Star Quilt

Rose Po and Mitanka Kin

psitowin@aol.com

"It was yesterday, Joanne," repeated Roy, moving the receiver closer to his lips and pressing his finger tighter against his ear, trying to block the din. A pickup, with something noisily wrong in the muffler, idled beside the pay phone in the parking lot of the Gas 'n Go in Scenic, South Dakota. Don't these people believe in phone booths, he thought, as he strained to hear. "I'll be heading back in the morning."

"Speak up, hon." He listened. "Yeah, the guys were here. And, Dixie flew up from Arizona." He looked toward the gray and pink eroded ridges of the Badlands. A thin dusting of snow blurred the edges of the tables and spires, blending them into the steely sky. Shivering, he pulled his thin coat tighter around his chest.

"Joanne, I just remembered. Please, call the Intertribal Friendship House and let them know what happened." He paused, at a loss for words. Joanne's voice distorted by the bad connection faded in and out beneath the static. "I'm -- I'm okay. Numb, I think." He tipped his head back, looking at the woman who stared at him from the passenger's seat of a parked car. I don't want to talk about this with an audience, he decided. "Joanne, I got to go. I love you, honey."

*****

The air of the motel room was heavy with the cloying artificial pine scent of cheap air freshener. Roy gagged on the thick air. In spite of the falling snow, he opened the bathroom window swallowing great gulps of the cold, damp air. He sniffed again and stomach churning, threw the bag of fast food he had bought for dinner into the trashcan. I wasn't really hungry anyway, he thought collapsing on the bed. His appetite had disappeared before the funeral. For the past few days, eating was an act he undertook to satisfy the dictates of Lakhota hospitality or bodily habit.

DeSoto pushed himself up off the bed and walked back into the bathroom. Standing next to the narrow shower, he stripped off his shirt and imagined that he could still smell the smoke of this morning's pyre clinging to the cloth. The image of the flames rising from the blackened and dented trash can danced before his eyes as he stared into the mirror. At dawn, Roy had stood in the yard outside Gage's aunt's house and watched the women burn those items of Johnny's that had not been given to friends and family. He had stood holding his hands tightly clenched behind his back, his fingernails digging painfully into his palm, all the while stifling the urge to scream as they burned every sign his partner had ever lived. The freezing wind had dried his tears, leaving stiff cold tracks on his cheeks. He fled before the metal can had cooled.

Roy bent slowly over the sink splashing tepid water across his face. Burying his tingling face into the stiff towel, he could still smell the acrid odor of burning rubber and leather. "Johnny," he whispered, finally understanding the narrow but incredibly deep rift Gage had straddled. "Did I ever really know you?" He had always regarded the transition between Indian and white worlds as a matter of substituting one set of manners and customs for another. But, after watching the mementos of a life go up in flames this morning, he was amazed by the agility that John had required to maintain his cultural balancing act.

Roy sat at the chipped table and spread before him the only tangible reminders of his best friend's life that he had left -- a cloth wrapped bundle and a large brown envelope. This morning, as Roy was preparing to leave, Johnny's aunt appeared by the door of his truck. In her arms, she cradled a red cloth bundle and a large packet of papers. As he had lifted them from her hands, she again began to weep. The cloth bundle he had seen before, sitting in a cupboard in Gage's apartment. The brown envelope was filled with carefully folded papers -- letters.

Roy unfastened the ties holding the roll of red cloth. The thick wool fabric was rough beneath his fingers as he unwrapped the contents. The now-familiar smell of sweetgrass rose from the interior, competing with the air freshener. Inside lay a carved red catlinite pipe bowl and long narrow wooden stem. Gently, he touched the cool stone, remembering the pipe ceremony he had seen at the funeral. Johnny had been so deeply secretive about his religious life that the stone seemed more an enigmatic reminder of an unknown side of his partner. Covering the pipe, Roy opened the heavy envelope and pulled out the stacked papers. On top was a snapshot taken at some event or other at the DeSoto house. Johnny stood next to Roy and Joanne, looking away from the camera, a huge smile on his face. Under the picture was a pile of letters.

He selected one at random; the handwriting covering the surface of the paper was startlingly familiar. Jennifer, he realized, sifting through the stack. There must be over fifty letters here. His daughter had been writing to Johnny throughout the months since he had left. Some were just notes written inside greeting cards. Others were cartoons glued to sheets of notebook paper. One was a Xeroxed list of one liners beginning 'You know you're an EMT when:'.... There were chatty epistles about family and department gossip. However, many of the letters were part of a wide-ranging, surprisingly candid conversation about life and death. Roy held the papers in his hands -- reading, remembering and mourning.

Dear Uncle Johnny,

I got the pictures, today. Your nephew (is that the right term?) is another in a long line of heart-breakingly gorgeous Gage men. In your next letter you'll have to explain what a grass dancer is.

To answer your questions: Yes, Chet is still mad. He doesn't understand why you left; he probably never will. Chet thinks they'll come up with a new treatment next week and you'll miss the clinical trials living 'way out in the sticks'. What do the shrinks call it -- magical thinking?

And Dad – well he's Dad. Save the world and feel guilty while doing it. He thinks he should be helping you. He doesn't understand you must do this alone. Hell, you know Dad; he's doing a big guilt trip. He thinks he should have been on that run not you. Also, I think on some level he feels that you betrayed him when you left for the reservation. He sees it as a rejection of his friendship. Not that he would ever admit it or indeed, even acknowledge that he feels that way. I feel sorry for his partner. Tran Nguyen is not John Gage.

As for me, I think you should do what ever makes you feel best.

With Love,

Jen

Roy sat at the desk with his eyes closed and his hands resting on a pile of papers, counting. If he managed to pass the five-minute mark without being toned out again, his conscience would force him to begin leveling the mountain of paperwork covering his desk. But for now, he savored the warm sunlight streaming through the station door. In the other room, he could hear the phone ring.

"Cap," called paramedic Tran Nguyen.

Who'd be calling me on that line? Roy wondered, pushing his chair away from the desk. He walked into the dayroom.

Tran held out the phone and said, "It's somebody called White."

Roy frowned, trying to place the name. "Captain DeSoto," he replied, pressing the receiver to his ear.

"Roy DeSoto? This is LA county 51?" asked a vaguely familiar voice.

"Yes. Who is this, please?"

