The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes. Emilie Rose

      Walker tried to picture Tamra in San Francisco, far away from the Lakota. Knowing that she’d chosen SFSU because of him and Charlotte made him feel closer to her. But it made him uncomfortable, too. She’d grown up in his shadow, and now he was struggling to survive in hers.

      “Are their different types of Sioux?” he asked, still trying to absorb his culture. “Or are they all Lakota?”

      “There are three branches,” she responded. “Lakota, Dakota and Nakota, who are also called the Yankton Sioux.”

      “So where does Oglala come into it?”

      “It’s one of the seven Lakota bands. It means ‘they scatter their own’ or ‘dust scatters.’” She sent him a half-cocked smile. “But the Oglala have seven bands of their own, too.”

      “Okay, now you’re confusing me.” He shook his head and laughed. “So much for Indian 101. This is turning into an advanced course.”

      She laughed, too. “It’s not as complicated as it sounds.”

      “If you say so.” He glanced out the window and noticed they were on the reservation, heading toward the town of Pine Ridge. He recognized the road.

      “What kind of work do you do?” he asked. “What keeps you busy around here?”

      “I’m the director of volunteer services for a local nonprofit organization. We supply food and clothing to people on the reservation.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “An Indian charity?” Was that the extent of her life? Everything Lakota?

      “It’s important,” she countered. “It’s meaningful.”

      “Yes, but being the director of volunteer services doesn’t require a marketing degree. Sounds like a waste of your college years to me.”

      She gave him a quick, sharp look. “I coordinate media events, too.”

      Small-time stuff, he imagined.

      By the time they arrived in downtown Pine Ridge, tension buzzed between them. So much for enjoying her company, he thought. For her easy sense of humor. But he supposed it was his fault. He’d criticized her job.

      He considered apologizing, then decided that would be dishonest. Her education wasn’t being utilized, not to its full potential. She’d cheated herself by coming back to the reservation, by living on her homeland.

      The town of Pine Ridge had one traffic light and four water towers. There was plenty of activity, generated from the Billy Mills Auditorium, tribal offices and the Oglala Department of Public Safety, but Walker noticed that a lot of people were doing nothing, just sitting on a bench, talking away their boredom.

      Tamra stopped for gas at Big Bat’s, a convenience store, eatery and gathering place for locals. He’d heard it was Lakota owned and operated, unlike some of the businesses on Pine Ridge. He had to admit it was impressive, something he hadn’t expected when he’d first arrived. But even so, he hadn’t been inclined to hang out there.

      The pizza place was in town, too. As well as a taco stand and a market.

      “Are you still interested in having pizza with me?” he asked, as they left the gas station. “Or did I blow it?”

      “I’ll eat with you. But after we go by my friend’s house, remember?”

      Yeah, he remembered. “Is this a traditional friend? An elder? Should I avoid eye contact?”

      “Michele is the same age as me. We went to high school together, and she won’t care if you stare at her. She’ll probably like it.”

      A smile twitched his lips. “The way you do?”

      “I never said that.”

      “You didn’t have to.”

      She ignored his last comment, so they drove in silence, past empty fields and into a hodge-podge of unattractive houses.

      “So what’s the deal with Michele?” he wanted to know. “Why are we visiting her?”

      “I’m loaning her some money. Her daughter’s birthday is coming up, and she’s short right now.”

      He looked out the window, saw sporadic rows of wire fences, garments hanging on outdated clotheslines. “Is she on welfare?”

      “She’s a single mom. And, yes, she receives Aid to Dependent Children.” Tamra’s truck rattled on the roughly paved road. “Does it matter?”

      “I just wondered.” He couldn’t imagine not having any money for your child’s birthday. But he knew his parents had been destitute at the time his dad died. If he looked deep within himself, he could recall the shame it had caused him, the feeling of despair.

      For Walker there had been nothing worse than being poor.

      Michele’s house was a pale-blue structure with a set of worn-out steps leading to the front door. It was, Walker thought, a stark contrast to the diversity of the land. The grassy plains, rolling hills, buttes and mesas. The beauty he’d refused to appreciate.

      A little girl, maybe three or four years old, sat on the steps, with a loyal dog, a mutt of some kind, snuggled beside her.

      Although a group of older kids played in the yard, he sensed she was the upcoming birthday girl.

      “How many kids does Michele have?” he asked Tamra, as she parked her truck in a narrow driveway.

      “Just one. The rest are her nieces and nephews.”

      Walker watched them run through the grass, tagging each other with laughter and adolescent squeals. “Do they all live here?”

      She nodded. “Along with their parents. There’s a shortage of houses on the reservation. They don’t have anywhere else to go.”

      He thought about his trilevel condo, the sprawling rooms with French doors and leaded-glass windows. The redwood deck and private hot tub. The enormous kitchen he rarely used.

      He ran his hand through his hair, smoothing it away from his face, trying to shed the sudden guilt of having money. “That’s a lot of people in one house.”

      “It’s a common situation.”

      “How common?”

      “The Tribal Housing Authority is trying to provide homes, but they have a waiting list of at least twelve hundred people. It’s been like that for a long time.” She turned to look at him. “When I was growing up, before Mary took us in, my mom and I drifted, trying to find a permanent place to stay. In the summer we camped out, but in the winter we had to find some sort of roof over our heads.”

      He pictured her as a little girl, living like a half-starved gypsy. “Why are these houses so close together and my mom’s by itself?”

      “Mary lives on her family’s land allotment, which is what most families did in the old days. They had log cabins, with gardens and animals.” She sighed, her voice fading into the stillness of her truck. “But as time passed, it became increasingly difficult for people to remain on their land allotments. They couldn’t afford to improve their homes, to stay in the country with no running water or electricity. And some families lost their land altogether, so they had to move into government projects.”

      “Like this?”

      She nodded. “It’s called cluster housing. It was instituted in the 1960s to provide modern conveniences. But the lack of economic infrastructure created reservation ghettos.” Tamra reached for her purse. “Cluster housing is only a portion of the problem. There are families who still don’t have electricity or running water. People staying in abandoned shacks or old trailers. Or camping out or living in their cars, the way my mom and I did.”

      He couldn’t think of an appropriate response. He’d witnessed the poverty, seen signs of it all over the