Thunder on the Plains Read Free Page A

I got was much worse. Much worse.
    â€œYour mother is very disappointed in you,” Bill said in the car. “She told me she didn’t want to see you or talk to you until tonight.”
    That was it. No yelling. No threatening. Just a message. This was serious. When we got home, I went straight to my room and just lay on my bed—for a long time.
    When Mom got home she stayed busy in the kitchen. I could hear her in there clanging pans and rattling pots.
    Bill brought me a tray of food at dinnertime. He left it on the desk without saying a word. But I couldn’t eat. I just waited.
    At around eight o’clock, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I got up and went into the living room. Mom had changed out of her businessclothes and put on a pair of old jeans and a denim shirt. Now she looked more like the mom I’d always known.
    â€œYell at me or ground me or something, Mom,” I pleaded. “I can’t take this silent treatment.” I dropped down on the couch next to her.
    I’m glad none of my friends were around, because she took me in her arms just like she used to do when I was little. I calmed down and looked into her eyes.
    â€œTell me the story, Mom.” My voice seemed small and distant. “Tell me how you and Dad moved from the reservation to the city. I haven’t heard it in a long time.”
    She smiled and reached over to the coffee table. Picking up our old family photo album, she opened it to the first page. I leaned against her shoulder. Inside the book was a faded picture of a young American Indian couple. She pointed to the picture.
    â€œYour father and I were young when we got married. We were struggling to make a living out on the reservation,” she began. “Welived with your grandma and grandpa in a small frame house.”
    She pointed to a picture of an older American Indian couple in front of a woodframe house. She turned the page to a picture of my dad riding horseback.
    â€œOne day your father heard about a new government program that trained Indians how to do new jobs,” she continued. “The only catch was that we had to move to a city to learn the skill and get a job.” The next picture showed Mom and Dad standing in front of a pickup truck loaded with furniture and suitcases.
    â€œWe moved into a house that the Bureau of Indian Affairs found for us on the lower east side of Los Angeles. Your dad began training for his new job as a welder.” The next picture showed my dad holding a welding torch and mask.
    â€œThen, a few years later, you were born.” A turn of the page took us to a picture of Mom and Dad holding a little brown baby with a bushy head of black hair.
    â€œThat’s when we took a trip back home to Montana, to Rocky Point, to show you off to the family.” She turned to a photo taken on the reservation with all of our family standing around. “Your uncle Robert and your grandparents were so proud.”
    That made Mom think of something.
    â€œYour uncle Robert,” she said, closing the photo album. “I haven’t talked to him in a long time.” She put the album back on the coffee table.
    â€œSon, we’re going to get through this,” she said with a serious tone. “I know you still miss your father. I do, too. And even though I don’t approve of fighting, I bet he would have been proud of you today.”
    I certainly didn’t expect those words to come out of my mother’s mouth.
    â€œOne of the teachers who broke up the fight told me what Willy did to make you go after him,” she explained. “Your father had to put up with the same kind of insults when we first moved here. He got into fights over it, too.”
    â€œSometimes it really sucks,” I said. “Why did we have to be born Native American, anyway? We don’t seem to fit in with other kinds of Americans.”
    â€œI know it seems like that sometimes,” she sighed.