At the Center. Dorothy Van Soest

I said in a voice laden with both defiance and humiliation. “I am her supervisor, and I didn’t know.”

      Two horizontal lines cut into Harrell’s forehead. “What else?”

      “She didn’t comply with the Indian Child Welfare Act.”

      There it was. I’d told the truth.

      Harrell nodded as if to say so what else is new. “So now what? What are you going to do?”

      “What are you going to do?” I shot back at him. Hadn’t he listened to anything I’d said? Hadn’t I just told him I’d tried and failed? What else could I do?

      “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I’ve done so far. I went to the police and told them what I knew. I told them they should subpoena the case record as part of their investigation.”

      My eyes widened. This I hadn’t expected. “What happened?”

      “They blew me off,” he said with a shrug. “To them, Anthony Little Eagle is just another Indian kid. Indian kids die. That’s what happens. They’ve already decided it was an accident.”

      “What makes you so sure it wasn’t?” I asked.

      “What makes you so sure it was?” he retorted.

      “I’m not,” I said. “I’m not sure about anything.”

      We sat for while in silence. Walk away while you can, I told myself. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. But then a shiver went through me and I saw myself standing on the edge of a cliff looking down at the truth of what I would become if I did nothing.

      “Looks like we’ll just have to use the information you’ve given me,” I heard J. B. Harrell say.

      I bristled. “What? What information? How could I have given you any information when I don’t have any?”

      “Well, for starters, it’s pretty clear there is a cover-up when the supervisor isn’t allowed access to the file. And I know that the social worker didn’t bother to read about the Mellon home before placing a child there. Oh yes, and there’s that matter of noncompliance with the Indian Child Welfare Act. If these allegations were made public, maybe that would get the police to subpoena the file and read it for themselves. But then again, they still might not care.”

      “I told you those things in confidence,” I said.

      He looked at me for what felt like a long time. Then he muttered under his breath, “Just another dead Indian kid.”

      “You don’t think I know what happens to Indian kids?” I said. “You don’t think I know that Anthony Little Eagle’s death was my fault? Well, I have news for you, Mr. Harrell. I know and I care and I feel responsible. But if you don’t believe me, then go ahead and use what I told you today against me. Just know that if you do, you will lose the only person who cares as much about the boy as you do.”

      J. B. Harrell’s face was expressionless as he stood up and placed a ten-dollar bill on the table. He turned to leave, then looked at me over his shoulder. “Was Hazelden the treatment center you went to?” he said. “I hear it’s nice there this time of year.”

      And then he was gone. I stared at his glass of pinot grigio, still three-quarters full, on the table in front of me, feeling as vulnerable and exposed as if I were sitting there naked.

      SIX

      September 1972

      Mary Williams hoped the colorful fish on the umbrella under which she and Jamie were huddled would help to brighten his mood. They warded off the morning chill as best they could by half walking and half running past the red-, yellow-, and brown-splattered lawns to the bus stop on the corner. When the school bus pulled up, Jamie got on, looking back at her with trust in his eyes and a brave smile on his lips. She waved until the bus was out of sight, each wave a promise to him that everything was going to be all right. And then she rushed home to get her car.

      “No one’s going to get away with hurting my son,” she muttered as she drove to the school. “No one!”

      —

      “Sean keeps calling me a dirty injun, Mom,” Jamie had sobbed. “Is there something wrong with me?”

      “There is nothing wrong with you, sweetie,” she said, squeezing him tight. “That boy is a bully and I’m going to make sure he doesn’t bother you ever again.”

      She’d wept inside to see the devastation on Jamie’s face and hear the confusion in his voice. But it was Wayne who had crushed her, later that night when they got into bed and she told him she was going to see the principal.

      “I’ll teach Jamie how to fight,” he said. “Boys get like that if they think someone’s a sissy.”

      “What? You’re worried your son is a sissy?”

      “I worry about making things worse by talking to the principal.”

      “I guess I’ll have to go to the school alone,” she’d said, as tears flooded her eyes. “But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to tell the principal that you’re going to teach Jamie how to fight and be a man.”

      “Be fair, Mary. Don’t you think it would be better to help him solve his own problems rather than solving them for him?”

      “He’s only seven, Wayne.”

      —

      Mary pulled the car to a halt in the first available space in the school parking lot. She marched to the front entrance, gripping the front of her jacket.

      “I’m here to see the principal,” she announced in the front office.

      “Mr. Nelson isn’t in yet,” the receptionist said.

      “I’ll wait.”

      She sat on a metal folding chair facing the principal’s office door. She tapped her foot. If only Wayne were here with me. If only I’d known what to say to Jamie. If only I could get my hands on the bully myself. Then the door to the hallway opened and a stocky man in a rumpled suit strolled in.

      “Good morning, Mr. Nelson,” the receptionist said. “Mrs. Williams is waiting to see you.”

      The principal swiveled his beer belly in Mary’s direction. She noted the whiteness of his teeth inside his pasted-on smile and the chubbiness of his outstretched hand and decided he was no match for her.

      “What can I do for you today, Mrs. Williams...may I call you Mary?”

      “Certainly. I’d like to speak with you in private, Ray,” she said. “It’s about a serious matter.”

      The spurious smile on the principal’s face showed her he was annoyed at having to deal with an irate mother first thing in the morning. She sat across from his desk in an overstuffed chair that was big enough for two of her, even with her being a bit on the plump side. With all the aplomb she could muster, she plunged in.

      “Jamie is in tears. He can’t sleep. Sean, a boy in his class, is calling him names. Pushing him. He was so excited about being in second grade this year, he couldn’t wait to go to school. Now he makes up excuses not to go. Twice this week he pretended to be sick. He didn’t tell me until last night what was going on. I think he was ashamed.” She gripped the arms of the chair and bent her upper body toward him. “I’m sure you don’t want bullying in your school any more than I do, Ray. I know you’ll make sure that boy is punished.”

      The principal scratched his chin and glanced out the window. “It’s good you came in,” he lied. “Tell me, how is Jamie doing in school otherwise?”

      “He’s being bullied. He’s being called a dirty injun. How do you think he’s doing?”

      “I’m not suggesting...” He paused. “It’s just that sometimes when children like Jamie reach second grade, they start to