The Dead Go to Seattle

by Vivian Faith Prescott

SWANTON: Sam-me?

  SARAH: Never heard of them.

  TOVA: You know. “White” indigenous people.

  FERN: Yeah, I can see how Indians might look white. I mean look at my sister, Rose. She’s pale and blonde, and our mother is dark-skinned with black hair. I look like Mom and Rose looks like Great-Grandpa Joe.

  JOHAN: White?

  SWANTON: (Shakes head.) No such thing.

  TOVA: Yes, we invented skis. You know—reindeer herders.

  SWANTON: White?

  TOVA: (Tova sighs.) Yes, I said white.

  SWANTON: (Shakes head. Looks blank.) Sámi. Never heard of them.

  TOVA: Goddamn. Happens every time.

  FERN: What?

  TOVA: I always have to say the N word.

  JOHAN: The N word?

  TOVA: Yeah, I have to use a dirty word, you know, an “N” word in order to say who I am. Every fucking time, I have to call myself a nigger so you’ll know who I am.

  JOHAN: Whoa.

  FERN: Words have power, Tova.

  TOVA: I’m a goddamn Lapp, okay? Heard of me now?

  FERN: (Fern sighs.) Yeah, I’ve heard of your people.

  SARAH: (Sarah squishes up her face.) Oh man, I’m sorry.

  TOVA: I’m a Laplander, a Lapp. Lapp. Lapp. Lapp. (Tova tosses a rock into the fire.)

  (There is silence. No one says anything for a while.)

  TOVA: The Sámi used to be called Lapps. Same people. A long time ago, here in Wrangell, my family was known as the Lapp family. I didn’t even know the word “Sámi.”

  FERN: Yeah, but I’ve heard of your people. You ride in sleds pulled by reindeer, wear clothes with bright colors like Santa’s elves or something.

  TOVA: Yeah, you stole that from us. All you politically correct people, that is. Talk about misappropriation of culture. Well, every damn Christmas season, I deal with it. Santa and his elves and it don’t matter if you’re American, Japanese, Irish. You all steal my culture and I don’t make a fuss.

  JOHAN: (Smiles.) You are now.

  SARAH: I never believed in Santa.

  TOVA: You never sat on Santa’s lap?

  SARAH: Lapp? I get it.

  TOVA: You laugh and ring bells and sing about Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer at our expense. It’s like carrying a tomahawk around, chopping your opponents at a football game, only it's millions of Americans doing the Santa thing every year and the Americans are spreading it around the world. Could be billions now.

  JOHAN: (Shakes his head.) Bah humbug.

  SWANTON: It is argued that, if one approaches a phenomenon with a set of hypotheses, one may fail to discover the true nature of that phenomenon, being blinded by the assumptions built into the hypotheses.

  FERN: (Frowns.) You ruined my Christmas.

  SARAH: And it’s only June.

  FERN: Are you sure it’s true. Santa and your people?

  TOVA: I read it on the Internet.

  FERN: Oh, then it’s true then. That settles that.

  TOVA: Hey, we’ve lost some of our stories. It’s been generations since we lived in our homeland. I have to look up our stories.

  FERN: And you make them up?

  TOVA: No … It makes sense. The Santa thing does.

  FERN: (Shrugs.) I guess.

  SWANTON: You do have some interesting lineage but not really believable. My audience wants Indians. Real Indians.

  JOHAN: She is a real Indian. She’s Tlingit. She already told you.

  SWANTON: I prefer matrilineal heritage.

  SARAH: You won’t get a lot of that around here.

  TOVA: I told you my matrilineal heritage.

  SWANTON: From real Indians, not adopted ones.

  TOVA: I’m not adopted. You don’t need to be “adopted” when you’re Tlingit.

  JOHAN: Adoption is a white man’s concept. My grandma says it’s called “taking you by the hand.” I don’t know the Tlingit word.

  SWANTON: Can we get the ceremony started?

  JOHAN: Sure. Stand up.

  SWANTON: Stand?

  JOHAN: Yeah, we can’t do this sitting down.

  (Fern stands and gets a warm stick from the fire, charcoal on it. She picks it up and blows on it to cool it off a bit.)

  (Tova looks confused. Raises her eyebrows.)

  FERN: (Fern gives the stick to Tova.) Now, when we say his name three times, you can put a mark on his forehead with this.

  TOVA: What?

  FERN: (Winks.) It’s tradition, Tova.

  (Swanton stands firm.)

