Ahkwesáhsne, 2016
Abe stands on the shaggy living room rug of his great uncle’s trailer, shoes off, stripped to the waist. The coffee table has been pushed aside to make room, but Abe still feels like he could reach out and touch both wood-paneled walls. There’s a record player on top of an audio cabinet in one corner with extra records leaning against the side. A tall bookcase to the left of the hallway, which leads back to the bathroom and bedroom, overflows with mass-market thrillers. Books which Abe, after years as a bookseller, thinks of as “dreaming-up-new-and-interesting-ways-to-kill-people” lit on a generous day, or “dick lit” when he’s feeling especially judgy (which hasn’t stopped him from enjoying the genre himself from time to time). With the curtains drawn, the only light comes from the cloudy fluorescent drop ceiling in Budge’s kitchen. A small wood-burning stove sits in the middle of the fading linoleum, propped up on loose bricks. Abe assumes it was lit the night before, because it’s still putting off warmth.
“Here, get comfy.” Uncle Budge pulls two of the cushions from the seat of his couch. He passes one to Abe before dropping the second one on the floor by his own feet. Abe’s heart starts beating fast. It’s what he’s here for after all, some sort of massage, but now that it’s about to happen, he finds the idea of an Elder touching him a little creepy. Abe sees a dusty outline of crumbs and stray hairs where the cushions were, a scattering of coins in the empty space. Beneath the pleasant smell of the wood stove, Abe can make out artificial lemon and, even more faintly, bleach, so he knows parts of the trailer are clean. But it’s likely been a good long while since his great uncle has plugged in a vacuum. Abe is probably standing on chip crumbles, half-moons of toenails, and who the hell knows what else. He drops the couch cushion down and sits on it, crossing his legs to keep his feet off the rug. His Great Uncle Budge eases into a kneeling position on his own cushion, releasing a fart in the process.
“Oop, barking spider,” Budge says, chuckling to himself. Budge is supposed to be what, the Rez holy man? It’s 2016; Mohawks are more interested in tourist dollars than spirituality. But don’t worry, here comes leathery-skinned, barrel-chested, big-bellied Budge Billings to smite colonialism with his healing hands.
His hair is right—iron-gray streaked with black, twirling down his chest in twin braids—but let’s talk about his outfit. Heavy white socks that have quit on him and balled around his ankles, jeans worn to the colorlessness of an overcast sky, and a faded black t-shirt depicting four pot-bellied naked dudes standing in profile. “The Butthole Surfers: brown reason to live,” the shirt reads. While Abe is not familiar with the Butthole Surfers’ oeuvre, he’s fairly sure a Mohawk healer shouldn’t be wearing one of their album covers. But even if you put him in buckskin leggings and a three-feather headband, Budge would be too cheerful. He should look put upon, desolated by all the pain he encounters, reserved and stoic.
Looking at the picture of four flaccid penises stretched over Budge Billings’s belly, Abe wishes he had never come back to Ahkwesáhsne. If Rheumatologist Weisberg hadn’t canceled his appointment the day before he was supposed to finally get a diagnosis, Abe would probably still be in Miami, trying to decide which Halloween parties to attend. He’d spent months watching the flesh on his shins and calves rot. First red dots appeared that became clusters of purple-black holes, then the holes had widened, bled together, and become jagged divots the size of quarters, filled with black-red muck that never heals—“lesions” in medical jargon. Pale, waxy flesh edges the lesions, and the surrounding skin is rashy and marked with maroon streaks. The antibiotic ointments and pills he’s been taking since summer have affected the shape of the wounds, but nothing has closed them or stopped them from multiplying. His eyes burn, too, and exhaustion takes him at odd times of the day. Pain randomly shoots through his limbs, digs into his torso, and grinds inside his joints. Doctors can’t distinguish between side effects of the heavy antibiotics and whatever else is wrong. He’s had dozens of blood tests, several biopsies, and contrast imaging of his internal organs. Just last week, a neurologist electrocuted Abe’s hands in an attempt to map numb spots in his fingers and knuckles, the most recent symptom. All these tests, and doctors still can’t tell Abe what’s chewing holes in his skin, where the pain is coming from, nor what infection or disease he might have. He’ll panic if he gives all these questions too much thought, so Abe doesn’t. Instead, he locks the panic and anxiety away from his conscious mind and barrels through his days. But the physical symptoms are undeniable, impossible to escape or ignore.
As he’s sitting cross-legged on Uncle Budge’s couch cushion, Abe’s knees bounce. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He can hear his own breathing, shallow puffs coming from his nose that make him sound like a bull. Night sweats have come for him during the day. Abe thinks the doctors should know whether his overheating is a side effect or a symptom, but they don’t.
