He heard the correctional officers’ steps echoing off the floor and then keys as they jingled by. He did not look to see which officer. It was the 5:30 AM security walk as usual, every day. He laid in his bunk in darkness, the prison still quiet. He got up, did a quick prayer, get ready for chow. He’d make his bed, heat up some water for his coffee, fill his sink full of water, do 40 push-ups, 40 sit-ups, 40 jumping jacks and bird bath on the toilet. By then the voice on the intercom will announce to all inmates that it was ten minutes to breakfast line. He put his clothes on and was ready when all the cell doors down the row opened. He exited saying morning to his neighbors, all the faces for years now. He walked alone to chow, walking faster than most inmates to get ahead. He was not in a good mood, just another day. Yesterday he lost $2.00 at chess, then lost the Sunday night football game, another $2.00, and one earbud to his television went out. So, he shuffled along in line getting his tray and hypnotically walking to his regular table. There were only two other brothers there. Most days there was usually five at the table. It was a table reserved for Native Americans. He smiled, said good morning. Nobody talked as you usually only got five minutes to eat. He was halfway through when another brother came up behind and patted him on the shoulder. He looked up shocked out of his morning routine.
“Elder needs to speak to you after breakfast, no excuses.”
I said, “Of course, no problem.”
He left, there was no one else at the table. Then the C.O. signaled time was up. He returned his tray, walked out the chow hall, and headed in the direction of the Elder’s cell. He walked up to the open door but knocked anyway.
The Elder said, “Come in, Paco,” his man was half Mexican. He walked in,
the Elder was in bed, head propped on two pillows, blanket up to his neck. The Elder was 81 years old, health getting worse, serving multiple life sentences.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I’ve been having dreams, my time is coming,”
He was thinking you’re just old, but he played along because the old man was a serious man, once anyway.
“Sit down,”
He sat on the toilet, listening. The old man looked at him for a few minutes in silence scaring him a little. He blinked once.
“Me and you go to sweat lodge today at 11:00. We will talk to the ancestors. I die soon.”
He said OK and left to go back to his cell. At 11:00 he helped the Elder walk to the sweat lodge, exiting the housing building, out the yard gate, onto another part of the prison reserved for the sweat ledge. Four brothers were already there getting the smoke ready, he could smell the sagebrush. No one spoke but everyone hugged each other. They all stripped to their boxers, singing songs. He had left the reservation as a kid so these rituals were still new, but he went along. They were passing around the smoke pipe. Everyone took a puff, even the Elder who didn’t cough. There was more singing and chanting and they repacked the pipe. His turn came again, this time marijuana. He puffed and passed it to the Elder who took a hit without even coughing.
The head brother spoke. “Paco today the seat lodge is for you and the Elder. You must go in with him alone and do everything he tells you.”
He nodded okay. They gave him the pipe and they entered the sweat lodge, him and the Elder. The lodge was already filled with smoke so the Elder slowly shuffled to the rear side of the lodge. They knelt in front of the fire and across from each other. Paco looked at the Elder as the Elder reached for the pipe. Paco handed it to him, and they continued to pass it back and forth until it died out. The Elder sang two songs and Paco sang along. It was hot, suffocating, and he got weak and sweaty. The Elder spoke.
“I used to be your age. I knew nothing and I regret all the wrong I have done. I’m happy to die. I’m happy you’re my brothers.”
They sat in silence a couple of minutes then the Elder started chanting in a tongue he did not recognize. It was not loud but loud enough. It continued a long time. The sweat lodge started spinning and he started to see three of the Elder. He tried to clear his eyes taking deep breaths. It did not work. More chanting, the Elder was smiling while talking to him, but he could not hear. The lodge continued to spin, and he wanted to scream it to stop, but he could not. Smoke filling his lungs he finally blacked out. He awoke outside the lodge as the brothers were wiping sweat off him, giving him water. He looked around and the Elder was sitting next to him just staring solemnly. The Elder spoke.
“The spirit showed you what you needed to see. It is done. Thank you, Paco.”
Paco didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. He got up as they all cleaned up the area and headed back to their housing buildings. He had trouble sleeping that night.
The next three days went by quick and uneventfully. He did not see the Elder around so he finally went to the old man’s cell.
“How are you,” he said, the Elder was lying in bed as before.
“Come in, I knew you’d come.”
He sat down as the Elder continued.
“Here this I give you. When I die open it and please do this for me, promise me.”
It was a journal, a small one tied with a ribbon.
“Sure, I promise.”
“You parole soon so please do these things for me.” The Elder closed his eyes and went to sleep. He left.
The next day at yard he was called back to the building. The Elder had died. His body was taken out and that was the last he saw of the elder. He placed the journal under books he had in his cell and didn’t look at it. Days went by. Months went by. He slept badly every night, nightmares on some. He kept seeing the elder talking to him, smiling at him, laughing, playing like a little kid in a field full of sunlight. It was well before his release. He had done eight years for a robbery gone bad.
After some time, he signed papers and received the address to report for parole. He sat down in his cell and saw the journal under the books and grabbed it. Turning it over in his hands loosening the ribbon tied around it, he opened it. There were sketches on some pages and notes on others that he did not understand. He fingered through it. The back had photographs, small ones, of the Elder in prison with other inmates when he was young. There were more pictures of the Elder on the outside smiling dressed in Native American garb. He flipped back to the front of the journal again and on the tenth page in English he read this. Paco, hello. I did many bad things in my life. Things no man should do or be forgiven for. I ask that you do me a favor and go find my brothers’ and sisters’ children and give them the journal. Tell them I’m sorry and I’ve gone to the Ancestors. They’ll know what to do. Thank you.
