Pigs in Heaven - Barbara Kingsolver [129]
Alice hands Annawake a handkerchief. Young people never carry them, she’s noticed. They haven’t yet learned that heartbreak can catch up to you on any given day.
Annawake folds and unfolds the cotton square on her lap. “We see so many negative images of ourselves, Alice. Especially off-reservation. Sometimes these girls make a break for the city, thinking they’ll learn to be blonde, I guess, but they develop such contempt for themselves they abandon their babies at hospitals or welfare departments. Or a parking lot. Rather than trust to family.”
“It’s a sad story,” Alice says. “But if you make Turtle leave the only mama she knows now, you’re going to wreck a couple of lives.”
“I know that.” Annawake looks down, tucking behind her ear a lock of hair that immediately falls out again. “I could also tell you that some wrecked lives would be made whole again. There’s no easy answer. I’m trying everything I can think of to avoid legal intervention. I’d kind of cooked up an alternate plan, but it doesn’t seem like it’s working out.” She gives Alice the same careful study again, looking for something.
“What does the law say?”
“That’s easy. The ICWA says a child should be placed with relatives if they’re available, or with other members of the child’s tribe, or, third choice, with a member of another Native American tribe. The law is clear.”
“How’s your conscience?” Alice asks.
Annawake lifts her feet out of the water and splashes a little, causing the minnows to flee. “The thing is, I’m really not jaded and cynical. My boss thinks I’m a starry-eyed idealist. That’s the whole reason I pursued this case, instead of minding my own business. At the time I met your daughter, I had never experienced a crisis of faith.”
Alice looks up at the sky, so much brighter and more silent than the one reflected below. “I wish I could say I always knew what was right,” she tells this mysterious child.
Annawake brushes Alice’s hand so lightly she could have imagined it.
28
Surrender Dorothy
THUNDER POUNDS IN THE DISTANCE and rain coats the Dodge’s windshield, drifting across it in sheets like the hard spatter against a shower curtain. Taylor bangs on the steering wheel. “This isn’t a city, it’s a carwash!”
Turtle looks away, out the window on her side. They are parked in front of the Kwik Mart, held hostage by the rain, hoping it might lighten up enough to let Taylor make a call from the pay phone.
Taylor grips the steering wheel hard, until the weakness in her forearms runs in slow warm-water currents up into her shoulders and neck. She blows out air. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the rain.”
Turtle mumbles something, rolling Mary idly in her lap.
“What?”
Still looking away, she pronounces: “You’re always mad at something.”
“Oh, Turtle.” Taylor has to bite her tongue to keep from snapping, “I am not!” If she weren’t so miserable, she would laugh at her terrible mothering skills. She stares out the window on her side, toward the washed-out vacant lot next door, empty tonight. Apparently the criminal element has the sense to stay home in this weather. They probably have nice homes, Taylor thinks, and VCRs. As drug dealers, they would have a decent income. Probably they’re home watching America’s Most Wanted, with their heat cranked up to seventy-five degrees.
“How was school today?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
Taylor turns in the seat to face Turtle, tucking her feet under her. She taps Turtle on the shoulder politely. “Listen, you, I want to talk about it.”
Turtle slowly brings around her face, with its question-mark eyebrows.
“What was the best thing that happened?”
Turtle thinks about it. “There wasn’t any best thing.”
“Okay, what was the worst thing?”
“Lisa Crocker made fun of my pants.”
“Your bicycle pants? What’s wrong with those? All the kids wear those, I’ve seen them.”
“She says I wear them every day.”
“Well, that’s not true. On the other days you wear your jeans.”
Turtle