Nigel, Anna, and I were seniors when we first met during a bomb scare at our high school. Everyone was evacuated to the overgrown baseball field behind the gym while the fire department searched every classroom, locker, and broom closet on the grounds. It took hours and was boring as hell, but at least we were dismissed early and a few of us were fleetingly famous on the evening news.
When a second bomb threat was called in on the same day at the same time the following week, things took a more serious and practical turn. Members of the football and soccer teams grabbed balls, the faculty slung shopping bags full of notebooks, snacks, and First Aid kits over their shoulders, and we arrived at the field to discover the weeds had been bush-hogged and picnic tables set out. Apparently the rumor that Jeremy Coleman and his buddies (known for their outlandish pranks) were behind the threats was being taken seriously. We’d all heard it, and most believed it, so our second evacuation lacked the speed and urgency of the first.
I’d had the good sense to add a paperback (Grapes of Wrath) to my backpack and was looking for a shady spot to read when I noticed four of my classmates setting up a game of Dungeons and Dragons on one of the picnic tables. Curious, I walked over and asked if I could watch. “Sure,” said Nigel, the baby-faced editor I recognized from the yearbook staff. ”Wanna play?”
“No thanks,” I replied, taking a seat. “Just curious.” I watched as a simple map, drawn on graph paper, was laid out on the table along with a collection of seven dice, and four “character sheets.” The sheets were printed forms containing the names, races, classes, abilities, and stats of the characters they’d each be playing in the game. A quick glance at one of the sheets left me completely baffled so I set it aside and waited to see how the game would unfold.
Nigel explained that the choice of which adventure to play (also known as a campaign or quest) was up to someone called the Dungeon Master (DM). It was the DM’s job to choose the setting, story, and challenges the players would face. “The DM is a combination of storyteller and referee,” Nigel said as he set a hand-painted, miniature statue of his character on the map.
The DM for today’s campaign was a too pale and too thin young woman named Anna. We’d never met, but Anna’s reputation preceded her. She was known as a bad ass math and science nerd, and was - as I was about to learn - a talented DM. All eyes turned to her as soon as she took her seat at the head of the table. She explained that we’d be traveling to a dungeon in The Forgotten Realms to retrieve six lightning rods from the dragon living there. Then she described the landscape and introduced us to each of the non-player characters (NPCs). As events unfolded, she chronicled the success or failure of the players’ actions and guided them through the many dangers in the dungeon. By the time the dragon was defeated and the lightning rods retrieved, I was impressed and intrigued.
“We could teach you,” Anna suggested. “I think you’d be a great High Elf Bard.”
“Since I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I laughed, “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It was,” Anna said with a small smile. “Think about it.”
It took the police almost two months to identify and catch the culprits behind the bomb threats that continued to occur every Tuesday at 1:00 pm. By then, I’d been bitten by the D&D bug and was playing with Anna and Nigel each week. They each approached the game differently, but what I came to appreciate was how the lessons learned in D&D applied to my daily life. As Anna was fond of saying, “When we look at our day-to-day lives as D&D stories they become much more manageable.”
Over the next four years following graduation, Nigel and Anna and I continued to play at least once a month, using our game time to keep abreast of one another’s lives. As a result, both Anna and Nigel were up-to-date on what Nigel called “The Saga,” and were eager to hear about my meeting with the lawyer.
“Please tell me Faith didn’t contest the will,” Nigel said when I reached him on the phone.
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “but I could use some advice.”
“Honey, you could use a lot more than advice,” Nigel teased. “When was the last time you went out on a date and had some fun?”
“Nigel!” I protested, laughing despite myself.
“Okay, okay,” Nigel grumbled good-naturedly, “but you know what Jack Nicholson said about all work and no play.”
“I’m hanging up now. I’ll let you know what Anna says.”
Anna’s response was both predictable and practical. “Happy to help. Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”
Two days later the three of us met at our favorite hangout - an old playground next to graduate housing. There were no kids around at this time of the day so we had the swings to ourselves. We each claimed a seat and set ourselves in motion. By unspoken agreement we waited until our gentle back and forth movements were in sync before speaking.”
“Okay, spill,” Nigel said.
I quickly went through the visit to the lawyer’s office, meeting with Manuel, and Evan’s unexpected arrival.
“I think you need to talk to him,” Nigel said.
“What? Why?” Anna said. “It’s her property. She doesn’t need his permission to do anything.”
“I’m not saying she needs his permission,” Nigel said. “But he knows things. He’s been working there for years and was with D when he died.”