  SARAH: And you have to hold this. (Pause. Sarah hands him her burnt marshmallow on a stick.) It’s a ceremonial staff. And, we have to feed our ancestors when we do ceremonies.

  (Tova frowns at them.)

  FERN: I know. I know. (She lowers her voice and speaks to Tova.) Our ceremonies are sacred. I know. But this guy … I’m going to have a ceremony for the ceremony. I promise.

  SARAH: Fling the marshmallow in the fire.

  (Swanton looks at the stick and flings the sagging marshmallow off, and it drops into the fire.)

  SARAH: Good shot.

  JOHAN: (Johan clears his throat.) I hereby give you the name Tóok Chán. Repeat after me. You, too, Mr. Swanton.

  SWANTON AND OTHERS: Tóok Chán, Tóok Chán, Tóok Chán.

  (Johan nods to Tova, and Tova steps toward Swanton.)

  (Tova marks on his forehead a big X. )

  (Johan leans toward Swanton and kisses him long and hard on the lips.)

  SWANTON: (Swanton’s eyes get big. He wobbles a bit and then sits down.) What does my name mean?

  SARAH: I don’t know, but my grandmother used to say it to me. I think it’s passed down in our family. It’s an honor.

  JOHAN: I think it means something like “mighty warrior.” Something like that.

  (Swanton rises and gets up and stretches.)

  SWANTON: Well, I’d better get going.

  JOHAN: We’re not done. This is an all-night thing. Sometimes, these ceremonies last for days. Our stories can last days, months, years, even. You might even get stuck here in our stories. It’s not bad. It feels good. Really. Stay.

  SWANTON: (Shakes his head. Looks afraid.) No, sorry. I have to get stories from Charlie and Jesse Edwin in the morning. Early.

  SARAH: They’re my auntie and uncle. You’ll get good stories from them. Too bad you have to go.

  FERN: Yeah, nice to talk to you.

  (Swanton gets up and leaves, clamoring up the embankment. They hear his car start up, and he drives off.)

  TOVA: So, Johan. You’re supposed to be a fluent Tlingit speaker, and you don’t know what his new name means.

  SARAH: No, he doesn’t.

  (Fern giggles.)

  (From the darkness Tooch is still sitting on the log. He raises his head and his headlamp shines brightly at them.)

  TOOCH: Hmmmm.

  FERN: (Jumps slightly in place.) Jeez, I forgot you were there.

  (Tooch’s face contorts in the light of the fire. From where the young people sit, it looks like his hair is standing on end around his ears. The light from the headlamp shows down on his sharp nose, and the shadows make it look like a beak. They stare at him. No one speaks.)

  TOOCH: His new name means Stink Ass.

  Swanton goes to Seattle, Washington, en route to Washington, DC, and presents his work among the Indians of Southeast Alaska. He gives a lecture at the Blue Moon Tavern. He fumbles through his Tlingit introduction, mispronouncing every word: saying the a like an English a and forgetting the tones. He scrapes his throat raw on the x’s. At the end of his presentation, Swanton proudly stands and tells everyone in Lingít that his Indian name, given to him in a traditional tribal ceremony by elders and youth, is Stink Ass, Tóok Chán (though he doesn’t know what he’s saying). Swanton says the name means “Mighty Warrior.” No Tlingits are present in the audience to laugh at him. No Tlingits are there to accept the research he’s presented as truth, or as trickery, for that matter. Back in Wrangell, Rave
n is still sitting by the fire at Institute Beach writing down stories.

  Date: nd (no date)

  Recorded by John Swanton

  Assisted by Tooch Waterson

  The Woman Who Kicked over a Frog

  Elaine tossed the poisonous package of red meat into the garbage can. She’d read on the Internet about chemicals in beef. She was never going to get sick again. Ever. She was tired of getting the flu and the cold, and bronchitis, and the shingles. Lately, she spent time surfing the internet while working the night shift as a ward clerk at Wrangell City Hospital. The hospital was built on muskeg, and after thirty years the corners were settling and creaking. She hated all the noise: moaning patients, nurses’ squeaky shoes. Especially, the sounds of those damn frogs in the bog. They carry diseases.

  Elaine lived from one conspiracy theory to another. Last month it was high fructose corn syrup and gluten. She was, most certainly, NOT going to let those things affect her health. The internet was full of articles and warnings and strange diseases. And the photos, oh the photos of rashes and scabs and sallow skin and strange growths. But then again, the hospital where she worked was icky too. It paid well, but the people who worked there were peculiar. Dr. Reed was strange, always staring at her. And it seemed like the nurses and the nurse aides, even the coder, and the housekeeper, were sick with runny noses and gravelly coughs. Probably their nasty smoking habits. The staff went in and out the back door quite frequently. Especially at night. They got away with all those breaks because they were on the night shift. She’d rather work the day shift, but they won’t hire her for any other hospital job, not even dumping the garbage.

