The Removed

by Brandon Hobson

  He saw the transformation of a corn stalk into a beautiful woman whose drops of blood in the ground shook the earth and blossomed into a beautiful tree. Then he climbed the tree and saw, in the distance, the soldiers coming from far away. They were bringing oxcarts and wagons, and dust around them rose and formed into an image of a giant snake in the sky. He watched the snake cough dust so that soon enough he wasn’t able to see the soldiers or the snake anymore, just an enormous billow of red dust in the sky, growing larger and larger.

  When the boy woke, he saw that the doe next to him was still breathing. He looked deep into the doe’s eyes, which were large and brown and watery. And the doe spoke: “Go and tell your people about your visions. Warn them about the coming soldiers, the cold winter, and the approaching suffering and death. I will see you soon.”

  Then the doe stopped breathing, with her eyes still open.

  Beside the doe was another blue leaf fluttering in the breeze. The boy picked it up and saw the message: he would die soon, too.

  He lay beside the doe, crying out in sadness and anger until he wasn’t able to cry anymore. Then he slept for two days straight. He did not dream during this long sleep, and when he woke, he saw that the doe beside him had gone.

  He walked all the way back to the village, where he warned everyone of the soldiers: “They will force us from our land!” he said. “A cold winter full of death is coming.”

  “We’re afraid to tell people by the river,” they said. “The Great Leech of Tlanyusi’yi is there and is eating people who go fishing. They disappear and never return. How do we warn them?”

  The river was frightening for many people. There was a rock to walk across the water, like a bridge. People stood on the rock and fished in the river, until they noticed a long red snake that kept itself rolled into a ball. Whenever it sensed the presence of a human, the red snake unrolled itself and leapt out of the water onto the rock, then dragged the people into the water and ate their faces. Their bodies were found drowned along the bank with their eyes and noses eaten from their faces. One person said these dead people had no tongues.

  “It is not my time of dying, even if I had dreams,” the boy said. He set off for the river, happily singing a song:

  Tlanu’ si’ gune’ ga digi’gage

  Dakwa’ nitlaste’ sfi!

  I will tie red leech skins

  On my legs for garters!

  But when he got to the rock, nobody was there. He looked down and saw the water began to boil and foam. This is the account told to us by the spirits who watched from nearby.

  The boy became unable to move from fear. “You won’t kill me!” he shouted.

  And the leech leapt up and carried him down underwater, and he was never seen again.

  * * *

  Beloved, we knew the soldiers were coming before they ever arrived. Our people knew long before, thanks to the prophecies. It was a time of fear, but we would never let fear bury us.

  Maria

  SEPTEMBER 2

  IN THE MORNING I drove to the youth shelter to read to the children, since Wyatt wasn’t supposed to arrive until the afternoon. The kids who stayed there had either been kicked out of foster homes or were waiting to be placed in a foster home. I’d been visiting there regularly since I retired. I always liked helping children. This was my career, in social work, finding justice in a world where it felt like there was no justice. I wanted to save everybody, especially children and families on the verge of losing everything. I wanted them to have a chance to succeed.

  For sixteen years I was a social worker for the tribe, working with children and at-risk youth. I liked working with deprived children. I transported them to various foster home placements, youth shelters, or treatment centers, which often took a long time. The trips could take two or three hours, so I told them stories about Cherokee myths, or other times I made up my own stories. I told them about my own family, my Cherokee ancestors who suffered on the Trail of Tears after Andrew Jackson forced thousands to leave their land. Some hid in the mountains, others died. The ones who survived barely made it, suffering through measles and whooping cough, walking in the brutal cold of winter, their cries drowned by the bitter wind. They were women walking hunched forward with blankets over their shoulders. They were men carrying children. They were on their knees, dying from pneumonia. My ancestors made it to Indian Territory, to Oklahoma, where they tried to start over. When I was growing up, my elders taught me about real history, about the removal, when many schools didn’t talk much about it.

