“Okay.” I blushed, taken aback by her direct language and unfounded accusation. “What kind of basket are you looking for here?”
She contorted her chubby face until it looked like an anemic prune. “Indian. Why the hell you think I’d be in this godforsaken place otherwise?”
“Yes, ma’am. River cane? Honeysuckle? White oak?”
“Cherokee.”
“Yes, ma’am. There are different types of Cherokee baskets.”
“I mean a real one. I want an authentic one. I am a collector.”
“Yes, you mentioned that, but …” I looked around and eyed a cane purse. I recognized the maker immediately by its smooth lines and perfectly angled rim. I should say, I recognized the family immediately. I wasn’t sure which one, mother or daughter, had done the weaving, or which one, father or son, had whittled the drop handles. “Here. This is what you want.” I handed the basket to her.
She flipped over the white tag, exposing the red-inked price. “I was not born yesterday! This looks like it came from a department store. I want one a Cherokee woman actually made. It’s the lack of imperfections that give away a fake.”
I had to agree with her there.
“Thanks, Cowney.” Jones waved to me as he closed the storeroom door behind him. “Did you make me some money while I was back there?”
“Nope, not a dime. But I didn’t cost you any either.” I caught a glimpse of the tortoise exiting, her white head shaking in disgust.
“Well, I’d say that’s fair enough,” Jones laughed. “Still, can’t believe how slow it’s gotten around here. Usually things pick up in the summer, with tourists nosing around and all.”
I ran my hands through a bucket of corn beads. “So you’d say that Black Mountain College is probably more expensive than a state school, right?”
“Yeah, quite a bit, unfortunately.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but how you plan on paying for it?”
“I made a deal. Told the old man that I would not volunteer for service and stay here and help run the store as long as I could. Course, if I were to get drafted, well, then I’d serve, no question. The old man doesn’t pay me, but promised to send me to school anywhere I could get in and wanted to go.”
“That sure does sound like a fair deal. Well, thanks again, Jones. I’ll be back to pick them up before you close.”
“My pleasure, Cowney. I hope you get some good ones out of the batch!”
I walked out the door, the bell ringing overhead.
While activity in town was far from its normal summer hum, it was steadily busy in spite of the smoke. I wandered the streets of Cherokee as if I were one of the summertime tourists, stopping to watch men in colorful feathers play Sioux in front of shoddily made imitation teepees. I watched Cherokee women haggle with white women in white dresses and big floppy hats over the prices of baskets, pottery, and jewelry. Later in the day, I watched young boys careen headfirst into the Oconaluftee River, splashing their summers away. I smelled steaming hot dogs and popped corn until my stomach ached from hunger. I took a nap beneath a large oak tree by the river, trying to fill my emptiness with sleep.
When I returned to the trading post, Jones was sweeping the front porch and speaking with Tsa Tsi.
“Oh, there he is!” Jones greeted me. “I was just telling Tsa Tsi here that I think you got some great shots of Asheville.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I guess it was worth two gray squirrels then.”
“Hope so. Let me go get them for you.” Jones leaned his broom against the storefront and went inside.
“So, whatcha up to today?” I asked, sitting on the bench next to Tsa Tsi.
“Oh, not much. Just watching the clouds go by.”
“Any word on Edgar?”
“Nope. Startin’ to get worried; he’s never been gone this long.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
“Hope so. Hope he didn’t decide to run off with some carnival. He’s a big fan of cotton candy, you know.” Tsa Tsi smiled. His hair seemed whiter than I remembered and he ran his fingers through it so that half of it remained standing on end.
“Okay, here you go!” Jones announced as he came out of the store. “Hope you like them.”
I couldn’t exactly remember what shots were on the film, so I elected to take them home and look at them in private.
Tsa Tsi’s expression as I stood to leave was far from approving. “Not going to share a peek?” he pried.
“Oh, well. I don’t know.”
“Come on, you let that one see them already.” Tsa Tsi pointed at Jones, who was quite amused. “He developed them!”
