Free The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie Page B

soon to be pain as real and immediate as a broken bone.
    Victor didn’t have any money. Who does have money on a reservation, except the cigarette and fireworks salespeople? His father had a savings account waiting to be claimed, but Victor needed to find a way to get to Phoenix. Victor’s mother was just as poor as he was, and the rest of his family didn’t have any use at all for him. So Victor called the Tribal Council.
    “Listen,” Victor said. “My father just died. I need some money to get to Phoenix to make arrangements.”
    “Now, Victor,” the council said. “You know we’re having a difficult time financially.”
    “But I thought the council had special funds set aside for stuff like this.”
    “Now, Victor, we do have some money available for the proper return of tribal members’ bodies. But I don’t think we have enough to bring your father all the way back from Phoenix.”
    “Well,” Victor said. “It ain’t going to cost all that much. He had to be cremated. Things were kind of ugly. He died of a heart attack in his trailer and nobody found him for a week. It was really hot, too. You get the picture.”
    “Now, Victor, we’re sorry for your loss and the circumstances. But we can really only afford to give you one hundred dollars.”
    “That’s not even enough for a plane ticket.”
    “Well, you might consider driving down to Phoenix.”
    “I don’t have a car. Besides, I was going to drive my father’s pickup back up here.”
    “Now, Victor,” the council said. “We’re sure there is somebody who could drive you to Phoenix. Or is there somebody who could lend you the rest of the money?”
    “You know there ain’t nobody around with that kind of money.”
    “Well, we’re sorry, Victor, but that’s the best we can do.”
    Victor accepted the Tribal Council’s offer. What else could he do? So he signed the proper papers, picked up his check, and walked over to the Trading Post to cash it.
    While Victor stood in line, he watched Thomas Builds-the-Fire standing near the magazine rack, talking to himself. Like he always did. Thomas was a storyteller that nobody wanted to listen to. That’s like being a dentist in a town where everybody has false teeth.
    Victor and Thomas Builds-the-Fire were the same age, had grown up and played in the dirt together. Ever since Victor could remember, it was Thomas who always had something to say.
    Once, when they were seven years old, when Victor’s father still lived with the family, Thomas closed his eyes and told Victor this story: “Your father’s heart is weak. He is afraid of his own family. He is afraid of you. Late at night he sits in the dark. Watches the television until there’s nothing but that white noise. Sometimes he feels like he wants to buy a motorcycle and ride away. He wants to run and hide. He doesn’t want to be found.”
    Thomas Builds-the-Fire had known that Victor’s father was going to leave, knew it before anyone. Now Victor stood in the Trading Post with a one-hundred-dollar check in his hand, wondering if Thomas knew that Victor’s father was dead, if he knew what was going to happen next.
    Just then Thomas looked at Victor, smiled, and walked over to him.
    “Victor, I’m sorry about your father,” Thomas said.
    “How did you know about it?” Victor asked.
    “I heard it on the wind. I heard it from the birds. I felt it in the sunlight. Also, your mother was just in here crying.”
    “Oh,” Victor said and looked around the Trading Post. All the other Indians stared, surprised that Victor was even talking to Thomas. Nobody talked to Thomas anymore because he told the same damn stories over and over again. Victor was embarrassed, but he thought that Thomas might be able to help him. Victor felt a sudden need for tradition.
    “I can lend you the money you need,” Thomas said suddenly. “But you have to take me with you.”
    “I can’t take your money,” Victor said. “I mean, I haven’t hardly talked