Rain Is Not My Indian Name

by Cynthia L. Smith

  Meanwhile, the Indian Campers and their supporters gathered in a circle toward the back of the room, and I saw Mr. Washington shaking Tahiti’s hand. Dmitri glanced my way, and I could feel the invitation. But right then, I had more to worry about than patching myself into that crowd.

  “Natalie’s not feeling so hot,” I informed the Flash. “Can you finish the layout, your city council story, write something for the editorial page, and send the final file to the printer?” It sounded like a lot of work. I hoped he could handle it. From what Natalie had told me, the Flash had completed only one semester of college reporting and a two-year stint on his St. Louis high-school paper.

  “No problem, Shooter,” he said, patting his coat pocket. “It’s for times like this that I carry tequila.”

  Mamas and Babes

  FROM MY JOURNAL:

  It was an old fight, the kind that shakes a home and all the souls inside. Mama asked Daddy to retire from the service. He claimed he couldn’t get any other kind of job.

  “Our life is here,” she argued. “I don’t want my kids growing up overseas.”

  “Their home, your home, is with me,” he said. “Not Kansas, or Oklahoma.”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, Mama came into my room to tuck me in beneath my Broken Star quilt. She kissed my forehead, turned off the lamp on my wicker nightstand, and whispered, “Don’t fret, Rainy Day. Sometimes grown-ups have to bicker. It clears out all the bad stuff that builds up inside us over the years.”

  Mama died the next day.

  When the base finally closed, Dad wouldn’t consider taking Fynn and me to South Korea, and there’s been no talk about the two of us moving to Guam.

  JULY 3

  When the meeting ended, I checked my messages.

  Fynn had called. “Rain? Are you there? We’re at the hospital. I’ll check back in when I know something.”

  A second message. Fynn again. “we’re still at the hospital. Don’t freak out.”

  A third. “Rain? Rain, where are you? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that. Natalie’s okay, and we didn’t lose the baby. We’re just going to take extra-good care of them and pray for the best. Okay, little sister?”

  After we’d finally gotten Natalie settled in the bedroom, she said, “You can tell people, Rain, about the baby. Run it on page one. Rent a billboard. Put it on CNN. I can’t believe I’d been worried about what anyone might say.”

  I took a breath and launched into my confession. “I know this probably isn’t the best time to tell you,” I said, “but I sort of joined Indian Camp.”

  “You’re fired,” she replied, pulling the Kite Tail quilt under her chin.

  I’d expected as much.

  Fynn grinned, apparently unconcerned with the destruction of my fledgling career.

  “Just for this story,” Natalie added. “I saw some of your work in the darkroom at the Examiner. It’s more textured somehow, more storytelling. Besides, we need the art.” She reached for my hand. “Rain, could you check on the Flash for me? I think I’d rest better with an eyewitness report.”

  Deadlines

  FROM MY JOURNAL:

  Seventh grade. Five-thirty A.M. Someone knocked on my bedroom window.

  When I got up to check, Queenie was standing on the other side.

  “What do you know?” she asked, all dimples and sunshine.

  “It’s Saturday,” I replied. “I’m not a morning person. Ever heard of a doorbell?”

  Queenie explained that she hadn’t wanted to wake up the whole house, and then she asked me to come with her. “Please,” she said. “It’s my parents’ fifteenth anniversary.”

  I didn’t budge. “Try Galen.”

  “I don’t want Galen.” Queenie folded her arms. “You’re my best friend.”

  I got dressed and left a note on the kitchen table.

  Queenie and I spent all morning making phone calls, going from business to business and house to house. At noon, Grampa drove us to Lawrence for supplies.

  By six o’clock, the cars and trucks parked on the street had been rearranged. Only one spot remained open—the one at the end of the block. By 6:30, everyone in town had gathered, hiding inside the stores. By 6:45, we had the ammunition passed out. At 6:55, the Washingtons parked their Oldsmobile in the only empty spot.

  As they climbed out of the car, people streamed out of the doors and lined up along the sidewalk.

