Bugoo had died, appropriately enough, of an attack of the heart. Sunny learned about it several years after the fact. Although they'd been divorced for a number of years, the news plopped into the cave of her being like the surprise sound from a single drop of water in a silent, secret recess. She had, a couple of days before hearing the news, whispered a vengeful wish that he might be dead; then she could forget that she hadn't heard from him in so long. Now she found herself driving her little car up and down an Oregon highway, trying to decide how to feel about this event. She was tired of the need to stand a rigid guard at the entrance of her inner center where, it was clear, she housed a great deal of pain, anger, sadness. Part of her wanted to simply acknowledge the fact of Bugoo's death and then forget it. Another part drummed an insistence that she begin to enter the ambiguity of their journey together and learn what it had meant in the scheme of her life. A bumper sticker on the back of a red car blinked into her vision as she stopped at a signal: "You don't have to be dead to move toward the light."

Bugoo and Sunny had met, back in the seventies, at an Indian reservation in Montana, a remote region of the northern big sky country she was, in those days, just beginning to love. The first time she saw him, Bugoo was sitting at a rickety table, playing cards with a couple of people, when Sunny and her new friend, Ettie, walked into the small log house. Although he barely acknowledged her presence, she was instantly smitten. He looked dangerous. He was big - about six foot four and more than 220 pounds. Big men brought out a rare flight of femininity to her spirit. His long, straight, black, course hair had a sudden wave on each side that made it billow out from a wide, face that housed dark, close-set eyes. His presence filled the tiny room, and Sunny couldn't stop her quick, she hoped seemingly unconcerned, glances in the direction of his game. He felt tightly closed.

"Hey, Bugoo," Ettie said, "this is Sunny, that new teacher at the school?" The last words trilled up the scale, as if a question were being asked. Sunny knew that the name Bugoo had to be a nickname, a baby name commonly attached in an endearing way to almost all youngsters she'd met here. She pictured baby Bugoo toddling around his family members, bugging them enough to earn his sweet, funny moniker. There was a silence in the warm, dark room as cards flipped from hands to table. She and Ettie stood watching the game. Bugoo nodded, never once looking up from his hand, and Sunny suddenly set her heart on knowing him with a fierce longing that surprised her.

The sudden occurrence of a warm downslope wind that sometimes comes down to the High Plains is called a Chinook wind.  It might occur after an intense cold spell; the temperature might rise by 20 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit in a matter of minutes, reaching maximum intensity in the early afternoon. Sunny's need to face the reality of the Chinook-like winds that had occurred in the early afternoon of her life flew into her consciousness with a swoop. She made a decision to end the hiding, to explore that part of her youth, a time she considered pivotol in her life, when she moved to Montana, where she met and married Hal, known to those who loved him as Bugoo.

Bugoo's cousin Gig was the first student Sunny had met at the reservation school on a hot, late-August day in the mid-seventies, and he was the last person she hugged when she left the reservation a couple of years later. Gig was also the first person she thought to call now - twenty-some years later - when she realized that she needed someone to help her remember her time in this place, to put into perspective the events that had so affected her life in the years that had passed. Sunny wanted to write her memoirs and, according to her writing group, this part of her life was a colorful place to begin. At first, she avoided making the call to Gig from Oregon to Montana. To even consider the cold reception she might receive from this person who, over the years, had grown in her imagination into a shining knight for her, was daunting.  Finally, she got brave. She did some research on the Internet, found Gig's address and phone number and left him a message.

Gig returned Sunny's call almost immediately. The sound of his voice was like the first breath of fresh, clean air you breathe in after opening the door of a dark, too-warm log house on a spring day. At first, she thought he was Bugoo; their voices were so similar. She did not want to talk to Bugoo. Her heart began a quicker beat, and she took a long breath. After a nervous hesitation, she squeeked, "Gig?"

"Sunny!" he exclaimed. "It's so good to hear from you after all these years."

"You mean you really want to talk to me?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.

"Of course I do. Why would you ask that? We've never forgotten you here."

"You haven't?" She can't believe that. "I thought you'd all concluded that I was some kind of a lame excuse for a human being and hoped you'd never have to bother with me again."

"Sunny. How could you think that? Don't you know that you were our hero? That we respected you and thought you were funny and quirky and brave? You stood up to a rotten system here. You tried things that had never even been considered.  What could you ever have done that would cause us to think anything bad of you? Huh?"

"Well, I left so suddenly that last day. And Bugoo beat you up because of me! Oh, there are a thousand reasons that would make me think . . . I can't tell you what that means to me, Gig. Thank you so much for that. It changes everything."

