a broken life

Former husband-and-wife writing team Louise Erdrich, left, and Michael Dorris
sign copies of their book "The Crown of Columbus" at Odegard Books on May 3, 1991.
(Photo: Associated Press ST. PAUL PIONEER PRESS, Jean Pieri)

Literary saint or abusive father?
What will be the legacy of Michael Dorris?

BY JOSIE RAWSON it's been said that suicide ends a life, but never a life's story. In the days since Michael Dorris killed himself on the night of April 10 in a motel room in Concord, N.H., plenty has been written about the known facts of this writer's life: Dorris, 52 at the time of his death, was of mixed-blood -- part Modoc Indian on his father's side, of European heritage on his mother's. He was raised by his mother and an aunt after his father's premature death -- possibly a suicide, according to recent news reports. In 1972 he founded the Native American Studies Program at Dartmouth College, where he taught off and on for the past 25 years. He was married to 42-year-old novelist Louise Erdrich, though they had taken up separate residences a year ago. Together they'd raised six children, three of whom were first adopted as infants by Dorris -- he was the first single American male to adopt a child -- and later, after the couple married, by Erdrich. His many accolades included a National Book Critics Circle Award for "The Broken Cord" (1989), an account of the family's struggles with fetal alcohol syndrome. Many consider his first novel, "A Yellow Raft in Blue Water" (1987), to be among the finest literary debuts of the late 20th century. That's a survey version of Dorris' life, the stuff of blurbs and obituaries. His life's story is something else. In the past few days, his family and friends -- Dorris' circle was immense -- have come forward and spoken, in part to set the factual record straight, and in larger part because now that his life has ended, the battle over his legacy has begun in earnest. Those who knew him, worked with him, loved him, envied him and even despised him know at least this much: that a writer is made not only by talent but also by reputation. And Dorris' is currently at stake. Few doubt that Dorris had raw talent and the ability to tame it into compelling narratives. The larger question now is (as it has been with so many American writers): How could the author of such remarkable books have come to such a tragic and tortured end? By now it's no secret that sexual abuse charges against Dorris were about to be filed in Hennepin County, Minn., where he'd lived for the past several years with his family. On Friday, at Erdrich's request, Judge Delores Orey agreed to temporarily seal all records of that investigation; the decision will be reviewed again on April 25, at which time all documents should become public -- or made permanently secret. There's also a gag order in place that bars all public authorities from discussing details of the case. Mark Anfinson, a media attorney in Minneapolis, called the ruling "a classic example of the American justice system, which responds differently to the influential than it does to the average citizen," though he added that the circumstances around the situation are obviously sensitive and involve the privacy of a minor. What's known so far is this: The investigation was apparently initiated on Dec. 12, 1996, under required-reporting rules by a psychotherapist named James Fearing, president of National Counseling Intervention Services, after a meeting late last year with Erdrich and, possibly, one of the couple's daughters. It's unknown who leaked word of the case to the media. Police conducted a search of Dorris' Minneapolis home less than two weeks before his death; among the items seized was a diary kept by one of his daughters. Looking to corroborate the abuse accusations, local law enforcement officials recently traveled to Denver, where in 1994 both Dorris and Erdrich were plaintiffs in what was originally an extortion and later a felony theft suit against their adoptive son, Jeffrey Sava Dorris, who had accused them both of abuse, made threats on their lives and demanded $15,000 from the couple. (Jeffrey's sister Madeline, who was also adopted, also lives in Denver. Abel, the couple's oldest adopted child and the subject of "The Broken Cord," died at age 23 after a hit-and-run accident in 1991. Dorris' and Erdrich's three biological children, Persia, Pallas and Aza, are in their pre-teens and teens and live with Erdrich.) While in Denver, the investigators met with Jeffrey and Madeline, as well as with several lawyers, including Lisa Wayne of the public defender's office, who successfully represented Jeffrey in the lawsuit brought against him by his parents. Wayne said last week that "because of my time with these kids, I feel like this suicide is a confession. Michael Dorris is talking to us from his grave." No formal child abuse charges were ever brought against Dorris, and as a result of his suicide, none ever will be. Further, no official determination has been made as to whether the accusations were true or false. Still, says Douglas Kelley, who was representing Dorris in the matter and is now handling his estate, his client was fully aware of the ramifications of publicity surrounding the case -- not only regarding his professional stature but the already tenuous relations among his immediate family. Dorris also had other legal worries. Though no divorce papers had been filed by Dorris or Erdrich at the time of the suicide, it's clear that the estranged couple faced a tense settlement concerning child custody, property, publishing contracts and royalties. It was a battle for which he was ill-equipped, according to some observers. Dorris couldn't stand the idea of fighting someone he loved so much, said long-time friend Douglas Foster. "He loved Louise till the day he died. He couldn't fight her. He couldn't stand up for himself." NEXT PAGE | "My life is over."