“So. Didn’t you know I was an art critic? Let’s see if you have potential.” Jones shook his head and went back into the trading post with the broom.
“Oh, alright. We’ll look at them together.” I sat back down on the bench beside Tsa Tsi.
The first two pictures were of the canoes we raced down the river. They sat side by side in the tall grass. Then came the picture of the four of us standing in front of my car, taken by another guard who, I remember, had looked fairly putout with the whole scene. I flipped past it quickly, not wanting to not look at Essie’s and Peter’s faces any longer than I had to. The next was just of Peter sitting in one of the canoes, still in the tall grass, but he was pretending to paddle nonetheless.
“Who’s that fella?” Tsa Tsi asked, stopping me from moving the picture to the back.
“That’s Peter. Lieutenant Peter Franks.”
“He your friend?”
“He works where I do … where I did. Wouldn’t exactly call him a friend.”
“Looks goofy.”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “He’s a little goofy.”
We continued to flip through the pictures, sifting through images of the inn and its grounds. I had taken a few of the buildings in downtown Asheville. Tsa Tsi stopped me with each picture and told me his own personal story of visiting Asheville. Where he had eaten, what he had eaten, how much gas and indigestion it had produced for him.
“Oh, now there’s a picture.” Tsa Tsi took the photo from my hand.
“That little Essie Stamper?”
I nodded. “Yes, that’s her.” Tsa Tsi held an image of Essie, high on her toes in mid-twirl. I had taken it the day I caught her dancing by herself in room 447. Her straight, dark hair was flung around her face, her eyes lost in the spinning motion. Essie’s mouth was closed tightly, without compromising her expression of sheer serenity. The skirt of her baby-blue maid uniform rose on one side, swept up in the twist of her long body. A moment later, after I had captured the image, she nearly fell in surprise and went about beating my arms with her clenched fists, trying to resist the urge to laugh at herself the way I was. These were the moments that had entrapped me, had convinced me that I saw her the way no one else had and made me believe that she had seen my true self as well. I both loved the picture as testimony to our unique friendship and wanted to rip it up.
“She’s turning into a real beauty,” Tsa Tsi remarked and handed the photo back to me. I didn’t respond.
“She come back with you this time?”
“No, she’s still in Asheville.”
“Mmm,” Tsa Tsi replied. “Wouldn’t leave her there too long if I were you.”
“Left my car for her.”
“Not your car she needs, son.”
I smiled awkwardly and brought forward the next picture.
“Where’s that?” Tsa Tsi asked.
“Gosh,” I responded. “Not exactly sure. I don’t think I even took this picture. I think it’s of the grounds.” I flipped through the next three photos. None of them looked familiar. I remembered I had left the camera in 447. Essie must have borrowed it. I looked back at the pictures she had taken with more attention, curious to see what she found beautiful, worthy of capturing at the inn.
There was one of a flower garden, one of the exterior facade of the Grove
Park’s main building, one of Andrea sitting on the dining hall steps smoking a cigarette. I came to the final photo and stopped. It was Essie and Andrea sitting on the grass, smiling, posing. Andrea had his arm around Essie. Carol must have taken the photo.
Then something else caught my eye. Something in the far corner of the photo. I squinted to better see the faded outline of the fence in the background. There was a break in the wire pattern that so tediously wrapped the property—an undeniable hole. Metal was peeled backward. I had never seen even the slightest flaw in any of the perimeter fencing before. The impenetrability of that border took precedence over every chore Lee assigned, and there was no way this would have gone unnoticed for long, but we were never assigned to fix it.
“Who’s that fella?” Tsa Tsi asked. I had been so focused on the fence, I started to answer, “I don’t …” but realized that Tsa Tsi was looking at the man. “I mean, it’s Andrea. That’s Essie’s boyfriend.”
