Rain Is Not My Indian Name

by Cynthia L. Smith

  “You stuck them to the paper,” Spence said. He pulled at one of the longer side supports, and the end of a noodle snapped off.

  “Sorry,” Marie replied.

  As I pulled my camera’s focus from Marie’s face, Aunt Georgia fiddled with her boom box and Dolly began singing about Jolene. When Aunt Georgia returned to the kitchenette to resume making fried bologna sandwiches, I shot a photo of her instead.

  “Slow and easy,” Dmitri answered, carefully tearing the bridge segments free, ignoring bits of paper still stuck to them.

  I returned my focus to the Headbirds. Fynn and I used to be like Dmitri and Marie, fixing each other’s problems, or trying to anyway. I let go of a long breath, promising myself to help Fynn with Natalie and the baby. I decided to follow Dmitri’s example and take it slow.

  “Pasta,” Queenie announced, “comes from golden wheat.” She picked up one of the spaghetti boxes and added, “The word pasta means ‘paste’ or ‘dough.’”

  I tucked in a smile, trying not to let on how much I’d missed her.

  While the Indian Campers worked, I moved to sit on the edge of the stage, swinging my legs, sucking a piece of candy from Marie’s Dino dispenser. My mind was still on Natalie. I decided to stop by the sale at Lydia’s Rethreads and pick up a baby jumper, maybe one that said FUTURE PRESIDENT, or FUTURE JAYHAWK, or GIMME MILK!

  Then Queenie ruined my plan by asking Marie whether she wanted to go to Lydia’s later on. I swallowed hard, trying not to give in to disappointment. But things were awkward enough as it was, and Queenie would ask too many questions if I bought a baby gift in front of her.

  Marie lifted the base of the bridge and replied, “Okay. How about you, Rain?”

  I didn’t have to glance at Queenie’s expression to know she hadn’t meant to include me.

  To hide my face, I looked through the viewfinder. “Got plans,” I said, “but thanks.”

  I was grateful that the pasta bridge construction had reached a critical stage, commanding everybody’s attention. As Marie and Dmitri held the base of the bridge in place, Spence squeezed glue onto the points where it was supposed to attach to the sides. It was a struggle. Each time the Headbirds loosened their hold, the whole structure teetered. If they’d let go, it would’ve been sure to topple.

  “It’s not working,” Dmitri said.

  I knew Aunt Georgia was listening. But she stayed put, continuing with lunch preparations, apparently deciding this final phase of construction would have to succeed or fail without her input.

  As Spence let slip a word not fit for grown-up ears, I began to worry about how the campers might come across in the Flash’s article. Failure seemed likely.

  Just when it looked like the Indian Campers were going to give up, Queenie grabbed the spaghetti boxes and placed one on each side of the bridge, bracing it so the glue could dry overnight. It was, of course, the perfect thing to do.

  Spence grinned and announced, “It’s a go!”

  As the Indian Campers surveyed their masterpiece, the Flash reknotted the belt on his trench coat and approached Queenie.

  “Write this down,” she said. “Some people say that pasta was invented thousands of years ago in China, but nobody knows for sure.”

  The Flash dutifully scribbled something before asking, “What brings you here?”

  Queenie squared her shoulders and asked, “Don’t you mean ‘Why is a Black girl at a Native American program?’”

  “Sure,” the Flash answered, pen perched, “that’s exactly what I meant.”

  The Headbirds and Spence moved to stand by me against the stage.

  “Uh-oh,” Spence whispered, accepting candy from Marie.

  Queenie spoke clearly, like she wanted to make sure the Flash didn’t misquote her—like she’d have a lot to say about it if he did. “My aunt Suzanne has been tracing our family tree for the reunion next month at her place in Miami,” she explained, “and, come to find out, one of my great-grandfathers was a Native American.”

  The word cousin danced onto my tongue, and it felt somehow familiar. Queenie was no guru-seeking, crystal-waving, long-lost descendant of an Indian “princess,” but what did this revelation mean to her? Unlike me, she was fully participating in Indian Camp. Her genealogy, her heritage was clearly more than her phase of the week.

  “What tribe, Nation, or band?” the Flash asked, obviously impressed with his growing grip on the terminology.

