INTRODUCTION

Sins of the Family began as two separate stories told to me by one of my brothers back in the early seventies. The first was about a Native American—he did not know which tribe—who lived in his Dallas apartment complex. The man would sit on the floor and sing unintelligible songs all night. Once, while in a drunken stupor, he told my brother he was Jesus. Soon thereafter he was arrested for stabbing another apartment resident who banged on his door and yelled at him to shut up. The other story was about a German couple who owned a successful business in our hometown. He suspected the old man had been a Nazi because of the way the wife reacted whenever the topics of Germany, Hitler or World War II came up.
Over the years those two little vignettes mixed in my mind until I came up with the story of a mentally ill Cherokee who thought he was Moses and escaped from his mental hospital to track down and kill Pharaoh to set his people free. But who were his people, the Cherokee, Hebrews of old, Jews or downtrodden people everywhere? And who was Pharaoh, his own father, his psychiatrist, a former Nazi, a television reporter or just anyone who gets in his way?
Sins of the Family is meant to as entertainment and fodder for intellectual debate on the responsibility of not only families but society as a whole for the behavior of troubled people who feel downtrodden. It is by no means an indictment of or judgment upon Native Americans but rather upon the way they have been treated.

CHAPTER ONE

Rhythmic drum pounding roused John Ross from his troubled dreams in which he led Cherokee people to the Promised Land and stood on a pinnacle, surveying green valleys and fertile pastures. As he rubbed sleep from his eyes, John realized he was on no summit but on the North Carolina reservation in a tiny bedroom with faded, stained wallpaper, part of his parents’ apartment above a trading post on the main street of town, where tourists gathered. He was not living in the Bible times of God-ordained heroes but a modern nineteen eighty, devoid of any heroes at all. Frowning, he rolled over and tried to return to the mountaintop in his dreams, but instead his mind drifted into other visions. First he was in the middle of the sparkling, shallow Ocunaluftee River, laughing and splashing on his father, a lean, happy man splashing water back on him. The throbbing in John’s head eased as he thought of his early childhood years, his only happy time in his forty years of life. His whole body shuddered as his dream changed to a sunny day when he was ten, surrounded by tourists. All he remembered was a flash of light on a large river stone attached to a thick stick with leather straps coming down on his forehead. The rest was darkness. Then John twitched as images flashed before his eyes of people laughing at him, all kinds of people and all ages. The drum pounding returned to his head, aching, creating unreasoned anger and calling him to warfare. At last his eyes opened, filled with a holy hatred.
He slipped from bed and walked naked, unashamed, into their living room to a window overlooking the street. Pulling wide open tattered, yellow lace curtains John watched his father, a stooped-shouldered paunchy old man dancing in bright Hollywood Indian regalia to a scratched vinyl recording of Indian war music and to clicking of cameras.
“John?” his mother called out from the kitchen. “You up?” She walked into the living room drying her hands on a worn dish towel and stopped abruptly. “Don’t you think it’s time to get some clothes on?”
“What?” John said without emotion.
“Please step away from the window, Johnny. White people will see you.”
“I don’t care,” he replied.
“You’ll care if the police pick you up again,” his mother said, pursing her lips, “and put you back in the mental hospital.”
John looked to stare at her. She sighed and touched her moist, wrinkled hand to her pale cheek.
“I’m sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean that.”
“What?” John returned his attention to the street where his father danced. “Those people are laughing at him.”
Yes, they are,” his mother said. “They like to laugh at his dancing, but he’s made a good income letting people laugh at him.”
“And through him, they’re laughing at us. They’re laughing at me.”
“Please don’t hate him, Johnny.” She twisted her dish rag.
He turned to look at his mother, a fragile, thin woman with streaked gray hair and tears in her eyes.
“Why are you crying, old woman?”
“Don’t you know me, Johnny?” She lowered her voice. “I’m your mother.”
John stared at her until his eyes blinked in recognition.
“Oh, yes. Mother.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to put on your clothes?”
“I suppose,” he said, looking down at his nakedness.
“I got some clean boxer shorts, blue jeans and your favorite shirt in the laundry basket, all fresh and clean and smelling like a babbling brook.”
