He offered me coffee and poured a cup for himself as well. I drank it black from a red coffee mug. It wasn’t too bad. I imagined him living alone, going to bed at night with no one to talk to or lie down with. I thought of him getting no help cooking or cleaning or washing his clothes. Tsala, poor old man, enduring the pain and loneliness of his old age. Still, I sensed a calm spirit about him.
He chewed on sugar cane and spoke in a low, serious voice. “A long time ago I built this house for people to stay in. I hauled lumber and erected strong beams. I built a solid roof and laid good floors. I built it for all the travelers to stay here. I devoted my life to this house. After my wife followed the road lined with cherry blossoms, I’ve kept my writings with me all the time, so people can read our stories while they stay here. You can stay here, but you should leave. Your heart is in the right place, beloved.”
He brought his pipe, and we shared a smoke while I told him about my family. Oddly, the smoke wasn’t making me cough, and when I told him this, he merely smiled. I told him about Ray-Ray dying. I told him about Rae leaving me. And I told him about my dad’s forgetfulness in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. All this flowed out of me with the smoke, and Tsala listened quietly and with full attention. As he listened, I noticed one of his eyes was blue and the other gray.
“Keep talking,” he said, bringing the pipe to his lips.
“I feel guilty for not going home,” I told him. “My family is having a bonfire. I haven’t seen them since they tried to help me with my drug problem.”
He leaned in close and looked at me. “Drug problem?”
“Drug problem.” It felt awkward to say, but maybe I had not been able to admit there was a problem. My denial overwhelmed me with guilt. “My family came to Albuquerque to confront me about it, but I wouldn’t listen.”
He stared at me intensely. He was a good listener, I realized, and soon I found there were tears in my eyes.
“I feel terrible about it,” I said.
He got up and left the room for a few minutes. When he returned, he set a handful of stones on the table in front of me. He took a pencil and drew a triangle and placed stones within it. “These are the stones that represent the wisdom fire within you,” he said. “Look for the fire.”
I leaned in and studied the triangle and a stone within it. “This stone is a rose quartz,” Tsala said. “It’s for overcoming grief. I want you to take it and keep it with you. Go ahead, take it.”
I reached in and took the stone. I looked at it in my hand. It was rose-colored and smooth.
“Remember your ancestors,” he told me. “Remember they were removed from their homes, and then they had no homes. They walked the Trail, walked and crawled and died. They suffered. But you already know this. Come with me, I want to show you something.”
I followed him outside, and that was when I saw the red fowl strutting around the yard. “The fowl,” I called out, and stopped walking. I realized I hadn’t seen the fowl in some time—I had almost forgotten about it. The fowl saw us, and Tsala moved toward it. He reached down to pick it up. I saw the fowl trying to peck him, its wings fluttering like crazy. Tsala held it with both hands, wrestled it until it stopped moving and went limp. The fowl was dead. Then he took it over by his garden, where an ax was on the ground. He dropped the bird and lifted the ax, bringing it down hard, cutting the fowl’s head off. I could barely watch.
When I approached him, he showed me the bloody carcass. “For you,” he said. “This fowl is now dead. Do you understand?”
“What now?” I asked.
“We bury it.”
He set the carcass down and went inside his garage to get a shovel. I found myself staring at the dead fowl. I saw the severed head with its dark eye, staring at me. I saw the carcass lying dead in blood and soil. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stop looking. A moment later Tsala returned with a shovel and dug a small hole in the ground right where we stood. He used the shovel to toss the carcass and head into the ground. I crossed my arms and watched the whole thing. Each shovelful of dirt made a hard sound as it hit the carcass, and after a moment Tsala had buried it completely.
I was exhausted, but felt like a great burden had lifted from me. I looked at the cherry trees around me and felt somehow connected to each one. I wondered how many people Tsala had helped before me—maybe as many people as there were trees. Tsala then led me to the trail with the cherry blossoms. We heard voices approaching and, turning around, saw a group of men walking down the road toward Tsala’s house. They were wearing masks and headsets, talking loudly. In their hands they carried sticks, long clubs that looked like broom handles. They saw us and stopped walking.
