A Horse Named Sorrow

55

247 55 L ouis found us sleep­ ing under a blan­ ket. “Hoka hey!” he ­ shouted. He ­ clamped the new hose in place in no time while Eu­ gene lit up his pipe. Back on the road, I asked Louis why he kept call­ ing me Blue Truck. He ­ shrugged his shoul­ ders. “If I’m Blue Truck, I’d have a bad car­ bu­ re­ tor,” I pro­ tested. He ­ arched one eye­ brow. “Then you’d be Blue Truck with a Bad Car­ bu­ re­ tor.” “But ­ doesn’t it need to make some kind of sense—like ­ shouldn’t I have ­ asthma or some­ thing?” “Do ya?” “No.” “Well then, we’ll just keep it Blue Truck.” He ­ looked at me. I ­ looked at him. He was be­ gin­ ning to sound like one of the ­ eight-year-olds at the Y. “You ­ aren’t mak­ ing any sense.” “No, I’m not. And ­ that’s just the point.” The ques­ tion that was my face. I ­ looked at Eu­ gene, who just ­ grinned and ­ leaned for­ ward to the wind­ shield and ­ looked sky­ ward and did the sign lan­ guage mo­ tion for ­ clouds, my fa­ vor­ ite ­ signed word—a roil­ ing, boil­ ing ­ hand-over-hand Chi­ nese tai chi ex­ pres­ sion of grace. “Well, Blue Truck, it makes total sense if you get it.” 248 I ­ looked back at him, per­ plexed. “You know, Blue Truck, when you just know some­ thing?” (and he­ pounded his heart with his ­ closed fist). I con­ sid­ ered it and then I nod­ ded. I knew. Like know­ ing I ­ needed to bathe Jimmy. Know­ ing he was a horse and a sal­ mon both. See­ ing Eu­ gene in the mar­ ket, just like a tur­ nip, ­ pulled up out of the soil, and me know­ ing I ­ needed a tur­ nip. How I knew I ­ needed to tell him every­ thing and ­ didn’t need to talk to him at all. “But not if you think about it,” Louis ­ warned me. I ­ smiled. After a while, Eu­ gene ­ pulled out nail ­ polish and set to paint­ ing my fin­ ger­ nails: one yel­ low; one red; one black; one white; and leav­ ing the thumb un­ painted. “I’m talk­ ing about the ­ spirit world here, and I prob­ ably ­ shouldn’t be. Smoke, he’s wiser—he keeps his mouth shut.” “Well, we’re all Cath­ o­ lics here, right?” He ­ looked at me again. “Are we?” “It said so in that book.” “Cath­ o­ lic, eh? I ­ wouldn’t ­ really call that the ­ spirit world.” “I’m sorta jok­ ing.” “Sorta?” “Well, I like Mary and ­ churches, but I’m more of a Bud­ dhist, I guess.” “Nam ramay kyo, all that?” “No, not that kind.” “That’s good—­ though I do know a woman in Man­ der­ son who got a lot of ap­ pli­ ances using that chant. ­ There’s some­ thing to it.” I held up my hand and Eu­ gene blew on it. Then he ­ started in on his own. “La­ kota col­ ors you got there, the four di­ rec­ tions.” Louis ges­ tured with his head. “Do I make a wish?” I was think­ ing I’d get four in­ stead of the usual three. 249 “No.” And he fur­ rowed his brow. “The power is in ask­ ing for help, not wish­ ing for it, Blue Truck. ­ That’s what cry­ ing for a vi­ sion is about.” “Cry­ ing for a vi­ sion?” “Well, ­ that’s In­ dian for ask­ ing . . . like ­ really ask­ ing.” And he­ punched his heart. “So then, some­ one like Crazy Horse asked?” “He asked to be shown how he could serve his peo­ ple.” I nod­ ded. “But you see, the point is: a vi­ sion an­ swers a ques­ tion. ­ There’s no wish­ ing. It’s about mak­ ing a de­ ci­ sion to serve, ask­ ing how, then lis­ ten­ ing, and then doing it.” “So, did Eu­ gene cry for a vi­ sion?” And I ­ looked at him, his head now rest­ ing in my lap as, hold­ ing aloft his hands, he con­ tin­ ued paint­ ing his nails. “Yeah, out there in Ore­ gon, be­ fore I met him. ­ Spirit told him to go back home.” I ­ looked...