Granta 125: After the War by John Freeman Page A

know I do.’
    Beverly had made some desultory attempt at meal preparation. She’d been drinking – nothing new – and there was not much left of her former high Texas sleekness besides her aggressive twang. Kurt always looked a bit sheepish around her and was anxious when, over the sorry little meal, she brought up Mother, a subject Beverly found hilarious. Years ago when Mother was at her best, she had made no secret of her disapproval of Beverly whom she called a tart. Local wags said that she and Beverly were competing for Kurt; and there may have been something to it as I could bring around a rough customer with a gold tooth or neck tattoo and Mother would greet her like a queen. Of course I resented it and of course I was pleased when Beverly, having got wind of Mother’s new interest in Junior, said, ‘Old Doctor Kurt got his tail in a damn crack, ain’t he?’ I haven’t really liked Beverly since the day of their marriage when she called me a disgrace. There’d been a bunch of drugs at the bachelor party and I had an accident in my pants; the word got out, thanks to Kurt.
    ‘It’s just all part of the ageing process, hon,’ Kurt said pandering to Beverly. ‘The sad ageing process.’
    ‘That right, Doc? Just don’t drag your mother over here and give her a shot.’
    Like I said, she’d been drinking.

    M other had nearly hit bottom. She was still following things with her eyes like a passing car or a cat, but not much. No, not much. I continued to see her but I didn’t know why. No, it’s hard to say why I went. I’d say now that she was damn near a heathen idol, propped here or there, in a window, or facing something, a picture, a doorway; it didn’t seem to make much difference. It wasn’t pretty at all. But Kurt kept at it until something went wrong. Evidently he broke some furniture, kicked down a door, shouted, cried. Police involved on the assumption he was drunk. Fought the cops, got tazed, booked, released and then a day later fucked up his rotator cuff yanking on a venetian blind. It was a week before I felt I could go near him. I thought it might be best quietly to approach Ms Lowler.
    ‘It has been a nightmare,’ she said. ‘And not just for me. The other residents were terrified. We’ve had the doctor here for them. It’s full moon and they don’t sleep well anyway. Ever since your brother started pretending to be your mother’s boyfriend she has become more and more agitated. I personally think it has been quite cruel. Then he wanted to move her to his own house, which seemed I hardly know what.’
    He wanted to put Mother to sleep like an old cocker spaniel. I don’t know why this agitated me so; she was all but asleep anyway. I suppose it was the unexpected memories that rushed back at the thought of her no longer existing – Mother hurtling along in our old Econoline with a carload of kids, bound for a dinosaur exhibit, an opera, a ball game or off to Crow Fair to watch the Indian dancers and eat fry-bread. Crow Fair was right in the middle of when Dad and I liked to fish the Shields, which I would have preferred, while Kurt was happy to drink in all the culture with the possible exception of Crow Fair, which he considered just a bunch of crazy Indians. Maybe not fishing with Dad was why my memory was so sharp.
    Or why it came to me: Mother was herding a little mob of us like a Border collie through the tepees and concessions, thousands of Indians and spectators, smoke drifting from campfires, Crow elders in lawn chairs talking in sign language, young dancers running past us to the competitions in a rush of feathers. Our guide was Mr White Clay who helped Mother lead us to the rodeo grounds, the powwow, the fry-bread stands and the drumming of the Nighthawk Singers. Mr White Clay looked more like a cowboy than an Indian in his jeans, snap-button shirt and straw hat. He was tall and dark like many Crows and it was surprising how Mother deferred to him and how well they