you.

I look at Sha, then back at the tipis. I hear the new baby start to cry.

Standing Bear, I think it best if I came with you, before we move the camp.

I don’t dare meet Sha’s eyes. The giant man nods at me, and I pray that I am home by the next sunrise.

CHAPTER 3

I SEE HER HOLDING HIM THERE. In the sunlight, his hair shines gold. He smiles at me, his cheeks round and full. I think I know what love is.

Autie? Libbie says.

My eyes open, not to a white canvas rooftop but a planked ceiling. The sunlight has yet to trickle in and make the dust dance.

You were having dreams again? Libbie asks me.

Yes, Libbie, I say and try to smile. I feel her slide from the bed, leaving nothing but the hint of her warmth. I look to see her pulling a knitted shawl over her shoulders. It makes her look like a ghost in her starched white nightgown, like she’s floating. Her shoulders are stooped more, fuller than when we met. I guess we all carry the weight of something.

She looks back at me and smiles, making her once youthful face crack. I sit up and reach for my breeches, hanging off the post next to me.

Will you meet with the president today, Autie?

This time I actually smile as I pull up my breeches. She brings me a glass of water. I take a deep sip. It helps to wash her and him from my memory. I pass the glass back and sit down on the edge of the bed to pull my boots on. I leave her in front of me, cradling the water.

I really think it would be best, Autie, if you stayed out of the pages for the time being. You’ve become the headline of the nineteenth century.

I don’t meet her eyes. I straighten up and take the water from her waist and drink the rest in several big gulps. Her eyes look me over, vacant, pretending to see nothing.

I think it best, Libbie, if you make your way to Monroe. I’ll send word where to meet me from there.

I hold out the glass for her and watch as she puts it gently on the dresser. It bangs awkwardly. She takes my lieutenant’s coat from the hanger and carefully nods her head. She doesn’t agree, yet she hands me my coat. I lean down and kiss her cold cheek, gently grabbing the side of her soft head. Barely pausing, I swing my coat on and make for the door, taking my hat and revolvers from the hook I’d hung them on the night before. I close the door softly behind me. I hear her voice as I make my way down the stairs, fastening the revolvers. I put my hat brim forward on my head.

Lieutenant Colonel, I hope you’re coming in here for a bite to eat? the proprietress calls to me from the kitchen. I hear bacon sizzling.

Thank you kindly, madam, but I must make my way to military headquarters.

The woman beams at me the way my wife would have. No wonder they were fast friends, I think, as I make my way out of the house. The air is damp and rank. I long for my horse and spurs. As I tip my hat at a passerby, mud splashes near our feet from the carriage of bread that is barreling down the street.

I see it, beaming white, my destiny. First I need to pay my respects to the commanding general, and I take a right, weaving my way through the filth of the city to General Sherman. I see the smaller white building looming before me and think of the simpler but violent years of my youth. The women, the battles—they dance in my head as I make my way up the stairs. It’s strange what you remember: smoke, screams, blood.

I nod at the officer appointed to the door. He salutes and swings it open. It’s not any warmer inside, I think, as I listen to the echoing of my boots against the wooden floorboards.

Now, that is not what I am saying at all, a man says. I am saying that he might be one of them. He surrounds himself with them, and some of the things he’s said, General, it makes me and my men nervous. And we all know after Washita he shared his bed for too long.

I know that voice and smile. Sherman’s door is wide open, making me grin even wider. My moustache tickles my lip.

Surely, Captain, you have seen some of them? Only a man lacking manly urges would be able to resist. Some of them are like creatures from heaven itself.

I hear the other men laugh, and I am still grinning as I graze my knuckles gently against the open door.

Sherman stands, forcing the room to rise with him.

General, just the man we were talking about. Your captain here has some concern with which beds you choose to lie in.

I look at Captain Benteen. His chin is tipped to the floor, his meaty face turning red.

I assure you, General, it does nothing but improve my performance in the field.

The room roars, and I watch Benteen go a deeper shade of magenta.

Captain, you are dismissed, Sherman says abruptly.

I watch as Captain Benteen is forced to salute both General Sherman and me before he can make his way to the door.

Captain, close the door on your way out.

Captain Benteen glances at Sherman in a way that makes me uneasy as he goes to the door, closing it a little too loudly behind him.

General Custer, please take a seat, Sherman says, gesturing to the one vacated by Captain Benteen.

