by Leslie Meier
The females, although smaller than the males, were still substantial birds. They didn’t have combs on the tops of their heads, but they didn’t have feathers either. Their bald heads were covered with lumpy, knobby skin.
Oddest of all, thought Lucy, studying the birds with the fascination truly horrible sights seem to require, were their eyes. They had an odd reflective quality, and when they blinked it reminded her of a shutter on a camera lens.
“How do we know turkeys are birds?” asked Sue, who was holding up a large white feather.
Emily knew the answer. “They have feathers.”
“That’s right,” said Sue. “What else makes them different from us? Do they have mouths with lips and teeth?”
The kids studied the birds, trying to decide.
“They have beaks,” said Justin.
“Farmer Brown, what do they eat?” asked Sue.
“Mostly corn and grain. See over there?” He pointed to the opposite side of the pen, where a worker was emptying a sack of grain into a metal hopper. “He’s feeding the turkeys.”
“Isn’t that Curt Nolan?” asked Lucy, recognizing him from yesterday’s hearing.
“Yup. Curt helps out this time of year.”
“Farmer Brown,” asked Sue, intent on continuing her lesson, “how big are these turkeys?”
“These turkeys are Nicholas Mammoths. The females dress out to between fifteen and eighteen pounds, the males at twenty to twenty-five pounds.”
“What do they wear when they get dressed?” asked Hillary, giggling.
“They don’t wear clothes.” Farmer Brown scratched his head. “Oh, I get it. Dressed means something different. It means after they’re killed and ready to cook.”
“Killed?” Emily’s face was white. The kids had suddenly grown very quiet. Behind her, Lucy could feel Tiffani’s little body stiffen.
Lucy and Sue exchanged glances. Suddenly the trip didn’t seem like such a good idea.
“A lot of food comes from animals,” said Sue, using her teacher tone of voice. “Cows give milk and chickens give eggs, but to get meat we have to kill the animals. That’s the way it is.”
“All of them?” Hillary was horrified.
“All except one,” said Farmer Brown. “TomTom Turkey. Want to see him?”
“Sure,” said Sue, stooping down and giving Hillary a hug. “Let’s go see TomTom Turkey.”
“Old TomTom won the blue ribbon at the county fair last summer. He’s the biggest turkey you’re likely to see.”
Andy pulled open the door and they all followed him into the large, airy barn. Lucy inhaled the scent eagerly—a rich mixture that recalled the cows that had once lived there combined with the fresh, sweet smell of hay. She loved the smell of a barn; it reminded her of childhood visits to Uncle Chet and Aunt Elizabeth in Thompson’s Ridge, where they had had a dairy farm.
Unlike their barn, which had been filled with cows, Andy’s barn was largely empty. Bins and shelves for produce lined the whitewashed walls, and pens were set up for displaying baby animals in the spring, but these were all vacant now. The only inhabitant of the barn was TomTom, who lived in a wire pen in the southwest corner, where sun came through a high window.
“That’s some bird,” said Lucy, simultaneously appalled and amazed. Tiffani was tugging at her arms, so Lucy lifted her up. She could understand the little girl’s desire to be safe in somebody’s arms. TomTom didn’t seem entirely pleased to have company. After cocking his head to study the group, he’d begun puffing out his chest and spreading his tail, strutting around his pen. The kids were definitely impressed and stood silently, watching warily.
“How big is he?” asked Sue.
“He weighed fifty pounds last summer and he’s probably grown some since then. I’d guess close to sixty pounds.”
“So he’s older than the others?” asked Lucy.
“Yup. I’ve had him about a year and a half. He’s full grown.”
“What made you decide to keep him?” she wondered aloud.
“Well, that’s a funny story.” Farmer Brown was leaning against the wood and wire pen. “First year we raised turkeys we picked him out for our Thanksgiving dinner. But when we got all done and all the turkeys were sold, my wife said she didn’t want to have turkey after all. Said it wouldn’t hurt her feelings if she never saw another turkey in her entire life, in fact; so we went off to her sister’s in New York for the holiday and we took along a ham. And that’s what we’re going to do this year, too. So it looks like Old TomTom here is safe for a while.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Justin.
