Today's Reading

There's no need for me to say what comes next in his reasoning. Even if someone did report it to the police, it's unlikely anything would be done, let alone actually filing a report or contacting the FBI, which has jurisdiction over reservation land.

I ease the watch back into the paper bag and set it aside. I doubt there's a print, and if there is we won't know for a year. Maybe more. Not for old bones on Native land.

As the BIA's regional archeologist, I may not have legal jurisdiction to actually investigate—that's usually a tribal officer's job—but these bones were found by me on land that I'm responsible for. That's an obligation extending beyond man's laws into the laws of nature, which I've always respected. I can at least help by doing as much legwork as possible to bring a name to the remains and answers to the family.

"I'll get started with a missing person report first thing," I say, though I don't hide the tone of my voice that suggests it's a waste of time. The FBI manages Native land, but missing Native women and girls don't typically garner their precious attention and resources. "She deserves us trying, at least."

I stare at the blood splatter on the white dress and worry again about Emma Lou. I remember her the last time I was home. No one had warned me she was using again. I found her strung out in our family's living room, under a picture our mom bought at a Quapaw tribe powwow called 'Madonna of the Plains'. A Native woman in a buckskin dress gazing bravely into the distance as she holds tight her baby in a cradleboard.

I've often thought I carry my worry for Sister the same way, strapped to my back, but all burden, no blessing.

The worry grew heavier with Emma Lou's parade of boyfriends with short tempers who were well trained in tearful apologies. But that was nothing to the drugs. My mom had her dismissive attitude and Baptist prayer circle, and my dad had his avoidance. It always fell to me to actually find Emma Lou and bring her home, full of more drugs than sense. Then she'd do it again. And again. The worry grew too large, and if I had kept going back home to Picher, it would have broken us both.

The wind unfolds in a gust that rattles the silent acres of trees around us. Chills spread along my arms, and I wish I didn't hear my grandmother's words, but I do: 'This wind is a messenger. There will be news from Unetlanvhi.'

I'm in no mood to search for signs of the Great Spirit. I'm fighting the idea of Emma Lou's death taking root. As if my grandmother's god is saying this time the worry of failing to save my sister will not painlessly float past my eye.

"The intern is here," Ellis says as a van bumps along the narrow path.

The wheels spin deep tracks in the spring mud and crush the plants and few wildflowers edging the trail. I already don't like this intern, and I haven't even met him yet.

I dig the toe of my boot into the mud and try to release the worry for Emma Lou. I swore I was done when I said goodbye to Sister three years ago in a hospital bed. I haven't returned to Oklahoma since. Instead I am here seeking justice and peace for what's been hidden in the earth.

"Let's go," I say, relieved at the kick of anger instead of helpless fear. "That intern sure as hell isn't going to screw up my scene."

2

The coroner's van jerks to a sudden stop as if striking an invisible tree.

The driver's-side door flies open, and a tall kid dressed head to toe in blue scrubs, a medical apron, and a surgical cap nearly falls to the ground. He takes only a few steps before he starts flailing his arms and yelling. "You already started?!"

In that second, I am justified in my choice to dig alone, even if it's breaking regulations set long ago. I glance at Ellis, then back to the kid. "I'm the one digging. We start when I say."

"I wanted to do it," he says with a whine in his voice. "You were supposed to wait!"

"Wait for the coroner." I cross my arms. "You're an intern."

"I represent the coroner, thank you very much." He leans forward and jams his balled fists onto his hips. There's something maternal in the pose. I almost smile, guessing his mother probably uses the same one.

"Let's try this again. I'm Ellis Reed from the Narragansett tribal office," he says kindly, and steps toward the kid with a wave. "This is Syd Walker, archeologist from BIA. There's plenty to do."

"This dig is for my senior thesis." The kid's eyes go wide and honestly look gleeful when he glances at the skeleton. "I have to know everything."

"These remains were a human being," Ellis says firmly. "Not a science project."
...

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