  “I expect,” Queenie said, “Aunt Suzanne will get back to me on that.”

  Dmitri followed Aunt Georgia out of the museum, carrying the leftover potato salad to her station wagon. Unlike Spence, who was being interviewed by the Flash, I didn’t feel the need to sneak looks at Marie and Queenie.

  Of course, no one was sneaking looks at me, I thought, and then shoved the idea away as petty. What kind of person was I turning into?

  It was past time for me to leave.

  Remembering Mr. Headbird was a trader, I rushed out of the museum after Dmitri and called, “Wait up!”

  On the way to Blue Heaven Trailer Park, Dmitri and I talked about Jayhawks basketball and why I thought his family needed at least a storm cellar to live safely in Kansas during tornado season. The words stumbled, not sure where to go next.

  When Dmitri left me standing alone in front of his new trailer, I took my first close look at Blue Heaven. Cement porches hosted petunia pots, barbecue grills, and lawn furniture. Sunburned, half-naked little kids played with matches and ash snakes on gravel drive-throughs. I held on tight to my camera and my two crisp twenty-dollar bills, fresh from the cash machine. I wasn’t the kind of girl who hung out at the trailer park.

  I didn’t want a reputation like Lorelei’s.

  “This looks like what you want,” Dmitri said, jumping down from his doorway, holding a dreamcatcher. “Hang it above the bed.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, “but dreamcatchers are kind of . . . trendy, don’t you think?”

  “My mother made it,” he answered.

  What with that foot crowding my mouth, I could hardly find a reply. Too bad Dmitri couldn’t sell me a word-catcher to let good ones through and trap the rest.

  It was just that I’d seen so many tacky-looking dreamcatchers over the years, the kind with fakelore gift tags and flamingo-pink feathers. I looked again, more closely this time. The one Dmitri had shown me was beautiful. Being the real thing made a huge difference.

  Dmitri gestured to the doorway. “Want to come in and think it over?” he asked.

  So I did. I’d thought the trailer would be like a camper, long and narrow, no privacy. I hadn’t expected three bedrooms. It was more like a house. Some of the spaces were tight, though. Dmitri’s family might be able to squeeze around the kitchen table, but then nobody could open the fridge.

  Butterfly magnets held cards to the fridge door, and each card featured a design in black ink. Depending on how I looked at them, the pictures showed something different. It was a kind of illusion, created by overlapping images, overlapping lines. In my favorite, the hole in an oak was the eye of an elder or, from a different angle, of a raven. The oak’s roots gathered into the grandmother’s hand or, depending again on the angle, into talons curled around a turtle.

  Then I spotted another card, half-hidden behind a list of groceries. The design on that one was of a boy who looked a lot like Dmitri—glasses, blue jeans, and all—flying a long-tailed kite. I changed my mind. The kite flier became my favorite.

  Dmitri handed me a paper cup of ice water, explaining, “I draw the designs, and Dad sells the cards at powwows. We put that one on T-shirts.”

  The waxy cup chilled my fingers. “You’re kidding,” I said. “You drew those?” Realizing how I’d sounded, I added, “They’re beautiful.” What was with me? Beautiful was every fourth word out of my mouth.

  Dmitri hung the dreamcatcher on a plastic hook above a box of art supplies.

  “I’m looking for a gift for Fynn’s fiancée,” I explaine
d, trying to save the moment.

  Dmitri took off his glasses, polishing them with the tail of his Minnesota Twins T-shirt. “The white girl?” he asked.

  “Natalie,” I said.

  “My brother met a Kiowa girl from Lawrence,” Dmitri told me. “Ron has been seeing her for about a month.”

  Either Dmitri was telling me that he didn’t approve of Fynn’s choice or just that he himself had a preference for Native girls. Other than his sister and—apparently now—Queenie, the only local Native girl near his age happened to be me. My camera strap felt heavy on my shoulder. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

  He nodded toward the back of the trailer.

  It wasn’t like I could get lost. The tiny bathroom was sparse—no medicine cabinet, no mirror, no towel racks. The Headbirds were lucky to have the tub and showerhead. I washed my hands and considered mentioning to Dmitri something we had in common, our Ojibwe heritage. But I’d grown up so far away from it. I felt ashamed by how much I didn’t know.