Farmer Brown turned to see. TomTom had suddenly become agitated. His comb had become more erect and his wattles had inflated. He was rocking forward and backward, staring at Farmer Brown.
Brown laughed and removed his bandanna, waving it in front of the bird. TomTom seemed to puff up even more, if that were possible, and then charged at the bandanna.
The terrified kids ran for cover, cowering behind Lucy and Sue.
Brown laughed and waved the red bandanna again; TomTom went for it, hurling himself against the pen. The children shrieked, and Hillary began to cry. Tiffani buried her head beneath Lucy’s chin and clamped her arms firmly around her neck. Lucy knew they should lead the children away, but she was fully occupied with Tiffani, whose body had gone rigid.
Just then, a side door opened and Nolan appeared. He made a sound like a turkey’s gobble and waved his red cap; TomTom turned and stood facing him.
Lucy took advantage of the moment and loosened Tiffani’s grip, shifting her to her hip. Sue took Emily and Hillary by the hand and started toward the door. The boys followed.
“Thank you for letting us visit,” called Sue as they quickly exited the barn and headed for the van. Lucy was bringing up the rear and she turned to give Farmer Brown a good-bye wave.
He didn’t notice. He was gesturing angrily at Nolan, who didn’t look too happy. To Lucy, in fact, it seemed that the two were engaged in a heated argument. She gave Tiffani a little squeeze and hurried out the door.
CHAPTER 3
Ellie Martin looked at Lucy over the rim of her mug, filled with herbal tea, and chuckled.
“Boy, I’ve got to hand it to you. You sure like to live dangerously.” She glanced at the copy of the Pennysaver that was lying on her kitchen table with the rest of the day’s mail.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lucy, ready to defend her story. She looked around Ellie’s neat kitchen, where the scent of baking filled the air and new loaves of bread sat cooling on the counter. Then she took a bite of warm, buttered anadama bread. “After I saw the way they treated Curt, I decided it was time to tell the awful truth about the board of selectmen. Inquiring minds want to know—at least I hope they do.”
Ellie smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I don’t have any problem with what you wrote. Frankly, I think it’s long overdue. I just hope you know what you’re in for.”
Lucy experienced a sinking feeling, unrelated to the fresh bread she had eaten. “You think people are going to be upset?”
“Oh, yes,” said Ellie.
“Oh, well,” said Lucy with a sigh. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. It’ll blow over. In the meantime, tell me about your dolls.”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
* * *
Lucy followed Ellie down the narrow hallway of her ranchstyle home into the third and smallest bedroom.
“Now that the kids are grown, I finally have a room just for my dolls,” said Ellie. “My husband died a little over two years ago. He made the shelves for me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy, wondering if a romance was brewing between Ellie and Curt Nolan and trying to figure out how she could ask.
Ellie led the way into the room, pointing out her workbench, complete with sewing machine, set up in front of the single window. The rest of the walls were lined with storage units, cabinets below and
shelves above. The shelves were filled with supplies: baskets containing bits of leather, jars containing colored beads, a rack holding every color of thread imaginable. Taking center stage, opposite the window, was a lighted cabinet with glass doors containing the finished dolls. Ellie opened the door and Lucy stepped closer to examine them.
“These are exquisite,” Lucy said, genuinely impressed by Ellie’s craftsmanship. Each doll was different and each seemed to tell a story. A mother, dressed in a buckskin dress with flowing fringe on the sleeves, sat with her legs tucked beneath her, holding a tiny baby. Two little girls were posed together; they were holding tiny baskets filled with minute blueberries. A little boy with a bow in his hand seemed to be bursting with pride; Lucy guessed it had something to do with the bulging game bag that hung from his shoulder.
Ellie opened it, revealing a tiny, beautifully crafted rabbit, perfect down to its little white cottontail.
