Disclaimer: This story is an amateur effort, written purely for fun, and is not intended to breach any copyrights dealing with the television production "The Sentinel".Unscheduled Stop
by ysone
~~~ "Kikabé."
I stopped the pitchfork in mid-swing, a groan barely suppressed at the nickname. Grandfather only called me that when he wanted something. I turned slowly, certain I did not want to hear what was coming.
"You will take me to town," the old man announced before turning and heading for the ancient truck parked beside the barn.
"I can't," I called after him.
Grandfather stopped and looked back at me, waiting for an explanation.
I suppressed another groan. Experience told me it was pointless to argue with the old man, but I had to try anyhow. "I have chores, mishomes." I slipped into our native tongue, hoping it would soften him up. "I have to finish here, then--"
"Chores can wait," Grandfather said.
My eyebrows crept up my forehead. This was certainly out of character. Grandfather had always maintained that chores came first. It was a throwback to his childhood days on the reservation, when responsibility could mean the difference between eating and starving. I understood that, but sometimes I bristled under the strict discipline. I was eighteen, almost a man. In my grandfather's day, I would have been an experienced warrior by now, with many white men's scalps on my belt. I smiled at the mental image. Some warrior I would make. I got queasy dissecting a frog in biology class.
I tried another tact with Grandfather. "I can't go to town like this." I gestured at my sweat and dirt stained clothing. "I need to take a shower and change--"
"I must go now," Grandfather announced firmly and turned back toward the truck.
Knowing how to accept defeat gracefully, I sighed deeply and dug the keys from my pocket. Looked like I was headed for town.
Grandfather sat silently, staring straight ahead as I maneuvered the old Chevy around the worst of the potholes in the old road that led from our small farm into La Crosse. He didn't make this trip often. He had long since reached the age where he preferred to sit in the shade of the porch, reminiscing about his younger, wilder days. It took some doing to convince the old man to go to town even for the tribal meetings.
"So, mishomes, why are we going to town?" I knew it had to be something really important.
Grandfather was silent for so long I figured he hadn't heard the question. His hearing wasn't the greatest anymore. I was just about to repeat myself, when he spoke.
"There is someone I must meet."
Again my eyebrows crawled up my forehead in surprise. "Anyone I know?" I queried, hoping to get something useful out of him.
He waited until I finished evading a particularly large pothole before answering. "No."
I waited, but he didn't elaborate, so I let it go. I would see soon enough anyhow.
When we got into town, Grandfather directed me to park in front of Lawson's, the local general store. It was the meeting place for the older population of the small town. The younger generation did most of their shopping at the new superstore on the edge of town, but as long as there were people like my grandfather alive, Lawson's would stay in business.
I got out of the truck and followed Grandfather up the steps and onto the large porch that fronted the store. The porch was lined with chairs that any other time of the day would be full of old men, white men and red men alike, seeking shade and company. But it was early afternoon and the hot sun had driven most everyone indoors, to their air conditioners.
To my surprise, rather than enter the business to search for whomever he was to meet, Grandfather sat down in one of the chairs, gesturing to me to do the same. After a brief hesitation, I did.
Grandfather immediately began scanning the road in both directions, obviously watching for someone. My curiosity was piqued, but after the unsuccessful attempt in the truck to get information, I knew better than to ask.
For almost an hour we sat there, occasionally speaking to friends as they came and went. Grandfather said little, only nodding occasionally at the greetings. His eyes never left the road.
I sat patiently for another ten or fifteen minutes. It was obvious that this was important to Grandfather, so I was making an effort, but the combination of the heat and the boredom was beginning to wear on me. I tapped my foot restlessly on the plank floor of the porch until Grandfather's glare stopped me.
I had just opened my mouth to tell Grandfather I was going to find us a cold drink when the roar of the approaching Greyhound stopped me. Lawson's served as the small town's official bus station. The bus pulled up to the sidewalk and stopped, but didn't cut its engine. The door opened with a loud protest of squeaking metal and the driver climbed out, heading for the baggage storage bins under the vehicle.
I watched in idle curiosity as a young woman stepped from the bus, her arms wrapped around a sleepy little boy. The woman was very attractive and didn't appear much older than me. Brilliant red hair was pulled into a leather clasp at her neck. Exhaustion lined her slender face.
She shook the small shoulder of her sleeping charge and whispered in his ear. The boy sat up in her arms and smiled sleepily. She set him on the sidewalk and turned her attention to the bus driver. The boy stood quietly, his very large blue eyes taking in every detail of the area. A mass of wild curls surrounded a small round face full of expression.
The driver set a single, battered suitcase on the sidewalk beside the woman and disappeared into Lawson's, probably to check for new passengers. He was back out in seconds, climbing into the bus and pulling away to resume his journey.