  Mom had always tried to tell Dad that Fynn and I needed to know about our entire family heritage. Dad would always reply that there was a lot he didn’t know himself, and it sure hadn’t hurt him. We were only St. Patty’s Day Irish and Bierfest German, but I was pretty sure they hadn’t been talking about those particular family lines.

  On the way back to Dmitri, I peeked through one of the cracked-open bedroom doors at a collector’s display of Pez dispensers. Marie’s, no doubt. Bullwinkle, Tinkerbell, a witch, a pirate, a skull, Mary Poppins, Tweety, Winnie-the-Pooh, Batgirl, Joker, Garfield, Snoopy, Gonzo, Pebbles, Dino, and many, many more, some in multiple copies, with handles of different colors.

  A couple of T-shirts littered the bed. A stack of Teen Lifestyles magazines had tipped over on the floor. The only thing in perfect order was her Pez collection.

  The sign of a healthy mind, I thought.

  When I returned to the kitchen area, I had a question ready. “Marie and Pez,” I said. “What’s the deal?”

  Dmitri took a sip from his paper cup. “Two summers ago, she got mono and had to stay home with my mother. So Ron and I sent her Pez dispensers from the road.”

  It wasn’t photography, but to each to their own. “Do you like it here?” I asked Dmitri. “In Hannesburg?”

  “My parents were talking about getting a place in Lawrence,” he answered, “but it’s a lot more expensive. So we’re saving up for a house here.”

  That didn’t exactly answer my question, but I didn’t want to prod.

  Then before I could think of a new topic, Dmitri went on: “I don’t know. I’m not trying to come down on your hometown or anything, but . . . Well, everybody here knows one another. And I’m . . .”

  My whole life, I’d known everyone in town, and that’s exactly what I didn’t like about it. Through the open windows, I heard little kids screeching, laughing, playing with fireworks. I briefly thought of Galen, and suddenly it seemed disloyal to be there all alone with Dmitri. I wondered, too, if anyone had seen me come in to the trailer and what they might say. It wasn’t like Marie or his mother was home. I glanced at the door but then realized Dmitri was probably waiting for me to reply.

  “You’re fine,” I announced. As soon as the word left my lips, I cringed. “I don’t mean fine like, you know, fine, good-looking—not that you’re bad-looking.” It was just getting worse. “I just meant that you’re okay—not that you’re just okay.” Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, I thought. “I mean you’re—”

  “Fine,” Dmitri said, finishing my sentence. “Don’t worry, I know what you mean.”

  Nothing seemed to be going my way. I still wanted to get a snap-up jumper from Lydia’s Rethreads, not a dreamcatcher. But then I thought about it. Queenie always tried on every single thing in the shop before making up her mind. She and Marie would probably be at Lydia’s for a couple of hours at least. On the one hand, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my former friend. On the other hand, somehow I knew it was important to reach out to Natalie right away.

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, undecided.

  “I’ll take the dreamcatcher,” I announced a moment later, handing Dmitri my cash. Time was short, choices were limited, and it did make a certain amount of sense. After all, when babies aren’t eating or hollering or pooping, they’re usually asleep.

  With professional flair, Dmitri presented me with my change, tissue-wrapped the dreamcatcher, bagged it, and gave me a handwritten receipt. He pushed up his Clark Kent glasses and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Still clutching the paper bag Dmitri had given me, I passed the Trail of Tears painting that Mom had long ago hung in our hallway and tracked down Natalie in what used to be Fynn’s room. She was replacing his navy curtains with a sunflower-print set.

  From the top rung of the three-step ladder, she said, “Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I wanted to do something. . . .”

  The way I had it figured, the baby would sleep in their room, but maybe decorating was a mommy thing, like a mother bird softening her nest.

  “Where’s Fynn?” I asked.

  “Running,” Natalie said, climbing down to show me a scuffed green rocking chair I’d never seen before. “Eight bucks at a garage sale,” she announced. “I don’t know, though. It needs something.”