Tsala shouted at them to leave. “Go!” he yelled. “Go away from here, cowards! Leave us alone!”
He made a shooting gesture with his hands for them to hurry away, and, miraculously, they did. I had been bracing myself for a fight, and I stood there stunned for a moment, shocked that they had obeyed Tsala.
“Go follow the trail lined with cherry blossoms,” he told me. “It is not a trail of tears, son. It is a trail leading westward, without sadness or sickness or death. It is a trail to your home.”
He shook my hand, and I told him goodbye. As I started to walk, I turned back to him and asked, “What are your writings? I never asked.”
He called out, “I’m writing the Cherokee stories, beloved. The stories about vengeance and forgiveness.”
I watched his body crumple, and he turned into a phoenix. He spread his wings and flew into the gray sky.
THEN I LEFT THE DARKENING LAND. I followed the trail lined with cherry blossoms, looking ahead to the distance, listening to the sounds of owls and frogs around me. I walked down this trail and wasn’t afraid. I knew I was walking west because I could see in the distance the setting sun. The sky was pink and yellow, and cherry blossoms spilled onto the trail ahead. Feathers were soon falling all around me, flooding the trail, as white as a fresh winter snow. The winding trail was beautiful. I saw my ancestors ahead, but they were not crawling and wailing, they were standing. Their bodies filled the distance. I walked to them and did not grow tired. The trail before me was blazing with light.
Maria
SEPTEMBER 6
I WOKE EARLY, AT DAWN, while Ernest snored beside me. I made coffee in the kitchen and sat at the table, thinking about the day ahead. Barely awake, I stared into the texture of the wall, creating tiny shapes, little bodies and faces. I saw an eye, a bird. Then I opened my notebook and wrote:
Ray-Ray’s spirit channeled Wyatt. I can barely breathe, thinking about it.
I set my pen down and closed the notebook. Outside the window, a flock of sparrows was gathering in the early-morning grass. I felt anxious. I would normally look forward to the hearing and seeing a reunification of foster child with family, but this felt different. To see Wyatt leave with his grandparents, other people, felt painful.
Wyatt was already packed and ready to go an hour later. I made him waffles and orange juice, and he ate in silence. I didn’t want to bring up the hearing. Ernest came into the room, and I was surprised to see him turn down breakfast. He drank coffee and sat across the table from Wyatt. Both of them had their heads down, and I stood there awkwardly watching them.
It wasn’t any better when I drove us to the courthouse. Nobody talked in the car. In a moment of irrational thought I wanted to steal Wyatt and drive far away, separated from everyone in Quah, away from Oklahoma. To leave this place, coasting down the interstate without a care. We passed the places Ray-Ray used to love to go: the Tastee Freez, the Smokey’s BBQ. We passed the Del Rancho, old shops. Muskogee Avenue curved ahead north, and we came to a stoplight. In the rearview mirror I saw Wyatt in the back seat, staring out the window. I saw his dreamy gaze, such brilliant, drowsy eyes. A glint of sunlight illuminated his face. In that moment I saw Ray-Ray’s eyes, as I had seen him so many years before in the back seat, driving north along Muskogee, and something fluttered in my
heart. The car behind me was blaring its horn, and I realized the light was green. The car jumped as I hit the pedal, but neither Wyatt nor Ernest said anything. My heart was racing. I drove in silence, both hands on the wheel.
BERNICE MET US at the courthouse in good spirits, though I could clearly see that Ernest was upset as he sat in the lobby with his arms crossed. Wyatt and Bernice and I stood by the front door, waiting for Wyatt’s grandparents to show. Ernest was looking straight ahead, irritated. The courthouse lobby was empty and pale, too quiet, with tall ceilings and photographs of elderly white men on the walls.
“I need a magazine or TV to pass the time,” Ernest said.