  As a social worker, I watched children cower into their siblings, afraid of all the caseworkers. I watched them spit and call everyone evil monsters. I listened to them moan and wail in fear. The youngest kids were the most trusting. Our office had toys and treats for them during the hours they spent in our building. They had a TV, dolls, stuffed animals, crayons, building blocks. They had books and handheld video games. The older siblings gave dirty looks and held on to their younger siblings, didn’t trust the workers, never smiled.

  “We want to help you,” I told them. “We won’t hurt you. We’ll find a safe place for you. Everything will be better now.”

  AT THE YOUTH SHELTER, I read stories from books about Cherokee culture and healing. Afterward I asked them, “What is healing?”

  “When you don’t feel like killing yourself,” a girl named Amber said. She was twelve or thirteen, with light-brown hair cropped short. Her face and body were thin, but her pale-blue T-shirt and jeans were baggy. She sat forward with her elbows resting on her knees, listening to me.

  “That’s right,” I told her. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, you’re healing. You’re getting better. Maybe you start talking to a counselor or a doctor, too. But many years ago the Cherokees used nature for healing.”

  I read aloud: “‘All the trees and shrubs and plants of the earth were used to cure sickness.’” I stopped here and held up the book to show a photograph of a yellow flower, then continued: “‘The black-eyed Susan plant contains a liquid that cures earaches.’” A boy, maybe ten or eleven, raised his hand. He was small, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His hair hung in his eyes.

  “My brother got a black eye,” he said. “His name is Jack. He has medicine for his face.”

  “Did you know,” I told him, “that some people put liquid from the black-eyed Susan plant in their tea and drank it?”

  “Did it help their black eyes?”

  “I’m not sure, but it helped them feel better. It was good for snakebites.”

  I held up another page with a photograph. “This is the catgut plant,” I said. “The Cherokees believed that if you mixed the bark in water, it would make you strong.”

  Amber was really listening to me, leaning forward and concentrating. I told them a story about a young boy who was shorter than all the other boys in his school. “The boy isn’t able to play sports,” I told them. “He’s too small to reach the monkey bars on the playground. None of the boys like him, so he spends all his time on the playground jumping rope and being friends with the girls. At home, his father makes him drink the catgut bark mixed into his tea, and soon the boy grows, gets stronger, and by the end of the school year he’s stronger and taller than every boy in his class. Now all the boys want him to play sports with them, but he refuses unless they allow the girls to play too.”

  “Why?” Amber asked.

  “At first the boys refuse,” I said. “They don’t want girls to play. Meanwhile, one of the girls who is Cherokee also has been drinking the catgut plant in her tea and challenges all the boys to arm wrestling. She beats every one of them, so the boys let everyone play. Boys against girls—guess who wins?”

  “The girls?”

  “That’s right.”

  She gave a smile. Marty, one of the young part-time library helpers, came over and told me he could never get them to pay attention for very long. “And you make them interested in plants,” he said. “How do you do it?”

&nb
sp; “This is my passion,” I said. “It has always been my passion.”

  ON THE DRIVE HOME I stopped at the market to buy a carton of ice cream for Wyatt’s visit. Outside the store I happened to see an elderly woman, standing stooped over with an afghan around her shoulders. I stopped to examine the stitches and folds in her afghan.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, touching the end drooping from her shoulder.

  She smiled, taking my hand into hers. Surprisingly, her hands were warmer than mine. She rubbed my hand with hers, and for a moment I felt as though I had met her before.

  “You’re very nice to stop and say so,” she said. “I’m from far away. My son is pulling the car around, and we’re going to comfort a family whose child died.”

  I was saddened by her then, knowing she was senile. The car pulled up and a young man got out and came over to us. He had dark hair and looked Native. He smiled and said hello, then took the woman by the arm and helped her to the car.

  “Take care,” I said.

  I waited for the young man to help her into the passenger’s seat, where she strapped on her seat belt. She turned and looked back at me as they pulled away.