"Roy, this is Cody White from the OST Fire Department"

"Ok..."

"Pine Ridge…. The rez …."

At the mention of Pine Ridge, Roy felt icy fingers closing around his heart. Johnny! shrieked a voice inside his head. "Cody? Oh, from the class. How are you?"

"Fine..."

Roy listened to the long pause. "Johnny?" he asked quietly. In the vehicle bay Chet Kelly's shoes scrambled on the concrete as he skidded to a stop by the door. Out the corner of his eye, Roy could see him gesturing to Marco.

"Ted Elk Boy and I had a meeting up at the station in Wambli; we stopped by to see Gage on the way back."

Roy bit his lip, trying to respect the Lakhota sense of timing and not blurt out a million questions.

"If you want to see him, you'd better come up here soon."

"Bad?" he asked, knowing the answer, because for Johnny there was no longer any good news. Distorted by the phone lines, the sound of the station alarm ringing echoed in the background. Child down, Red Cloud School...

"Very bad. Roy, I got to go."

Roy stared at the phone, as a recording ordered him to hang-up.

Chet took the receiver from his hands and placed it in the cradle. "Roy," he asked the dread evident in his voice.

"That was one of the EMT's on the reservation..."

"Oh, no," moaned Marco.

"A friend of Johnny's. He says -- uh -- he says Gage is in pretty bad shape."

Marco bowed his head, his lips moving silently. Chet spun and kicked the trashcan. The hollow sound of the metal hitting the bricks ricocheted off the walls, as he stalked into the dormitory.

Roy spun on his heel and retreated into his office. There's nothing I can say to help them. And it's not like we haven't been expecting it. He stood staring at the clock on the wall, willing its hands to stand still. After a moment, Roy turned and walked across the vehicle bay. As he passed the door to the dorm, he could hear Marco speaking soothingly to Chet.

DeSoto entered the locker room and opened his locker. From the door grinned the paper image of Smokey the Bear, its edges smudged by the hundreds of start-of-shift good luck taps Johnny had given it. Roy had found the poster pinned inside his locker on the day Gage had left LA for the reservation. He lifted his hand, fitting his fingers against a few especially dark fingerprints, and remembered.

Dear Uncle Johnny,

It's 4 am. The station is quiet. There are actually a few stars visible. Dispatch hasn't toned-us out in hours. This is the most amazing day in my career as an EMT-P. I'm afraid to sleep, for fear of losing the magic of the moment. The guys think I'm nuts but I can tell you, because I know you will understand.

Today, I delivered a baby. When we got there the head was crowning. It was an easy birth. The mom had been through it before and none of the terrible things they try to prepare you for happened. The baby was full term with no complications – APGAR 10. I was the most nervous person involved. But, when he took a deep breath, let out a yell and wiggled his gorgeous pink fingers at me, wow. We made eye contact while I dried him off. It was incredible. Feeling his tiny ribs rise and fall while I checked his resp's – I almost cried.

On the ride in I began to think. Sometimes with all the gang-bangers, strung-out junkies, DUI's and just plain idiots, I also wonder if it's been worth it. I look at these kids who blow other kids away and I wonder while I stabilize them if I'm doing anyone a favor. Before I started this job -- back when I knew everything -- I thought I knew all about anger particularly after I told Dad I had dropped out of college and was going into fire fighting. But, I learned like you did that anger comes in all different flavors – sour, bitter, hot…. I get so angry sometimes. Why should I care about them if they can't even care about themselves? But, today I heard a baby give his first cry and it all seems to make some kind of sense.

Remember that cry and the tiny body in your hands when you get angry about the sickness and the lost years.

With Love,

Jen

"Hi, Dixie," said Roy, setting his radio on the counter and heading for the coffeepot.

"Hi, Roy."

"Where's Johnny?" he asked pouring himself a cup.

"He's in exam two with Dr. Morton," answered Dixie McCall, not looking up from the stack of paperwork in front of her. "He's getting some blood drawn."

"What?" asked Roy. "Why?"

"The victim regained...," started Dixie.

"Our unconscious OD came out his coma and his restraints at about the same time," interrupted Gage, walking around the corner of the base station and picking at the adhesive tape holding a square of gauze against his arm. The beginnings of a bruise darkened his left check. "Then, he slugged me." John poured himself a cup of coffee and rooted around by the pot, trying to find a packet of creamer. After a moment he gave up.

"Poor, Johnny," commented Dixie dryly.

"He pulled out his IV?" asked Roy, adding up the pieces.

"Of course." Johnny took a huge swallow of coffee.

Roy watched in fascination. His partner's ability to gulp down scalding hot food and beverages, all while never missing a beat in the tirade du-jour, constantly amazed him.

"With those lousy veins of his, I was having a hell of a time getting it restarted. While I was working on it, he got loose and hit me again. I ended up pulling the damn needle out his arm and sticking it in my finger."

"Ouch," said Roy, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Is that when you got out the Kerlix and tape?" Dixie asked, still filling out the form.

"Yeah, he didn't get loose from that." John gave her a wolfish grin.

"Dr. Early thought he was have to amputate to remove him from the gurney," replied McCall.

Johnny laughed for a second and then made a rueful face. "I hope that jerk doesn't have hepatitis. That's all I need."

Dixie handed the form to Johnny, who signed it. "We'll let you know about the test results." She yanked one of the carbon copies free, giving it to Gage.

"Thanks, Dix." He slid the paper into his pocket. "We'd better make ourselves available," he said nudging Roy and inspecting his needlestuck finger.

Roy picked up the radio, "Squad 51, available."

*****

Roy shook his head, he hadn't known. It was such a small wound that it was still hard to believe that Johnny would never recover from that tiny hole in his finger. Back then, only gay men using nitrates were believed to contract the virus that was killing his friend -- a disease that did not even have a name on the day Johnny was infected. The only thing you had to worry about from a needlestick was hepatitis, or so they all had thought.

*****

I have to do something about Johnny, decided Roy, rolling over. The sound of Gage's hacking cough filled the dorm. Maybe, strangle him.

In the bed across the aisle from DeSoto, Gage pressed his face deeper into the pillows, trying desperately to stop coughing. His cold had dragged on for weeks. He listened to Roy stir, knowing he had exhausted his colleague's supply of sympathy. On Monday, he would again see the doctor, maybe this time she would prescribe the right antibiotic.

