The Red Convertible

“There it was, parked, large as life. Really as if it was alive. I thought of the word repose, because the car wasn’t simply stopped, parked, or whatever. That car reposed, calm and gleaming, a FOR SALE sign in its left front window.”

Lyman’s diction captures his instant infatuation with the convertible. He sees it as a living being with a serene mood and a dignified disposition. He punctuates this feeling by repeating the word “repose,” emphasizing it further with italics.

“When the dust rises up and hangs in the air around the dancers like that, I feel good.”

Lyman and Henry are never as comfortable or tranquil as they are driving through the country and enjoying nature. The shade from the trees and the gentle breeze both contribute to and reflect their inner peace in this moment. Lyman can see a powwow in the distance, but the event doesn’t disturb the quiet. In fact, the visual of the dancers further boosts Lyman’s happiness.

“‘We’ll take you home,’ I says. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Chicken,’ she says.

‘Where the hell’s that?’ I ask her.

‘Alaska.’

‘Okay,’ says Henry, and we drive.”

The snappy dialogue in this exchange keeps this interaction moving at a fast clip. The speedy pacing, combined with plain language, makes the brothers’ sudden decision to drive through Canada read like a punchline. A momentary switch to present tense also amplifies the casual mood. Henry’s light, affable affect contrasts sharply with his postwar self.

“He has a nose big and sharp as a hatchet, like the nose on Red Tomahawk, the Indian who killed Sitting Bull, whose profile is on signs all along the North Dakota highways.”

According to Lyman, Henry’s nose singles him out as an Indigenous American, confirming his cultural and ethnic Indigenous Identity. It also situates him as having a storied history, which the (appropriative) presence of Red Tomahawk’s profile on highway signs reinforces. His association with the murder of Sitting Bull by United States police alludes to the clash between his identities as an Indigenous man and a US veteran, as Red Tomahawk was among the “Indian police” who attempted to arrest Sitting Bull for allegedly fomenting rebellion against the US government.

“It was at least three years before Henry came home. By then I guess the whole war was solved in the government’s mind, but for him it would keep on going.”

Lyman’s bitter tone reflects a general distrust of the government that sent his brother to fight in Vietnam. This disconnect between Henry and the country he served persists after he comes home since The Trauma of War has an enormous effect on his everyday life. In the historical context of termination and relocation, the US government’s failure to properly care for Indigenous American veterans is yet another broken promise to the country’s Indigenous peoples.

“He sat in front of it, watching it, and that was the only time he was completely still. But it was the kind of stillness that you see in a rabbit when it freezes and before it will bolt.”

At first glance, Henry might appear to be participating in a leisure activity while he watches TV. Lyman knows his brother too well to believe this. He pays keen attention to Henry and sees the constant anxiety roiling under the surface. In the previous paragraph, Lyman compares this to the days before Vietnam when he and Henry sat still for hours to participate in their surroundings, observing the world around them and talking to passersby.

“There were no Indian doctors on the reservation, and my mom couldn’t come around to trusting the old man, Moses Pillager, because he courted her long ago and was jealous of her husbands.”

While much of the pain in this story stems from the sweeping effects of war and imperialism, there are plenty of conflicts occurring on a much smaller scale. The reservation is a community of people with their own squabbles and allegiances, and high-stakes problems like Henry’s well-being exist alongside petty resentments. The complications of everyday life add dimension to these characters’ lives.

“I took myself a hammer. I went out to that car and I did a number on its underside. Whacked it up. Bent the tail pipe double. Ripped the muffler loose.”

The fragmented, repetitive syntax of this passage embodies the rhythm of Lyman beating up the convertible. Each action gets its own sentence, its blunt force punctuated by a period. The frank tone and straightforward descriptions convey Lyman’s single-mindedness; he is certain his plan to save Henry will work.

“I put my hand on the back of the TV set, I admit, and fiddled around with it good, so that it was almost impossible now to get a clear picture. He didn’t look at it very often anyway.”

Lyman’s plan to get the old Henry back is a sequence of back-to-back deceptions. He secretly beats up the car, lies about it to Henry, and then pretends to be offended when his brother decides to fix it. As the lies pile up, Lyman betrays some guilt in this passage. The rationalization immediately following his confession—that Henry never watches TV and therefore won’t care about the picture quality—shows that the deceit weighs on him, even though he believes he’s doing it for all the right reasons.

“I still see that picture now, as if it tugs at me whenever I pass that closet door. The picture is very clear in my mind.”

Lyman has the benefit of hindsight. He dwells on moments or images that feel important to him, such as the picture Bonita took of him and Henry in front of the convertible. These moments also allow the story to take advantage of its first-person perspective and explain the nuances of Lyman’s feelings. If the narrator singles a detail out as particularly vivid, the reader can assume that it’s vital to the story, even if they don’t immediately understand why.

“The water hadn’t gone over the banks yet, but it would, you could tell. It was just at its limit, hard swollen, glossy like an old gray scar.”

Warm weather usually means happy times for the brothers. On the drive to the Red River, Lyman notices all the signs of spring and feels optimistic about the future. Henry looks hopeful too, if still reserved. The river, running dirty and full, triggers an abrupt shift in the outing’s tone. Like Henry and Lyman, it is ready to burst, and the comparison of the water to a scar associates it with past violence.

“He’s down doing something between a grass dance and a bunny hop, no kind of dance I ever saw before, but neither has anyone else on all this green growing earth.”

Henry is often mysterious to Lyman, though never as bewildering as he is here. His dance is so strange and new that Lyman makes a point of declaring Henry the first ever person to perform it. Henry has finally entered new emotional territory, and he’s not the prewar brother Lyman wanted back. Neither narrator Lyman nor past Lyman can fully make sense of this moment or what happens next.

“He says this in a normal voice, like he just noticed and he doesn’t know what to think of it.”

Henry is in a highly vulnerable position when he declares that his boots are filling: He’s in a strange emotional state, he’s in the middle of a rushing river, and he is acting on impulse. The contrast between the danger of his position and his matter-of-fact voice amplifies the horror Lyman feels in this moment. The lack of panic in Henry’s voice implies acceptance or indifference toward his loss of control, which lends his tragic end a modicum of peace.