  I HAD THE HOUSE FULLY PREPARED for Wyatt to arrive: Ray-Ray’s bedroom was clean, and the fishing gear was ready in the garage. On the back deck, Ernest appeared confused, his eyes dark and complicated. We had never fostered before, and I wondered if he was nervous. Wyatt was twelve, it occurred to me suddenly, a few years younger than Ray-Ray had been when he died. I hadn’t realized until I saw Ernest sitting on the back deck, looking so tense. He was rubbing his brow with his hand, closing his eyes every few seconds and then opening them and taking in a deep breath.

  I stood looking out at the water, which was calm for a day in September. “Everything’s all set for Wyatt,” I told him.

  He looked up at me, and I wondered whether he even remembered.

  “Wyatt?” he said.

  “He’ll be here in a few hours.”

  “What’s his name?” he said, looking away and then back at me.

  I sat next to him and touched his arm. “The foster boy’s name is Wyatt. He’ll be staying with us a few days. Bernice said it will likely be until the court hearing on Friday.”

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “Oh.”

  “We’re a temporary placement for him.”

  “I got it,” he said.

  We sat quietly for a few minutes, looking out over the sloping ground to the trees and water. “I have a good feeling,” I said, maybe more to myself than to Ernest. “We’re the only Cherokee family available for him right now. It’s us or the shelter.”

  I thought of Ernest before his mind started to decline, the way he carried on conversations, always laughter about something. I wondered why he didn’t, or couldn’t, laugh anymore. Was nothing funny? No memory, thought, or quick-witted joke on TV ever made him laugh anymore.

  After a moment I went back inside to the kitchen table and called Irene. “I’m hesitant about the foster boy and Ernest,” I told my sister. “The Alzheimer’s feels worse every day. I don’t know. I don’t want him to get too confused in front of Wyatt. And I don’t want to deal with the stress if Wyatt gets in trouble at school this week. It’s stressful for a foster child to stay in a temporary placement.”

  “Stop worrying,” Irene said.

  I sat quietly looking out the window. My notebook was on the table where I had left it. I picked it up and opened it. I wrote:

  If I could make the bonfire

  and then . . .

  If you only

  But nothing else came. I felt my thoughts were interrupted, blocked. I had a deep longing to express something, but I couldn’t place what it was.

  WYATT ARRIVED AROUND SIX in the evening by way of Bernice. They stood inside the front door, and Bernice introduced us. “Wyatt,” she said, “this is Maria. She’s retired. She used to work with me in the office.”

  Wyatt was all smiles, wearing a newsboy cap and baggy jeans. He blushed a little, removing his cap and shaking my hand.

  “Very nice to meet you,” I said.

  “We’ve got everything in his bag,” Bernice said. “The hearing’s on Friday at one thirty. We’ll meet in the courthouse lobby.”

  She gave Wyatt a small hug before leaving. He wasn’t resistant to the hug, nor embarrassed. After she left, his gaze sharpened and he smiled in a familiar way. The look in his eyes was deepened by his silence, shy and boyish. He seemed awkward, waiting for me to tell him what to do. “I have your room ready,” I said. “Do you want me to show it to you?”

  I realized Ernest had walked into the room and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at Wyatt.

  “This is my husband, Ernest,” I told Wyatt.

  Ernest stepped in closer and extended his hand, which Wyatt shook. Neither of them said anything, but they looked at each other. Then Wyatt picked up his suitcase and followed me down the hall to Ray-Ray’s old bedroom, where he set some of his things on the bed and looked around the room. Ernest lingered in the hallway.

  “This is it,” I said. “I hope you like it.”

  He turned to me and smiled, still silent. He put his suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed. His bangs were in his eyes, and he had to comb his hair back with his fingers so he could see us better. He was small for his age, I thought, though maybe it just seemed that way because of how he was sitting on the edge of the bed. When was the last time we had seen a child in Ray-Ray’s room anyway?

  Bernice had mentioned Wyatt was shy. I showed him the extra pillows and blankets in the closet. I wanted to ensure he felt safe. “Any specific requests?” I asked, hoping he might speak up. “A night-light? The door open at night? Anything you need, please ask.”

