All My Relations by Christopher McIlroy Page A

soldiers, farther Madwida, ahead the Grand Canyon, now hidden by red sandstone walls.
    All has converged to form the person beside me. Buoyant with renewed desire, I let her scent merge with the dry heat of rock. She’s larger than myth. I could reach over and squeeze her breast, and she’d smile at me.
    The washboard road drums steadily. Space opens and closes as canyons engulf us in shadow, recede.
    The road is now a streambed, our tires splashing through puddles, grinding over boulders. Vivid greenery and driftwood stacks line the banks, the riparian dankness thickening. A presence in my ears has evolved into continuous booming.
    There’s the gorge. Blackened, twisted at the base, the wall rises through slates and browns to the red of viscera. At first it’s hard to credit this muddy, churning little river with all the special effects. But it’s very swift. Tracking its flow past a rock spur spins me dizzily.
    Four yellow rafts have beached on the bank, a hub for scurryingwhite people, men and women bare to the waist, wiry, sand-caked, with dried-bush hair. Incredibly, I recognize college classmates, a racquetball partner, my insurance agent and her husband; it’s a Flagstaff expedition. I introduce Dooley, who nods absently, wandering off among piles of gear and Hefty bags swollen with beer cans.
    Making small talk with my topless State Farm rep is a heady experience. The bubbling gin and tonic leaves an herbal wake. Where a channel loop has stalled into a backwater, rafters are skinnydipping. Dooley looks neither left nor right, white vinyl ledges of her shoulders tipping as her high-heeled boots pick deliberately through loose stones. Unbooting, she stands in the shallows, arms straight at her sides, eyes closed. I imagine her striding into the river, body russet like the canyon reflected on the water, a piece of that reflection upright and walking. I anticipate the lull in activity, hush, as we immerse ourselves together.
    The beauty of that moment will redeem what has gone on between us.
    â€œCome on.” Beside her, I drop my cutoffs.
    Her face gapes. “I share myself only with you.”
    â€œThe river will cover us.” My whole self is forced into the narrow crooning of my voice, so convinced I am, the water around us like a skin.
    â€œThe tribe strictly prohibits—”
    Though I intend the tug on her buckle to coax, the belt jumps free with an audible crack.
    Folding her clothing, Dooley wades naked through the eddies, launches herself in a slow stroke. Her face has gone inward, she looks asleep, hair fanning on the murky water, her form undulating beneath the surface. Revolving with the current, she circles the swimmers. I try to intercept her hand, but she springs onto the bank, shimmering, goosefleshed. A group is drip-drying, whipping their hair and stamping their feet. Dooleyaccepts a beer! Gesturing airily, she chats, scratches her leg. Her pebbly nipples are stiff. The boatman jokes and she rocks back, laughing, fingertips at her breastbone, then lightly pushes his arm.
    â€œSo why didn’t you just shake your pussy in his face?” I say. We’re jouncing over the streambed, steering wheel fighting my hands. The image of my Dooley—since when did she become my Dooley?—stripped and at ease, body playing to the boatman’s voice, reruns and reruns.
    â€œI was clothed,” she says. “In my mind I dressed myself in your beautiful suit.” Her hands grasp my arm. “I was hidden from my neck to my feet.” She knots an imaginary tie. “I was so confident. I stood erect, moved my hands decisively, and I looked everyone in the eye like a white person.”
    I have a brainstorm: I will attend the wake and pay my respects to the dead elder. The opportunity for visibility in the community, networking, is not to be missed. And there’s spite—the exclusion of Dooley, who I’m sure won’t take part in the