Free The Ghost Walker by Margaret Coel Page A

Shakespeare.”
    Father John sprinted down the stairs and out to Circle Drive. He was grateful to the old man who had welcomed him here after his career had careened off track and no superior at any Jesuit high school or college would return his call. He had left Grace House with the memory of whiskey still on his tongue and flown into Riverton, at the edge of the world. “You can begin again here,” Father Peter had told him.
    Close to where Circle Drive emptied into Seventeen-Mile Road stood the elementary school, a pile of cement blocks that probably resembled every other BIA school on every reservation in the West. Except for the entry. The Arapahos had insisted the entry resemble a tipi, with the door facing the east and the rising sun, like the dwellings in the Old Time.
    He cut across the school grounds, following a path the kids had probably trampled earlier. It looked as if all the kids were on the playground. A group of boys, sixth-graders by the size of them, ran back and forth along the mesh fence, kicking up clouds of snow. One of the boys, Howard Bushy, spun around and darted past the others. A successful feint. He was hugging a basketball.
    All of a sudden, he stopped. “Hi, Father,” he called, running toward the fence. The other boys followed. They were all looking into the far distance. It was disrespectful for a child to look directly at an adult.
    “What’re you playing?” Father John crossed through the snow to the fence.
    “Basketball,” Howard said. His blue parka sported a gray iron-on patch across the front. Both sleeves werefrayed. He had pulled a knit cap down around his ears, but his cheeks had turned rust in the outdoors.
    “That a fact.” Father John smiled. These Indian kids were great. No court, no hoops, just a basketball and a snow-packed playground. They couldn’t dribble in the snow, but they could run and dodge and pass.
    “Me and the other guys, we want to ask you somethin’.” Howard wrapped one mittened hand through the wires, gripping the basketball with the other. His eyes looked beyond Father John.
    “Shoot.”
    “Well, we was wonderin’ . . .” Howard turned toward the other boys, as if for confirmation. They gathered closer, stomping their feet in the snow, looking down. “We was wonderin’,” Howard plunged on, “if we could use the old gym after school.”
    The old gym was in Eagle Hall. Father John had kept it padlocked the last couple of winters. It was a struggle just to heat and electrify the meeting rooms in Eagle Hall, as well as the church, offices, and priests’ residence. Every month it was a toss-up which bills he paid. This month he’d paid the telephone company. Next month he hoped to pay something on the heat and electric bill.
    “We need a place to practice since they won’t let us use the gym anymore.” Howard tilted his head toward the school.
    Father John got the picture. The BIA had cut back on funds, and frills such as afterschool activities for the kids were the first to go. But where would he find enough money to heat the gym even a few hours a day? And he couldn’t turn a bunch of kids loose without supervision; they would need a coach. What’s more, if they stayed after school to play basketball, they wouldmiss the bus, which meant he would have to figure out some way to get them home. The problems were mighty.
    “Listen, kids . . .” he began haltingly, aware they were waiting for an answer. He hated to let them down.
    Disappointment descended over the young faces like a roiling cloud of dust. It would be better to tell them the truth now, rather than later, but a part of him persisted in believing in the little miracles that sometimes occur when everything seems impossible. He said, “Let me see what I can work out. Okay?”
    “Okay.” Howard shrugged. The kids turned back toward the schoolyard, kicking at the slabs of snow. A couple of them looked back and waved as if to wave him away.
    Father John followed the