“He looks goofy, too.” Tsa Tsi laughed.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I think so, too.” I quickly gathered the photos together and tucked them inside my knapsack. My mind raced between the trading post and the inn, between the fence line and the faces, between those clear and smiling faces and those turned from my gaze. I gave him one more nod and said good-bye to Tsa Tsi. He waved and reminded me to keep an eye out for Edgar. I promised that I would, but wondered if maybe he had left Edgar alone for too long. Maybe Edgar had gotten used to being alone and had just resolved to stay that way. I wondered if that might just happen to me, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I called Craig as soon as I returned home and told him about the photograph.
“That’s real good, Cowney. Real good. Give me some time and I’ll be in touch.”
I was at home almost two weeks, all told. I tried not to think too deeply about the pictures I had seen, the images of the inn and its people, still unsure of exactly what was showing up in the photos and what was just a trick of the lens. In the mornings, I made my way to Bud’s house, milked the cow, and gathered eggs before he could drag himself from bed and pull on his boots. I preferred working in solitude as I was not eager to speak to him, but if I helped with chores, I knew he would not complain too loudly if I took a small portion of the milk and eggs for myself. On Sunday, he offered his truck so that I could drive myself to church. I accepted the use of his vehicle, but drove into town instead to trade firewood or a few of the eggs from Bud’s chickens for necessities from the trading post. I also wanted to sit on the front porch and talk with Tsa Tsi or whoever wandered by. Most often, I chose not to speak at all, but I didn’t mind listening. Listening was easy. Sometimes Jones joined me on the porch when business was slow and we talked about what college might look like.
“Plenty of girls. That’s all I know,” he mused during one visit.
“Yeah, different girls,” I clarified.
He laughed. “The kind that don’t know us yet.”
“The best kind!” We both laughed at the potential promise.
Whether it was because of that particular conversation or something that had been weighing on my mind for some time, on my next visit to town, I was inspired to bring two college application forms I had hidden away beneath my bed for several months. Lishie had sent for them without mentioning a word to me until she handed them to me. To this day, I don’t know how she knew to get them. Likely someone from church had helped her.
I waited until all of the customers left the trading post before I pulled them from my knapsack and laid them on the counter in front of Jones. “Think you can help?” I asked.
“You haven’t sent any yet?”
“No, but, you know, I wasn’t in a big hurry. Need the money first.”
“Well, I guess it’s never too early to apply for admission for the next semester. They might want to offer you a scholarship.”
“Doubt that. Anyway, I thought while I have some time, maybe I could get them filled out and just send them in when I’m ready.”
“Well, let’s get started,” he said and motioned for me to join him behind the counter, pen in hand, so that we could both look at the questions together.
“Bacone.” He read the name on the first letterhead. “Sure you didn’t mean to send off for bacon instead?”
I smiled with him. “Bacon might be more useful to me.”
“Nah. You’ll see. Anyway, let’s get you in and then you can decide if Bacone is right for you or if you should stick to breakfast meats.”
“Fair enough.” I pointed to the other letter. “That one is for Milligan College.”
“Where are they located?”
“Bacone is in Oklahoma. Milligan is in east Tennessee, near Johnson City.”
“Well, Milligan certainly is closer.”
“True, but Bacone is like a prep school for Indians, from what I hear. I know a few folks from Cherokee who are there already.”
“So you have done some research?”
“No. I mean, not a lot. Just what I hear from folks.”
“Is that why you sent off to these two schools?”
I was too embarrassed to tell him that Lishie had made the decision, so I just nodded.
Jones read aloud the questions and I responded quickly to the easiest ones, the biographical questions such as birth date and address.
“Do you have the credits in these courses that they list?”
“Yes. Yes, all of them except Latin.”
“You can take that your first year. They just need to know what entrance exam to give you.”
I didn’t like the thought of testing. I had never been a strong test taker, but figured that was the least of my worries at the moment. As Jones read, I also realized how different questioning is when one is not presumed guilty of a crime. Jones asked and took my answers at face value. Though sometimes he asked me to clarify a response, he was ultimately just recording my truth. The colonel had done nearly the opposite. He and his men asked and then chose to record their own truth, simply signing my name to it.