  Our coconspirators blew soap bubbles from wands as the couple passed by on their way to Oma Dottie’s B&B. The bubbles rose, thousands, luminous.

  “I feel like a bride all over again,” Mrs. Washington declared.

  That had been a gift. I’d been proud to be part of it. I loved Queenie back then. I still do.

  “I’m running your pictures,” the Flash announced as I walked into the newsroom.

  “But—”

  “You’re off the payroll,” he said, eyes back on the computer monitor. “I know. Fynn just called. But the pages are way too gray without the art, and the bottom line is that Natalie left me in charge.”

  I glanced at the pages being pasted up on the light table. The art, photos, and copy were all in place, but there was a gaping hole on the editorial page. I knew that’s where Natalie’s op-ed piece on Indian Camp was supposed to run. I took a few steps to the second table and saw that the Flash’s city council story wasn’t in place yet, either. From the scowl on his face, I guessed both articles were still in progress.

  Except for the Flash and me, the newsroom was empty. Mrs. Grubert had closed the reception desk hours earlier. Mrs. Burnham had already finished laying out the ads and left for the day. The Flash’s flask of tequila sat on his desk.

  “Don’t miss me too much,” I said. “Natalie says she’ll be hiring me back for future stories.”

  “Miss you nothing, Shooter,” the Flash replied, shifting in his trench coat. “I’m counting on you to help me out. The city council piece is done, so I’m working on my Indian Camp project until I can come up with something to write for the editorial page.”

  He explained that since he was covering Indian Camp as a news piece, it wasn’t considered ethical for him to write an editorial about it. And because the Indian Camp project would be laid out on four full pages, he’d be working steadily on it until next week, when the whole thing would finally run.

  “You’re fair game for a source now,” the Flash added, “and I’ve got a key question for you.”

  That wasn’t why I’d jogged over to the newsroom, but I figured, Why not? If I could help him, then my update to Natalie would be a bit more positive. Anything for the cause. I pulled a chair up to face the Flash across his desk, noticing that Oreo wrappers littered the industrial-tile floor. I smiled, trying to reassure him.

  The Flash picked up his pen and looked squarely at me, all business. “Okay,” he began. “Now, I asked Mrs. Wilhelm about the pasta bridge.” When I winced at the memory of its destruction, he added, “Sorry, but she mentioned ‘fostering teamwork’”—he squinted at the scribbled notes on his pad of paper—“and being a retired science teacher . . . and it being something she could teach from her own expertise. That’s all great—and forgive me if I’m just dense, but why a pasta bridge?”

  I swiped a rubber band from his desk and twirled it around my index finger. “If they’d tried to build a real bridge, Spence would’ve probably fallen off and hurt himself. His parents would’ve sued. It would’ve been a real tragedy. Front page.” I frowned. “We missed an opportunity. Could’ve been the highlight of your portfolio.”

  The Flash smirked. “Thanks, Shooter. Big help there. Fine, take pity on me. What does building a bridge have to do with the Native American youth program?”

  The rubber band went flying. He was serious.

  Being a Native girl is no big deal. Really. It seems weird to have to say this, but after a lifetime of experience, I’m used to being me. Dealing with the rest of the world and its ideas, now that frustrates
me sometimes. But the Flash seemed like a pretty open-minded guy. And, sure, I would’ve been tempted to make fun of him anyway, but he was trying hard.

  I thought for a moment. What was I supposed to say? It was just so obvious. “Do you have any idea,” I began, “how weird it is to be Native in Hannesburg, Kansas?”

  The Flash didn’t look impressed. “Do you have any idea,” he answered, “how weird it is to be Jewish in Hannesburg, Kansas?”

  “You’re Jewish?” I asked.

  “My whole life.” He leaned back, threading his fingers behind his head.

  The thought shot through my head like a bottle rocket. “But you don’t seem . . .” Oops, I thought, sinking slightly in the chair. I wished again for that word-catcher to let the good words through and trap the rest. Maybe I should be the person to invent it.

  “I don’t seem what?” the Flash asked, shifting forward, elbows on the desktop.

  “You don’t seem to talk about it much.” Good save, I thought.

