HOME RUN

Some people talk in their sleep. Brock sings.

Sometimes he sings songs of healing that Grandfather taught him. This morning, though, he wakes up singing a war song he learned from his uncles while riding roundup in the mountains.

It’s the first time in weeks he has thought about home or horses or singing, and still half asleep, he grins. He yawns and stretches, then rolls over and looks at the alarm clock he bought when he first got to the city, and always forgets to set.

A quarter till four.

He jerks upright, throwing off the covers. He has to hurry, or he’ll be late for work.

Again.

He snatches up his pants, and pads through the living room, gliding past the couch where John sprawls, snoring his bull-moose snore, apparently too drunk to pull the sofa out into a bed.

Again.

John’s feet dangle over one end of the couch, and his arms – always the butt of family jokes because they are so long – are flung wide at awkward angles. It is the first time in three days that Brock has seen his older brother. John still has on his pink chambray shirt, spotted and soiled now; his white pants are wrinkled and unkempt; his black hair is wild as a thunderstorm.

Quite a party, Brock supposes.

In the kitchen, he pours himself a bowl of cereal. He never bothers with milk, and the sweet flakes of corn crunch between his teeth as he leans back against the sink and wolfs them down.

It had all been John’s idea. Let’s go to the city, he said. Jobs. Cars. Women. Big houses. He had promised. No more horses to groom, no more cattle to chase. And since they were brothers, Brock had agreed. Someone had to keep John safe; not out of trouble – that was impossible – but watch after him at least.

Unfortunately, the only work John knows is riding and roping and branding. And digging ditches. He knows how to handle a rifle and track deer, but in the city, nobody is hiring for any of those jobs. If John and Brock had thought about the time of year, they could have picked a better season than winter.

It was Brock, not John, who finally found a job. At minimum wage. At unmerciful hours.

No cars.

No women.

And no big houses. A cousin had agreed to let them stay in one of his apartments until they could afford their own place; the only thing he had available, though, was a studio that squeezed them together even more than the bunk house where they had lived on the ranch. Brock hated charity, and is beginning to feel the same way about the city.

He pushes his arms into the mustard-colored uniform jacket he has to wear to work, and heads out the door. As he trudges down the sidewalk in the steely cold of the early morning darkness, an ambulance rockets past, screaming, its lights flashing. Here in the city, sirens seem to go by every fifteen minutes or so, and it’s odd how a person can get used to so much noise.

Back home, family took care of family – maybe by helping out with food or medicine or shelter. In the city, though, few people are related to anyone: it’s a world of strangers, where people have to be paid to look out for each other.

Brock wonders what the family back home is doing right now. When John had given in to his wanderlust, Brock had followed. They both enjoyed being on horses, romping through brush and across meadows, rounding up strays, driving in cows and calves; but John was never satisfied – he always looked for somewhere else to be, some place more exciting.

From the ranch, the two boys meandered into the small towns off the reservation. After a while, they had moved on to bigger towns and larger cities, eventually ending up far away from the familiar sites of home.

What, Brock wonders, is the family doing right now back home?

*

As he pushes open the door of the Corner Mart, heated air rushes out. Ray looks up from restocking the dairy case and glances at the clock on the wall behind the cash register. “About time,” he says in a whippish voice. He stacks the last carton of milk, snatches his coat and scarf from behind the front counter, and stalks out into the morning darkness. Brock looks around the empty store. He sighs. He looks at the clock and sighs even deeper.

From under the counter, he pulls the feather duster and begins wandering around the store. He takes a few swipes at the canned corn, pushes a box of detergent back into line, and picks up a dime from the floor and sticks it in his pocket. He stands in the middle of the bread aisle, wondering if he should sweep. He decides against it.

Headlights from a car pulling into the parking lot splash around the store, and Brock watches the driver as she comes in. Hair bright as an autumn sunrise billows around her head and shoulders, and would drive his brother insane with lust. Beneath her black leather jacket, she has on the same type of calico blouse Brock’s sister likes to wear, only this woman’s fits a lot tighter.

The way she moves down the aisle, swinging her ample hips, reminds Brock of Kelly, a girl he knew back home. Both he and Kelly are ‘dark rocks people’ of the tcejine band of the dine; but Kelly’s clan is tc’ilndi’yenda’dn’aiye, the walnut trees people, while Brock is de’stci’dn, the red-streaked people, and because of clan restrictions, there can be no thought of them marrying.

Brock watches the woman as she sashays along, her tight jeans highlighting her long legs. In the liquor section, she picks up a bottle of wine, and Brock turns away. If she has an interest in booze, he has no interest in her.

She brings the wine to the front of the store. Without even looking at Brock, she sets the bottle on the counter, and opens her change purse.

One small satisfaction Brock gets from his job is taking money. Most people work so hard for it and love it so, it almost makes him laugh out loud when they hand it over so willingly. Especially for something as worthless as booze.

