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carlyinromeRay is compromised.
Tiospaye is a word that means family, but translates literally to relation. As in the way things are connected. As in the way I am connected to you.
Ray’s knuckles are bruised, and his nose is broken. The disjointed cartilage swells his face, and his skin is crusty with blood; he can’t recognize himself in the mirror.
Ray washes off the blood in the dim, dirty bathroom of his hotel room, the radiator on the wall rusty and groaning, the wallpaper peeling and unclean. The sink is the old-fashioned kind, a porcelain bowl on top of a skinny pipe, and Ray wonders how old the building is. The water in the sink is probably red, but one of the bulbs in the overhead light is broken, leaving him in such shadows that the water is dark, but without color. Everything is monochrome; Ray sees things in shades of grey.
The mirror above the sink is fractured, and Ray watches his reflection bend as he takes the damaged cartilage in his thumb and forefinger and twists, setting his broken nose. It hurts. It hurts so much Ray’s mouth goes dry; his head swims.
Panting, Ray lets his weight fall to the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror; he looks better with his nose in the right place, with his skin scrubbed, but his eyes are those of a feral animal. Ray remembers a book from his childhood: the cover was the terrifying, jagged outline of a demon wolf, the animal black on a red background except for the beast’s eyes—like that. His eyes look like that.
His father—his real father—had read him the book, and Ray had cried.
Ray leaves the bathroom, shutting the light off behind him. He closed the curtains when he returned home; the bedroom is dark, too, and he fumbles for a moment before finding the switch for the light. His gun is in the first drawer of the bedside table, next to the Bible.
Ray sits on the bed. He takes off his shoes, his socks, rests his bare feet on the carpet. He lines up his shoes at the edge of the bed; it was probably the Colonel who taught him that. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
There is a telephone on the bedside table, nicotine yellow and greasy with fingerprints. Ray looks at it. Deep cover, no contact, he thinks.
“I could have died today,” he says out loud.
His mouth tastes rusty. He took a gun butt to the face, stars floating in his vision as the pistol crunched against his nose. He could have taken it in the eye; that would have been worse. Maybe he doesn’t have much, but he has his senses. He could be dead without them.
I could have died today, he thinks, and I never would have seen you again.
Walter is two time zones away. It’s unreal, to think that the sun is setting at a different speed for him. Ray thinks of picking up the phone, but it seems so impossible to speak to someone so far away. The call would arrive yesterday.
Ray blinks. It’s possible he has a concussion.
There’s blood on his shirt, sticky on his chest. He should probably take it off, but his hands are too tired.
He had taken the gun, and he had pressed it into the man’s ribs, and he had put pulled the trigger until he saw the blood spread across the man’s shirt. His ears rang; he never heard the shot.
Ray closes his eyes. He thinks of picking up the phone, but all he can say is, “I killed someone today.”
Tomorrow morning, he will be debriefed. He’ll probably be pulled from his province; he’s been made. It’s never happened before. Maybe they won’t send him undercover anymore. There was a time when Ray couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his life, but those days are somewhere in the fractured past. Ray sees his memories like images in a kaleidoscope: disjointed, ever changing. There’s no way to pin down time; it just keeps moving. He remembers something from freshman science, something about how studying something changes it. It’s like that; just by remembering something, the memory is changed.
Okay, he definitely has a concussion.
Ray pushes the buttons of his shirt through the buttonholes with his thumb. His hands ache, and he moves slowly. He sits on the bed with his shirt open; he has to build up the strength to pull it from his shoulders. It’s sticky, literally heavy with blood.
He became a sharp shooter at twenty-three. He can wink an eye, hit a target from fifty feet.
None of that was necessary. The gun was so close, it burned the man’s shirt.
In Lakota, everyone is a relation of some sort. The world can be measured in how it interacts with you. Wasi’chus measure relationships in blood. Forebears; I am my father’s son. Blood means something different in Sioux. Blood quorums; where do you get your blood from?
Ray rests his hand on the phone. Picks up the receiver, holds it to his ear. The dial tone hums. He imagines the telephone wire stretching from here to Bear Creek, cables connecting him to Walter, his tiospaye. It connects them the same way blood does; Ray can press his palm to Walter’s and feel Walter’s pulse beat into his hand, like their veins run through both bodies, one circuit.
Deep cover, he thinks, no contact.
I almost died today.
Ray puts his forefinger to the keypad, presses. There is a laminated card glued to the bedside table that informs him the phone is only good for local calls; he will call collect. Walter will accept the charges; all Ray has to do is tell the recording his own name. Walter will hear his name; he will hear his voice, and he will accept the charges.
Ray waits for the call to connect. He imagines the telephone lines stretching from here to South Dakota as the wires in a suspension bridge, as the veins in their arms when their palms are pressed together.
The call picks up. Walter’s voice is waterlogged with sleep as he says, “Ray? You okay? It’s late.”
Ray has forgotten about time. He has forgotten, trapped in the kaleidoscope of memory, that their suns hang in different positions. Ray’s is coming up; Walter’s must still be hiding below the horizon.
Ray can think of a hundred things to say. He wants to talk until he’s hoarse, wants to tell Walter every second of what has happened since they’ve been apart.
