Or: Why kids in this region grow thick, thorny skins

My husband and I are walking back across the street from my parents’ house, where we’ve just delivered dinner, when a kid zooms up on a bike.

“You take out my stitches, doc?”

The doc looks blank for a moment and then asks, “Did I put your stitches in, Birdman? I don’t remember that.”

“Nah. My mama, she ain’ got gas.”

That’s one of the drawbacks of the Indian Health Service: Patients have to get there. On the other hand, “there” would be a lot farther away, both less accessible and less affordable, without the IHS.

Birdman’s real name is Roberto, and he lives somewhere near us, or at least nearer to us than to the clinic. He’s a familiar character, because he’s impressively talented at getting what he needs. In his case that’s a good thing, because he needs a lot of help. His mother has made some really bad choices, and she seems determined to repeat them frequently and dramatically, often at her son’s expense.

People stop by the house all the time, wanting some little medical service. Sometimes they get it; sometimes they’re told to stop by the clinic tomorrow.  My husband is an inherently nice guy, and removing stitches only takes a minute, so the next thing I know, Roberto has his shirt rucked up and his eyes scrunched closed for a procedure he’s sure is going to hurt.

He has good reason for believing that. Across his back are two uneven rows of black knots, holding together the skin on either side of two long gashes.

“What happened, Bird?” Pediatricians know that eliciting information often is easier if the patient doesn’t have to look them in the eye, so he talks while this patient is face down across his lap, arms and head dangling to the left, feet kicking to the right.

“My mama, she gots this boyfriend.”

 “I figured.” There’s always a boyfriend, each one worse than the last. “And your mom’s boyfriend hit you with a stick?”

“Nuh-uh. Piece of PVC.”

“Police come?”

“Nah, diddun’ go to no doctor.” There’s a wealth of information revealed in that statement: Mom didn’t take him to the clinic because she knew about the mandatory reporting requirement, which means this isn’t the first time, but we knew that.

“Where’d you get the stitches, then?”

“Guy does the sheeps.”

“Vet?”

“Umm, not ‘zackly.”

“No?”

“Uh, a helper, like.” Like, the guy you call when you can’t afford the vet, although he seems to have been capable, if not artistic, with the sutures. “He come out, see you, you don’ got gas money.” Or when your mom doesn’t want her boyfriend to go to jail.

 My husband makes eye contact with me and says, “Babe, can you come hold the light?” I know what he means: Come look at this. He’s not concerned with the quality of the previous repairs; he’s bothered by the several generations of bruises criss-crossing Roberto’s back, apparently inflicted over his clothing but still sharply enough to pull the stitches loose in at least two places.

“Boyfriend hit you a lot, Birdman?”

“Some. I make him mad.”

“No reason to hit. You know that.”

“My mama, she say I don’t got the devil’s own sense.”

“You must have some. You came here to get your stitches out, and I bet your mom didn’t send you, did she?”

“She don’ know.”

“You get in more trouble if she finds out?”

“Nah, she won’ care, long as no policemans don’ come.”

There’s the dilemma. If we call the police, they’ll go talk to Roberto’s mama and her boyfriend. They won’t remove the child from her care; foster homes are rare, reserved for problems far more serious than this one, and they aren’t always a big improvement over a child’s current situation. They won’t take the boyfriend to jail because it will be his word against that of a child whose well-known survival skills include lying prodigiously. So they’ll just issue a warning, and the boyfriend, humiliated, will beat the crap out of the little boy.

Again.

“Your mama, she got a plan to prevent this from happenin’ again, Birdman?”

“She say I need stay outta the way for a while.”

We exchange glances again.

“You want to help Leetso with the yard?”

Leetso, called that (the Navajo word for uranium) because liver disease has turned his skin yellow, is another stray. Temporarily sober, he needs some money, so he’s working on our lawn and garden. As near as I can tell, he’s not actually accomplishing anything, but he’s still sober. He’s supervised by Anna, our “housekeeper,” who also doesn’t do much, but she doesn’t tolerate any misbehavior.

“An’ sleep here for a while?” Roberto catches on quick.

“Yeah, we got a place.”

“ 'bout a week’s prolly all,” he allows. “Mine goin’ back on purty soon.” The boyfriend will go back to the employee housing provided by the coal company when mining operations resume after the scheduled hiatus for maintenance, and Birdman’s mama will find another boyfriend, one who may be better or worse.

“I’ll walk down and tell your mama, then.” He’ll tell her a little else besides, like what happens to her income if she loses custody of Roberto, and then he’ll take the boyfriend aside and make clear the fact that others are taking a personal and pointed interest in the boy’s welfare. That’s the most we can hope to accomplish. He’ll talk to the police, too; he’ll say he thinks he has it handled for now. Nobody wants to make a bad situation worse.

“You gon’ take out my stitches first?”

“All done, Birdman, but you need a bath. Here’s what I want you to do while I’m gone: You go in and take a shower and then have Mrs. Doctor put some stuff on your back, ok? Then we’ll find you something for supper.”

Roberto gets stuck on one word. “Ain’ takin’ no fuckin’ bath! Can’ make me! Bitch! Don’ you lay no hand on me!” That isn’t unexpected. The Birdman’s outbursts are legendary, and there’s no doubt they’re a risk factor for significant abuse. He’s no more willing to tolerate a loss of face than is his mama’s current boyfriend or every one of the couple dozen before that. This is the way men in his world act: Either they win or they lose, and nobody wants to lose.

The doc, who has no compunction about laying a hand on him, reaches past flailing limbs and picks him up by the back of his pants.

“Bird,” he says sternly, and then waits for the racket to die down, at which point he sets the kid on his feet. “You’re a smart kid. You know that’s not the way to keep your skin in one piece. Don’t pick fights with people who can hurt you.”

Tall man and small boy face off. “’zat a threat?”

“You gots any experience to suggest that life is any other way, Birdman?“ asks my husband, who has never in his life threatened a kid. He turns and heads down the sidewalk. Behind him, the kid continues to sputter.

“Don’ need this fuckin’ shit!”

“C’mon, then. I’m headed to your house.”

Roberto recognizes a challenge, but self preservation wins out. ‘I ain’ usin’ no soap,” he mutters.

The doc stops and levels a look back over his shoulder. The little boy turns toward the house. “Stupid fuckin’ whites,’ he says, but he says it quietly. Then he perks up.

“You gots Mountain Dew?”