He reached out to wipe tears from her eyes which now had gained a slight sparkle.
“I’ll get them,” she said as she padded back into the kitchen.
“Too white, too white.” John looked at his pale, flat, hairless belly and rubbed it.
“What was that?” she called out.
“Nothing.” John peered through the curtains again. His eyes narrowed as he watched his father pat a white boy on the back as the parents took a picture.
“Why don’t you go sit down on the sofa while I’m getting these clothes ready?”
“Do you remember the first time father began dancing for white tourists?” He walked across the room to the old sofa, covered with a homemade quilt to hide holes made by cigarette burns.
“Oh, that was years ago. The World War was over. The highway had opened through the Smoky Mountains. Tourists started coming to town,” his mother said as she entered with boxer shorts, jeans and shirt. “Go ahead and sit on the sofa.”
“Where are my cigarettes?” His disturbed eyes searched the dark room. The cigarettes made him feel peaceful. He wanted to feel peaceful.
“After you put on your clothes.”
“I was in first grade, and my teacher was talking about the Trail of Tears.” John sat.
“Please, Johnny. Don’t get started on that again.” She sat next to him. “You know how it always upsets you. Yes, your father did something wrong, but we can’t change it now.” She extended the boxer shorts to him. “Put these on.”
“My teacher said the United States government ordered Cherokees to march out west.”
“You can’t have a cigarette until you put on your underwear.” When he did not take them from her, his mother placed the boxers across his lap.
“Leading the march was a Cherokee named John Ross.”
“Yes, I know, dear.”
“That’s my name.” He turned to look at his mother. “John Ross. I have the name of a hero.”
“Yes, I know. Your father didn’t care to know, about our Cherokee heroes.” She smiled. “The Gospel of John is your father’s favorite book in the Bible.”
“I was seven years old and was proud of my father. He helped build houses. He looked like a Cherokee warrior.” John stood, and his boxer shorts fell to their bare wooden floor. “Then I had something to be proud about me. Everything was wonderful.”
“Please put these on.” She bent down to pick up his underwear. “And everything wasn’t wonderful. Your father had hurt his back on a construction job and couldn’t be a carpenter anymore. We hadn’t told you because we didn’t want to upset you.”
“I ran home from school to tell father but stopped when I saw the crowd in front of the trading post. As I pushed my way through I saw my father, dressed in Hollywood feathers and dancing a dance no true Cherokee ever danced.” John dropped on the sofa, his shoulders sagging.
“We were lucky Mr. Cox downstairs allowed your father to dance in front of his store.” His mother held his boxer shorts out to him again.
“That white boy shot his toy pistol at father, and he dropped to the ground,” he said without emotion. “The boy put his foot on father’s chest and said, ‘The only good Injun is a dead Injun.’ All the stupid white people around him laughed and applauded.” John felt cold anger which he had pushed down into the pit of his stomach rising to his throat, making it constrict.
“Injun,” John said. “I hate that word. Injun.”
“Johnny, my arthritis is acting up. Please don’t make me stay down on my knees.” She laughed to lighten his mood. “Besides, that was in the forties. White folk don’t do things like that anymore. They know better now.”
“I hated that boy. I hated my father.” He lifted his right leg.
“Hate just eats up your insides. I know.” His mother pushed the shorts up. “Thank you.” She stood and sat by John as he pulled the boxer shorts to his waist. “Don’t think about the hatred.”
“In school, they said Cherokees don’t use feathers like that. They only used white feathers.”
“The folks like to see bright colors.” She handed him blue jeans. “They won’t pay to see just white.”
“And that dance,” he continued as he slipped on his jeans. “That isn’t a Cherokee dance. My teachers, they said people don’t know what kind of dance our ancestors did.”
“White folks only pay when he does the dance.”
“They don’t do dances like that at The Living Village.” John’s mind raced with a desperate optimism as he thought of the educational center on the side of the mountain operated by the tribal government. Many Cherokee worked there practicing old skills such as basket weaving, pottery making, beading, boat making among other activities while others conducted the tours, telling tourists the true culture of their people.
“That’s true. Here’s your shirt.”
“Why don’t we work there?”