I nod, glancing at Alphonso Taft and Rufus Ingalls. Both men nod, and we all watch Sherman collapse back into his massive desk chair. He snaps open a drawer and pulls out a cigar, pops it in his mouth, and the smell of sulfur from his match fills the cold room. We watch as he takes deep breaths of smoke. He looks at it, satisfied, and then looks up at me, his sharp, sloped eyes and nose reminiscent of a hawk.

General, I am afraid we’ve got some bad news for you, General Sherman says, looking at Alphonso.

I follow his eyes. Alphonso looks at me sympathetically.

The Secretary of War was unable to plea to Congress upon your behalf.

I look back at Alphonso. His lips part as though he is going to explain himself before General Sherman cuts him off.

Seems the president is more cut up over this Belknap ordeal than any of us thought.

This expedition should already be under way, I say, using all my might to not say the words I’d like.

General Sherman nods. I wholeheartedly agree. The Plains will soon be ripe for the picking. Me and General Sheridan have decided to send General Terry in your place.

I swallow my anger; it goes down my throat like cold molasses. General Sherman watches me, then looks at the glowing ember of his lit cigar as he begins speaking again.

General Terry is an incredibly competent leader and was present at the Fort Laramie Treaty negotiations, so he knows what we’re up against. All this business with Crazy Monkey and Sitting Zebra or whatever the hell name the Indians have taken won’t spook him.

General Sherman pauses, looking me in the eye before finishing. I mean, we all saw the Civil War, he says. We saw those Southern devils dance through the woods.

He wasn’t at Gettysburg, though, was he? I say. I feel my right leg begin to shake uncontrollably. I put my hand on my thigh, trying to steady it. I watch Sherman’s eyes glance at it.

No, General, he was not.

We think it best you try to speak to President Grant himself, Rufus says, interrupting us. I look at Rufus, old Ingalls, Quartermaster, that walrus. Always full of so many promises, just like every other man on this hill, especially President Grant. Promises they never intend to keep.

Anyhow, we intend to launch a winter campaign in 1887. This will all be long sorted by then. And you, General, you will lead it.

Sherman’s words hang dead in the air. I swallow, trying not to reply.

I slowly look at the general. He meets my gaze just as hard, almost willing me to speak. I feel my mouth open, even though I should keep it shut.

You know as well as I that a winter campaign is nothing more than a sentence of death, if not for us, then for our horses. They know the land; they will easily evade us, especially in the dead of winter.

Best you speak with the president, Armstrong.

I look at Alphonso. He didn’t say it to provoke me, the Secretary of War I’d helped crown.

I rise to my feet. I hold Sherman’s eyes as they cloud angrily. He hasn’t dismissed me. I feel my hand fumble by my forehead in a weak salute and stalk from the room. I bang my hat on my head. I don’t close the door behind me for fear I’ll slam it.

I make my way with haste. The posted private has to move quickly to open the door to the street, which is just as dank as when I’d left, the brightening of the cloudy sky doing nothing to improve the smell of shit and lies.

I walk quickly back the way I came, making for the biggest lie of them all, the White House.

CHAPTER 4

FEEL MY JAW TIGHTEN WHEN THE SAILOR SONG—Brandy—comes on the radio. I fucking hate that song. It’s 1972, and it’s almost as though music in a lot of ways is getting worse, not better. I reach forward and snap the radio off. I roll down my window. The cold air rushes in, waking me up. I long for spring, which is a good distance away. I glance at the sign Black Hills State University. I look back at the road, streaked with the golden bright rays of fall sunshine. I roll my window back up.

The sunlight trickling through the trees makes me squint as I wind my way to staff parking. I steer, more like guide, the Savoy into my spot. I see him, the new professor, Joshua, a few stalls down. The lot isn’t even half full yet. I look at him leaning against his black Chevy smoking a cigarette, and I feel embarrassed. He sees me and tips his chin. I look at my ignition and turn the engine off and focus on shuffling through my papers beside me. A clinking knock at the widow makes me jump. I look and see Joshua making a gesture for me to roll down my window. I roll it down, trying to smile.

Nancy, are you coming out of there or what?

Joshua has one of those easy smiles that engulfs his whole face.

Just making sure I have my lecture notes, I say, looking at the papers in my lap.

Well, if you haven’t, you’ll have to wing it. Surely you’ll not be able to drive—what is it, three hours?—back to your place to grab them.

