Luther Hawk never played bingo, never found the time for the Friday night poker games with the guys from the shipyard. He was not a gambler and did not believe in luck. Still, it was hard to call it anything but bad luck when he got caught in the latest round of lay-offs at Electric Boat. This is what he thought as he drove upriver towards the reservation, his welding equipment rattling in the trunk. He saw the huge cigar shape of the "Nathan Hale" receding in his rearview mirror and further beyond, the Thames emptied into Long Island Sound where the horizon was bright and shining in his eyes.
His future now looked considerably less brilliant. The little dream catcher suspended from the mirror swayed with the motion of the car but it had failed him. It had let the nightmare of unemployment slip through once again.
He was approaching the reservation. Above the green hills he saw the future of his people rising to the sky, the lavish gaming complex and hotel, complete with indoor waterfall and rain forest, that the Pequot had erected on their little reservation, the only legal casino in all of New England. Gamblers came from all over to lose their money and his people were delighted to help them. He didn't approve of gambling, but he appreciated the irony of the whites finally losing to the Indians and coming back for more.
Luther noticed all the shiny new cars on the reservation. The casino had been good to the people. But something was not right. The people, even Uncle Max, were busy now, all the time. If they weren't working, they were busy thinking up new ways to spend their money. There seemed to be no time for anything else. It wasn't how it was supposed to be.
As he turned into the parking space in front of his brand new apartment, he saw a man dressed in a crisp black suit, walking down the sidewalk. The man stopped and waited for him to get out of his car. A toothy grin creased the man's broad face.
"You're home early, nephew. Uncle Sam got too many submarines?"
"More than you know, Uncle Max." Luther slammed the car door shut. "Uncle Sam laid me off today."
The smile disappeared from his uncle's face. "Damn. Sorry, boy."
Max stood there in his croupier's suit, his metal name tag winking in the sunlight. Luther knew there wasn't anything his uncle could say that would help but he appreciated his concern. He had always been there for him, especially after his old man split, and Luther loved him for that.
"Yeah, well, things happen, you know?" He tried on a smile. "I was getting tired of the job anyway.
His uncle laid a bear paw of a hand upon his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Maybe it will only be for a little while. Maybe we'll invade Bermuda and the Navy will need more subs."
"Bermuda?" Luther said, laughing despite himself.
"We can always hope." Max kept a hand on his nephew's shoulder and led him along the sidewalk. "I'm sure something will come up. You know, you can always..."
"Don't say it, Uncle Max."
"Say what?"
"You know. You were going to say that I could always get a job in the casino."
He removed his hand from Luther's, feigned indignation upon his face. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
"Hey, I'm only looking out for my sister's boy. Plenty of us work at the casino. It's just the second largest employer in the state of Connecticut, you know."
"I do know. I've heard you say that plenty of times before."
"Okay, I'll be quiet," said Max, "but keep it in mind."
Luther sighed. This was getting to be a routine with his uncle, as if working in the casino were the only job on earth. Even when Luther found work at Electric Boat, his uncle continued to praise the benefits of the casino.
He talked about it too much, Luther thought, as if he were trying to convince himself how great it was. Still, the truth was that he was out of work. Maybe the casino was worth considering.
"All right, uncle, I'll think about it," he said.
"Good." Max looked at his watch, an ornament he had never owned, or needed, prior to the casino. "I've got to get going, can't be late for work," he said, as he hurried to his car for the short drive to the casino.
Once inside the sanctuary of his apartment Luther grabbed a cold Bud out of the refrigerator, yanked off his work boots, and plopped down on the couch, propping his feet up on the scratched coffee table. He raised the can towards the ceiling and toasted the millions of unemployed whose ranks he had so recently joined.
"To you, ladies and gentlemen, and to me and...to better days," he said.
He took a long drink of the cold beer, feeling the icy chill burn inside
him. He held the can balanced on his chest and surveyed the meager furnishings of his apartment. The coffee table, the plaid couch with the sagging springs, and a worn side chair the color of a rusting battleship were grouped around a small television whose reception was so bad that every football game he watched seemed to take place in a Buffalo blizzard. Two antique Mohawk baskets that had belonged to his mother and had been in the family for generations sat upon the floor near the television. The walls were bare except for a framed color photo of his late mother which occupied a place of honor above the chair.
He treasured that photo. Taken several years before the tuberculosis finally killed her, the photo was a constant reminder to him of his mother's spirit, her pride in herself and her heritage. Estelle Hawk smiled at her son from the photo, her dark eyes holding him with their power. The photo had been taken at a Wampanoag pow-wow in Rhode Island and she was dressed in full traditional regalia. She had a great eye for detail and authenticity. Although the photo was taken in 1986, she looked like a Pequot woman transported from the mists of 1686.
"And to you, Mom," he said, draining the can.