“Our names are on file.” Sadness tinged the corners of his mother’s smile. “It’s a popular place to work. Everybody wants to work there.”
“Then let’s leave. Let’s live in Knoxville. Let’s go to Atlanta. There are plenty of jobs there.”
“You tried that once before. It didn’t work out,” she said, patting his knees. “Besides this is our home. We belong here.”
John stood and went to the window. His mother followed him with his shirt.
“When he was young he had a flat belly, like a Cherokee warrior.” Looking out at his father, he remembered the happy times when he and his father played in the river. “Now that he’s dancing for tourists his belly’s all soft.”
“He’s getting old, Johnny,” she said. “Bellies can’t stay strong and flat forever.”
“Other people have jobs with dignity.” His eyes pleaded with his mother.
“We’re doing the best we can.” She held out his shirt. “We can’t do anymore than that.” She put John’s arms through the sleeves. “Remember what your father says, trust in the Lord.”
“The Lord,” he said, spitting in derision as he buttoned his shirt.
“Please, Johnny, don’t blaspheme God. You know how it upsets your father.” Her mouth tightened. “Things white people say don’t upset him, but blasphemy does.”
“I remember a Sunday school class with other young Cherokee men and an older Cherokee who had forgotten the ways of his people.” John frowned. His memories quickened. This particular Sunday was after the stone tomahawk down on his head and after the great darkness that followed.
“Your father still teaches that class,” she said. “You’d get along with your father so much better if you went back to church.”
“He was talking about the plagues on Egypt and how God hardened Pharaoh’s heart.” John looked out the window.
“Yes, he says God has a reason for everything He does.”
“I asked my father if he thought Cherokees needed another Moses. The other boys laughed at me.”
“It was unkind of them, I know,” she said.
“Father said, ‘Why no. We have Jesus Christ now. He leads us out of our bondage to sin.’ I told him what they said in school about early Cherokee.”
“Johnny, you know how confused you get when you think about things like that,” his mother said.
“Do you think it’s just a coincidence that Cherokee called their god Yo He Wa, which sounds a lot like Yahweh, an early form of Jehovah?” John asked, not expecting a reply. Cherokees believed in one god, just as in Christianity, Judaism and Islam, he remembered his teachers telling him.
“Now, Johnny…”
“Other boys laughed at me, long and loud, and he let them do it.” He squared his jaw, trying not to cry as he remembered that day. “Father had this smirk on his face as he ridiculed me. ‘You make fun of me for dancing for tourists to put food in your stomach yet you still believe in silly myths about Cherokee gods when you have evidence in the Bible to the contrary,’ he said. The other boys laughed, and he laughed too.” John made a fist and stuck it in his mouth, hoping to keep from crying.
“Oh, Johnny, I love you so much.” His mother went to him and hugged him. “We never meant to hurt you. Your father would rather die than hurt you.”
He bit down so hard he punctured his skin. Pulling his hand away, he looked at the drop of blood that appeared.
“No, Johnny, not again.”
John stuck out his tongue to touch the drop. It tasted salty. He looked up as he became aware of Hollywood Indian music’s pounding tom-tom beat and clinched his jaw.
“He hates me.”
“No, Johnny,” his mother said. “Your father doesn’t hate you. He’s just frustrated with your problem, that’s all.”
As he stood there, listening with hot emotion to the spectacle that took place every hour from nine to six, five days a week for more years than he wished to remember, John was drawn to the beat, which called him to war. He fought this war many times before, against white men, against red men, against all who humiliated proud people. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the tom-toms. He felt sweat beading on his forehead. Grabbing the front of his shirt, he ripped it open and threw it on the floor.
“Oh, my goodness!” she said, her voice rising to a shriek. “No, Johnny, no! Don’t do this!”
“I must!” he replied with a bellow, turning toward their bathroom.
“You know what the judge said.” She grabbed at his arm to lecture him. “One more time, Johnny, one more time, and they were going to put you away for good!”
John unfastened his jeans and kicked them off and tore his boxer shorts off. Throwing back his shoulders he lifted his chin, proud to be a warrior once more.