The woman picked up the suitcase and climbed the steps to the porch where Grandfather and I were sitting. The boy followed closely. She deposited the suitcase beside a short bench, then set the large canvas bag she was carrying on her shoulder beside it. Turning to the boy, she lifted him up and set him on the bench.
"Okay, baby," she said, lifting the bag to the bench and rummaging through it, "I need you to sit right here for a little while. I'm going to go see if I can find out where our ride is, okay?"
She pulled a dog-eared notebook from the oversized bag and handed it to the boy. Then reaching back into the bag, she found a small plastic bag containing a handful of broken crayons and gave it to him, too.
"I want you to stay put, you understand me? No wandering off, okay?"
The boy smiled brightly up at her as he nodded vigorously. "I got it."
The woman returned the smile and straightened. "Good. I'll be right back," she repeated, ruffling his curls. She turned to leave but the boy stopped her.
"Mama, I'm hungry."
Her smile faltered briefly. "I know, baby. I'll bring you back something, okay?"
"Okay," he happily agreed.
She stepped down from the porch and headed up the street. The boy watched until she disappeared, then looked around him, his expressive little eyes wide with wonder. As they came to rest on me, I smiled at him. He quickly returned the smile.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi, yourself," I returned.
His gaze slid to Grandfather and his eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. I glanced over at Grandfather and was surprised to see the old man staring intently at the boy.
After a minute, the boy said, "Hi."
"Hello."
The boy continued his perusal of the area, then gathered up the notebook and thumbed through it to a blank page. He picked up the bag of crayons and carefully unrolled the top, pulling out a blue one and attacking the page with enthusiasm. His foot beat a rhythm on the side of the bench as he poured over his artwork.
Every few minutes his gaze slid up to Grandfather. Finally, he lifted his head and asked, "Are you an Indian?"
Grandfather nodded.
The boy's eyes widened impossibly further. "Wow," he whispered
I hid my amusement behind my hand.
"I bet you're at least a hundred," the boy speculated.
To my amazement, Grandfather actually chuckled. "Not yet. But I'm working on it."
The boy suddenly hopped down from the bench and trotted over to Grandfather, his right hand extended. "My name is Blair," he said in a very grown up manner, "but you can call me Kid. Everybody does."
Grandfather took the offered hand and shook it solemnly. "I think I prefer Blair, if it's all the same to you. I am Puykowa."
Puzzlement crossed Blair's expressive face. "I though Indians had names like Running Bear or Gray Fox."
I couldn't hold back the laugh at that. "You watch too much television, kid."
"This rude young man is my grandson, Louis."
Blair politely stuck his hand out and I shook it, surprised at the firmness of his small grip.
The boy climbed into the chair beside Grandfather. His feet dangled halfway to the floor, and he kicked them in the air. He seemed to be a mass of bottled up energy looking for a way to escape. I suddenly felt sorry for his mother, having to deal with him in the confines of the bus.
"How old are you?" Blair asked Grandfather.
"I am 84 years old."
"Wow," Blair answered in visible astonishment. After a short silence, he said, "I'm gonna be seven."
"In a couple more years?" I scoffed before I could stop myself.
Blair smiled at me, a patient look in his young eyes. I assumed he had dealt with the skepticism before. "I'm small for my age," he said as though reciting someone else's words. "But I'm growin'."
He looked back at Grandfather and scrunched up his face in thought. "Are you a chief?"
Grandfather smiled and shook his head. "No, little one, I am not a chief."
"Mishomes is a shaman," I informed the kid proudly, though I knew he would have no idea what that meant.
"But I thought your name was Puycowa," he addressed Grandfather.
"Mishomes is our word for grandfather," I explained, hoping I wouldn't have to explain the concept of shaman to the child. Sometimes I should think before I speak.
"Oh." Blair was silent for a long moment, and I figured he was pondering his next question. I was unprepared for the comment that came. "I have a grandfather." It may have been my imagination, but it seemed an expression of sadness passed fleetingly through his blue eyes. "I'm gonna go see him one day."
With that announcement, Blair jumped down from the chair and made his way back to the bench to resume his artwork. Grandfather had said little, but was studying the boy intently, his sharp, old eyes seeming to look beyond the outer shell. I glanced at him, more annoyed than anything else. The old man had been so insistent about coming to town to meet one of his friends, wouldn't even let me take the time to shower and change -- though it appeared now that I would have had ample time -- and now here he was, passing the time of day with this kid, the friend apparently forgotten. Did the old man think I had no plans of my own for the day?
After a long minute, Blair looked up, the former sadness in his eyes replaced by a bright light. "I'm gonna go to school soon." He made the announcement as though it was of extreme importance.