They talked for almost two hours - about people in the community she remembered, about Gig's life and times, about her move back to Oregon and what had happened to her since, about loves and failures, successes and memories. It was simply wonderful. Sunny's heart stopped in its tracks for a second every time Gig laughed; he sounded so much like Bugoo. Just as she was beginning to think she couldn't assimilate another memory, Gig said, just passing another story, ". . . and, of course, when Bugoo died . . ." Sunny didn't hear the rest of the sentence.

"What? Stop! What did you say?" She sprang straight up from her chair and faced the river that flowed outside her window.

"Oh, my gosh, Sunny. Didn't you know?"

A cold wind ran up through her spine and into her heart. "No. When? How? Why didn't anyone let me know?"

When Bugoo had died years before, Sunny hadn't known. Apparently, someone had tried to reach her, but she had moved just before his death, and her new number hadn't been listed. She didn't know how to feel. Part of her was relieved.  She wanted to begin to write about her time in Hays but didn't know how she'd be able to do that without Bugoo's cooperation and support, which she didn't think she'd get.  After all, they'd agreed that the only unforbidden communication between them could be silence.  In fact, until the last year or so with no contact at all, he'd called her about every four or five months or so since they'd last separated.  Keeping their agreement, however, they never spoke to one another; they'd just listen to one another breathe, sometimes for hours at a time, the only noise either could hear were the sounds of the bar from which he was calling.  She now knew that he'd stopped calling because he was dead.  Gone from her life.  Done.  Now she was free to begin her saga of that part of her life that, she knew, would lead her, maybe painfully but, she knew, in a healing way, to a better understanding of how she had been affected by the events that she had managed to firmly repress all these years.  Under the relief, though, was a long, anguished howl of sorrow. Sunny had loved this man all these years, had held him in her heart to the exclusion of any other possible partner, had thought about him almost every day - at times with intense anger, but most of the time with a soft, sad, loving - and now he was gone.

Sunny talked with Gig just awhile longer. He, sensitive soul that he was, could tell she needed to find a perspective, a way to deal with the painful news, and they promised to e-mail one another the next day.

After a long cry, Sunny put the news of Bugoo's death away. She thought about what she wanted to do with her story. She decided to proceed. She wanted to see Margaret, his mother, and knew that her old friend would be a pivotal part of the tale. Maybe the focus could center on just Margaret. No. That would be running away from the pain, and Sunny wanted to face it. Her story would be about all of them, Sunny's family and Margaret's.

Gig and Sunny later decided that if she were to actually write the story, she'd have to visit the reservation; they decided that the spring of that next year would be a good time. She had written to Margaret, who was excited about seeing her old daughter-in-law again and was happy to hear about Sunny's yearning to write about the family, the Metis, and Margaret's tribe, the Little Shell Chippewa. Bugoo's sister Beatrice had a daughter named Lacey who lived in Oregon.  Lacey and Sunny connected and then decided to drive together to the reservation just before Memorial Day. Their journey was fun, even hilarious. They remembered their times together. Lacey filled her auntie in on some of the events that had occurred in the last twenty-some years; Sunny interviewed her strong, intense niece on the tape recorder she'd bought just for this adventure.  They laughed and cried together as they remembered old times. In short, the trip was a blast of oxygen to Sunny's soul. Upon their arrival on the soil of the rez, the two hopped out of the car, kneeled in the prairie grass on the side of the road and, butts in the air, kissed the earth.

The village had not changed much. The dusty road into the village seemed the same. The smart-assed sign by the school still stood: "Welcome. This is God's country. Please don't drive through it like hell. Thank you. Pop 1462 plus 1 old grouch." There was an introductory paved road that started in the middle of nowhere and ended just about a half a block ahead. Sunny giggled: That crazy sense of humor was still present. Because it was late when they arrived, Sunny went into Margaret's house with Lacey for just a short time to give quick hugs and then, because there were so many there, took the car and drove back to town, thirty-five miles away, where she stayed in a motel for the night.

The ride back to the reservation on Memorial Day was a solitary excursion; only three or four vehicles passed Sunny through the entire trip. The day promised to be hot and dry. Sunny took her time. Magpies swooped; the trill of the red-tipped blackbird punctuated the silence of the prairie; and she screamed with joy every time she missed hitting one of the many little gophers traveling back and forth on the road. She remembered Bugoo laughing for days, telling everyone he could get to listen about her grave and perfectly serious assertion that she knew these brave little fellows were out on the pavement, risking death, to grieve and say their version of a prayer over their road-killed relatives. He had informed Sunny, belly-laughing throughout the entire discussion, that the courageous cannibals were simply trying to figure out which part of that road relative to chomp on first. She smiled, remembering his deep, rolling, grumbly laugh, his shaking beer belly, and his joy in telling the story.