  I wondered where she’d taken Fynn’s dresser and whether a pregnant woman should’ve been moving furniture and climbing ladders, especially one who had a fiancé to lend her a hand.

  “Maybe I’ll just have Fynn paint it,” Natalie said, looking at me. “You okay with all this, the house being turned upside down, your becoming an aunt?”

  “If I can dust, I can diaper,” I assured her, offering the bag. “For the baby.”

  She moved to Fynn’s twin bed, took the gift, and exclaimed, “Aiyana’s first gift!”

  “Aiyana?” I asked.

  Natalie held up the dreamcatcher, and its web snared the window light. “I just know the baby is a girl,” she answered. “A mother can sense these things.”

  Aiyana is an old name, a musical name. My mom’s name, after her Cherokee great-grandmother. It means “forever flowering.”

  I smiled at Natalie and noticed she looked flushed. “Feeling all right?” I asked.

  She set her palm on her belly and explained, “What they don’t tell you about morning sickness is that it can last all day.”

  Stop the Presses

  FROM MY JOURNAL:

  With a best friend, there’s a commitment. A second-best friend is trickier. A second-best friend knows you and most of your secrets, and you know her and most of hers. And, knowing all of that, both of you decide the friendship is only second-best.

  Nobody’s more dangerous than an ex-second-best friend.

  JULY 2

  On Sunday, Indian Camp started at one o’clock, giving Spence and Aunt Georgia time to attend Mass, and giving Queenie time to sing “Morning Has Broken” at First Baptist. As usual since New Year’s, I slept in.

  The Flash and I cheered when the Indian Campers’ pasta bridge proved itself strong enough to support eight pounds. Then I tucked my journal into the stage curtain, moved to the main level, and focused on Dmitri attaching a tiny paper umbrella on a toothpick to the top of the bridge. The lines of the bridge framed his face, giving my shot texture.

  Behind me, Elvis sang on Aunt Georgia’s boom box. Spence shucked off his Nikes, slid across the stage in his socks, and did a brief imitation of the King. Marie and Queenie laughed as he rumbled, “Thank you, thank you very much.”

  As Aunt Georgia retrieved her weights from the top of the bridge, she said, “This puts me in mind of the one in The Bridge on the River Kwai.”

  That was definitely a reference to one of my areas of expertise. Galen and I had seen practically every movie at Mercury Videos, CD & Vintage Vinyl, including the award winners. I lowered my camera and added, “Starring Sir Alec Guinness, better known as the original Obi-Wan.”
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  Resting on my knees, I took a shot of the length of the base. Aunt Georgia had been generous. The construction effort wasn’t quite Kwai quality. Bits of newspaper still clung to the glue. The sides were uneven, and the supports had been spaced out, instead of gathered in clusters as on the bridge in the film. If it had been life-sized, a person could’ve fallen right through the gaps. Or maybe even something bigger could’ve fallen through, like Natalie’s converta-Bug.

  “What an accomplishment,” Spence said, jumping down from the stage and stepping into my frame. “Rain, you’re missing out.”

  “Don’t be presumptuous,” I answered, using my old spelling word.

  “Don’t you mean Pez-umptuous?” he asked, munching a candy.

  Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I took another shot, this one of Aunt Georgia and the Indian Campers with the bridge, Spence and the Headbirds on one side, Aunt Georgia and Queenie on the other. Natalie would never run it—too posed—but I could hand out a few prints as souvenirs. I’d already promised to text everybody copies of the best pictures.

  Once the initial excitement began to dim, Aunt Georgia headed to the door to pick up take-out lunches and cake from the coffee shop. She said, “After we eat, let’s try eight and a quarter. We’ll keep going on up and see how much she holds.”

  I knew why she was serving lunch first. Sooner or later, as the weights became heavier, the bridge would break. Before that happened, Aunt Georgia wanted to give everyone a chance to celebrate.

  Once she’d left, the Flash circled the Indian Campers at the table, readied his pen, and asked, “Any opinions on Mrs. Owen’s online petition?”

  What petition? I thought.

  The Flash paged through his notes and added, “It’s to—and I quote—‘let the city council know the citizens have had it with the mayor’s pet projects and that we’re not going to let him throw money away’”—he glanced up—“‘on this program.’”