Uncle Budge rests a hand on Abe’s shoulder, the other over Abe’s knee. Gently, the old man begins to probe.
“What is that?” Abe asks slowly, because Budge’s touch feels strange. Not like an electric charge, not a mother’s comfort or a lover’s caress, but somewhere the three feelings intersect. You know the face a baby makes the first time she eats cake? Budge’s touch makes Abe want to make that face.
“Some people say touchin’ me is like leanin’ against a transformer.” Budge isn’t bragging. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact.
“Is that so?”
“Jus’ what I heard.” Budge’s fingers explore Abe’s back, shoulder, and thigh, manipulating his skin more than massaging the muscle beneath. “Also been told bein’ near me is like bein’ next to a stream.”
“Bullshit.” In Abe’s head it sounded okay, the answer he’d give if Budge said, I can do a backflip. Laughing it off, waiting for the punchline. Aloud in the quiet trailer, the two syllables sound like he’s spitting poison. “I’m sorry, Uncle Budge.”
“S’okay, kid.”
At forty-three years old, Abe relishes being called “kid.” Like he has all the time in the world. But Abe’s been through four rounds of testing, and that’s if you don’t count the two sets of biopsies and the mini cattle prod; he feels the decades ahead dwindling to months.
“We’re close,” Dermatologist Unger had promised. Apparently if your insurance is shit, then your pathologist is shit. The one covered by Abe’s indie bookstore had repeatedly called his biopsies “inconclusive,” so Unger had decided to cut Abe again and use the lab at the University of Miami. “When you get the bill, bring it to my office,” she’d said. Part of Abe was flattered that a doctor was interested enough in him to pay for his care. A larger part of him found the implications terrifying.
After what would hopefully be his final biopsy, Unger had prescribed a megadose of steroids and reiterated the command she’d given him the first time they’d met: stay off the internet. Abe had never listened. After each appointment, he’d googled everything he could recall: idiopathic and putrefacient flesh and necrotic tissue and great pretender. Searches that keyed off more terms he’d filed away and forgotten: maculopapular rash, pyoderma, vasculitis, gangrenosum. Taken together, the internet promised Abe any number of grim, painful deaths. Speculating turned his thoughts into rodents skittering inside his skull.
When Rheumatologist Weisberg’s office called to confirm Abe’s appointment—the day before the torment of not knowing was due to end—it turned out they’d scheduled him to come in on Yom Kippur.
“Obviously, the doctor can’t see you tomorrow.” The secretary’s tone was brusque. Abe wanted it to be conciliatory; he didn’t choose the date, after all. “The next available appointment is October thirty-first.”
“That’s three weeks from now.” His vision turned red and his heart pounded in his ears. Dr. Unger had warned him such a high dose of steroids would make him “crazy,” but the phone call with the rheumatologist’s office was his first experience. Three weeks, he thought, three goddamn weeks. The anger didn’t build, it boomed. “I realize being Jewish doesn’t automatically mean Dr. Weisberg observes Yom Kippur, but shouldn’t you have known one way or the other when you scheduled the appointment? They took the biopsy two weeks ago. You could have called me at any point. I’ve been waiting months for an answer. Any kind of answer. I was ready for a diagnosis tomorrow. Do you even care? Are you even sorry at all?” Abe’s not sure how much stayed in his head and how much he unloaded on the poor receptionist.
“Would you like me to rebook the appointment, sir?”
After decades in retail, Abe recognized the don’t-make-your-shitty-mood-my-problem tone, reserved for customers who inflicted their bad day on service workers just because they could. Hearing the secretary’s condescendingly patient tone, Abe felt like his pulse would rip through his throat, burst from his temples.
“I’ll take the appointment,” he said through gritted teeth, “thank you so much, you’ve been very helpful.” As soon as he hung up, Abe grabbed the closest thing at hand—a bullet thermos of coffee he’d just brewed—and threw it across the living room. Abe heard it shatter inside, becoming a slurry of coffee and bits of ceramic. Thankfully, his wife had already left for work.
When he arrived at his job, Abe had tried to run a sales report four times, messed it up four times, and finally clocked out in disgust. He’d left and called his boss, who wasn’t surprised when he asked for time off. Despite the heat, Abe had taken to wearing long pants to cover his bandages, but the doctor visits had been impossible to hide.
“Take all the time you need, kiddo,” his boss said, his low-key, basso profundo voice soothing. Abe flew from Miami to Ahkwesáhsne shortly afterward, for reasons we’ll get into later. For now, I don’t want to lose sight of Budge.