"Aren't you a little old to just be starting school?" If, of course, he was as old as he claimed. I had my doubts.
"We've been movin' a lot," Blair explained patiently. "Mama's been teachin' me. But we're going to live with Mama's friend now. She said I can go to school there."
"And you're actually looking forward to it?" I asked in exaggerated astonishment. The kid had a lot to learn.
"Yeah, it's gonna be great!" He scribbled a few more lines on the paper, then looked up again at Grandfather. "Do you live in a teepee?"
I didn't bother to hide my smile, but left the question for Grandfather to answer.
"Not anymore, little one," the old man said, his voice soft with a patience I hadn't expected from him.
"Did you use to?" The boy's eyes were bright with excitement, and full of questions waiting to be asked.
I slouched down in my chair, resigning myself to the inevitable. It was bad enough to be stuck out here in this unbearable heat waiting for God only knows who, but to have to listen to the prattle of this child was just too much. Though, if I was honest with myself, I would have to admit that this kid was amusing and interesting at the same time. It was obvious that he had completely charmed Grandfather, not exactly a small feat.
I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, feigning disinterest as the boy prodded Grandfather with endless questions. Blair seemed to have an insatiable appetite for information.
Before long he seemed to run out of steam and the conversation grew quiet. I opened one eye briefly to see that he had turned back to his notebook. I closed my eyes again and tried to concentrate on more pleasant diversions as we continued to wait -- like Sarah Bartholomew.
A soft rumbling drew me from the indulgent daydream, and I opened my eyes, trying to track down the obnoxious noise. I glanced over at the kid and noticed him lightly rubbing his stomach as he continued to color. I turned my gaze to Grandfather and we exchanged frowns.
With a weary sigh, I stood and stepped into the store, returning shortly with a candy bar and three soft drinks. I set the candy and one of the drinks down on the bench beside the boy. He looked up at me with huge questioning eyes.
"Go ahead, kid," I prodded. "I thought you could use a break. Coloring is hard work." I softened the tease with a smile.
The boy looked at the treats longingly, then back at me. "Mama said I shouldn't take food from strangers." The words were obviously hard for him to say in light of his desire for the candy.
"Then it's a good thing we're friends, isn't it?"
Blair considered that for a moment, then a bright smile lit his face. "Yeah, it's a good thing, huh?" He reached for the candy bar, tearing the paper from it in record time and digging in.
I handed Grandfather one of the two remaining soft drinks and sat down, avoiding the old man's amused smile. Yeah, I was a soft touch, I'll admit, but I preferred to keep that knowledge to myself, thank you very much.
His hunger slightly appeased, Blair returned to his coloring, stopping every few minutes to make a comment or ask a question. The next half hour passed quickly.
I saw Blair's mother approaching, though evidently, he didn't. He jumped when she spoke, then threw her an embarrassed grin.
"You aren't talking these gentlemen's ears off, are you, baby?" she asked.
Blair leaned forward and whispered in his mother's ear, though it was loud enough for me to hear. "They're Indians, mama."
The woman threw us an apologetic smile and began gathering Blair's colors, returning them to their plastic bag. She dropped them into her canvas bag, then reached in and retrieved a foil-wrapped sandwich. "This'll hold you till we get to Uncle Mark's house, okay? Now we have to hurry, he's waiting for us down the street."
She picked up the battered suitcase and started down the steps.
"Just a minute, Mama," he said, setting the sandwich down on the bench. He hurriedly unwrapped the foil, then broke the sandwich into three pieces. Picking up a piece in each hand, he skipped across the porch and handed one to me, and then one to Grandfather.
"Thanks for the candy bar," he whispered to me. Then, to Grandfather, he said, "It was nice to meet you."
Before either of us could respond, the kid had grabbed the remains of his sandwich and headed down the steps after his mother. The porch seemed unnaturally quiet in the wake of Blair's departure. I turned to Grandfather.
The old man was standing, staring after the retreating figures. Suddenly, he turned to me. "Let's go home, Louis." He started for the truck.
I stood there with my mouth hanging open for a minute, then hurried after him.
"What about your friend?"
Grandfather stopped and faced me. "What friend?"
"You said you were meeting someone," I reminded him.
"I never said it was a friend," he replied.
Seeing that I wasn't satisfied with the ambiguous reply, he sighed and looked away, toward where the boy and his mother had disappeared. "In a vision, I was told to come and greet the one with the shaman's heart. This I have done."
"That little kid?"
Grandfather smiled at my astonishment. "The heart sees best with eyes closed, kibabé."
I shook my head in confusion. Why do old men always talk in riddles?
Grandfather chuckled. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Louis," he rephrased. "Let us go home now. You have chores waiting."
~~~