"Gage, put a sock in it," moaned Chet.

Pressing his lips firmly together, Johnny pulled on his bunker pants and headed for the washroom.

Roy sat up and donned his pants, following his partner.

"Roy," whispered Hank from his bunk, "see if you can do something for Johnny."

"Ok, Cap," replied DeSoto, nodding.

"Like, kill him," added Kelly.

"Chet, shut up," hissed Mike Stoker. "Gage's coughing is noisy enough without your yapping."

Roy entered the locker room, intending to tell Johnny to go to the doctor or else. Gage was bent over the sink, sipping water from his cupped hands. His T-shirt was stretched taunt over his back revealing an unaccustomed thinness. Roy froze.

Johnny straightened, looking at Roy's reflection in the mirror over the sink. "Sorry, I woke everybody up," he said, not turning to face DeSoto.

"Johnny, have you seen a doctor?"

He nodded. "Yeah, she gave me some penicillin. Doesn't seem to be working." Johnny ran his hands through his hair. "I go back on Monday."

*****

Roy fidgeted in his chair. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard metal folding chair. In the front of the auditorium, a doctor from the California State Health Department outlined the symptoms of a frightening new disease seen among IV drug users, gay men and hemophiliacs and the new protocols based on recommendations from the Centers for Disease Control. Roy leafed through the Xeroxed sheets Brice had helped to distribute to the assembled audience of LACoFD paramedics.

Beside DeSoto, Gage busily scribbled notes on a pad of paper. Down the sheet he had made a list of the symptoms the doctor had described.

"...We now have significant evidence of transmission by needle sticks." Roy sat suddenly still, listening carefully. "So it is imperative that precautions be taken with sharps. Used needles should not be bent, broken, re-capped or placed in the drug box pending disposal..."

Roy again glanced at Johnny's notes, beside more than half of the symptoms John had made checkmarks. He looked up to meet his partner's eyes. There he saw a terror he had never before seen in Gage's eyes. Roy turned away.

*****

DeSoto meet Johnny outside the small clinic, which provided specialized services for AIDS victims. Lovely neighborhood, he thought, watching a drunk sleeping in a nearby doorway. Over the past year, repeated bouts with various infections had made it impossible for Gage to keep even the desk job he had had with the department. It seemed to Roy that each time Johnny made a slower, less complete recovery. The whole cycle of sickness, medications, and treatments was wearing his friend down. The experimental anti-AIDS drug the doctors had prescribed left Johnny with a mouth laced with painful sores and a falling red blood cell count. DeSoto suspected that despite disability pay and insurance, the expensive medications were draining Johnny's finances. Both he and Joanne had begun to worry about what was going to happen when John got too sick to care for himself.

"Roy," called Johnny, smiling and waving.

DeSoto eyed his partner critically. John was wearing what Joanne had described as his camouflage outfit -- a thick long-sleeved sweater and heavy jeans -- which hid the wasting of his body. Today Gage looked almost well. "Johnny," he replied.

Roy started to ask where John wanted to eat lunch, when a needle-tracked junkie detached himself from the alley and approached them. The Gage curse, concluded Roy, quickening his pace. Every panhandler in LA came out of the woodwork and descended on his partner, sensing an easy mark. The ingrained Indian generosity could be discerned by even the most out of touch indigent. Johnny would curse himself for supporting their habits but he always gave them a few coins. Roy slowed sensing Johnny tiring and falling behind.

"Hey, man can you spare a buck?" asked the strung-out addict.

"No," answered Roy firmly.

The junkie shifted targets, grabbing Johnny's arm. "I haven't had anything to eat..."

Roy's hand closed over the man's arm, breaking his grip at exactly the same moment that Johnny shoved the junkie backwards, sending him reeling into the side of the office building.

John's face flushed with rage. "What?" he exploded, "A dollar -- so you can buy yourself some more stuff. So you can share a needle with your friends and infect a few of them with AIDS."

"Hey man..." he started, sliding rapidly away from Johnny.

"You want me to give you a dollar so you can OD and kill a few more paramedics!" yelled Johnny stepping toward the man.

Roy grabbed Gage's elbow, spinning John around to face him. "Johnny!" He caught Gage's other elbow. Johnny's face was a mask of terror and the plastic bag he was carrying fell from his hands, spreading pamphlets about hospice care across the sidewalk.

"Roy, I want to go home."

He led Johnny back to his car. "I think that's a good idea," DeSoto said. "We can get lunch some other time."

"No, I want to go Home," repeated Gage.

This time Roy heard the emphasis. Home -- the reservation. "Johnny, I don't think that's wise." In his mind's eye, Roy again saw the aging, under-funded and over-crowded facilities he had toured while teaching on the reservation. "The health care up there is pretty poor."

"I don't want to die surrounded by," he swore, "wasicu's."

Roy jerked his head back, stung by Gage's words.

Johnny looked into Roy's eyes. "I want to die with my family and my people."

*****

Chet slid the plastic box full of fried chicken across the table to Johnny. "It's Mike's," he said smiling, "your favorite."

Johnny sat at his kitchen table with his head cradled in his hands. He looked down at the box. Swallowing hard, he turned away. "Thanks," he said from behind tightly clenched teeth.

Roy stood behind Chet. He had been unable to shake the feeling of pending disaster that had been plaguing him ever since he learned of Kelly's plan to dissuade Gage from going to the reservation. He had even accompanied Chet in the hope of averting a catastrophe.

"I could heat it up for you," offered Kelly, failing to notice Johnny's distress.

Roy realized there was going to be a disaster of a more prosaic sort if he didn't get that chicken away from Gage. Johnny was positively green. "Chet, later," instructed Roy, taking the container and putting it in the fridge. However, he was too late, Johnny hurried past him disappearing into the back of the apartment.

"Geez," whispered Chet, "I didn't mean...."

"It's one of the medications he's taking, Chet," reassured Roy. "He'll feel better in a little while." He reached up into the cupboard, getting out the teapot and tea bags. Filling the kettle, he began to make his grandmother's remedy for upset stomachs, weak tea. While the water boiled, he watched Chet pace. Kelly was always uncomfortable when sickness and injury got too close to home.

"Let me," offered Chet, picking up the mug and heading for Johnny's bedroom.