As the woman walks out, another customer comes in, and Brock jumps. The old man looks exactly like Grandfather. Well, except that he’s white. And wearing a jacket Grandfather could never afford. And has on hard-soled shoes. And is almost completely bald. Other than that, he looks exactly like Grandfather.

The old man picks up a newspaper and begins reading. It makes Brock fidgety when customers do that. What if they don’t pay? What if they read the whole paper and then just put it back? If he demanded money, they could just sneer at him and say, “Why?” And then what would he do?

This time, though, like every other time, the crisis passes. The old man plunks down his money, takes the change Brock hands him, and strolls out of the store, folding the paper under his arm.

Grandmother – citco-san, his mother’s mother – had tried to warn Brock against coming to the city with John. White men were no better than animals, she told him over and over: pale things that preyed off others and themselves worse than carrion eaters. At least vultures helped keep the world clean; white men messed it up and acted as if they never even noticed. Nothing good could come from dealing with anyone as greedy as they.

Greed, though, Brock realizes, can be a knife that cuts both ways: if he can figure out white men, he can use them to make life better for himself and his kin. Learning to live with the white man is like learning one of Grandfather’s complicated doctoring rituals: if you keep at it long enough, you get to where, even if the why escapes you, the what expected of you is clear.

Had citco-hasti-hn – his mother’s father – been alive and said Brock should stay with the family, Brock would never have moved to the city. Citco-hasti-hn, a gaan dancer, was wise, full of the power of the natural world; he knew everything. As a child, Brock had spent a lot of his time with the old man, learning the ancient names of animals and plants and spirits and their relation to the health of the People. The old man had also been skillful with the bilgo’dzo power, the making of love charms, and all the young men of the band were anxious for his favors.

One summer night, an owl flew into camp and circled citco-hasti-hn twice before flying out into the darkness again. Two days later, Grandfather was hit by a pick-up truck. Brock still misses the old man, but is glad that he died in his strength, that he had not lived so long as to become weak and lose the respect that people had for him.

After citco-hasti-hn was gone, John and Brock had been sent to live on their father’s ranch in the White Mountains where they learned to ride and to rope. Cinda-le was a wise man, too, but his wisdom was of the material world, the world that the white man held in a grip as tight as death.

*

The bell on the door dings as a big, pasty-faced fellow walks in. He seems jittery, his eyes darting to every corner of the store, looking into every shadow. His nervousness makes Brock uneasy. What’s wrong?

The man sidles up to the counter and nonchalantly says, “Hi.”

Brock watches the man closely, but says nothing. It’s better to wait till he knows what’s up. He hangs his thumbs on his jeans’ pockets.

The man scratches his eyebrow. “My wife’s hungry. She wants something to eat.” The sweat-stained t-shirt he wears sports the logo of a downtown gym and stretches taut over hulking muscles that to Brock look crude and uncouth.

Back home, Brock had always been one of the first ones picked whenever the family played baseball. He is small but wiry and an agile runner. Huge weights he never could lift, but he can run forever without getting winded.

This fellow, Brock thinks, probably plays football for fun.

The man looks around. “Give me a burrito,” he says, pointing to a display behind the boy.

The gaudy package Brock plunks on the counter is hard and unappetizing, but if it’s what the man wants, who is Brock to criticize?

The man picks up the burrito and sticks it in his left pocket of the army fatigues he is wearing. He licks his lips and looks around the store again.

Brock is getting impatient with the fellow. Why doesn’t he just say what he wants and get out?

The man tenses. It looks as if it has been a couple of days since he shaved. He clears his throat. In a hoarse voice, he says, “Give me the money.”

Brock frowns. Is he asking for his change already? But he hasn’t given Brock anything. Maybe it was his dime that Brock found on the floor. “What money?” Brock asks.

The man fumbles in his right pocket and pulls out an ancient Colt .45 and points it at Brock. “Your money,” the man says. “Now!” he shouts.

Brock thinks about the five dollars in his billfold, and shakes his head. “I don’t have any money. If I did, would I be working here?”

The man purses his lips and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “The money in the register, stupid.”

Brock can’t stall any longer. He punches a button on the cash register, and the draw leaps open. “You know,” he says as he digs out the twenties, “you’re the second one this month.” Normally, he wouldn’t volunteer information like that, but he wants to take away any sense of accomplishment the fellow might feel.

“Oh. I didn’t know.” His Anglo voice is weak, like his Anglo eyes, like his trembling Anglo hand.

Brock holds out the twenties. “It just gets tiresome, you know?” He wants to let the man know just exactly how much of a fool he’s making of himself.

The man jams the money into the pocket with the burrito. The violence of the act seems to bolster his nerve. “You Mexicans so used to having a gun in your face, you call it boring?” He waves the pistol again as if Brock might not have seen it.