“You’ll need a letter of reference. Do you have one yet?”
“No, but I thought I could ask Lee, my boss at the inn.”
“That sounds like a good idea. When will you see him again?”
“Not entirely sure.”
“You could always call or write him for one. Anyone else you might have as a backup plan?”
The emptiness of my mind frightened me. I had never considered who could and would speak on my behalf if needed. I couldn’t think of a single person, other than Lee, who would be able to offer a recommendation of my character and work ethic. Had I really lived all these years and not identified even one potential advocate or ally? One that hadn’t either used me or sacrificed me to save themselves? Maybe I could ask Miss Marjorie. She saw enough in me to ply me with books every chance she got. She talked to me like an adult about them too—even though I’d been still in high school.
“I might be able to ask one of my teachers or the headmaster.”
“Okay, not a bad idea. Do you think one of them will be able to give some examples of your accomplishments or your ethics? Anything like that? I don’t know too much about your school. From what people say, sounds like you guys were responsible for farm chores, too. That’d be good to include. Play any sports? Have a coach that might—”
I looked down at my left foot and then back to him. I didn’t need to speak.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Well, think on it a bit. I am sure you will find a good person. You can always ask your preacher. He’s probably written a dozen or so over the years.”
Jones and I continued to fill out the questions, deciding I would also need more time to think about what my personal statement should say. He agreed to read over it for me before I mailed the whole package. When we answered every question I could in the moment, I folded both applications into their respective envelopes and thanked Jones for his help.
“Wish I could do more,” he offer
ed. “I’m sure you’ll find the right home in the end.”
Those were not the only two envelopes of importance that I held in my hand that week. On one of the days I had elected to walk into town to go swimming in the river, I decided to stop by the post office and pick up any mail Lishie may have had stacking up since her passing. Other than the college applications, a few US and tribal government mailings, I never had mail. So I was particularly surprised when the postmaster handed only one envelope over the counter and it had my name on it.
“Bud’s been picking up your grandmother’s mail. But this came for you today,” he informed me. “Had extra postage on it, so it must be important.”
I looked at the return address:
I. Jenkins
Asheville, North Carolina
It took me a moment to recognize Lee’s name. I smiled, remembering his unusual given name, Iliam, and was grateful he had chosen Lee long ago. I thanked the postmaster and tucked the letter in my knapsack. I wanted to wait until I was home before I opened it, but I was far too curious to wait. Instead I walked to the riverbank and opened the letter as I sat with my bare feet in the river. The sun beat down so ruthlessly that I removed my shirt, tying it to my belt loop, and let the beams further deepen the maroon of my shoulders and auburn of my chest. I tore jagged edges into the letter, disfiguring my name and address on the front. I read quickly:
Cowney,
I’m not one for letter writing, so I’ll be brief. The army has informed staff that they are transitioning out of the current “guest services businesses” and need us to finish our work a few weeks early, including all repairs on our list. I need you to return ASAP or inform me of your inability to do so, so that I might hire short-term labor. Please call the Grove Park immediately as I do not have your phone number and am tired of dealing with that Colonel S.O.B. who refuses to give me any information about you.
Sincerely,
Lee
I could hear Lee’s voice in the letter, his intolerance for drama and detestation of the arrogant faction of the soldiers at the inn who seemed unaware of his own service in World War I. I smiled as I read the letter again, verifying that I understood the request. He wanted me back. I needed to get back as soon as possible. I wanted to finish a job. I wanted to prove that I could actually do something I had set out to do. The entire summer was filled with false starts and faded hopes—I wanted to believe there would be at least one person who I wouldn’t let down and who wouldn’t let me down. Lee was that person. Did Essie’s face flash through my mind? Of course. I immediately felt ashamed that it did, but it was as if I also needed her to see that I had not just run away like a guilty or defeated man.
Even As We Breathe Page 21