“It’s not a dentist’s office,” I told him. “You’ll need to try to relax, Ernest.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to try. Everything is going to be fine.”
I said this more for myself than to ease Ernest’s mind. I was trying to hold it together, but I could sense we were falling apart by the minute. I hoped Wyatt’s grandparents wouldn’t show—for Ernest’s mental health, and for some measure of my own happiness. I excused myself and went into the restroom down the hall, where I splashed cold water on my face. I hadn’t slept well, worried about the hearing. We had never fostered before. What a strange and profound effect Wyatt had had on us; I hadn’t felt anything like it. In the mirror I saw my reflection, a face marked by lines and age. A face marked by the persistence of hope, tragedy, abandonment, and grief. I reminded myself I was a woman who maintained strength through everything.
In the bathroom, at the mirror, I waited. I summoned memories of my young motherhood: they came flooding in, like a flickering slideshow, images of Sonja, Ray-Ray, and Edgar filling the silence in the room. I saw them gathered at the dinner table, laughing and eating. I saw them sleeping in their beds. I saw them playing with their toys on sunny days outside. Thinking of the sun and the sky opening into a vast blue outside, I pictured the endless fields surrounding the kids, the still and peaceful grass. If one looked closely, there were yellow butterflies, swirling gnats, crawling insects, new life forming in nature, which I envied briefly—all those short-lived forms of life void of logic or thinking, void of emotion, guilt, or pain.
Back in the lobby, the grandparents had arrived and were talking to Bernice. I thought they were a little younger than me and Ernest, closer to Bernice’s age, maybe sixty. The grandfather had white hair in a ponytail. He looked cheerful, smiling and nodding as Bernice talked. The grandmother’s hair was deep black with streaks of gray. They were both tall, large of build.
When I walked up, Bernice introduced me to them. Their names were Thomas and Viv.
“How has he been?” Viv asked me.
I glanced at her, and then at Thomas. I could see the concern in their eyes.
“He’s been a real joy. A real blessing,” I told them, looking at Wyatt as I said this.
“He can be an angel,” Viv said. “We’re glad we could make the drive down.”
“It was a six-hour drive,” Bernice said. “Are you driving straight back?”
“Thomas doesn’t like to travel anymore,” Viv said, “so we’ll stop and eat and then head back.”
I looked to Ernest, waving him over, and we all waited for him to join us. Bernice introduced Thomas and Viv to him, and he seemed hurt, almost angry, but he was polite. The awkwardness of the moment reasserted itself. Bernice talked about Wyatt’s clothes. He had dressed nicely, wearing a collared shirt and slacks. He was quiet, but he didn’t look bothered or upset, which pleased me. And his grandparents were friendly and gentle with him. It was likely that the judge would release Wyatt to them.
Soon, too soon, we were called into the courtroom for the hearing. We were led in front of the bench. The judge entered in his black robe and quietly reviewed the documents. He was a short, stocky man with a large mustache. His expression was serious and never changed, not when he spoke or when he looked at anyone, including Wyatt. Bernice informed him of Wyatt’s progress and his temporary placement with us.
The judge nodded, touched his chin as he silently read. He looked up from his documents at Wyatt. “Well, this looks like quite a good report, young man,” he said. “How are things going in school?”
“Good,” Wyatt said.
“Do you like your teachers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Probably language arts,” he said. “Actually science.”
The judge looked at Ernest, then at me. “He’s been doing well?”
“I don’t know what to say,” I told him, hesitating. “He’s followed our rules.”
I could see the judge was waiting for more. For some reason I felt nervous. “He really is so well behaved, Your Honor. He’s been a joy in our home.”
The judge smiled at Wyatt. All the years I stood in the courtroom with other children, all those days spent giving reports, it was all here again, yet it felt so different being a foster parent. The moment remained still, a night awaiting sunlight, some glimmer of lost hope on the horizon. Some moments remain preserved in time, remembered perfectly, and I hoped this would be true in the short time I spent with Wyatt.
