Even As We Breathe

by Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle

  EVEN AS WE BREATHE

  A Novel

  Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle

  Published by Fireside Industries Books

  An imprint of the University Press of Kentucky

  Copyright © 2020 by The University Press of Kentucky

  All rights reserved.

  Editorial and Sales Offices: The University Press of Kentucky

  663 South Limestone Street, Lexington, Kentucky 40508-4008

  www.kentuckypress.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Clapsaddle, Annette Saunooke, author.

  Title: Even as we breathe : a novel / Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle.

  Description: Lexington, Kentucky : Fireside Industries Books, an imprint of the University Press of Kentucky, [2020]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020019774 | ISBN 9781950564064 (hardcover ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781950564071 (pdf) | ISBN 9781950564088 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Cherokee Indians—Fiction. | North Carolina—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.L35169 E94 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020019774

  This book is printed on acid free paper meeting

  the requirements for the American National Standard

  for Performance in Paper for Printed Library Materials.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  For Mom and Dad, my original storytellers

  The Lovers’ Prayer to the Body

  O musk & mineral,

  salt-slick lips—each

  pore’s lifted hair a language only felt;

  O marrow-mystery,

  where bone softens to red

  breath & healing’s quiet machinery.

  We worship skin &

  bone but what of meat?

  It is muscle’s movement we resent:

  push & pull & will.

  Let us be still.

  Let us be still. O let us be still.

  —Benjamin Cutler

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Bones

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  2 Stains

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  About the place—when I take you there or when you find it on your own, just know that what the old folks say is true. This land is ours because of what is buried in the ground, not what words appear on a paper. But also know this: what is buried in the ground isn’t always what you think. It’s just the beginning. It’s the beginning of the story—the beginning of all of us who call ourselves Homo sapiens. Fitting, I guess, that what I found buried, just as I was trying to figure out how to become a man and still be human, was the very thing that threatened to take it all away. Just when I began to see what taking control of my own life might look like, I realized I was not who I thought. And neither was this place.

  That summer in 1942 when I met her, really met her—before I found myself in a white man’s cage and entangled in the barbed wire that destroyed my father—I left the cage of my home in Cherokee, North Carolina. I left these mountains that both hold and suffocate, and went to work at the pinnacle of luxury and privilege—Asheville’s Grove Park Inn and Resort. I guess I had convinced myself that I could become fortunate by proximity—escape Uncle Bud’s tirades and my grandmother Lishie’s empty kitchen cabinets just by driving a couple of hours up the road. It sounded good to tell folks I was raising money for college; but the truth was, I didn’t know what I was doing. I just didn’t want to do it there anymore. And if I stayed any longer, I would become rooted so deeply I might as well have been buried.

  My plan didn’t quite work the way I thought it would. When I got to the resort, I mostly stayed outside, cut the trees, mowed the grass, and helped to dig the holes that would sink signs and posts for barbed-wire fences. Music occasionally seeped from the ballroom but was muted by thick, lead-paned windows before one note ever reached the perimeter of the property.

  That’s where I first found the bone. I was on my hands and knees, pitching rocks and digging holes. It was just as the inn, like its music, was becoming dulled by wartime restrictions and hushed by lead bullets. The prisoners—who were actually diplomats and foreign nationals treated more like guests—weren’t really known to me yet. That little girl, God bless her soul, had barely even stepped foot on the property, and I was still as free as I would ever be.

  I squatted there by the fence along the boundary of the Grove Park property and grasped the bone by its middle, pointing both ends upward, studying its curvature. A bent bauble for my idle adolescent hands to fidget with in the absence of a ball stick or a soldier’s rifle. I can’t recall playing with many toys as a child. That’s probably why the bone spoke poetry to me as a young man.

  It was smooth and porous, its slight c-curve angled in motion, calling to be grasped, used—a weapon, at least in some primitive function of strength—like a subhuman scythe, though innately human. Maybe even the very core of humanity. And now, as I recall the moment out loud, it was an embarrassing indulgence of make-believe for a nineteen-year-old. It’s all right to laugh. I don’t blame you.

  Such an extraordinary object to be inside flesh, it was wholly earthen. Not sterile or cellular. It was natural in a way we pray our body is not.

  Momentary. Seasonal. Destined for expiration.

  The bone had lost its story. Petrified into a mere alkaline deposit, transient and nameless.

  I was immediately spellbound by this calcified opportunity to embrace a remnant of a life’s existence in one hand. Dry it. Dust it. Preserve it, and listen. Buried by a story, and I was the only one on this earth privileged to hear it. “Cowney.” It seemed to coo my name like the beautiful girls of my daydreams, the ones who never took interest in boys like me. Just as I was yet to know of a certain beautiful girl’s power, I was yet to understand the power that bone would wield over my life. I was yet to know how much more I would risk for her, for it.