Roy grabbed his cup and wandered into the living room. Something about the room didn't feel right and looking around he tried to figure out what was wrong. Gradually, he discerned the pattern, spotting the occasional missing knickknack or memento. The shelf of EMT texts was largely empty, and the assortment of camping and climbing gear that was normally stacked in the spare room was gone. He's letting go, recognized Roy, getting ready to die. Through the half-open bedroom door he could hear Chet and Johnny arguing.

"Johnny, I think you're making a big mistake goin' back to the reservation," said Chet.

"How's that?" asked Johnny, his words tight and angry.

"When they develop a cure, it will be tested in large, urban centers..."

"There isn't going to be a cure any time soon," interrupted Gage. "I'm dying."

"Don't talk like that!" yelled Kelly.

"Chet..."

"What was it the guys over at 10's used to say about you?" Chet's voice drained of anger and suddenly grew wistful.

Johnny sighed. "Gage..."

"...'takes a licking and keeps on ticking'," finished Kelly.

"Not this time," Johnny whispered.

"You can't think like this," pleaded Chet.

"I've got to. I've decisions to make; I can't pretend anymore." The weariness in John's voice raised a lump in Roy's throat, choking him.

"You're being a defeatist, Gage." Kelly's words acquired a hard edge.

"A realist," retorted Johnny. "I need my family and my people. The last thing I want is to die surrounded by strangers."

"Johnny, stop it!" he exploded.

"Chet!" yelled Gage.

Roy couldn't take it anymore. He burst through the bedroom door. Johnny was sitting on the edge of his bed looking pale, tired and furious.

"I can't handle this right now," said John angrily, pushing past Roy and going into the bathroom. He slammed the door.

Roy pulled Chet into the kitchen, listening to him rage about Gage's attitude. He was torn between wanting to rush back into the bedroom to talk to Johnny, and wanting to listen to Kelly forever, doing anything to avoid looking into his partner's face. He saw the tears welling up in Chet's eyes and decided. DeSoto walked Kelly to his car. He held Chet's shoulders while Kelly leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and cried.

Dear Uncle Johnny,

Okay, the little trivial details make you feel like you're still here. Here it comes: The squad blew a radiator hose today. My partner is useless! Apparently, no one ever told him 'a good tape job will fix anything'. He was going to wait on the feeder road -- during rush hour-- for the mechanic. I tried to share this piece of 'old paramedic' (your words not mine) wisdom and he informed me in the 'old days' they couldn't even intubate. I think starting an IV on the radiator would have been more helpful.

We are having chunky, brown air weather again. You'd think with all the O₂ bottles we've emptied in the past few days, some of the smog would have been displaced. (Tell me again about those beautiful, blue South Dakota summer skies.) After I got off shift, I found that #$%& cat of yours had dismembered a bird all over my living room floor. Bet, you're glad you're not here!

Dixie's retirement party was – well, it was a retirement party. Everybody was pretending to be happy. I hate those things anyway, I keep expecting one of the doc's to pat me on the head and say "look at DeSoto's little girl -- all grown up." Anyway, Dixie is moving to Arizona to be near her niece. She has a part-time job working in an AIDS hospice down there. She says she thinks of you every day. (She sent the two articles on the therapies for AZT associated anemia and suggested you show them to your doctor. He may not know about them.)

With Love,

Jen

Roy parked. Road weary, he climbed stiffly from the car, stretched, and leaned against the door, taking in the lay of the land. Next to a huge cottonwood, sat a low wooden house, with an uneven roofline that was a testament to the numerous renovations and expansions undergone by the original structure. A set of tipi poles leaned against the crotch of the tree. The afternoon sunlight turned the dead grass and leaves a warm gold, but the air was heavy with the taste of coming snows.

Roy reached back into the car, grabbing the package Chet had sent Johnny. The sound of hooves rang out behind him. Two young boys, their dark hair streaming in the wind, clung to the bare back of a horse as it galloped past. "Ina, hibu welo!" yelled one of the boys. An unfamiliar woman appeared, framed by the dark rectangle of the screen door.

I'm hours later than I told them I would be, he thought climbing the porch stairs. The directions to Ruby Good Voice's place had seemed perfectly clear in LA; but in the maze of unmarked dirt roads cutting across the rolling plains they had proven incomprehensible. Every dusty track had looked the same to him, finally forcing him to turn back to the village of Pine Ridge and the tribal fire station. He remembered standing in the apparatus bay, with sweat running down his back despite the cold creeping up his pant legs, while Cody White stood in front of the huge map board tracing out the route.

"Roy," said a tall, dark haired woman with a plain face and eyes like Johnny's. She opened the door and led him into the house.

"Hello, ma'am."

"Ruby," she said, extending her hand, "Johnny's cousin. We met at Smokey's naming."

"Oh, yeah," he replied, taking her hand. She must have been one of the wholesale-number of relatives Johnny introduced to him on that day. They emerged from the narrow dark corridor into a sunny kitchen. Standing at the counter slicing potatoes was Johnny's aunt.

"You made it," said Kate Gage-Red Owl, dropping the potatoes into a bowl of water and drying her hands. "Good to see you."

Roy listened carefully to the soft voice he had spent a year's worth of phone calls learning to read. He was alert for every nuance, for he knew sometimes she spoke with subtle shades of silence that said as much as her words.

Kate gave him a hug. Gesturing toward a chair by the kitchen table, she placed a bowl of soup on the table. "We saved you some lunch."

Roy sat, struggling not to squirm. "Thank you, Kate."

She saw Roy's impatience. "Relax, Johnny's asleep," she said, setting a glass of iced tea and plate of bread beside him. "He had a rough night, so it'd be best if he got a little more sleep."

"How is he?"

Pursing her lips, Kate watched Roy swish his spoon back and forth through the soup. "More bad than good, now." She pulled up a chair and sat next to Roy. "The nurse comes out everyday, but he is refusing more aggressive treatments."

Setting down the spoon and stuffing his hands beneath the table to hide their shaking, Roy closed his eyes.

Dear Uncle Johnny,

I was thinking about what you said: not knowing whether you believed what the priest told you or what the medicine man told you about death. I remember the first time I went sky diving. (Don't you dare tell my father. When I even suggested I might be interested in the sport, he spent an hour reviewing every call on which the department had rolled that involved a parachute, including an MVA caused by people gawking at a skydiver.) Anyway, the instructor tried to prepare us for the first jump. He explained the mechanics of every step, told us what it would feel like, and even told us how it would sound. When I jumped it was completely different – I don't know -- exhilarating… Maybe death is like that, no matter how much someone tries to explain; it is a completely different and novel experience for each of us.