  He grinned. “You don’t seem to talk about being a Native American much, either.”

  Personally, for the past couple of weeks, I’d felt like nobody had been talking about anything else.

  When I didn’t respond, the Flash added, “So enlighten me. What does bridge building have to do with Native American culture?”

  At that point, I didn’t have much choice. I just laid it out. “Native people build bridges.”

  He scribbled down my answer and looked back at me. “This is some kind of metaphor, right? You trying to Yoda me or something, Sci-fi Girl? Fine, I’ll play: Why do Native people build bridges?”

  At least he hadn’t asked about why we were building the Indian Camp website.

  I shrugged. “To cross rivers.”

  “Rivers,” the Flash repeated. “Like rivers of wisdom?”

  “Highways,” I added, slightly annoyed but honestly trying to help.

  “Highways?” he echoed.

  I took a breath and folded my hands in my lap. “The summer Fynn was seventeen, he built a wooden bridge over a two-foot-high concrete troll at the miniature golf course behind the gas station.”

  No reaction.

  “You can check it out for yourself,” I added. “The paint is chipped off of the troll’s nose, and its eyes look possessed. Nice bridge, though.”

  The Flash’s eyes were blank. He still wasn’t getting it.

  Against my better judgment, I tried one more time. “Think of it like this: How is bridge building not a Native thing?”

  “Well, Indians . . . You just don’t think . . .” The Flash rubbed his eyelids. “Well, maybe you do. I just always thought of Native American culture being . . .”

  It wasn’t like I was in a position to blame him. After all, nobody says the wrong thing more often than me. But I couldn’t resist teasing just a little bit. In my best Hollywood Indian voice, I said, “Bridges not for white man only.”

  “Nice,” the Flash answered. He opened his flask of tequila and took a swig. “Well, good. Got it. And, hey, I don’t feel stupid or anything. So Native people build bridges.”

  I replied, “Not all of us. Not me. At least not when I’m packing a camera.”

  The Flash didn’t seem to appreciate my joke. The look he gave me was half-defensive, half-innocent. He set the flask back on the cluttered desktop. “You know, I never even met a Native American before this summer.”

  Poor guy. It was time to fess up. “If it makes you feel any better,” I began, “all I know about Jewish people, I learned from Fiddler on the Roof.”

  For a moment, we were both quiet. Then the Flash tossed down his pen and started laughing. Before long, I joined in. It wasn’t funny, how clueless both of us were. But laughing worked better than medicine.

  After we calmed down, the Flash asked, “You’re feeling better, Shooter?”

  It was a serious question and took me off guard. But of course he’d probably heard my best friend had died not long ago and my mother a few years before. That was part of my story, and he was in the business of asking questions. It came naturally to him. And by now, I was sure Natalie had briefed the Flash before teaming us up, if only out of fairness. After all, if my dog had died, too, my life story would probably qualify for the lyrics of a country-music song.

  I stood to leave, suddenly determined. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m feeling all right.”

  After I got home and gave my eyewitness report on the Flash to Natalie, Fynn followed me to his Domain and agreed to let me use his newest computer, the one with more bells than Santa’s sleigh and more whistles than a stadium full of referees. A biography about Billy Mills lay open on the laser printer.

  Fynn set a plate of two strawberry jelly sandwiches between us on the makeshift desk, a three-by-six wood plank propped on four pillars of stacked cement blocks. He reached into the minifridge, pulled out a can of Cherry Coke for me and a bottle of Coors for himself, and then sat his backside on a wooden crate.

  “Sorry about the city council meeting,” Fynn said. “I didn’t like Mrs. Owen referring to you in her letter to the editor. Or to Galen. She was bad enough before he died, but since then, she’s run over half the people in town with her Mourning Mother Meets Grim Reaper act.” Fynn popped the cap off his beer, took a long drink, and added, “I admire what Aunt Georgia is doing, but, you know, the city can’t afford to allocate that much for programs like Indian Camp. From what Uncle Ed has told me, Tahiti is practically spending this town into bankruptcy. Mrs. Owen is right about that.”