  I am bits and pieces of the people I meet, my teacher once told me, though, more accurately, I am of people and places and creatures. And so, because of that summer, and that war and that small, hollow relic, I am bits and pieces of a grand estate, and a half-tamed primate, and a dozen accents, and a missing girl, and a fearful girl, and all the trees and mountains and asphalt in between.

  And you—well, I reckon you will be, too, soon enough.

  Knowing that she is now gone from this earth, all I am left to do is wonder what remains of her here … for me … for anyone who knew or didn’t know her. What happens to the memories? How long do they survive? I can still see her, dancing. Head thrown back, laughing. If there’s one thing old age has taught me, it’s that there are many kinds of love. She taught me that sometimes we feel many different kinds with one person. And now it seems possible that love is the only thing that will outlive us all, but only if we continue to tell its story.

  1

  Bones

  That’s the thing abo
ut ceremony; it must have three things: it must be for the right reason, at the right time, and it must be in the right place.

  —Tom Belt, Cherokee Nation

  Chapter One

  I don’t remember the day my father died. I don’t remember Lishie standing at the clothesline when the soldier came to tell her the news. I don’t remember the way she nodded her graying head, turned, went back to pinning shirts and skirts, unable to cry for a long while. I don’t remember how relieved Lishie was that his body, under the circumstances, would be returned when so many others were not. I don’t remember my father’s face cradled in the pine casket by one of Lishie’s special quilts. I don’t remember any of that. Barely four months old at the time, I couldn’t have. I’ve reconstructed images from stories and pictures and stitched them into one of Lishie’s quilts.

  I do not remember the paleness of the pine box as it was precariously lowered into the deep earthen hole. I do not remember Preacherman sprinkling dry specks of red clay on top, an act that later seemed terribly disrespectful to my six-year-old self when Lishie explained it to me at an aunt’s funeral—an act that made me wonder if my father deserved such treatment.

  I don’t remember Preacherman announcing, “Dust to dust,” but he must have.

  Sometimes I think that I remember smells, but only when I smell them at new funerals.

  Grease.

  Lilies.

  Tobacco.

  Vanilla.

  Fresh dirt.

  Pine sap.

  I remember one taste, though it must have just been repeated so many times after that day that I’ve convinced myself of it—the bitterest salt I have ever tasted—Lishie’s tear when she scooped me up and held me so tightly that my open lips smashed into her cheek.

  “You were his,” I think I remember her saying. “You are mine,” I am certain I remember her saying. Even though all of this is surely impossible.

  I don’t remember my uncle Bud, or rather his shadow, jutting from the doorway. But there has always been a shadow between him and me, between him and my father; so it must have been there that day.

  I don’t remember the many different scales of cries from many different throats.

  Gunshots surely rang—must have been twenty-one, three from seven men. I seem to remember more.

  Lishie wailed.

  Bud shouted, garbled and wet.

  Too young to even crawl, I could swear I remember running past folded arms and hiding beneath one of Lishie’s special quilts until a new sun rose and all I could smell was coffee.

  I awoke to find Lishie had curled herself around me, indistinguishable from her homespun patchwork.

  That’s the impossible memory I’ve crafted. No amount of time visiting Bud’s house changed that.

  I wonder if the bones of my father are exposed and clean now. I picture a perfect white skeleton, fully intact, framed within the pine coffin—like the one I saw in anatomy class. So perfectly preserved, the bones could teach. I know it sounds odd to speak of my father like that, but you have to understand, I never knew him in the flesh. I never felt the breath of his lungs. His memory is as much a skeleton as his body.

  Yet Lishie was always present. It was as if she radiated—sometimes even radiated right through me. I remember walking in her door after I returned from junior college. I hadn’t said a word, and I surely hadn’t made up my mind if I was ever going back. She looked up from where she sat in her rocking chair, sighed a heavy sigh, and let her hands fall from her quilting to rest in her lap. “Oh, Cowney,” she whispered. That is all she said, but I knew she knew everything. She understood far more than even I did about how I was feeling or how I would come to feel. I knew then and there that I wasn’t going back because she knew it first. She wasn’t judging me or even pitying me. She just stirred within me until it was all sorted out.

  Except for the valley land that began pimpling with improvised storefronts, Cherokee was not the Cherokee of today. Cherokee was mudchinked log cabins burrowed into mountain hollers, surprising expanses of neat garden rows jutting across rare unwooded land at the end of roughly carved dirt roads—half washed away in the spring and summer and impassable with snow in the winter. But no matter where human life chose to carve its mark on the land, it did not stray far from water—creek, river, stream, or fall—follow one and you would find Cherokee. You would find the smoke from woodstoves. You would find red clay ground into a fine, ginger dust coating the surface of life. And you could not find it directly from any highway. To trust a road is still a road when it looks like a creek is not and has never been for the tourist’s heart. Yet it is only that trust that will get you from a road sign to a home. Or, in my case, from Lishie’s, where I lived, to Bud’s, where I worked.