Today she wouldn't stop by Gig's trailer before she went to Margaret's place.  The family would be waiting, and there were many members!  After all, Margaret and Robert had had seventeen children!  And now there were grandchildren, too; Lacey would be there, of course, with Beatrice, her mom.  And CeeCee, visiting from Utah, would have arrived by now.  Margaret's youngest son, Anton, and Sunny would follow Arley, the eldest, to the Mission graveyard for the traditional remembering of relatives buried there. Sunny hadn't visited Bugoo's grave yet, but she was calm and not at all concerned. He'd been gone several years. He wasn't really her husband; they had been divorced. No big thing.

She thought about PT, one of Bugoo's older brothers. The occasion of his death had been the last time she'd been at the rez. Was it 1981? He'd borrowed their station wagon to drive back home. Woman troubles, maybe. It had been snowing. He'd stopped on the road not far from the reservation and left the engine running. They found him slumped over in the front seat. Some believed he had committed suicide; some thought he had been exhausted and had simply gone to sleep and died of exhaust fumes. Bugoo and Sunny had picked up Lacey in Sweet Home, and then drove eighteen hours without stopping so that they could get to PT's wake in time.

PT had rested in a coffin that dominated the main room of the family's little house. Sunny couldn't associate his frozen face with the person she had known, a laughing, teasing, animated story-teller whose reddish face seemed always to glow under the carrot colored hair that flopped over his brow and one eye. He'd always reminded her of a big, cheerful pumpkin, a person she could count on to bring out a guffaw and a smile.

Folding chairs, joined with a variety of wooded and plastic seats, had been placed in a circle around the room. People came in and out to pay their respects throughout the day and the night. Time was not considered. The little stove in the kitchen made the three rooms stifling hot, honoring the bitter cold and snow people had come through to say their goodbyes to their old friend, PT. The plentiful food crowded on the kitchen table changed with the waves of visitors. When those in the family got tired, they'd just rest anywhere, on a chair or even curled up on the hardened dirt floor on a blanket.

There were no noisy outbursts. People would come in and sit with others who had appeared from the storm outside, or with family members who made sure PT was not alone in the room. After a silence, someone would remember a story about PT and would tell it in a quiet voice. Sometimes the stories were hilariously funny; everyone would chuckle with that familiar, low, rumbly laugh that came from deep within. And then there would be another silence until someone else remembered a tale from another time. There was a peaceful spirit in the house. The strong wind howled around the cracks in the windows.

Sunny did not go to the funeral. She couldn't remember why. Perhaps she felt that her religiously-challenged self would intrude on the Catholic services in some alien way. She did go to the burial. Bugoo and his brothers had gone to dig the grave that morning. The snow had slowed its bitter descent, but it was bitingly cold, and the wind snuck up and stung any exposure. The priest's voice would disappear into the wind and then return to repeat the familiar words as PT was put to his rest. Sunny saw a tear on only one person's face; it was instantly brushed away.

She had missed Margaret's husband's funeral, and that of Anton's twin, and sad Lonny's, and also eldest sister Sara's final goodbye. And she had missed Bugoo's. She realized that if Bugoo had ever been at her wake, he would have told the story of her belief about the praying prairie dogs. She could just hear that soft, rumble of appreciative laughter. At this moment, Sunny realized that only Bugoo could have told that sweet, funny tale about her, and she felt a first soft jolt of sadness as she approached Chippewa Village.

The painted horses on the hill above Margaret's house whinnied to Sunny as she sneaked in a quick stretch after getting out of the car. She felt warm lines of connection flowing through her to this place that she had loved twenty-some years before, and she was happy. She was happy.

Beatrice marched briskly from the trailer that Margaret had originally bought for Bugoo and his second wife with money she'd inherited from one of the twin's estates after his car accident. Sunny followed Bernice, cup in her hand and a smile of welcome on her face, into Margaret's house, through the "mud room" filled with sundry items including Girl, Anton's Dalmation and an unnamed, battered old cat, and into the kitchen. Beatrice's strong, straight carriage went striding around her sister CeeCee who was wearing a Smiley Face T-shirt and stone-washed jeans.  She was sitting with her mother at the table. Lacey was cooking breakfast, her strong athlete's body bowed intensely over the stove, her grin folding Sunny in.

"Good morning!" Sunny boomed, forgetting that it would have been more polite to come in quietly and wait a couple of seconds to see if anyone else had something to say. 

"There's my Sunny girl!" Margaret, settled in her wheelchair at the table, wearing a nondescript housecoat with a towel placed carefully over her midriff, smiled that sweet smile and put her arm out for a hug.

"Wanna hear a story?"

Sunny laughed, "You know I can't resist your tales, Margaret. Go for it.  What 'cha got?"

"Well, this one's from near your part of the country. Somebody just told it to me. Must've known you were coming. It's about Raven."

"Oh, my fave!"