“That’s true,”Anna acknowledged, “but I don’t like the way he and Manuel behaved. Like they had everything planned and just expected her to go along.”
“I felt like they were trying to manage me,” I said.
“What do you know about this Evan guy anyway?” Nigel asked.
“Nothing really except he’s covered in tattoos and comes to AA meetings sometimes.”
“But never says anything,” Anna added.
“Right.”
“Well why don’t you ask Manuel what he can tell you about him,” Nigel suggested. “At least give you his last name.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I owe Manuel an apology anyway.”
There was a brief pause as we considered our options. “You know, this whole thing is sounding more and more like a quest,” Anna said.
“Say what?” Nigel said. “You mean a D&D quest?”
“Well think about it,” Anna continued. “We’ve got treasure to retrieve from an unexplored land with unknown and potentially dangerous beings lurking around.”
“Treasure?” Nigel asked. “Who said anything about treasure?”
“Didn’t D’s letter say he’d left gifts for you at the Light House, Maddy?” Anna asked, turning to me.
“Yes,” I replied. “So what are you thinking, Anna?” If there was one thing I’d learned to respect about Anna it was her ability to see the big picture in almost any situation.
“Well, first off I want to say that I realize this isn’t a game. This is your life, Maddy and anything we do will have real consequences. That said, the same principles used in D&D apply here.”
“Go on,” I said.
“First, make a plan. To do that you need a map of the land and some idea of the obstacles you’ll face. Second, you need a plan of attack or in this case a way to deal with any monsters or traps you encounter.” Before I could protest, Anna held up her hand. “I know I know, and I’m not implying anyone involved is a monster. But there’s a lot we don’t know yet and money has a way of making people do dumb things. So let’s just agree to keep our eyes open and guards up.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Third, you have to decide on when, where, and how to retrieve the treasure. It would help if you knew what that treasure was. Did the lawyer say anything?”
“He said D left some things for me on the property but he didn’t know what. His instructions were to wait two years before opening the document and telling me.”
“Well shit,” Nigel said. “That’s no help.”
“It is what it is,” said Anna. “Let’s talk about logistics. Do you have a map of the property?”
“Yes. It looks hand-drawn and the legal description is an actual written document detailing the property lines and landmarks in words.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” Anna said. “It’s called metes and bounds.”
“Metes and what?” Nigel asked.
“Bounds. It’s a type of survey that combines mathematical description and actual landmarks to define the perimeter of a property.” I explained.
“I can’t wait to see it,” said Anna. “Can you make me a photocopy?”
“Sure,” I said. “You should also know there’s an easement on one side of the property.”
“Seriously? Doesn’t that mean that people you don’t know have the right to come onto your property whenever they want?” Nigel asked.
“People I don’t know yet, Nigel. But I’m pretty sure D knew them. Don’t make it sound so sinister.”
“That’s another good reason to talk to this Evan guy,” Anna said. “I’m sure he knows about the easement.”
“She’s right, Maddy,” Nigel said. “You need to talk to him, then get your tired ass up there and see what’s really going on.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, giving him the stink eye. “But to be clear my ass is not tired. Will you guys come with me?”
“No way,” Anna said. “I hate nature.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Nigel said. “I’d love to go.”
“Well now that’s settled all I need to do is smooth things over with Manuel, find and talk to Evan, and make a plan to visit.”
“Sounds about right,” Anna said. “Just don’t forget to get me a copy of the map.”
"Will do,” I said, getting to my feet. I was suddenly exhausted. “Thanks again for today, guys. I’ll be in touch.”
The next day, I slept in, cuddled Zelda, got caught up on laundry, paid bills, took out the trash, and even cleaned the litter box to avoid calling Manuel. When there was nothing left to do, I picked up the phone and dialed. Much to my relief he didn’t pick up so I left a message saying I’d like to talk.
Next on the agenda was the AA meeting I tried to attend each week. Though I knew it would be cutting it close, I decided to walk when I saw the clotted cream color of the half-full moon hanging at the horizon and felt a light breeze carrying the scents of magnolia and fresh cut grass playing with my hair. As I walked, I wondered what I would say to Tattoo Guy if he was there.
When I arrived at the meeting, I slid into a seat at the back of the room. This meeting was a favorite of mine because it was a “Speaker’s Meeting.” Unlike other meetings that focused on individual steps in the A.A. program, Speaker’s Meetings give one person 45 minutes to share their journey to sobriety. As a writer I love a good story, but the narratives told at Speaker’s Meetings are more than that. They’re a chance to be brutally honest with yourself and other alcoholics, and for others to be reminded of and inspired by the courage it takes to stay sober.