With Love,

Jen

Roy stood in the doorway of Johnny's bedroom. The room smelled of antiseptic and long sickness. Roy scanned the room, his eyes stopping short of the bed. At the thought of looking at the still figure in the bed, he broke into a cold sweat, so instead he examined the walls.

At one point the room had been a porch, but now was framed by thin wooden walls painted a startling turquoise blue. One wall was covered with cards and photographs: Chet and Marco mugged at the camera, Dixie's delicate handwriting covered a pastel colored greeting card.... Sprigs of cedar had been gathered in a wrap of red yarn and the bundle nailed to the lintel of the door. A small kerosene space heater kept the room stiflingly hot.

Taking a deep breath, DeSoto finally let his gaze touch the bed. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window and across the bed, cutting harsh shadows beneath the folds in the bedding. He counted the brightly colored scraps making up the star pattern on the quilt, amassing the courage needed to look at his partner. John was propped up on a stack of pillows. Despite the heat, Johnny was at least three blankets deep, sleeping with his arm in its familiar position over his eyes. What was not familiar was Gage's pallor, his emaciated frame, or the hollowness beneath his checks. Dear God, thought Roy, shocked.

DeSoto sat down on a battered kitchen chair positioned beside the bed. Looking past Johnny, he stared out the window at the rolling brown hills and the towering gray clouds far on the horizon, thinking equally dark thoughts. A thin veil of white snow trailed the clouds.

"Hi, we had given up on you for the day." Johnny's voice was rough edged and very quiet. "Figured you were lost." He smiled.

"Hi, yourself," replied Roy, willing his voice not to shake. "How are you doing?" Roy bit his lip, choking on the question good manners had conditioned him to ask. He looked at Johnny wishing he could recall his words and wanting to run from the answer.

"Been better." Johnny glanced at Roy's stricken face and decided to take refuge in the comforting nothingness of small talk. "How was your trip?"

"Long," he sighed.

Gage turned his head toward the window, avoiding his partner's eyes. "Looks like you just beat the storm." He coughed.

Roy listened to Johnny's cough, a harsh wracking sound that made his own chest hurt. "Yeah," he answered, examining his friend closely, watching Johnny's neck muscles tense with each inhalation. John was working hard just to breathe. Dyspnea, fever, productive cough... DeSoto ticked off the symptoms not liking the clinical picture he was piecing together. Why didn't the visiting nurse send him to the hospital?

"Too early for much snow," commented Gage.

"Johnny, have you seen a doctor?" Roy said, echoing that long ago question he had asked at the start of this nightmare.

"Frequently," he replied, his voice suddenly tense.

"I meant recently. Like, maybe today."

"No." John met DeSoto's eyes, challenging him to make an issue of his condition.

"Let me take you to the hospital," he pleaded.

"No."

"I can call the paramedics," said Roy, standing up.

"No!"

"Damn you," exploded DeSoto. "Sometimes talking to you is like reasoning with a two year old!" He pushed the chair backwards rapidly, upsetting it with a satisfyingly loud crash, and stalked to the window. Roy was aware of Kate's curious stare as she leaned into the room investigating the source of the noise.

Gage waved away his aunt. "Hell of a long drive just to call me names, Roy." He started coughing again.

Roy's anger dissolved at the sound of Johnny gasping for air. He turned back to his friend's bedside. "Johnny, you should be in the hospital. They can make you," Roy stopped, swallowing the word well. "...more comfortable." Turning his face away, he listened to Gage's labored breathing. "You probably have pneumonia."

John nodded.

"They can treat it."

"This time." His voice was weary.

"Isn't that enough?" DeSoto asked dreading the answer.

"And, the next infection or the drugs used to treat it may damage my brain, killing me without letting my body die."

"Johnny, you've got to fight this," said Roy, closing his eyes. His temples began to pound.

"Roy, look at me." Johnny struggled to push the blankets off his body. The effort exhausted him and shivering, he let his head fall back on the pillows. "Open your damn eyes and look," he ordered, panting. "I have fought..." the rest of his words were lost in a coughing spasm.

Hands trembling, Roy pulled the quilts back over the ravaged body of his friend, too ashamed to meet his eyes. He lifted Johnny upright until the cough quieted. Goddamn this thing, he thought, cursing the virus that was eating his partner alive. I'm so afraid – we're all so afraid – I can't even say the name of this thing that's killing him. He eased Johnny back onto the pillows, all the time aware of the bones protruding under John's dry skin. Roy's shadow covered the brightly colored diamonds on the quilt, darkening them to match his mood.

"I can't fight anymore." Gage closed his eyes, battling to catch his breath.

"Johnny," Roy started.

"I haven't left this room for over a month. I can't even go to the bathroom by myself," he continued. His voice was hoarse and weak. "Roy, I'm ready."

"You can't mean that," said Roy, feeling tears burning in his eyes.

"Yes, I do," Gage replied, catching DeSoto's hand.

Startled by the weakness of Johnny's grip, Roy squeezed his hand gently, feeling the wasted thinness of his fingers. He averted his face unable to met Gage's eyes.

"Promise me if I code while you're here, you'll remember you're not a paramedic in South Dakota."

Roy shook his head.

"Then leave," said Johnny, turning his head away. He released Roy's hand, unwilling to allow his partner's pain to dissuade him.

DeSoto sat listening to the silence outside the window, feeling the tears spill down his cheeks. He decided. "I'll sit on my hands," he said, voice breaking. "Where are the damn Kleenex's?" he asked groping for the box.

Johnny smiled. He pointed to Chet's gift, sitting forgotten on nightstand. "What'd'ya bring me?"

Despite himself, Roy laughed. "Are you ever going to grow up?"

"Never."

Roy lifted the box and held it out to Johnny. Kelly had wrapped the box in the Sunday comics and kitchen string. "I've no idea what it is. It's from Chet."

Johnny stopped just short of taking the box from Roy's hands. "I'd call the bomb squad if we had one." He started to laugh but another bout of coughing left him gasping.

Roy set the box on Gage's lap. "The Phantom," he said, removing the wrappings.