Three hours in good weather, I think. I feel myself nod. Looking away, I slowly put my papers back in my bag, hoping he’d make for the university. I’ve only met Joshua once, a month ago at a history staff department meeting. We weren’t really on a walk-together-to-the-university stage in our professional relationship.

I hear my door open and see Joshua smile as he flicks his cigarette. He gestures for me to come out. I roll up the window and slide out, worried if my polyester suit pants are sticking to my ass in an unflattering way.

How’d the rest of your summer go? Joshua asks, shutting my door. He gestures for me to go in front of him. I do so, leading us to our department offices.

It was fine.

I kept on hoping to run into you in town. His sentence trails off.

I nod my head. I don’t want to tell him we never come up this way. The wind blows through the fading oak trees.

It’s a nice time of year, isn’t it? Joshua says, holding the massive wooden department door open for me.

I’ve always been more of a spring person, I say and try to smile.

He grins at me like I’ve just told him a secret. I realize my turtleneck is making me too hot, so I pull off my suit jacket.

Nancy, let me help you, Joshua says as he takes my bag.

I try to say thanks, but nothing comes out other than my strange smile. He nods as I take my bag back and I make for the office kitchen. I want nothing more than a peaceful coffee after what had happened earlier. I try to shut it from my mind, but the same thing keeps on running through my head that had for the past four hours: Our house is infested with rats. Timothy needs help.

I put my bag and jacket on the office kitchen table. Joshua has followed me in. I feel strange. I want to tell him this is my time. I look at the coffee maker and I’m surprised to see the glass coffeepot black, full, and waiting.

I got here early, Joshua says, a little nervous, first day and all.

I force a smile as I take a mug out of the cupboard. I feel Joshua behind me and hand him one. We go to the coffeepot in a weird procession. I take the pot and hold it in the air like a hostage, offering to fill his mug; he smiles and steps closer to me, holding out his mug, making me step back into the counter. He looks at me, unsure, then takes a good step back, leaning against the counter. He looks at me again and asks, What do you think of this AIM?

Alcatraz? I say, frowning as I put the coffeepot back and hold my mug under my nose. I inhale its earthy goodness.

Of the word that they’re going to Washington.

Washington? Timothy comes to my mind, and I feel my stomach turning.

I just thought you might know.

Joshua’s sentence drops off again. I take a sip of my coffee; it’s a little too hot and burning my mouth.

Because I am an Indian? I say looking at him sharply.

Joshua smiles and gives me a lopsided shrug. I let out something like a single note laugh.

You probably know more about it, I say. You’re the expert? Are you not? I’m still looking at him, and Joshua laughs a laugh that fills up the whole kitchen, and I hope none of the other professors are in yet.

I look at colonization, he says, nothing too centered on the Indians themselves, but I think we should add a course as such.

Crazy Horse 101? I suggest, my mouth on the edge of my mug.

Joshua smiles and does his lopsided shrug. More like how colonization impacted them and their traditional way of life.

I watch him search my face for approval, but I keep it carefully neutral. I sip my coffee and gaze out the window behind him; everything is burnt from the summer.

Nancy, why did you choose to study the French Revolution?

I find myself smiling. People love to ask me this question. Usually I lie and say something like how inspirational the foundation of democracy and enlightenment is to me as a human being.

I like that they cut off the aristocracy’s heads.

I look back at Joshua to see his brows lift in surprise, and he lets out another one of his room-filling laughs. I find myself letting into a real smile, and a lightness fills me that I haven’t felt in a long time. I glance at the clock.

Nancy? Could I take you out for dinner or a drink sometime this weekend or next?

I take my empty mug to the sink and turn back to look at Joshua.

I am married.

He nods and shrugs at me.

I just thought … I’d heard.

That my husband is in jail?

Joshua gives me a good-natured nod. My husband has been in jail for the last four years and has ten more to go.

I better get going. There’s quite a bit I need to do before I get to my lecture, I say, more to myself than Joshua. I gather up my things and look at him. He’s a good-sized man with a mop of dirty-blond hair. His face is covered in the same hair. Nothing like George, I think, and smile. Thanks for the offer, Joshua, of dinner or a drink.

He smiles, and for the first time since I’d met him, I see what disappointment looks like on him, in his smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and he stands stiffer, his mug slack