Abe had first met his great uncle a decade ago, at Tóta’s funeral. The front room of the Jacobs’ family home had become a makeshift funeral parlor, cleared out and crammed with folding chairs, every horizontal surface covered with framed photographs and vases of flowers. Where the couch should have been, Tóta’s body lay in a plain pine coffin. The lid was open, her body covered by one of her award-winning quilts.
The crowd of family and community grew and shrank over the nine days of ceremonial grieving. At one point Abe’s sister had nodded her chin across the kitchen, toward a small group of men standing in a cheery cluster, their flannels and denim crisply ironed. Abe’s sister said the one in the green flannel was Tóta’s younger brother, “the healer.”
The other men were bent with laughter as the man in green flannel held forth, collar digging into his bull neck, looking like it cost him oxygen to keep buttoned all the way up.
Abe had given his sister a dubious look. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”
“He’s a Billings,” Sis answered. “You know.”
Abe grunted. He did know. Now the difference between Catholic and Methodist is roughly equivalent to the difference between Mocha Fudge Chunk and Rocky Road, but in 1933, the Billings, Tóta’s Methodist family, disowned her for marrying a Catholic. What can I say? Missionaries worked hard to assimilate us; we took white folk’s religion seriously. On first glance, Abe didn’t appreciate Budge joking around with his sister’s dead body a couple rooms over. He’d shaken the man’s hand but couldn’t recall speaking with him.
Summertime Abe would’ve scoffed at the idea of a healing from his great uncle. When Abe’s mom suggested it upon his return, Autumn Abe was desperate enough to acquiesce.
“Breathe, kid. Not from here.” Budge puts a calloused hand on Abe’s chest, then moves it to his stomach. “From here. You get me?”
Budge’s clinical tone makes his touch less uncomfortable. At first, Abe doesn’t know what Budge means. His breath still comes too fast. His face is flushed. He feels like he might burst into tears, or hyperventilate and pass out.
“Don’ do that,” Budge says.
“Do what?”
Budge’s eyes go wide, and his lips turn down; he scrunches his shoulders together and pulls his head back, looking like a frightened turtle. Abe snorts a laugh.
“Better.” Budge pushes against Abe’s stomach. “You feel where that came from?”
Abe nods. He makes an effort to breath into Budge’s palm.
“That’s more like it.”
Abe’s heartbeat slows. Sweat stops rolling down his face. As his breathing calms, it becomes almost mediative.
“Shit, Uncle Budge, maybe you are a stream.”
Budge smiles wide enough to show the gaps on either side of his mouth. He sits back on his haunches and moves the couch cushion in front of Abe, then scoots over and kneels on it.
“Ain’ gonna say I toldja so.” When Budge Billings was born, Kanien’kéha was the main language on the Rez, but putting his accent on the page exactly as it sounds looks ridiculous – does for those, den for then. Hopefully you’re getting just enough to remind you these are not the words Budge’s tongue was made to speak.
His great uncle’s hands cover Abe’s own, then move up his arms to his shoulders and neck. His fingers play up and down the base of Abe’s skull, making his head bob.
“Whad’ya wanna get outta this?”
Abe frowns. Is he supposed to say, Cure me, right out loud like that? Take those calloused palms and rub them down my shins and calves. Stop the oozing and itching. Wipe the rotting flesh away like we rubbed glue from our fingers when we were kids in art class. Smooth the holes over like wet clay. Reach into my joints and muscles and stop their throbbing. Hold my hands and bring the dead nerve endings back to life, and while you’re at it, pull out my internal organs and give them a good once over, make sure the rot hasn’t traveled.—
“Abe, stay with me. What d’you want?”
“I . . . I want to live.”
“In my expert opinion”—Budge gently rests a thumb on the pulse at Abe’s throat—“you’re alive right now.”
Abe sighs. He has an uncle on his father’s side who lost an arm working construction and had been called Lefty ever since. Abe’s dad loved to ask Lefty how relearning to jerk off with the wrong hand was going. If Lefty was an asshole, we would have figured he had it coming. Since Lefty was a good guy, we figured he’d lost one arm so he wouldn’t lose both, or lose his son, or lose his life.
“Uncle Budge, what’s the Mohawk word for ‘pity’?” Abe regrets the question immediately. Budge was born speaking Kanien’kéha, but Abe knows plenty of old folks who never recovered the language after teachers beat it out of them in grade school, including his own parents. If Budge doesn’t speak Kanien’kéha then Abe’s question might make him feel like he’s not Indian enough, even though he’s more Indian than Abe will ever be.
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From Old School Indian by Aaron John Curtis. © 2025 by Aaron John Curtis. Used with permission of the publisher, Hillman Grad Books, an imprint of Zando, LLC.