He knew what his mother would have thought about the casino. A strong believer in the traditional way of life, she would have been opposed to its construction and she would have been among the minority. He doubted that anything she could have said or done would have stopped the casino. He was glad that she had not lived long enough to see its grand opening, complete with Frank Sinatra as the first headliner.
"Old Blue Eyes," he said aloud and laughed.
But there was no denying the economic boon that the casino had become for the Pequot nation, a nation that for over two hundred years was considered extinct by the U.S. government. Not only were the Pequot alive and well, employed and earning money, but the tribal rolls were increasing each day as more and more people saw the Pequot success and suddenly discovered that they had at least a drop or two of Pequot blood coursing through their veins and were therefore entitled to some portion of the new-found wealth.
He could not deny the lure of the gambling wealth. He had to work for white people anyway, why not in a casino? The new apartment complex that he lived in was built with white gambling money. That kind of money could buy anything.
Estelle Hawk had not left much by way of material goods to her son when she died but she did leave him with a legacy of honor that he carried with pride, although sometimes burdened beneath its weight. She had never worked for whites, except for some volunteer work at her church's soup kitchen. She did not want to become tainted, she said. She did not want to dream of what she did not own. She did not have a case of the wants.
Two weeks went by, then three, and still there was no word from Electric Boat. Luther remained jobless and the money was running low. Uncle Max did not talk about the casino anymore but he didn't have to; there were plenty of others who pressed him to consider it.
"You're just being pigheaded about the whole thing," said his friend, Eddie Walker, as they sat drinking a few beers at Eddie's place.
"Thanks for the compliment."
Eddie shrugged. "I'm telling you like it is, man. There's all kinds of jobs at the casino. You don't have to work the gaming tables if that's what's bothering you. You can come work with me at the restaurant or maybe in the hotel. My mother works there. She could probably get you in."
Luther shook his head. "No, I couldn't."
"Pigheaded, that's all," his friend repeated. He finished his beer and
turned on the television. "Hey, great, Beavis and Butthead."
Luther sipped his beer and watched the television without really seeing a thing. Maybe Eddie was right. Maybe he had no right being stubborn about the kind of job he would accept, not when he would soon be broke and other prospects for making money were nonexistent. Even Uncle Max was okay about working in the casino. He thought about what Eddie had said.
There were other jobs not directly involved with gambling. What was wrong with them?
His mother's voice was inside his head. "They all feed the hunger, Luther," she said. "They give us a case of the wants. They make us forget what is important."
He set his unfinished beer down on the table and stood. Eddie was still watching the television and paid him no attention.
"Eddie, I've got things to do. I'll catch you later."
"Later," his friend said, giving him a half-wave of his hand without looking up.
The night air was cool and fresh outside Eddie's apartment. Stars filled the clear October sky. He didn't want to go home, wanted to go somewhere but didn't know where so he drove randomly, letting the Mustang decide the course. He imagined his uncle in his croupier's suit leading him through the crowded casino to his own blackjack table. Luther saw his mother among the eager white faces. She seemed detached from the crowd and in the few moments that she appeared to him, her dark eyes were sad.
After driving awhile, he found himself downriver near Norwich. The Mustang stopped by itself on the edge of town but he knew the place. His mother had brought him here many times when he was a boy. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, looking out at the ancient tombstones in the little cemetery beside the road. In his mind's eye, he saw his mother taking him by the hand, leading him among the stones, looking for one stone in particular.
She was singing a song, softly, as she led him through the old graveyard. The words were lost to him now, if he ever knew them, but the sense of their meaning was with him still.
He opened the door and stepped out of the car. He approached the rough stone wall surrounding the cemetery and passed through the opening in it as if he had a purpose here. The stones loomed up black and crooked in the starry night. He paid them no mind but walked to the center of the graveyard where a tall obelisk pointed to the stars.
Crickets sang in the grass and among them he heard another sound. As if she were with him now, Estelle Hawk's song began to sound in his ears.
He stood before the stone shaft. At the base was carved a single name. Uncas.
"And he it was," his mother had told him, "who betrayed our people and took sides with the English against us. He it was who led his warriors and the English against our people and murdered them, men, women, and children, as they slept peacefully in their fort."
She had gone on to describe in detail how the colonists surrounded the fort at night, how Uncas and his warriors crept inside and caught the Pequot by surprise, how the village was torched and the entire camp became an inferno, how the Pequot burned to death or escaped outside, only to be shot down by the surrounding soldiers.
He stood before the monument, erected by whites many years ago in
gratitude for the services of Uncas as he betrayed his people to feed his own greed and ambition and those of his English overlords.
"Uncas had a bad case of the wants," Estelle said. "He forgot who he was."
A breeze sprang up in the cemetery and riffled through the uncut grass. There was a song upon the wind and Luther knew it as his mother's song. He closed his eyes and camped in the darkness, listening. He heard the meaning upon the wind, felt the words touch a place in his heart, and when he opened his eyes he saw it written among the stars.
He knew the person that was Luther Hawk.

From: Connecticut Review, Spring 1996

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