Granta 125: After the War by John Freeman Page B

seemed to know each other. He had quickly familiarized himself with our group and was vigilant in rounding up anyone who strayed. It was wonderful to see Mother so relaxed, so willing to let Mr White Clay handle things. We kids had to call him Mr White Clay. Mother called him Roland.
    My face was burning. I cut my conversation with Ms Lowler so suddenly she was startled. I went home, burst through my front door and picked up the phone. I called information for Crow Agency and requested a number for Roland White Clay. He answered. He answered! I told him who I was, who my mother was, who my brother was, how old we were then. Mr White Clay was silent. I asked if we could come to see him and he said with odd formality, ‘As you wish.’
    I had found Wowser.
    I will never know why I told Kurt but that’s what I did. It took him a while to absorb this and determine for himself if I was imagining it. But he remembered too. He remembered. He said that when he was ‘Wowser’, ‘Doozy’ had given him the impression that after the War Wowser no longer belonged in a tepee. Kurt said, ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I have forensic skills.’ I told him I hadn’t noticed; but he went on rather plausibly. Evidently Wowser’s stationing in southern California had briefly transformed him from Plains Indian to Zoot Suiter; and more troublingly, Mother had gone from den mother to tart. Maybe they had fun. But Kurt wasn’t happy. He said it looked like he would have to move. My brother move away? After all theseyears? I couldn’t possibly face that. Kurt was there at the Grass Dance with Mother on that faraway and now sadly beautiful day. He said, ‘We’re gonna drag that Indian back up here and let him and Mother have a grand reunion. That’s when
this
Wowser retires.’
    We drove to the Rez in his little MG which he stores most of the year. I couldn’t think of a worse car to drive on a hot day on the interstate, our hair blowing in the heat, our faces getting redder. Kurt thought it would cheer him up but by the time we got near Laurel, where fumes from the refinery filled the little two-seater, tears were pouring from his eyes. At first I thought it was the appalling conditions of driving this flivver among the sixteen-wheelers, pickup trucks and work-bound sedans. But that wasn’t it. He was remembering throwing a fit at assisted living. Surely I knew that. I waited until we slowed for the Hardin exit to ask him what happened. He unexpectedly swerved onto the shoulder. Our dust cloud swept over our heads and dissipated downwind. Kurt stared at me.
    ‘She came on to me.’
    ‘It’s your own fault!’ I shouted.
    ‘Searching for the truth about our mother? You’re actually calling that my fault? To my face? You
never
cared about Mother!’
    ‘Mother never cared about me!’
    Kurt lowered his voice. ‘Earl, there was a problem of course. The problem was that you were uneducable.’
    ‘Ah. I thought Dad was uneducable. That’s what she said. What luck she had you.’
    ‘I think she felt that way,’ he said with a slight toss of his head.
    ‘Was this when she was fucking the Indian?’
    ‘You need to be careful, Earl.’ I could see violence rising in Kurt’s face. ‘You need to be very, very careful.’
    ‘Just asking, Kurt. It shouldn’t be controversial. I’m only trying to establish a time frame.’
    ‘“Fucking the Indian” is not a time frame. It’s ignorant. Remember John Wayne in
Hondo
where he plays a half-breed army scout? My point is he has a hard time being accepted by Indians
and
whites, per se.’
    ‘Are you saying we might be half-breeds?’
    ‘Not per se. We just don’t want any questions like that hanging over us.’
    ‘Can we stop for water? What happens if we have mechanical problems on the Rez? You can’t even buy tyres for this thing.’ I was trying to change the subject and I guess I was successful because Kurt started the motor and pulled back onto the highway, the tiny