John awkwardly fumbled with the lid, spilling the contents of the box across the bed. Spreading over his knees and dropping to the floor were carefully pressed leaves, small stones, various twigs, plastic bags of dirt – even a small, clear bottle of water – and dozens of Polaroids. Roy bent, picking up one of the photos. It was a picture of a trout stream in the Sierras where he, Chet and Johnny had done some serious fishing. Another was a shot of a beach on Catalina Island.

Johnny selected a sprig of silver sage from the pile and crushed it between his palms, releasing its pungent aroma. "Good ol' Chester B.," he said softly.

"Yeah," replied Roy.

"There's some tape around here, somewhere. Could you please hang these up for me?" Johnny's voice was weak with exhaustion.

"Sure." He picked up the tape and began fastening the photographs to the wall. Behind him, he could sense Johnny slipping off to sleep.

Dear Uncle Johnny,

It's good to know you're back home. I called Ruby a couple times to check up on you. Your cousin seems like a strong, caring woman. Rest; renew your acquaintance with the birds that visit the cottonwood outside your bedroom window. I've missed our 'chats'. I love the tapes. It is so good to hear your voice again – much better than paper.

I had an epiphany at the top of the training tower at rescue school today. It has to do with your last letter about loss of independence. We were doing drills on some new rope techniques. I walked to the edge of the tower, braced my feet on the side and leaned back over the gulf. My life was literally in the hands of my anchormen, three guys I didn't even know. I may have walked to the edge on my own power but it was not an independent act. Independence is an illusion.

You told me once that what made humans civilized, was their ability to voluntarily form ties to each other. "A tribe is a web of interdependent individuals. We are people only because we acknowledge and honor our obligations to each other." Does this not also include accepting other's acts of kinship? You were never independent; it was just easier to ignore that fact when you were well.

With love,

Jen

Roy rolled over and pulled his watch from the nightstand. 2:35am, he read. The bland image of a teen heartthrob he didn't recognize stared from the glossy paper of a poster through the darkness at him. He stood up, pulled on his jeans and walked to the door, skirting a pile of Johnny's niece's albums. He had planned to go to the hotel in Martin, until Ruby had wisely reminded him that he was a novice at driving on snow, let alone fifty miles of icy dirt roads. Johnny's niece had instead, insisted he sleep in her room while she slept on the couch. Roy stopped with his hand on the doorknob, listening for a repeat of the noise that had awakened him.

Johnny is coughing again, he recognized, stepping into the hallway. Light leaked from door of Johnny's bedroom into the corridor. Roy could just make out voices speaking in an unfamiliar language. Kate was doing most of the talking but occasionally he heard Johnny reply. He leaned against the doorframe.

"Mitunwin..." Johnny's voice trailed off, it was clearly becoming difficult for him to speak. He dropped his head back against the pillows. "Come join the party," he said to Roy. Sweat glistened on his face, soaking his hair and the sheets beneath his body.

His fever is worse, thought Roy pulling over a chair. "I see you have learned Lakhota." He forced himself to smile.

"I've finally had the time..." Another bout of coughing choked off the rest of his words. He hugged his arms over his chest, trying to curl up and ease the pain.

Kate sat on the edge of the bed. She held his shoulders steadying him. "T'oshka..."

Roy stood, placing his palm on Johnny's forehead. 103 or 104, he guessed. He watched Gage grimace in pain. "You want to reconsider that trip to the hospital?" he asked hopefully. From across the bed, Kate met his eyes and gently shook her head. "You could see if Cody and Ted remember everything we taught them." Beneath his hand, Johnny shook his head. Gage, you are so damn stubborn. Roy pursed his lips and slowly exhaled. "Ok, I had to ask." He grabbed a handful of Kleenex's and started to wipe Johnny's mouth, but Gage pushed his hand away.

"Gloves," he hissed.

Roy found a box on the dresser and pulled on a pair. "You bringing up blood?" he asked. Reflected in the mirror, he could see could see his friend nod.

Johnny cautiously uncurled, fighting off the feeling of breathlessness, that had over the past couple days, become a constant in his life. "Roy," he struggled to speak.

"Shh," whispered Roy, holding up his finger. "Catch your breath. There will be plenty of time to talk later," he lied.

Gage shook his head. He opened his mouth but his voice failed him.

"T'oshka, rest." Kate began to sing softly, a gently rising and falling song like the blowing of wind in the trees. She smoothed the blankets.

Johnny's eyes closed.

Roy carefully lifted Gage's wrist, checking his pulse and the color of his nail beds. He let his hand rest on John's chest for a moment. Stripping off the gloves, Roy sighed and leaned back in the chair, thinking longingly of the drug box and the O₂ in the squad. He brushed idly at the powdery white marks his talc-covered hands had left on his jeans. It was the beginning of a night in hell.

*****

Johnny's condition had worsened in ways that threatened to drive Roy mad. Over the past hour Gage had become increasingly agitated, constantly fussing at the bedding or trying to change his position. Roy and Ruby had tried moving him, rubbing his back, and even changing the linens in the hope that fresh smooth sheets would be more comfortable. Nothing really helped. John shifted restlessly in his bed yet again. Hypoxia, diagnosed Roy. Damn you, Gage, for making me promise not to call 911. Damn me for agreeing. Gage was no longer coughing as much, having become too weak to clear his lungs. DeSoto surreptitiously checked Johnny's pulse rate while holding his hand. John did not resist his probing, as he had every other effort made to monitor his condition. Roy realized, in a flash of shock, that Gage was afflicted with the peripheral nervous system damage developed by some AIDS victims and was unable to feel the light pressure of Roy's fingers on his wrist. His pulse was rapid and weak beneath DeSoto's fingertip. Possibly, the early stages of septic shock.

Kate dozed in her chair, head leaned against the wall and glasses folded in her hands. Her soft even breathing contrasted sharply with her nephew's labored respirations. The light sparkled on her long gray hair and even asleep she looked exhausted. How old is she? wondered DeSoto.

Roy stepped into the bathroom, filling a basin with lukewarm water. He set the pan on the vinyl-covered chair and knelt beside the bed. "Johnny," he said, slowly peeling back the blankets, "let's try to get your fever down." Roy wrung out a washcloth and began to sponge down Gage's face. His ministrations caused his partner to shiver violently.