The meeting tonight was full, and my view of the speaker’s chair was blocked by the backs of many heads. I scanned the room looking for Evan, but didn’t see him. Much as I’d like to avoid the conversation, I knew we needed to have one. “Any idea who’s speaking tonight?” I asked the tired looking businessman sitting next to me.
“No idea. I just got here myself,” he replied. “This isn’t my regular meeting. I just needed the support, you know?” His voice was full of the angst of someone who’s barely holding onto his sobriety.
“Oh I know, believe me,” I replied giving him an encouraging smile. “Good for you for coming.”
I was saved from hearing more of his troubles by today’s moderator, Carl. A 40-year veteran who often chaired meetings, he introduced himself and asked Karen to read the preamble. When she was done, he explained that this was a Speaker’s Meeting and that one person would be sharing their story. Then he invited tonight’s speaker to join him at the front of the room. “Whenever you’re ready, Evan,” he said, gesturing towards the chair.
“Well, what do you know,” I said.
“Pardon me?” the businessman said.
“Oh it’s nothing,” I said, getting to my feet. “Please excuse me. I need to get a better view.” I moved to the back of the room beside the leaded glass windows that formed most of the outside wall. From there I could see Evan walk slowly to the chair. He’d showered and shaved and put on clean clothes since I’d seen him last, and was looking almost presentable. But the tattoos that completely covered his arms, and could be seen peeking above the collar of his shirt, were still disconcerting.
"Hi, my name is Evan, and I’m an alcoholic,” he said in a low, controlled voice. He grasped the back of the chair, sat down, and clasped his hands between his legs. His focus was squarely on the floor and his only movement was the restless jiggling of his left foot.
“Hi Evan,” the entire room replied in unison.
“I’m here today,” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. “I’m here today because a person I loved has died and someone I just met called me on my bullshit.” There was another pause as Evan swallowed hard. It was as if he could only manage one sentence at a time before his throat closed. “This someone was deeply loved by the person who died, but because of my stupid pride I haven’t been able to deliver his message to her.”
There was another pause and you could feel everyone in the room lean forward in their chairs offering support and urging him to continue. “This someone pointed out that she knows nothing about me because I never talk at meetings. She’s right.” Here he stopped and Carl, who’d been watching anxiously, offered him a glass of water. "Thanks,” Evan said. He emptied the glass in a series of long swallows.
“More?” Carl asked.
”No,” Evan said, shaking his head. “I’ve never wanted a drink so much as I do now,” he said. “But I decided to tell my story instead.” It was then that he looked up, met my eyes, and nodded. Everyone in the room immediately pivoted in their chairs and peered into the shadows where I was standing.
“Shit,” I muttered. I hadn’t realized he knew I was there.
“There’s no way to say this nicely or politely,” Evan continued, recalling everyone’s attention to the front of the room. “Because what happened to me and my brother, and to thousands of Indian kids like us, was unspeakable.
“When I was six and my half-brother ten, we were stolen from our families and taken by bus to an Indian boarding school. If you don’t know, Indian boarding schools were a program paid for by the U.S government. Their goal was to assimilate Indian children into white culture through education. In reality, they were an attempt to destroy the Indian way of life. There were approximately 523 boarding schools in 30 states with over 60,000 native children.
“These are the facts,” Evan continued, his voice flat and toneless. “The reality was much worse. At the school, they cut our braids, replaced our traditional clothes with uniforms, and gave us new names - numbers that changed each year. We were forbidden to speak our native tongues and severely punished if we did. After being beaten several times for speaking Cherokee, I stopped talking. Eventually my teachers decided I was retarded. It helped because they didn’t expect me to talk in class. But it didn’t stop the older boys, who visited my bed at night, from raping me.” Evan sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths.
“The funny thing about silence,” he finally whispered, “was how it crawled into my head and blocked my thoughts. But the thoughts were always there, trying to get out. They followed me into sleep and became nightmares. The only things that helped were alcohol and pain. Alcohol let me sleep without dreams. Physical pain distracted me from the voices in my head.” Here Evan paused and ran his palms up and down his arms as if the tattoos were somehow comforting.
“By the time my brother found me working in an auto shop, I was drinking myself to death. He’d run away from boarding school and made a life for himself in San Francisco. He had a partner and a job and wanted to help. He got me into AA and his partner gave me work. They both died of AIDS but I’m still sober. And that’s all I have to say tonight.”