"Yes. Well, the Inuit people say it was Raven who created the world. When he had finished, he decided he'd stay among all that he had created. One day as he was on the beach, he spotted a dark speck in the distance. He raised himself higher to see what this might be, and as the speck moved closer to shore, Raven saw it was a whale.

Closer and closer that whale swam. The closer he came, the more Raven longed to know more about him.  So Raven got into a kayak and paddled toward that great animal.  He got as close as he could, and when the whale yawned, Raven was swept inside. A moment later, the whale's mouth closed behind him, and Raven reeled in the darkness."

Beatrice and Lacey sat down at the table, coffee cups in hand, listening intently to the story.

Margaret continued, "When Raven had found his footing, he began to walk deeper inside the belly of the whale. He walked on in the darkness until suddenly he spotted a light, and he moved toward it. In the center of the whale's belly, Raven saw a maiden so beautiful, she radiated light. Each time she moved, light shot from her limbs, running this way and that, so that light reached every part of the whale's body. When the girl twirled, the whale swept through the water; when she jumped, the whale leaped and spouted. When the girl bowed low, the whale dived, and when she stood very still, the whale was still.

Raven could not take his eyes off this girl. He had never seen anyone more beautiful, and he felt his heart longing to be near her. "I am Raven," he said to himself. "I can have anything I wish." And with that thought he smiled and moved closer until he was bathed in her light. Raven lifted his wings, and the maiden turned and saw him. Again she twirled, and so did the whale.

"I am the one who made the world," Raven called to her. The maiden bowed; the whale dived.

Raven steadied himself. "I want to marry you," he said.

She smiled, and light burst everywhere. "I will marry you," she said, "but we must stay here. You see, I am the spirit of the whale."

"No, no," Raven argued. "You don't understand. I am Raven. I made the world, and I want you to come with me." He turned and pointed toward the whale's mouth, into the darkness.

"I could never leave the whale," the girl laughed, and once again she twirled, and the whale coursed through the water.

Raven could not take his eyes away from the maiden. "I must marry you," he said. The maiden ignored him. She twirled and twisted, swirled and leapt, pranced and pirouetted. With each move, light shot everywhere, and the whale raced through the water.

But Raven had decided he never would leave without that maiden. He waited and watched. After a long time, the maiden's movements slowed, and her eyes began to close; then she moved more and more slowly until at last she stopped. Raven felt the whale stop, too. Raven quickly raised his wings and grabbed the girl between them. He heard a shriek and a gasp as he flew toward the whale's mouth, the girl trapped in his grip. Raven flew outside, and still clutching the girl, he flew higher and higher, as far above the sea as he could.

When he looked down, Raven saw the whale tossing and turning on the waves. It looked lost, and was thrashing frantically. Suddenly Raven understood. This maiden was indeed the whale's spirit, and without that spirit, the whale would die. Raven looked down at the maiden he carried, and he saw that she had grown so tiny, she was nearly invisible. Again he looked at the water, and he saw the whale was dead. He watched in shock as the dead body drifted toward shore. Mortified by his selfish act, Raven flew to the earth and sat at the whale's side. There he wept.  And these were the first tears the world had ever known."

Sunny's old friend sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes. There was a silence in the room.  Sunny wondered what message Margaret was trying to convey through this story, and she sat quietly taking it in. 

Lacey stood up suddenly, her chair skritching on the floor, and announced, "Hey! It's time to get going. Enough with the stories, gramma!" And she gave her grandmother a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Margaret grimaced with pleasure.

It was mid-morning when Lacey's car slowly turned into the Mission complex. Sunny had forgotten how settled the old peach-colored stone buildings looked in the crevice of prairie hills. They followed the old dirt road around to the cemetery and stopped. Margaret stayed in the passenger seat of Arley's car as the rest climbed out and began to look for loved ones. There were a lot of graves to choose from, but Sunny found Bugoo quickly. Compared to the rest of the graves, his looked a bit on the shabby side; she began pulling weeds as she knelt at his place. She noticed that his was the only one in the area that wasn't topped by a protective slab of cement. His name on the gravestone pulled at her heart. A wash of tears started to flow; she tried to stop the unplanned and surprising bubbling of anguish. This was not the time or place to make a scene.

The priest arrived with other members of the family. Sunny stood and slowly walked to the little group around the car, allowing the wind to wipe her tears. But a dam had opened within her; she was powerless to stop it. She stood behind Lacey, trying to understand why she was reacting this way now, of all times. She tried to concentrate on the Catholic liturgy that was so familiar, but the tears just kept on washing down her face. Finally, Lacey turned around and whispered, "Sunny, hiding behind me is not going to work; we all know you're crying. Go sit at Bugoo's grave and talk to him. Stop trying to run away from your feelings. Remember your time with him. Tell him what is in your heart."