It was a short hearing, of course. The judge praised Wyatt for doing well in school and showing respect in foster care. He placed him in his grandparents’ custody and set a three-month review.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Wyatt said, as politely as a rehearsed line, though I knew, and certainly the judge, too, that it was sincere.
We exited to the lobby. Thomas thanked Bernice and us for taking care of Wyatt for a few days. I looked at Wyatt, and he came to hug me. I held him there, closing my eyes. Then he hugged Ernest.
“Ave atque vale,” he said to us.
“What?” I said.
“It’s Latin for hail and farewell.”
Later, I would remember Ray-Ray using this phrase the night before he died. At the moment, I felt too light-headed to catch it. As Wyatt and his grandparents walked out together, I put on my sunglasses and felt on the brink of collapse. I had to take Ernest’s arm to brace myself as we stepped outside.
In the parking lot, Wyatt turned and looked at me one last time, a photograph frozen in the moment, timeless. He was a snapshot of Ray-Ray’s spirit, looking back at me under the bright sun. He waved. I closed my eyes a moment, and when I opened them, Wyatt and his grandparents were in the car. I heard a gust of wind. I heard the roar of a plane overhead.
In that moment I had a memory of Ray-Ray falling asleep on the floor when he was little. I picked him up and carried him to bed. Another memory came: Ray-Ray sick on a rainy day, lying in his bed with a washcloth on his forehead. I removed the thermometer from his mouth and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. Ray-Ray in his pajamas. Wanting to be held. Wanting to be rocked to sleep and sung to. Wanting to sit on my lap and look at picture books. Getting out of his bed and sneaking down the hallway to crawl into bed with Ernest and me. I pretended to be asleep sometimes, letting him snuggle. Those memories flooded my mind in an instant, and I waved goodbye to him.
The car pulled out of the lot. My heart was racing. “Wait—,” I breathed, and Ernest embraced me. He knew what was happening.
“Wait,” I breathed again.
* * *
A year earlier, I had driven up to Calvin Hoff’s place alone. I didn’t want to tell anyone, not even Ernest. I didn’t know what to expect. I suppose I was looking for my own personal peace or healing, but mostly I wanted closure. I needed to tell him who I was, remind him what he did. That morning I had called Calvin’s sister, Madelyn Cheney, a retired nurse who attended the church near our house. We had met once, briefly, at a church supper I attended several years earlier. “He has lung cancer,” she said on the phone. “It’s really hard for us right now. He has in-home care.”
“This is more for me than him,” I told her. “For my own healing. It’s been almost fifteen years since we lost Ray-Ray.”
“I understand,” she said. She hesitated. “He can’t really have much of a conversation. It’s his mind.”
“This is more for me,” I said again.
She was silent a moment, and then she gave me the address.
The house was north of town on a winding gravel road that curved uphill. When I reached the house, I saw two dogs lying in the front yard. The house was brick, with a covered porch and no garage. I pulled into the dirt drive and saw a woman come to the door. When I got out, the dogs were at the fence, barking.
“They won’t hurt you,” the woman called from the porch.
I let myself in the front gate and the dogs were at my feet, their tails wagging hard. Somehow they never jumped up on me. They followed me to the porch, where the woman introduced herself as Ellen, the caretaker.
“Come in,” she said. “Madelyn said you would be stopping by. He’s resting in the back room. I should tell you his mind isn’t what it used to be. He’s not saying much today.”
“I understand,” I said, starting to have second thoughts about coming as I followed her down a dark hallway. The house was full of dimly lit rooms, warm and stuffy. Country-and-western music was playing from the back. The house held a presence of sickness, the way nursing homes feel, as if death is a shadow looming around dark corners, waiting.
When we reached the room, I saw Calvin Hoff sitting on the edge of an iron-frame bed, staring at the floor. He was wearing a white undershirt and checkered pajama pants. He looked nothing like the way I remembered him from court so long ago. He was now thin and bald, his face pale and empty from the chemotherapy.
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