From the Hilltop

Chiromancer

The redhead in the poodle skirt grabbed me up from where I hid between two giant palm fronds, dragged me to the stage, told me I was the rockabilly Indian, here to save them all. I told her I wasn’t him, was just myself. That there would be no saving, that the band wasn’t that bad, anyway. By the time I moved my eyes from her, to the exit, back to her though, I was up on the stage, the drummer saying,Yeah, man, and keeping time with my steps. The redhead had her hands all over the front of my shirt, her red mouth all over the microphone, saying something loud that went out into the Easter morning crowd and bounced. The minute before, I had been standing in the back of the hotel conference room-turned-dance hall. I was scanning around for my brother-in-law and my nephew. I was trying not to think about where my sister Linda was. I fingered the knife in my pocket,the piece of paper folded four ways.I said, Chiromancer Chiromancer 2 No, no thank you, no, I don’t dance, to all the girls with their dark hair, which swooped down over their foreheads in neat little half moons that almost touched their eyebrows. It was like being back in time—all the guys with Elvis hair, the girls with skirts that made circles when their partners twirled them out onto the checkerboard floor. It was like being forward, too—the girls so grabby and bold, most of them as tattooed as the guys, the checkered floor just contact paper peeling up a little in the corners of the room. With the lights in my eyes, the drums so loud behind me, I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus entirely on any of it. I was squinty,was hot in the leather jacket my wife Diane had made me bring.It’s not cold in LasVegas,I told her.It’s cold in Minnesota , she told me, and that’s where you’re coming back to. She said it in a nice, even voice, but it came out like a threat somehow, anyway. That’s how it’s been with us for going on ten years—somebody threatening somebody quietly, somebody wearing the jacket. The redhead with the red lips let go of my shirt to stroke the microphone with both hands. She yelled something like Viva LasVegas,something about this being the last day of the greatest weekend ever. I’d only been on a stage once before,and then not really on it, more like at its edge. Senior year of high school, the year Diane moved to St. Paul from Alberta, the year she asked me to take her to the prom. She didn’t know that many people yet, was too pretty for most of the guys—Indian, white or otherwise—including me. Back home, her family the Roubideauxs ,were famous for having pretty girls,and Diane had been homecoming queen three years running—the only métis Chiromancer 3 girl to ever do that.In St.Paul,she was nominated royalty,too. My biggest claim to fame was being the fourth best-looking Indian guy in school.After my last brother Richard graduated, I was the only, and therefore, best-looking, Blackfoot. So I walked with Diane up the stairs to the edge of the stage, held her arm for her when she stepped up, and then I let go. This time I forgot who I was for a minute,forgot to suck in my gut and turn my head to the left so my good eye pointed forward. I grinned, did a little dance, and sent out a wave to the crowd before jumping down,ducking into it.I dodged the redhead’s big, reaching hands by bending forward, making myself small,and pushed my way through the kicking legs and flying skirts.I ducked and wove—moves,I had moves—heading for the lobby,out into the slots and poker tables.I feigned left and moved right, just escaping a big, pointy-toed shoe when I saw them—the short legs in blue jeans,dancing around a step and a half behind the beat.Just like his uncle.I grabbed his arm, pulled him around closer to me. Randy, I said, where’s your father? En guarde...