The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel

them white historians always gotta have something written down? The people kept Sacajawea’s stories, but the historians don’t care about them. They say those old people that remembered the stories didn’t know what they was talkin’ about. Now this Laura Simmons comes along wanting written memoirs? What difference? Memoirs wouldn’t tell nothin’ that the old stories don’t tell.”
    It was true, all true, Father John thought. Historians wanted written records. Laura Simmons hadn’t said anything about wanting the Shoshone stories. He drew in a long breath. “Could she come to see you, Grandmother? You could help her understand.”
    The woman studied her hands a long moment. “Since you’re askin’, Father, you tell her to call me up, and we can set up a time. But I gotta warn you, my granddaughter—her name’s Hope Stockwell—has been asking for the old stories. She’s working on her dissertation at the university in Laramie. She’s gonna be one of them historians.”
    The young woman with serious eyes who had sent him to the Bingo Palace. Father John leaned back against his chair. She had seemed so young. But she was getting her doctorate. He would be in classes with kids while he finished his own doctorate.
    â€œHope’s gonna get all the stories and records she wants,” Theresa was saying, her eyes following the caller now making his way up the steps to the stage. “She come down from Sacajawea. Folks around here know she’s gonna write the truth.”
    Father John was quiet a moment. “Are you saying the memoirs exist, Grandmother?”
    â€œLots of us descendants around, Father. We don’t tell everything we know. Somebody might’ve been keeping the memoirs till the right one come along to tell the story. Hope’s gonna be the one.”
    A shriek burst through the microphone and people began wandering back to the tables, settling into the chairs, realigning the cards. An air of expectancy and concentration settled over the hall. Father John thanked the old woman and made his way past the tables to the door.
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    The Toyota’s headlights cast a cone of yellow into the darkness settling over the open spaces as Father John drove toward the mission, past the lights blinking in the windows of the occasional house along Seventeen Mile Road. He replayed the old woman’s words in his mind. If the memoirs did exist, they would go to Hope Stockwell, a descendant of Sacajawea. It was as it should be.
    And yet—he felt a stab of disappointment. Vicky had asked him to help a friend. A last favor, and he’d failed. Theresa had agreed to see Laura, it was true, but he doubted the old woman would help her. Whatever she knew about Toussaint or the memoirs, she would tell her granddaughter. Which meant that Charlotte Allen’s biography would remain unfinished.
    He slowed for the turn in to the mission grounds, waiting until an oncoming pickup had shot past. So many things unfinished, he thought. The programs he’d hoped to start: a social club for teenagers, a day-care center, cultural classes. And who would coach the Eagles baseball team next spring? The days had always stretched ahead into some indeterminate time when, he’d known, he would have to leave. But not yet. He needed more time. Most priests would be glad to get out of there. The provincial’s voice again.
    Well, he wasn’t most priests. His replacement was already here, settled in, making the rounds, getting to know the people. But he was also here. He hadn’t even started to pack. He resolved to have another talk with the provincial.
    Father John saw the Harley leaning on the kickstand, chrome glinting under the streetlamp in front of the residence. He parked in front of the administration building, took the steps two at a time, and pulled open the heavy door. Light from outdoors slanted off the portraits lining the