  Bud’s cabin was short of breath, strangled by the dust of his daily existence and by the humid draft of his lungs. He was the only man I knew whose sweat seemed to flow simultaneously from the pores of his body and the foulness of his words. I grabbed the besom from beside the front door and walked out to sweep the porch.

  “I guess you’re glad you’re a gimp, for once in your life.” My uncle Bud sure had a way with words. “Weren’t for that skee-jawed foot of yours, you’d be knee-deep in Nazis.” He tossed a tattered, two-day-old newspaper onto a pile, a collection of three months’ worth of international posturing and local weather reports, each paper a near carbon copy of the one that lay beneath it.

  I shrugged. He wasn’t asking a question. He never really asked questions.

  “You can thank your momma for that. She was in too big of a hurry to get you out.”

  He reminded me of this often.

  I grunted so the words forming on my tongue couldn’t slip through my lips. These were not debates. Not even arguments. Bud was Bud and my only purpose, in his mind, was to be an echo in his presence. If I had cared more about him, I might’ve tried to offer my opinion once in a while. But I found it no real victory to earn him as an ally, so I echoed. He was a cavern whose hollow center managed to trap errant winds. I drank his vibrations. Still, he was mostly right. Since birth, the bones of my left foot have conspired against my body’s natural compass and collectively pointed outward, tempting me to lead my life in circles.

  “Better a penguin than a pigeon,” my mother was said to have remarked when the midwife laid me in her arms. They both knew then that the foot would never fully correct itself. The midwife had seen too many births and she recounted all similar situations to everyone in attendance. My mother prayed for a “remarkable son.” She confessed it to the midwife as if she had signed a legal contract with God. These were stories Lishie told me, not Bud.

  Perhaps my foot could have been corrected, but the week following my birth was spent trying to save my mother’s life rather than tending to the nonessentials of me. Deep down, I still felt that urgency to protect my mother as Bud placed his irresponsible blame, but I just echoed.

  “I reckon ’bout all your cousins are over yonder now. You best believe that means you’ve got twice the work to do ’round here. Uncle Sam may let you off the hook, but you’re going to need more than a twisted flipper to just lay up here all summer. We got a lot of work to tend to ’fore harvest.”

  “Or before I leave for school.”

  “Yeah, I’m not holding my breath for that one.”

  Bud always spoke like I had shied from work, that I had refused to cut and hang tobacco or hoe the tater garden or milk old Bess. My disabled foot translated to disabled resolve in his book. The only work he recognized as work was within his gaze. I would spend hours, overtime even, at the inn, but he couldn’t attest to my efforts. So it was as if I was on some sort of holiday while he waited at home listing the chores in preparation for my return. He certainly didn’t think doing my schoolwork was praiseworthy. This led me to stop altogether when I was with him. Lishie didn’t seem to mind me reading or doing arithmetic at the table. I think she might’ve even liked it. She said my mother used to write poetry—though I
’ve never seen any trace of it.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. Back in my day, you’d have to have more than just one gimp limb to keep you from shippin’ off to fight for your country.” Bud punctuated his statement with the ping of the spittoon. He rubbed his knees, acknowledging his gout flare-ups he blamed on old war injuries. Again, no proof of that.

  I rolled my eyes but kept my head down so he wouldn’t launch into the long version of his tired lecture.

  “Hell. If it wasn’t for guys like me and your dad, this wouldn’t even be your country.” And again, Bud was only half right. All Indians were finally recognized as US citizens following World War I partially because of the service of so many volunteers like Bud and my father; but I was fairly certain it would have happened without Bud’s contribution. The only letter sent home that ever arrived from my father mentioning Bud’s service insinuated that Bud spent more time trying not to get kicked out of the infirmary than he did working a post. Lishie used to show me the letter when I got sad. Still, Bud and his brother had volunteered, even when they were told that they would not be conscripted. Lishie always said it was because they liked to fight and it didn’t matter who or for whom. I think it also had something to do with not having a job. The war was over for all intents and purposes when they arrived in Europe.

  Outside Bud’s cabin, the black-capped chickadee whistled a lonesome song, the notes piercing and unrequited. The indigo bunting darted between tree limbs like the woodland sprite I had once seen in a book Lishie brought home from the Goat Man peddler.

  Lishie had asked a cousin in Charleston to write her when the Goat Man made his way through their city so that she might time his arrival in Cherokee. Even though exhibiting amazingly accurate travel estimations, Lishie made futile journeys to town three times before he arrived and she was able to trade a month’s worth of savings from her humble mending services for the volume. The copy was well worn and two pages were completely missing, but what remained seemed magical and questionable in the context of Lishie’s conservative religious practices. This was a woman who damn near burned Ulysses when she found it (and read nearly a quarter of it overnight) among the books I overconfidently resolved to complete before the age of twenty after my teacher, Miss Marjorie, assured me I was bright enough to do so. Joyce being “the Devil’s whisperer,” according to Lishie, I barely glimpsed the final pages before the book was confiscated. Perhaps the bunting-esque spirits of a fairy tale were somehow godlier than man’s quest for godliness.