"Roy," hissed Johnny through his chattering teeth, "stop." He tried unsuccessfully to retrieve the displaced quilts. "Please," he begged.

"Ok." Roy set the basin on the floor, dropped in the cloth and pulled the blankets back over Johnny's shaking form. He stood up, stretching.

"Roy, I never thanked you for talking me into joining the program," he started, the normal rhythm of his speech broken by his struggle for breath.

"Shh," whispered DeSoto, blinking away tears. Yeah, thanks for getting you killed, Roy thought. He didn't want to hear Johnny's words for he wasn't ready to say goodbye. "Save your strength."

"For what?"

Roy bowed his head, turning away from the bed.

Johnny reached for his friend's hand. "When Dwayne died..." he stopped, realizing Roy could not yet accept that this would be the last time they talked. He convulsed with another coughing spasm that turned the dull ache in his chest to throbbing agony. After it passed, he lay limp and exhausted.

Roy gloved up and spread ointment over his partner's cracked, bleeding lips. Gage's skin was uncomfortably warm beneath his hands. "Johnny, I know," he said. He removed the gloves, settling back down on to the floor beside the bed. I'm so tired, he thought, resting his head against the side of the mattress.

*****

Roy blinked, wincing at the crick in his neck as he raised his head. 5:57 am, he read, looking at his watch. I fell asleep. With a guilty start he straightened, checking Johnny. Roy lifted Gage's hand; his nails were blue and his fingers cold. Roy held John's wrist and then rested his hand on Gage's chest, feeling a fast and weak pulse, and rapid and shallow respirations. John's face and lips were dusky and his eyes were closed. Ruby was siting on the edge of the bed opposite Roy, whispering to Johnny in Lakhota, and Kate sat in the chair looking down at Roy sympathetically. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I drifted off."

"I bet you're tired, after driving all day yesterday," said Ruby, smoothing Johnny's damp hair.

"Yeah. How long has he been like this?"

"About an hour. He wakes up every now and then, but he seems sort of confused."

"I'm not surprised," commented Roy, rising from the floor. He stood looking out the window. Gray clouds covered the moon. A ghostly curtain of snow fell between the house and the silvery battlements of the badlands.

"He been talking to Marie and Dwayne," said Kate.

"He's delirious," said DeSoto, pressing his hand against Johnny's forehead. "The fever and the dehydration."

"They've come for him," stated Ruby flatly.

Roy suddenly recognized he was trespassing in the unseen realm of the Lakhota spirits. The women sitting across the room did not believe his partner was hallucinating, but instead knew the ghosts of his relatives were visiting. Not just visiting, but waiting for him to accompany them. Roy shuddered.

Johnny sighed and moaned slightly.

Roy looked down at his partner's unfocused eyes. "It's snowing," he remarked.

"Hmmm," said Gage. He swallowed and tried to focus on his friend's face.

Roy sat and took Johnny's hand. His eyes burned with weariness and unshed tears. Dear God, please take him, he prayed. He felt the weak pressure of Gage's fingers tightening around his hand.

"Cinye," he breathed.

Across the room, Kate inhaled sharply.

Roy stared into Johnny's eyes. It was the last time DeSoto saw his friend's spirit lighting their depths. "Go with them, Johnny."

*****

Roy leaned against the wall, sipping gingerly at his second cup of Ruby's very strong and very hot coffee. He had showered and changed. Outside the window, the sun was rising, staining the clouds with a watery pink light. The caffeine was slowly absorbing into his blood stream, easing his throbbing headache, making him feel a little more human. As he drank, he watched a toddler sit on the floor by Gage's bed and eat a bowl of Cheerios.

Ruby and Kate still kept vigil over Johnny, but his pulse and respirations had become irregular and he was no longer responsive. Kate continued talking softly to her nephew, the rise and fall of her voice hypnotic, as she held his hand. Roy listened to the long pauses between inhalations, willing Johnny not to breathe again. He looked down at his partner sensing that whatever had made John Gage who he was was gone, but his body simply hadn't given up yet.

Roy walked to the window and stared out, lulled by the not understood rhythms of Kate's speech, the hiss of the burning kerosene in the heater and the falling snow. He let himself drift in the desolate timelessness of the rolling plains. He was uncertain how long he had stood that way; when abruptly, he became aware of a change in the texture of the sounds in the room. Johnny was dead.

Dear Uncle Johnny,

The quilt. Just found the letter I meant to include. Amy Stoker and Sonny Gawhega's wife, Ellie, made it. Ellie told Amy about the traditional Lakhota design and Amy knew how to piece a Star of Bethlehem, which she says is similar. Amy and Sonny got all the squads to carry a piece of the yard goods for a day. (I have attached her list telling who carried what color.) Dad carried the red and blue cloth for you. Amy almost killed Captain Stoker though; he put all that white background material in 127's engine and they got called out to a brush fire. It wasn't white anymore! Amy swears she couldn't get rid of the smell of smoke. I can't smell it but I'm a firefighter so....

Yes, I know what star quilts are used for. They will also keep you warm in this life. It's a big hug from your colleagues.

With Love

Jen

Roy stood in the middle of Gage's room, looking at the stripped bed. The funeral home had come and taken the body. From within the kitchen he could hear the voices of the gathering relatives. Kate and Ruby were losing themselves in the preparation of food for the mourners coming to the wake. He wished he could go in, chop potatoes, boil water, learn Kate's recipe for taniga, anything to prevent him from thinking. Keep moving, DeSoto decided. He stretched out his arms, trying to catch some vibration, some last sense of Johnny's presence. He failed. Lifting his hands he covered his face, scrubbing at his eyes.

The box of leaves, stones and twigs sat abandoned on the bookshelf by the window. He picked out a sprig of some sort of pine, inhaling its spicy scent and remembering a trail through the San Gabriels where trees like this grew. Johnny had walked on ahead as usual, clambering atop a rock to wait for Roy to catch up.... Roy shook his head.

The toddler Roy had seen earlier wandered into the room. He looked up at DeSoto, his little face streaked with tears; the grief of adults in the house clearly left the child unsettled. His lips quivered as he looked at Roy.

Roy knelt. He carefully lifted the child, settling the boy's weight on his hip. "Shh," he whispered comforting the at least one of them.