“These are incredible,” said Lucy. “How do you do it?”
“I start with wire frames,” said Ellie, showing Lucy several forms she was experimenting with. “Then I model the bodies using a special resin—the hands and the faces are the hardest. It’s important to get them just right.
“Then I paint the features and make the wigs and clothes and accessories. . . .”
“You make everything? Even the baskets?”
Ellie’s cheeks flushed. “I make it all. I don’t use any findings. Of course, sometimes it takes a bit of thinking. Take the blueberries, for example. What do you think I used?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Lucy, bending closer to study the baskets.
“If you shake them, they roll around. They’re not molded together or anything.”
“I give up,” said Lucy.
“Tapioca. I painted grains of tapioca with acrylic paint, and it was quite a trick, getting just the right color. In the end, I used several colors, even a few pinks and greens. Makes them look more realistic.”
“That’s amazing. It’s no wonder you win prizes. Let’s see,” said Lucy, flipping open her notebook. “You won ‘Best in Show’ and ‘Most Authentic Ethnic Doll’ at last month’s meeting of the American Dollmakers’ Association.”
“It’s kind of like the Oscar of the doll world,” said Ellie, a touch of pride in her voice.
“Was the competition stiff?”
“I’ll say. Thousands of people enter every year.”
“And which doll won?”
“You can’t see it. I mean, I don’t have the winners here. They’re on display at the Smithsonian.”
“Wow. That’s a real honor,” said Lucy, scribbling the information down in her notebook. “Do you ever sell them?”
“You bet. That’s what got me started. I needed to make money and I didn’t want to leave my girls. Angie’s in law school now and Katie’s at Dartmouth. So l started making dolls and selling them at craft shows. That’s how I got started. I sold the first ones for five dollars each. Can you imagine?”
Something in her tone made Lucy suspect the price had gone up. She had to ask. Maybe she could get one for Zoe. “How much?”
“It depends on the doll. The mother there—she’d go for about twelve hundred.”
Lucy gulped and decided Zoe would have to go without an Indian doll.
“That little boy—he’s special. He’d probably go for eighteen. I know it sounds like a lot, but people buy them as investments. I’ve heard of dolls I sold years ago for a few hundred dollars going for thousands at auctions.”
“And you make only Indian dolls? How come?”
“Well, I’m part Metinnicut. I guess it’s really been a way to affirm my heritage.”
Lucy was surprised. She hadn’t had the slightest inkling that Ellie was a Native American. Now that she knew that Ellie was Metinnicut, it helped explain her behavior at the dog hearing.
“Is that why you were so reluctant to testify against Curt?” she asked.
“In a way, I guess. I’ve known him all my life.”
Lucy didn’t want to blow the interview, but she had to ask. “And you’re just friends?”
“Just friends,” said Ellie firmly, changing the subject.
“The dolls are all authentic, you know, in a generic way. I couldn’t learn much about the Metinnicuts in particular, so I took patterns from other tribes in the Northeast. I call them ‘Eastern Woodland Indian.’ That way I can use designs from other tribes that appeal to me. Take the fringed dress, for example. I saw one in the museum in Cooperstown—that’s in New York and modified it. Working on such a small scale I had to simplify it, anyway, but the spirit’s there, if you know what I mean.”
Lucy studied the expression on the doll’s face, which seemed to capture not only maternal love but also the mix of anxiety of hopefulness that all mothers feel for their children. Then she nodded.
“Why couldn’t you learn about the Metinnicuts? There’s Metinnicut Pond and Metinnicut Road. There’s even Metinnicut Island out in the bay. And isn’t there a war club in the Winchester College museum?”
“There is, but it’s actually the only remaining Metinnicut artifact. Except for the names, I haven’t been able to find anything else. It’s all disappeared: the language, the culture, everything. The tribe died out in the eighteenth centuty. A lot of people around here have some Indian blood, but it’s mixed in with a lot of other stuff. Frankly”—Ellie gave a little laugh—“I’ve probably got more Italian genes than anything else.”