“Johnny, please. Listen to me,” his mother said as she grabbed at his hands. “Look into my eyes. Sometimes the drum beat goes away if you look into my eyes. Please, look.”
Pulling away, he elbowed his mother, knocking her down where she huddled by the toilet. Between sobs, she pleaded with her son to consider what will happen to him if he made white men mad at him one more time, but he ignored her. Instead, John stared into the mirror at his face, now marked with the lines of more than forty winters. Without expression he took lipstick, a bright red, and marked the creases on his cheeks and forehead. He noticed a scar on his forehead but could not remember from where it came. He marked it with red. The warrior prepared for battle.
“Johnny, no,” she said, losing her strength to fight her son’s darker impulses.
He marched into their small kitchen where he found a large, sharp butcher’s knife and then walked with purpose to the front door and without hesitation stepped out onto a small landing leading down to the street where his father danced. There on the top stoop was a tree branch growing between the slats. Just looking at the branch made John mad, but he could not remember why. As he shut the door he heard his mother screaming.
“It’s all his fault!” she bellowed. “Johnny wouldn’t be this way if it wasn’t for him! He let the white devils laugh at him and he let them hit my boy! I hate him! I hate him!” His mother’s rage dissolved into bitter sobs, punctuated by cries of “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
“It’s his fault,” John muttered to himself, clenching the butcher’s knife. His father had to pay for making his mother cry. He had to pay for ruining his life, John vowed. Standing on the landing he could not help but think of Moses coming down from Mount Sinai with the tablets of stone given to him by Yo He Wa.
“I am Moses! I have come to set my people free!”
Laughter and happy chatter stopped abruptly as vacationers gaped at the naked man standing above them. Fathers and mothers grabbed their small children, holding them tight and turning their heads away.
“Thou shalt not have no other god than Yo He Wa.”
His father bowed his head in shame. John did not understand. His father should have been relieved that Moses had come to lead him from Pharaoh’s land, from concentration camps in Germany, from reservations on dry prairies. He should not be embarrassed. John’s persecuted people would not be free until they put down the yoke of old men. Leaning back, he screamed skyward, then bounded down the stairs and pounced on his father who fell quickly to the ground, covering his head. Tourists screamed and stood in shock as John raised his knife high in the air, holding it there like the serpent Moses held high in the wilderness. He plunged it into his father’s flesh. He lifted the bloody knife over his head, allowing red drops of blood to enter his mouth.
***
In the busy newsroom of television station WBAT-TV Channel Forty-three in Knoxville, Bob Meade read stories clicking in over a teletype machine.
“Rhodesia has officially changed its name to Zimbabwe and installed its first black government after eighty years of white rule,” he read aloud to himself.
“Pope John Paul the Second arrived in his native Poland,” he continued.
The telephone rang, and he answered it. Thirty years old, Bob was slight of build but had large, soulful brown eyes set in an expressive face topped by a shock of unruly dark hair. Picking up a pencil he steadied it over a notepad.
“Newsroom,” he said in a pleasant high baritone. “Yeah, Frank, what have you got?” Bob’s brow furrowed as he scratched some notes. “He was naked?” He continued to scribble. “Is his father dead?” He paused. “Which hospital?”
After a few more questions Bob hung up and took the pad to the news manager, a tall graying man with humorless eyes.
“Joe, we’ve got a stabbing in Cherokee.”
His boss looked up.
“This naked guy stabbed his father, who was a street dancer, and held the knife over his head and let blood drip into his mouth. He’s done this time of things before. I’ve an interview in Gatlinburg tonight so I thought we could leave now for Cherokee. Two jobs, one trip, thought you’d like that.”
“Transmit the stabbing story in time for the five-thirty news.”
Bob scouted his crew and had them on the way out the door when Betty Sargent, the news anchor, called to him, holding up a telephone.
“It’s your father.”
Frowning, he faltered at the door.
“Tell him I’ve left.”
“I’m a professional journalist,” she said. “I don’t lie.”
“You’re not my mother.” Bob’s eye twitched.
“Thank God I’m not that old,” Betty said with a sarcastic smile as she held out the receiver.
He turned and went through the door, hearing Betty sigh.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Meade, he just left.”