“Why are you sitting on the stoop?” she asked. “Why didn’t you come in?”
“We wanted to visit with Maya first,” Tamra told her, rising so they could hug. A second later she introduced Walker.
But the other woman, the infamous Michele, had already taken a keen interest in him. He shook her hand, and she flashed a smile that broadened her moon-shaped face.
“Where did Tamra find you?” She tossed a glance at her friend. “You show up with this yummy iyeska and leave me in the dark?”
Yummy iyeska?
It was better than being a stupid one, Walker supposed. But since that Lakota word still eluded him, he wasn’t sure how to react.
Tamra didn’t react, either. “He’s Mary’s son.”
“No shi—” Michele started to cuss, then caught herself. Her little girl was watching the adults like a fledging hawk.
Dark eyes. Rapt attention.
“So you’re the boy who was stolen by that mean wasicu,” Michele said to Walker.
He tried not to frown, to let his emotions show. Wasicu. White man, he thought. That was easy enough to translate. “Uncle Spencer raised my sister and me.”
Michele stuffed her hands into the pockets of threadbare jeans. “Well, it’s good to have you here.”
“Thanks.” He glanced at the kids playing in the grass, then at Maya, who still sat on the steps with the big mangy dog. “I live in San Francisco. And I’ll be going home in a few weeks.”
“Too bad.” Michele bumped Tamra’s shoulder. “Ennit, friend?”
Tamra nodded, then made eye contact with Walker. But he knew she wasn’t challenging him. It was a look of confusion, of an attraction that was sure to go awry.
Michele guided Walker and Tamra into the house, looping her arms through theirs. Maya popped up and followed them. In no time the other kids came inside, too, joining their parents, who gathered around a TV set with snowy reception.
Two of the older women bounded into the kitchen and began preparing a snack of some kind. Walker hadn’t expected them to cook for him. With all the mouths they had to feed, he felt awkward about being fussed over. But he appeared to be an honored guest.
Mary Little Dove’s son.
Maya warmed up to him, sitting beside him in a tired old chair. He moved over to accommodate her, and the lopsided cushion sagged under his weight, making him even more aware of his run-down surroundings. The faded brown carpet was worn to the bone, and sleeping mats were stacked in every corner.
He glanced across the crowded room and noticed the exchange of a twenty-dollar bill going from Tamra to Michele. The birthday loan. Walker tipped bellmen at hotels more than that.
He thought about the stocks Spencer had willed to him. Was it blood money? Payment in full? Or was he just lucky that his uncle had given a damn about him?
The Ashton patriarch. The mean wasicu.
The snack was a platter of fry bread, a staple among most Indian tribes, accompanied by bowls of wojapi, a Lakota pudding made with blueberries, water, sugar and flour.
Following young Maya’s lead, Walker dipped a piece of fry bread into the wojapi and realized he was surrounded by people who seemed genuinely interested in him. Still seated in the sagging chair, with Maya by his side, he talked and laughed with Tamra’s friends.
And for a few surprisingly stress-free hours, he actually enjoyed being in Pine Ridge.
The sun had begun to set, disappearing behind the hills, painting the sky in majestic colors.
For Tamra, this was home. The land, the trees, the tranquility. The impoverished reservation. A place she used to hate. But she would never hate it again. She knew better now.
Maka Ina, she thought. Mother Earth.
She glanced at Walker. He sat next to her, watching the horizon. They occupied a rustic porch swing at his mom’s house that complained every so often, the wood creaking from age.
He hadn’t said much since they’d left Michele’s house, but he seemed reflective.
Sticking to their original plan, they’d gotten a pepperoni pizza. But instead of eating it, they’d put it in the fridge, saving it for later, waiting for Mary to come home from work. But for now, their bellies were still full of fry bread and wojapi.
“What’s an iyeska?” Walker asked.
“A half-breed.”
“That’s it? That’s all it means?”
“Yes. Do you want me to translate yummy, too?”
He smiled, just little enough to send her heart into a girlish patter.
When his smile faded, she sensed the hurt inside him, the pain that often came with being a mixed blood. “Michele wasn’t trying to insult you.”
He gazed into the distance, at the land of his ancestors. Tamra waited for him to respond. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped, preparing for their evening roost.
“I know Michele wasn’t putting me down,” he said. “But the first day I arrived, a wino called me a stupid iyeska. It never occurred me that it meant half-breed. In San Francisco, people think I’m this major Indian. No matter how much I downplay my heritage, they still notice, still comment on it. But here I’m not Indian enough.”
“It’s the way you carry yourself, Walker.”
He shifted on the swing, scraping his lace-up boots on the porch. He wore comfortable-looking khakis and a casual yet trendy shirt. A strand of his hair fell across his forehead, masking one of his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s always been dissention between the full bloods and the mixed bloods on the reservation.” A war she understood all too well. “But sometimes iyeska refers to someone’s attitude, not his or her blood quantum. Full bloods can be iyeskas, too. Indians who think white.”
Edgy as ever, he frowned at her. “Fine. Then that’s what I am.”
“You didn’t seem like an iyeska once you got to know Michele’s family. You seemed like a full blood.”
“I did?” He smoothed his hair, dragging the loose strand away from his forehead. Then he laughed a little. “I really liked Michele’s family, but they weren’t totally traditional. I don’t know if I could handle that.” He released a rough breath. “I’m too set in my wasicu ways.”
“Maybe so.” She grinned at him. “But you’re starting to speak Lakota.”
He grinned, too. “A few words. My uncle is probably rolling over in his grave.”
For a moment she thought his good mood would falter. That his grave-rolling uncle would sour his smile. But he managed to hold on, even if she saw a deeply rooted ache in his eyes.
“What does ennit mean?” he asked.
“It’s not a Lakota word. It’s an interjection a lot of Indians use. Ennit? instead of isn’t it?”
“You don’t say it.”
“I’ve never been partial to slang.”
“Thank God,” he said, and made her laugh.
She looked up at the sky and noticed the sun was gone. Dusk had fallen, like a velvet curtain draping the hills. Beside her, Walker fell silent. She suspected