*****

The endless waiting in the presence of the coffin holding his friend's body left Roy numb and exhausted. He sat, watching the ebb and flow in the parade of mourners. For a moment, he mistook one of Johnny's relatives for Marco Lopez. I must be more tired than I realized, he thought, looking away from the group of men clustered near the door, taking off their coats and hats. Roy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands.

"Roy," repeated Marco, giving DeSoto a worried glance. Chet stood beside him, looking stiff and uncomfortable. Hank Stanley was still at the door, surveying the room and sliding his car keys into his pocket. In Stanley's hand was a stack of white envelopes.

DeSoto lifted his head and blinked. "Marco," he stammered. "Sorry, I'm a little... I was a million miles away." He nodded to Kelly. "Chet."

"Gentlemen," said Hank softly, gesturing for Chet and Marco to join him. They walked to the ring of chairs beside the coffin, where the family sat. Kate stood to speak with the Cap. In turn, she lightly shook the hand of each of the firefighters. Roy saw Kelly's lips part as he started to speak and then stopped, mute in his grief. Kate reached forward taking Chet's hand in both of hers, speaking earnestly and softly to him. Chet bowed his head, biting his trembling lip and nodding.

Stanley stopped in front of a small table holding a framed picture of Johnny and carefully set the cards with the others. Almost reverently, he set down the heavy cream colored envelope of the official departmental condolence letter. Stanley led his men past the coffin.

Chet stopped, tipping back his head, and closing his eyes as he caught sight of Johnny's body wrapped in the star quilt Amy Stoker and Ellie Gawhega had made. Tears spilled down his cheeks, dropping on to the soft fabric.

Slowly, Marco reached forward clasping Kelly's shoulder. "Chet," he whispered.

*****

The snow blew across the cemetery on the top of the hill in Wambli in hard stinging balls, which scoured away memories. Fading, streamers of red, yellow, white, black and blue cloth fluttered on the ends of thin sticks stuck in the ground among the graves. Bleached plastic flowers, bronze service stars or sacks of tobacco lay near some of the headstones. Most graves were marked with crooked white wooden crosses. A few had granite headstones, marking the final resting places of veterans, gifts of a grateful nation. The wind ruffled a tarp stretched across the empty grave, making a cold desolate sound.

Roy shifted, uncomfortable with his place among the ranks of Johnny's family. He looked at the plastic sheet rippling in the incessant winds of the plains and remembered Johnny once saying to him, as they drove past a cemetery in the rain, that it was bad luck to let rain or snow fall in an empty grave. He had smiled away his friend's superstition. The pallbearers made their fourth stop with the coffin on the way to the grave. They set the box atop two ropes stretched upon the frozen grass. The priest stepped forward reciting the graveside service.

As the man talked, DeSoto watched his friends standing on the other side of the grave. Cody White and Ted Elk Boy stood next to the Cap, wearing their uniforms to honor Johnny. Stanley's face was still, his eyes focused on the river bluffs far below the cemetery. Dixie, still holding the keys of the rental car in her hand, clung to Chet's arm. Joanne must have called her, Roy thought. Marco stood on the other side of Kelly, his lips moving as he repeated the priest's prayers.

Roy tried to listen to the priest's words, hunting for some thread, some lifeline, but he could not connect the words to his pain. The whole ritual seemed alien and unrelated to the life of man he had known. He felt as though he was working his way through a smoke filled building, wrapped in an endless choking gray blanket of grief.

An old man in a worn mackinaw waved a burning braid of sweet grass around the coffin. The sweet vanilla odor drifted among the graves. Four men, holding a drum suspended on short ropes between them, started to sing. The old man filled a stone pipe and held it aloft, offering it to the four directions. His voice was startlingly deep and resonate, despite the wind which whipped away all other sounds. When he finished, Kate stepped forward, sprinkling pinches of tobacco at the four compass points on the lid of the coffin. Her black dress rippled in the wind as she lifted the tobacco up to the sky. In the center she laid Johnny's badge.

The pallbearers picked up the ropes lowering the coffin into the ground. As it touched the earth, a wild wailing cry rose from the throats of the women. Ruby pushed the high pitched song far above the voices of the men, transfixed in a competition with the wind. He felt the pricking of the hair on the back of his neck and, next to Marco, Chet jumped unnerved by the sudden noise.

Then quite matter-of-factly the men stepped forward taking turns with a shovel, filling in the grave. Roy found himself in their midst, holding the handle. He grasped the weathered wood so tightly the pattern pressed itself into his soul, splinters that he felt would burn and pain forever. He lifted the damp gray earth performing a final favor for his friend. "Goodbye, Johnny," he whispered.

*****

Roy stopped just inside the door of the Cal State Northridge field house. Spread on the floor in front of him were dozens and dozens of colorful, grave-sized quilt squares, tributes to the victims of AIDS. The Xeroxed list of names and locations crumpled as his hand tensed. There are so many, he thought. He both wanted and did not want to find the block Ellie, Amy, Kate and Joanne had made. The pain of Johnny's death was just beginning to ease to a dull ache.

Jennifer took his arm. "Are you Ok?" she asked.

Roy looked at his daughter. She stood next to him wearing her working blues, with her honey blond hair gathered into a tight bun on the top of her head. Next to her badge she had pinned a small fold of red ribbon. Jen met his eyes, her gaze so like Joanne's. "I'm fine," he answered nodding.

Jennifer led him into the huge room, stopping in front of a dark blue rectangle. A pattern of small white, four pointed stars spread across the background and in the lower right corner was an appliqued medicine wheel and eagle feather. Slightly to the left of the center was an eight-point, multicolored star like those used on Lakhota quilts. In the center of the star was an embroidered replica of the county's paramedic badge.

Roy read the inscription, 'John Gage FF/PM. August 28, 1948 - November 18, 1987. Hechel lena oyate kin nipi kte.'

Authors notes: My cousin, who has asked to remain anonymous, wrote Jennifer DeSoto's letters. "Hey cousin, it was pretty cool playing Emergency together after all these years." I would like to thank Tashia, Kathy W., Kate S., M-A., and Carol for their help and encouragement while writing this story. A very special thank-you to Mary Morris who encouraged me when I became frightened of finishing this story -- pilamiya ye.

Translations : Tosh'ka - nephew, Mitunwin - my aunt, Cinye - older brother, Hechel lena oyate kin nipi kte -- "that these people may live" this phrase is part of many Lakhota prayers.