Brock starts taking out the tens. “The last guy didn’t even have any bullets,” he says off-handedly. “And I’m not Mexican.”

“Oh, I’ve got bullets,” the man assures him. “I’ve got plenty of bullets.” He snatches the bills.

Brock hands over the fives. What does he care if the guy takes all the money? It isn’t Brock’s. “I only have a couple of ones.” It isn’t even anything he wants in particular. “Need those, too?”

“Naw,” the man snarls. “Ain’t worth shit.” The way he says it makes Brock think the fellow is unused to such words.

“Want the checks?” Brock hopes the sarcasm in his voice is thick enough.

“Now that would be stupid, wouldn’t it?” Then, as if he had just heard what Brock said a few minutes before, the man cocks his head and asks, “If you ain’t Mexican, what are you?”

Brock’s eyes are six-shooters themselves, drilling holes in the man’s skull. “Apache,” he says. His lips narrow. “Just like Geronimo.” Which is not exactly true. Goyathlay had been Chiricahua Apache; Brock is Western Apache. Still, this fellow probably didn’t even know there was a difference.

The man’s sneer fades, and his eyes widen. “Geronimo?” His voice breaks again. “What do you mean?” He waves the gun. “What are you doing?”

“Me?” Brock shrugs. “I’m not doing nothing. What do you think I’m going to do? You’re the one with the gun.”

“You’re standing too still.” The fellow’s eyes bulge, and he sounds as if his lungs are too full of air.

Brock frowns. “I should be dancing?” One of the tales that his Grandfather had told him was how the Apache never had anything before the white man came. Then, because the People stole what they needed, they were happy, and they figured stealing was a good way to live.

The man motions with the gun. “Come out from behind the counter.” His voice sounds normal again, as if he has regained control of himself.

Brock stands motionless. It occurs to him that the People were petty thieves at best, compared to whites. “O-kahe-le,” he curses. “Look. You got what you came for. Why don’t you just go away?”

A trickle of sweat crawls down the guy’s neck. “You got a silent alarm, haven’t you? Ain’t you? You got cameras, too?” His eyes bounce around the ceiling.

“Us?” Brock laughs. “Not likely.” He still does not move. Apaches stole cattle and horses, but whites steal land and lives and pasts and futures.

“Goddamn it! Get out from behind that counter!”

The gun jerks, and Brock begins to sidle out.

Whatever other whites were, though, this fellow is little more than a fool. If not for the pistol, Brock could easily take him. With a war whoop, he would leap on the man and rip his scalp clean off his skull.

“That silent alarm’s how the other guy got caught, isn’t it?” Enlightenment flares in the fellow’s eyes. “And you had to catch him to know he didn’t have any bullets. Put your hands up.” His voice goes shrill again. Brock, standing in the middle of the aisle, raises his arms. “That’s better,” the man says with a smirk. “Now we really have us a robbery in progress.”

“So take the money and go.” Brock’s tongue flickers, wetting his lips. He’s getting tired of this fool. “The longer you stay, the more likely someone will come in.”

The man nods, but apparently isn’t ready to leave just yet. Like a maestro’s baton, he waves the gun. “You think I’m kidding, don’t you, Geronimo? You think that even if I have any bullets, I’m too chicken, shit – too chickenshit to use them.”

“Not me,” Brock says. “I know a lunatic when I see one.”

“Smart fellow.” The man glances around the store. “Smart guy like you don’t need these.” With his foot, he pushes over a rack of comic books. The wire spindle falls with a crash, and gaudy pieces of colored paper spill out like a wave across the floor.

A roaring fills Brock’s mind, as if a huge wind were blowing through the store. His eyes narrow to slits. His nostrils flare as he sucks more air deep into his lungs. He’s the one who’s going to have to straighten up the mess. And more than anything, he hates – he hates – keeping things in neat little rows on tidy little shelves. “I have to clean that up, you know!” he shouts, wishing words could cleave as deeply as bullets.

“No,” the gunman says. “I’ll do you a favor. You won’t have to worry about them.” He points the pistol at Brock’s head. “Better get the wagons in a circle, Tonto. There’s going to be trouble in the camp tonight.”

“Hey!” Brock yells. He jerks to one side as the gun goes off with the loudest noise he has ever heard. A hammer of fire slams into the side of his head, and he’s knocked backwards. He spins completely around and crashes to the floor.

*

A long time passes before Brock sits up, and when he does, he does so very slowly. His vision swirls. His head pounds. The store is empty again; he is alone. Outside, the feeble winter sun is rising. He touches the side of his forehead, and when he draws back his finger, it’s red and sticky. The bullet grazed his head; it tore away a lot of skin, and missed killing him just by the thickness of his skull. He’s still alive. More or less. With a sigh, he slumps backwards again, and says out loud, “With or without you, John, I’m going back home.”

And singing a song of healing, he passes out.

Again.

* * *