Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

very end, our father was alone. Al hadn’t been able to
visit that day.
“He said he wanted to be cremated, have us scatter
his ashes on the Tuolomne River, where he was
born,” my brother told us. “He wanted Louise to do a
ceremony for him, like she did for his dad. He said,
‘Don’t leave me in a box in the closet’ like his dad.”
Poor Thomas Anthony had been cremated but never
interred; finally, Louise put together a ceremony, the
cousin with Thomas’s ashes brought them, my father
flew down to observe, and Thomas was laid to rest
with Esselen songs and strings of abalone jewelry by
a handful of descendants. My father, despite the
lifelong tension between him and Louise, had
remembered that, had wanted that when his time
came.
I flew to San Jose, where Louise began contacting
relatives, connecting with the folks at Tuolomne
Rancheria. But things didn’t work out. First Little Al
needed money to fix his car, because he planned to
drive down with the ashes. Then he needed new
tires. I got out my credit card. Then my brother
couldn’t get time off work. And then, it was over. “I
can’t come,” Little Al told me over the phone.
A year later, my brother would bring our father’s