With that, Evan stood and walked back to his chair in the second row. Every eye in the room was on him but no one said a word until the man sitting next to him started pounding him on his back and shouted, “Hell yes, bro!” Then enthusiastic applause and amazed chatter broke out. “Can you believe his story?” the woman in front of me said, wiping her eyes.
“I had no idea any of that happened,” her friend replied. “It’s shameful.”
All the attention seemed to make Evan shrink in on himself. Seeing his discomfort, Carl got up and attempted to restore order by wrapping up the meeting. He thanked Evan again, urged everyone to stay and socialize after, and led us in the Serenity Prayer. As soon as it was over I left, taking a seat on one of the benches outside the church to wait.
When Evan emerged a few minutes later and saw me sitting there, he looked away and seemed ready bolt. But I got to my feet and called, “Wait, please. I’d like to talk.” He stopped, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but didn’t meet my eyes. “Let’s walk,” I suggested.
“Okay,” he said, falling into step beside me.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry for being so rude to you the other day. I have a temper and you were a bit of a surprise.”
“I’m the one who should apologize,” he said. “It was wrong to just show up and assume you’d listen.” We walked in silence for few minutes as we each tried to decide what to say next. “You know D warned me about you.” Evan said.
“He did?" What did he say?” I asked.
“Madison will be your best friend if you let her. Just be careful not to piss her off.”
“Oh,” I whispered, feeling my throat close with tears.
“He used to call you Mighty Maddy whenever he talked about the work you were doing together. He really admired you.”
“Thanks for that,” I said. “And thanks for sharing your story tonight. I’m so sorry to hear what you and Richard went through.”
“Do you know what Richard’s Cherokee name was?” Evan asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Onacona,” Evan said. “It means white owl and is a symbol of endurance and wisdom.”
“That’s lovely,” I said. “It fits.”
“Yes, it does,” Evan agreed. “He would’ve wanted me to share our story.”
“I wish I’d gotten to know him better. I wanted to include his story in the book but he was too sick to be interviewed.”
“Maybe I can help,” Evan suggested. “I don’t know everything, and I’m not gay, but he shared a lot with me.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “Not to change the subject, but can I ask? You said that D gave you a message for me.”
“Oh, right,” Evan said. “He said you never wanted gifts because there were always strings attached. He thought you’d probably be upset by the Light House.”
“That’s an understatement,” I said. “I’m still in shock and not sure what to do.”
“He said to tell you that sometimes strings are good. Sometimes strings tie us to people and places with love. ‘Tell her,’ Evan continued, doing a fair imitation of D’s deep, hoarse voice, ‘the Light House is my way of creating strings of love that will connect us even after I’m gone.’”
“Damnit,” I said, feeling tears run down my cheeks. “That sounds just like him.”
“He was a good man, Maddy. It was an honor to help him.”
“What do we do now?” I asked as I fished in my backpack for tissue.
“He left a lot of things for you at the house,” Evan said. “And there are things I need to explain about the property.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “It sounds like Anna was right. We need to start a quest.”
“Excuse me?” Evan said.
“Every played Dungeons and Dragons?” I asked.
“No.”
“Never mind. I’ll teach you how to play someday. But in the meantime let’s decide on a day and time we can meet and plan a trip to the Light House. I think we should talk to Manuel again and I have some friends I’d like you to meet.”
“Okay,” Evan said, looking a little overwhelemd.
“How can I reach you?”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Evan said pulling a faded Polaroid from his shirt pocket and handing it to me. That’s the entrance to the Light House - the gate that D gave you a key for.”
“Oh, nice,” I said taking the photo. It showed a Japansese-style gate with an old mailbox in front of it. The words, “The Light House Gate, 1978” were written at the bottom in D’s illegible scrawl.
“My number’s on the back,” Evan said.
“Great. I’ll be in touch. And thanks so much for everything.”
“Gvlielitseha,” Evan said. “See you soon.”
Copyright 2024 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
Resources
NY Times: https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2023/08/30/us/native-american-boarding-schools.html
History of Boarding Schools: https://boardingschoolhealing.org/education/us-indian-boarding-school-history/
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I am enthralled by this narrative. The struggle of those with AIDS and the horrific story of what was done to our indigenous people - both invisible to the majority - but their strength and perseverance, and the minority that cared...and spread their truths. You are a truth spreader. Love requires being willing to say the truth and hear it no matter how difficult.