“But if there’s no Metinnicut culture left, why are folks like Curt Nolan making such a big deal about it? They even want recognition as a tribe from the federal government—the selectmen are voting on their petition next week.”
The question hung between them before Ellie finally spoke.
“Because of the casino.”
“Casino?” Lucy wondered if those occasional lapses of attention during selectmen’s meetings were getting out of control. This was the first she’d heard about a casino.
“That’s why they need federal recognition,” continued Ellie. “If they get it, they can build a casino. I’ve heard they even have the plans. They want to put it on Andy Brown’s farm.”
Lucy remembered the disagreement she had witnessed between Andy Brown and Curt Nolan the day before.
“And how does Andy Brown feel about this?”
“He’s all for it. He’ll make a lot of money. That’s what it’s all about: money.” Ellie’s voice was full of sadness. “It isn’t really about Metinnicut heritage at all.”
“How come I haven’t heard about this before?”
“Because nobody’s talking about it. They’ve kept it pretty quiet. I only know because Bear Sykes—he’s the tribal leader—is my uncle. They’re going to present the whole plan at the selectmen’s meeting next week.” Ellie smiled slyly. “I thought inquiring minds would want to know—off the record, of course.”
Lucy said her goodbyes quickly, knowing she’d better get back to the Pennysaver office as fast as she could to check with Ted. She only hoped he’d be there. Thursday afternoon, after the paper came out, was typically a quiet time when he took care of personal errands like haircuts and dental appointments. When she arrived, however, she found he was still working and so was Phyllis. Both were talking on the telephone.
As Lucy hung up her jacket she wondered if Ellie had been right about her story. Maybe the voters were capable of outrage; maybe there was hope for the democratic system after all.
She sat down at her desk and booted up her computer. While she waited for it to complete whatever it was doing, the phone rang. Ted and Phyllis were still on the other lines, so she answered.
“I’m calling about the dog,” said a woman with a quavery voice. “That Kadjo.”
“If you have an opinion about that story, we’d welcome a letter to the editor,” said Lucy. “That way, we could print it.”
“I don’t think that dog should be allowed to run around. It’s a menace. My sister lived ne
xt to a man with a vicious dog, and that dog killed her cat.”
“That’s very interesting—”
“Not that the cat died right away. She got it to the vet and he did what he could but poor Misty never regained consciousness.”
“This was in Tinker’s Cove?”
“No, no, no. Maude lives in Chagrin Falls, Ohio.”
Lucy was confused. “I thought the cat was named Misty.”
“Misty is the cat.” The quavery voice was definitely getting a little testy. “Maude’s my sister.”
“Right. And could I have your name?”
There was no answer.
“Hello? Hello?” said Lucy, finally concluding the line was dead.
“That was funny,” she said to Ted and Phyllis. “A woman called about a dog that attacked her sister’s cat in Ohio.”
“It’s been like that all day,” said Phyllis, letting the phone ring. “The phones have been ringing off the hook. Everybody’s got an opinion about that dog story.”
“They’re calling about the dog?” Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “What about the selectmen? Aren’t people mad that Bud Collier sleeps through the meetings and Howard White is a megalomaniac and Joe Marzetti is practically a fascist?”
Phyllis smiled. “Sorry. They’re calling about the dog.”
“Yeah?” Lucy was disgusted to find she was relieved. “What do they say?”
“It’s been about fifty-fifty,” Phyllis continued, ignoring the ringing phone and taking a moment to examine her manicure. Then she sighed and picked up the receiver. “Pennysaver.”
A sudden crash—Ted slamming down the receiver—made Lucy jump.
“No more dog stories, okay?” he snarled, glaring at her.
“No problem,” said Lucy. “Actually, I think I’m on to something big. Very big. Maybe a scoop.”
“Really?” Ted was skeptical.
“Maybe.” Lucy was suddenly hesitant. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Ellie Martin told me the Metinnicuts want to build a casino on Andy Brown’s farm. They even have plans.”