  I started in on my sandwich, in no mood to debate politics with my big brother, Mr. Fiscal Responsibility himself. After all the nagging he’d done to try to get me to sign up, neither Natalie nor I could understand why Fynn wasn’t completely supporting Indian Camp. She’d even asked me about it, and all I could think to say was that he took after Dad.

  “You’ve been talking to Natalie,” he guessed. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I love her, too, you know.” He took another swig, then said, “But she’s from money. If the girl buys a rocking chair at a garage sale, it’s breaking news.”

  I clicked to a search engine, and the cursor blinked at me. I had no idea what to type in. Fynn turned on a Meat Loaf song, keeping the volume low.

  “On a deadline?” I asked, listening to “All Revved Up with No Place to Go.”

  “No,” he answered. “I think you are. Galen’s birthday, right?”

  “How’d you know?” I asked, surprised.

  Fynn shook his head slowly. “I am your big brother, remember? And even if he was your best friend, not mine, it’s easy to remember birthdays that fall on holidays.”

  Fynn’s beer was already half-gone, and he hadn’t touched his sandwich. His fancy necktie looked wilted, worn-out. I wondered if his impending fatherhood and matrimony had been the inspirations for his corporate makeover. I would’ve bet on it.

  “You’re going to be a great dad,” I said, glancing at the Billy Mills book and typing “Olympics.” “Remember how you taught Galen and me to do web design?”

  “Yeah,” Fynn answered, sounding surprised. He’d caught me saying Galen’s name out loud, but we didn’t have to talk about it. Fynn’s voice grew quieter as he added, “Of course I do.”

  I twisted the cap off of my Cherry Coke, toasted him, and did my own preacher imitation: “Your patience will bring you joy and glory, Brother Fynnegan. Why, our dear Natalie is a lucky woman to have landed herself such a fine and righteous young man. That, I say, now that you must believe.”

  Fynn looked past me somehow, apparently not amused. “About my engagement,” he finally said. “Mine and Natalie’s engagement. . . . We’re pushing back the wedding date indefinitely. If anyone asks, we’ve decided to wait and save up for a bigger wedding, something to make the Lewises proud. It’s partly true anyway.”

  That didn’t sound good. I fixed my eyes on the Web page in front of me, titled “World’s Greatest Athletes,” and took a sip of my Cherry Coke. �
�You just said you love her,” I reminded him.

  “I do” was Fynn’s answer.

  “Well, are you going to marry her or not?” I shot back.

  “I hope so,” he said. “We’ll see.”

  Independence Day

  FROM MY JOURNAL:

  It was the same trip, the one when I was seven, riding in the front seat next to my mom in her Mustang on the way to Oklahoma. We went with my grandparents, Aunt Louise, and Cousin Margo to picnics and powwows, to social and stomp dances.

  I can still smell the pork cooking, taste the lukewarm coleslaw, hear the songs, and feel the rhythm of the shellshakers. I remember ribbons and tear dresses and me trying to dance like Mama. Echoes of stories, the snapping of fire. Smoke rising to heaven, and how it stung my eyes. Talk of the corn and of the New Year.

  Fynn and I go to First Baptist because it’s the church Dad grew up in. But there are plenty of Baptist Creeks in Oklahoma.

  Back when I was seven, I didn’t have to think about what I believed and where I belonged. I just did.

  JULY 4

  I awoke in Fynn’s chair in his Domain, wrapped in the Broken Star quilt Mom had started the day she found out she was pregnant with me. My big brother must have returned sometime during the night and done his best to tuck me in.

  Walking outside with the quilt still wrapped around my shoulders, I noticed the sun had brought long shadows. A tiny spider scrambled over my bare foot, and we both went on our way.

  A couple of steps later, I inspected a series of fresh chalk drawings that decorated the full length of my front walk—all the way to my porch steps.

  First, a boy using a long wooden pole to push his canoe through a river crowded with tall stalks, more realistic because of the weeds growing through the cracked concrete.

  A four-foot-long rendition of the pasta bridge, complete with the paper umbrella.

  And finally, a girl with wheat brown hair, her face hidden behind a camera.