He just says, “I love you. I’m coming home,” and waits for Walter to speak.
Ray’s knuckles are bruised, and his nose is broken. The disjointed cartilage swells his face, and his skin is crusty with blood; he can’t recognize himself in the mirror.
Ray washes off the blood in the dim, dirty bathroom of his hotel room, the radiator on the wall rusty and groaning, the wallpaper peeling and unclean. The sink is the old-fashioned kind, a porcelain bowl on top of a skinny pipe, and Ray wonders how old the building is. The water in the sink is probably red, but one of the bulbs in the overhead light is broken, leaving him in such shadows that the water is dark, but without color. Everything is monochrome; Ray sees things in shades of grey.
The mirror above the sink is fractured, and Ray watches his reflection bend as he takes the damaged cartilage in his thumb and forefinger and twists, setting his broken nose. It hurts. It hurts so much Ray’s mouth goes dry; his head swims.
Panting, Ray lets his weight fall to the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror; he looks better with his nose in the right place, with his skin scrubbed, but his eyes are those of a feral animal. Ray remembers a book from his childhood: the cover was the terrifying, jagged outline of a demon wolf, the animal black on a red background except for the beast’s eyes—like that. His eyes look like that.
His father—his real father—had read him the book, and Ray had cried.
Ray leaves the bathroom, shutting the light off behind him. He closed the curtains when he returned home; the bedroom is dark, too, and he fumbles for a moment before finding the switch for the light. His gun is in the first drawer of the bedside table, next to the Bible.
Ray sits on the bed. He takes off his shoes, his socks, rests his bare feet on the carpet. He lines up his shoes at the edge of the bed; it was probably the Colonel who taught him that. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
There is a telephone on the bedside table, nicotine yellow and greasy with fingerprints. Ray looks at it. Deep cover, no contact, he thinks.
“I could have died today,” he says out loud.
His mouth tastes rusty. He took a gun butt to the face, stars floating in his vision as the pistol crunched against his nose. He could have taken it in the eye; that would have been worse. Maybe he doesn’t have much, but he has his senses. He could be dead without them.
I could have died today, he thinks, and I never would have seen you again.
Walter is two time zones away. It’s unreal, to think that the sun is setting at a different speed for him. Ray thinks of picking up the phone, but it seems so impossible to speak to someone so far away. The call would arrive yesterday.
Ray blinks. It’s possible he has a concussion.
There’s blood on his shirt, sticky on his chest. He should probably take it off, but his hands are too tired.
He had taken the gun, and he had pressed it into the man’s ribs, and he had put pulled the trigger until he saw the blood spread across the man’s shirt. His ears rang; he never heard the shot.
Ray closes his eyes. He thinks of picking up the phone, but all he can say is, “I killed someone today.”
Tomorrow morning, he will be debriefed. He’ll probably be pulled from his province; he’s been made. It’s never happened before. Maybe they won’t send him undercover anymore. There was a time when Ray couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his life, but those days are somewhere in the fractured past. Ray sees his memories like images in a kaleidoscope: disjointed, ever changing. There’s no way to pin down time; it just keeps moving. He remembers something from freshman science, something about how studying something changes it. It’s like that; just by remembering something, the memory is changed.
Okay, he definitely has a concussion.
Ray pushes the buttons of his shirt through the buttonholes with his thumb. His hands ache, and he moves slowly. He sits on the bed with his shirt open; he has to build up the strength to pull it from his shoulders. It’s sticky, literally heavy with blood.
He became a sharp shooter at twenty-three. He can wink an eye, hit a target from fifty feet.
None of that was necessary. The gun was so close, it burned the man’s shirt.
In Lakota, everyone is a relation of some sort. The world can be measured in how it interacts with you. Wasi’chus measure relationships in blood. Forebears; I am my father’s son. Blood means something different in Sioux. Blood quorums; where do you get your blood from?
Ray rests his hand on the phone. Picks up the receiver, holds it to his ear. The dial tone hums. He imagines the telephone wire stretching from here to Bear Creek, cables connecting him to Walter, his tiospaye. It connects them the same way blood does; Ray can press his palm to Walter’s and feel Walter’s pulse beat into his hand, like their veins run through both bodies, one circuit.
Deep cover, he thinks, no contact.
I almost died today.
Ray puts his forefinger to the keypad, presses. There is a laminated card glued to the bedside table that informs him the phone is only good for local calls; he will call collect. Walter will accept the charges; all Ray has to do is tell the recording his own name. Walter will hear his name; he will hear his voice, and he will accept the charges.
Ray waits for the call to connect. He imagines the telephone lines stretching from here to South Dakota as the wires in a suspension bridge, as the veins in their arms when their palms are pressed together.
The call picks up. Walter’s voice is waterlogged with sleep as he says, “Ray? You okay? It’s late.”
Ray has forgotten about time. He has forgotten, trapped in the kaleidoscope of memory, that their suns hang in different positions. Ray’s is coming up; Walter’s must still be hiding below the horizon.
Ray can think of a hundred things to say. He wants to talk until he’s hoarse, wants to tell Walter every second of what has happened since they’ve been apart.
He just says, “I love you. I’m coming home,” and waits for Walter to speak.