  He nodded, deep in thought. Then he opened his suitcase and began unpacking while I watched from the doorway. He seemed perfectly comfortable, but I knew this was routine for him, having stayed in other foster homes. He removed his clothes from his suitcase and folded them neatly before placing them in the dresser. Socks and underwear in the top drawer, T-shirts in the middle, pants in the bottom drawer. He hung up a tweed jacket and collared dress shirts.

  “Wyatt,” I said, “we’ll go get supper ready. You’re welcome to stay in here, or you can come into the living room and watch TV if you like.”

  He looked distressed, so I sat on the edge of the bed. He sat next to me. His head leaned forward, and he was on the verge of tears. He was not acting like a teenager, that was certain, and I assumed he was emotionally immature, and guarded, maybe closer to a ten-year-old boy. I placed my hand on his back and rubbed lightly.

  “I’ll go in the other room,” Ernest said from the doorway.

  I nodded, and as he left, I asked Wyatt if there was anything I could do to make him feel comfortable.

  He shook his head, but I couldn’t see his face under his hair.

  “You don’t have to talk,” I told him. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. This is your room. It’s a safe place, I promise you.”

  I rubbed his back for a moment longer while he sat there, leaning forward. Then I got up and started for the door. That was when he spoke up: “I’m okay,” he said.

  I turned and looked at him, but he was still sitting forward. “That’s good,” I said.

  “I can do impersonations,” he said. “Maybe I’ll do one later.”

  “Impersonations?”

  “I can do a Frenchman, monsieur,” he said. “I can do Pee-wee Herman.”

  I WON’T DENY HE REMINDED me of Ray-Ray, even from the beginning. I was surprised by the feeling in my stomach, a pang that made me shiver, a taste of sweetness in my mouth despite not having eaten anything. I had a strange feeling all evening that Wyatt possessed a number of familiar traits. I wondered if it was simply because they were nearly the same age.

  In the kitchen I made supper. I put some chicken in the Crock-Pot, opened a can of green beans. I turned on the stove and
poured the green beans into a saucepan. The kitchen was a place for thinking, where my time was my own. I thought about what an odd coincidence it was that Wyatt said he could do impersonations of a Frenchman and Pee-wee Herman. I remembered how Ray-Ray was such a quiet little boy until he started junior high, and his personality blossomed. He was happiest and the most animated around us at home, doing his impersonations, singing, talking about music and movies he loved. He tried to make us laugh, and he succeeded. He was very different from Sonja and Edgar, who were both more reserved, more introverted. As Ray-Ray got older, he tried to be tough around his friends, often sarcastic, too, even at home.

  Cooking supper, it was still strange to think that the whole family might never be together again. It was such a struggle to get Edgar back home—the last time we had seen him was at his intervention the previous spring. In his absence I felt weak with worry. I prayed to the Great Spirit silently. I prayed for comfort for Edgar and Sonja right there in the kitchen. I prayed for Ernest. I prayed for Wyatt to feel comfortable in our home.

  In the living room, Ernest was trying to figure out the TV remote. This was part of his confusion, forgetting what buttons change from cable to video, what channels play sports or twenty-four-hour news. He could remember his birth date but couldn’t remember how the remote worked. He remembered who was president when he was a kid but forgot the name of his hometown.

  “What channel’s the local news?” he asked, pointing the remote at the TV.

  “Time for supper,” I told him.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m wondering about the Thunder game tonight. Maybe the boy and I can watch it together.”

  “Let’s go eat,” I told him.

  He followed me to the table, where we found Wyatt already seated. He didn’t look up as we entered but only stared at the table, as if deep in thought. I wondered whether he was sad or afraid or just shy.

  Ernest helped me set the table, and when I brought the food out, I had to let him know it was fine to go ahead and help himself. We ate quietly for a while, our forks clinking against our plates. I asked Wyatt if he liked school.