There was an address of a reservation in Dakota and names on a handmade family tree. He placed the journal on top of his Bible. His release came and he had given his property to the brothers. He grabbed his Bible and the journal and left his cell. He left prison in a bus to a bus depot then to a halfway house and reported to his parole officer. He no sooner left, and he started drinking and doing drugs all over again.
The nightmares continued. Then one night at a bar he collapsed and was taken to a hospital. The doctor said his liver was bad and his heart was bad, and if he didn’t stop the drinking and drugs, he could die soon. He had stopped years ago because of bad health, but he no long cared. He returned to his room at the halfway house and the first thing his eyes laid upon was the journal. He paged through it and decided he would finally do what the Elder wanted. He reported to his parole officer one more time, went to a pawn shop and sold his jewelry, received his welfare cash, and made a phone call to the reservation in Dakota in the Black Hills. He talked to the tribal council and asked for the name the Elder provided for his brother. They responded that there were people there by that name. He told them he was looking for a brother to notify him of a family death and they invited him to come. He bought a ticket and headed out. He arrived at the Visitors Center on the reservation and asked for directions to the house of the Elder’s family. He went there and knocked on the door. A young woman answered. He explained why he was there, but she denied that it was her family. She suggested that it was the same name but the wrong family since there were many of them with similar names on the reservation. The particular family he was looking for had moved years before. They had lived across the street, and he should go over and ask the current residents if they knew anything about the family who left. So, he did. He knocked and an Indian in his forties answered the door. He said that the family had lived there and that he had bought the house from them ten years ago. He said they moved to another reservation in Dakota. So, he went back to the Visitors Center and shared his dilemma with them. They gave him the number of the reservation but when he tried calling, there was no such reservation. He did not know what to do. He went to a bar and started drinking. He asked around and bought some drugs. He told the bartender his problems and the bartender suggested he call a number to a tribal organization that tried to keep track of Native family trees. He drank a little longer, went outside, and called the organization. He provided the Elder’s name, tribe, age, and his brothers’ and sisters’ names. They suggested a new reservation that matched the brothers’ name and family. He was about to leave when the tribal elders invited him to their celebration. He was drunk and in no mood to travel so he stayed. As it was getting dark, he was led to an open field. People were everywhere sitting around fires, cooking on grills, talking and dancing. He sat down and watched. They sang and danced like they had been doing for hundreds of years. Kids came up to play with him and share their food. He got up and danced as the flames danced. The stars shone bright, and it was a great night. He awoke in a tee pee and left the reservation feeling sick. Hungover, he bought a beer and got on a bus to the next reservation. He arrived close to 11 AM. He was directed to the house that matched the name given. He knocked, and again a woman answered. He explained who he was and why he was there, but she told him she didn’t know anyone by that name. She said her dad matched the name he was looking for, but he had no relatives close to the Elders. He headed for the Visitors Center and called the family tree organization again. They asked him to repeat the information on the Elder and his number and said they would call him back and hung up.
He walked around the reservation, and some children asked him to quarterback a flag football game, so he did. An hour later, he went on walking and befriended a stray dog. He ran into a group of tribesmen who invited him to the sweat lodge. He participated a while but really wanted a drink, so he went to a bar. The dog followed. He drank but was feeling sick and had to use the restroom to take a leak. While he was there, he coughed, spit blood and collapsed on the floor. The bartender woke him up and he was able to walk out, the dog finding him quickly. He walked along the streets as evening was coming. He bought some food to share with the dog. His phone rang and the family tree organization said they found a granddaughter who they called and said that she would be waiting for him. They gave him the reservation and directions. He could not get there today so he walked back to the sweat lodge vomiting on the way. He fell asleep there but no one came. He and the dog awoke at dawn and started hitchhiking down the road. They came upon a gas station and bought some food. He finally caught a ride on a truck. Him and the dog got off at an intersection and kept walking. They caught a couple more rides and, in the afternoon, he arrived at the reservation. He went to the address and knocked on the door. The granddaughter answered with a big smile and invited him in. He was so tired; he handed her the journal. She opened it reading through smiling and laughing through tears. She looked at him and said they were poems the Elder wrote to his brothers and sisters and his grandchildren who no longer were alive. He said he left money somewhere from selling land that was in the tribe for many years. She invited him for dinner, and he said yes too tired to go on. He ate talking little. Her kids came to talk to him, so he listened to them rattle on smiling at their jokes as they played with the dog. He fell asleep on the couch and was again up at dawn. He left and started hitching some, walking some, catching rides along the way. Around 2 PM that day he arrived at the reservation he was born and raised in. Before leaving, he walked around remembering the houses that were mostly vacant now. He knocked on his cousin’s house, but they no longer lived there. He went to the house he once lived in, but it was no longer there. His dad had left and disappeared when he was six. His mom died a few years back. He had a daughter that he did not know where she was and who did not want to see him anyway. He went and bought some liquor, a bottle of vodka, and started drinking walking to the sweat lodge with the dog still following. He got to the sweat lodge, undressed to his boxers, started a fire, and continued to drink. He started to sing, chanting, singing as it got darker. The dog watched with eyes sparkling.
He started smiling. There were people dancing and singing as he happily watched. But these were not people, they were ghosts; the Elder, his mother, his cousins. They were singing, laughing, asking him to join in. A great big owl came and sat on a branch looking at him silently staring. The world started spinning, the stars too. He saw himself running through the fields as a kid with his brother and his cousins playing cowboys and Indians. The Elder stood under the tree and the owl still above, both staring. The stars started raining from the sky and he chased them. The night slowly disappeared, and dawn came.
The reservation tribesmen found him in the sweat lodge not breathing, dead. No dog around but a great big owl on a branch above watching. He was buried at the reservation cemetery and the reservation kids brought flowers to his grave. The flowers died, withered, and disappeared. No one even came to visit him.
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