I looked over at Frank. He just shrugged, even though I realized he had set this all up.
Fire Bear put his big, weathered hand on my camouflaged shoulder. “Let him know I held him when he was a baby, and that his mother saved my life, okay?”
I nodded, because I couldn’t speak. That morning I’d been worried I might be scalped, and here I was among the warmest people I will probably ever meet, no matter how long I live. I hugged every single one of Fire Bear’s family members, and even though I couldn’t make my mouth work, they seemed to understand that I was grateful as could be.
Just before I left, Fire Bear’s son—who is also a lawyer, by the way—shook my hand and thanked me for returning the property of his ancestors.
And then Frank and I were in the limousine with the painting, which just barely fit into the trunk, and driving back to the hotel. I wanted to open up the box there and look at Jessica’s art, worried that this all had been a dream, but Frank said we better not—we didn’t have anyone around to help us get it packed up the right way so it wouldn’t be damaged on the flight home.
And so I skipped the hot tub and went to sleep right away, hoping the hours would pass by fast. I wanted to give my art-loving son the very painting he’d waited his whole life to see.
17.
On the flight home, Frank went into his private room again. I had a lot of time to think about all that had happened during my time as an American.
Hank would say that I was lucky to be born white and to have powerful and influential friends like Frank, also white. But what Hank didn’t understand is that a lot of people born white in America don’t amount to shit, nor do they ever take rides on private jets.
I have often wondered how the fuck I made as much money as I did, coming out of a mostly blue-collar neighborhood. No doubt my skin color made it easier for me, especially in the seventies and eighties, but there seemed to be more to it than that.
Also, I don’t consider the post-Vietnam horror show playing endlessly between my ears for damn near fifty years a lucky thing, nor Jessica’s burning herself to death.
It was easy to point to Fire Bear and say that if he could make it in America, any race or color could. Any moron with a library card understands that the US government fucked the Indians worse than any other race—Fire Bear no doubt had to be the Jackie Robinson of Indian lawyers to overcome all the obstacles thrown his way as he fought to get his in the land of the free.
Fire Bear might have been unlucky being born Indian during a time when the white man ruled, but he was definitely lucky to have met up with Jessica when he broke into our home. I would have fucking killed him. And we were both lucky that Death had remained our mutual friend in Vietnam, allowing us to carry on when so many other lives were snuffed out.
It was easy for Hank to scream and yell about white privilege: no one had ever tried to take anything away from him. He thought his so-called white privilege came to him like his DNA.
Fire Bear and his entire family knew the game. Frank knew it too. Big T and his brothers understood. So did Timmy and Johnny. Even Sue had a clue. And I thought about how I was lucky enough to know all of them. Maybe it didn’t matter if my son was a bleeding-heart liberal moron, just as long as there were people like me and my friends to keep him in check.
When Frank emerged from his private chamber, maybe twenty minutes before we landed in the City of Brotherly Love, I didn’t launch into a long bullshit speech proclaiming my thanks. Instead, I reached over and squeezed his shoulder. I looked him in the eye.
He nodded.
I nodded back.
We transferred the painting into a limousine waiting on the tarmac for us, and then we drove to Hank’s house.
As we turned the corner of Hank’s block and pulled up to his home, I asked Frank if my son had any idea about what we had in the trunk. Frank said Hank was clueless, as always. Frank also told me to enjoy what was about to happen.
“You’re not coming in?” I asked.
“It’s family business,” he said.
I told Frank that he was part of my family, and he smiled and told me that he had some “mentoring” to do in the city, which was his way of saying man up and do the right thing, because these types of life-altering father-son bonding opportunities don’t pop up every fucking day.
He was right. I nodded and told him to enjoy his mentoring. But then I couldn’t resist adding, “You’re a good man,” breaking our code.
He let it slide by punching my shoulder and saying, “Go.”
So I did.
Frank’s driver helped me carry the painting up to Hank’s door. When he opened up, my son said, “What is that?”
I told him it was fucking cold outside, so let us in and I would explain all.
Femke was there, he said, and I said that what I had couldn’t wait, regardless of whether his house was infested with the Dutch or not.
Once the driver and I got the painting into Hank’s living room, the driver tipped his little black hat and made his exit. Femke and Ella walked in from the kitchen, and my granddaughter announced that they were making rainbow sprinkle cookies. She asked if I would like to try one, so I said sure.
The cookie was warm and colorful, but I could tell my presence was making Femke uncomfortable. I said I had a present for Hank, but I didn’t want to make too big of a deal about this, so we would just open it and agree that there would be no hugging or crying.
Hank got this really strange look in his eyes. I knew that he knew what was in the box, because he started peeling off the tape without even asking if he could. Ella started clapping and cheering her father on, but Femke had her hand over her mouth, which clued me in, letting me know that she knew what was in the box too. Say what you want about the Dutch, but they are not stupid.
By the time Hank had got the large painting free and started demummifying it, he was shaking violently. When he saw my young face and his umbilical cord and Jessica’s signature in orange paint at the bottom corner, he started to sob. It scared the hell out of Ella, who just hugged his leg and wouldn’t let go. Femke was crying too on the other side of the room. I decided to go have a cigarette in the backyard. I had been through enough emotions in the last few days to last seven lifetimes.