  Now, she strolled with her cousin Mina down the sidewalk heading for lunch at Tokyo Oki, the new sushi restaurant. Mina questioned her. “Are you sure? No one eats here.”

  Elaine shrugged. “I’ve given up red meat. Fish is good for you.”

  “Yea, but raw fish?”

  “You can get tempura,” Elaine said. She led Mina up a narrow path through a tiny Japanese garden dotted with stone pagodas, a pointy-hatted gnome, and a green ceramic frog.

  As they walked through the garden, Elaine’s heavy purse fell from her shoulder to the crook of her arm. She stumbled.

  Mina bumped her. “Sorry.”

  Elaine stepped forward, walking slightly off the path. The toe of her foot nudged the ceramic frog. It tumbled off a rock, cracking into pieces.

  “Eee,” Mina said, staring at the broken frog.

  “Damn thing,” Elaine grumbled, kicking a shard aside.

  Inside the restaurant they took a table near the door. A thin woman set two menus down. Elaine ordered red snapper sushi. Mina ordered tempura crab. After they ate, they split the bill. Mina rustled around in her purse. “I don’t have a tip.”

  Elaine rolled her eyes. “I didn’t get the hospital kitchen job.” As soon as she had said it, she figured maybe that was good thing. All that saliva on the forks and spoons, the half-eaten toast.

  “That’s too bad,” Mina said.

  “Yeah, they all hate me there.”

  “They don’t hate you, El. There aren’t jobs these days.”

  Elaine scowled. “They stare at me. It’s like I’m skanky.” She’d seen them with their big staring eyes that seemed to roll back with disgust. They didn’t even try to hide it from her.

  Mina covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “I’m sure it’s not that.”

  Elaine scooted out from the booth.

  “Aren’t you going to leave a bigger tip?” Mina asked.

  “No. The sushi wasn’t fresh and the crab was imitation.”

  They slipped on their coats and headed out the door. Outside, they passed the waitress crouching, scooping ceramic frog shards into a garbage bag. “Sorry about the frog,” Elaine mumbled. The waitress blinked her large green eyes but said nothing.

  That night, she sat at her desk behind the glass shield. The frogs out back croaked as loud as usual. The nurse walked down the hall in her squeaky shoes. Tonight, there was only Mr. Severson, a gallbladder surgery patient.

  It was already past 2:00 a.m. and she leaned her head on her desk. She bobbed her head back up and yawned. On her computer she opened a news page: outbreak of swine flu. Oh, great. No way. Not me. She got up from her computer station and went into the small employee bathroom behind her desk and scrubbed her hands. No. No. No. Her chest tightened with the thought of mucus and pus. She scrubbed some more until her hands reddened. As she stepped out of the bathroom, frog croaks pulsed through her small cubicle. Down the hall, the back door stood open. She huffed, “No wonder.”

  Elaine stomped down the hall, following mucky prints on the floor. A damp mossy scent hung in the air. She peered out. No one was on the small porch. She slammed the door and headed back, passing Mr. Severson’s room. The nurse was tucking in his blankets. The nurse turned her head. Her large full lips widened into a grin. Her long eyelashes blinked. Was the nurse flirting with her? Elaine shook her head.

  She plopped down at her desk and with her sanitizing lotion. She rubbed her hands and then rubbed a sanitizing cloth across her desk. She couldn’t seem to get rid of the stench of rotting leaves. Maybe someone opened the door again. “That damn door.”

  “No, don’t close the door,” a voice said from behind her. She started to turn at the sound of Dr. Reed’s voice, but her head jerked back violently. “What the hell. Dr. Reed?” She tried to pull her head back. She wiggled but Dr. Reed held her hair in a fisted ponytail. The night nurse now stood in front of the cubicle grinning. Suddenly, the nurse flung herself up, legs, body, and all, onto the lip of the desk, splaying her hands flat against the glass. Her knees were bent at an odd angle out to the sides, her crotch facing Elaine.

  The doctor jerked her hair again. She screamed but it came out more like a baby wailing in the nursery. He kicked the cubical door open with his foot and she thudded off her chair onto the ground. He pulled her down the hall. “Hey,” Elaine cried. The nurse jumped off the counter, landing beside them. Elaine tried to scream again, but instead, the air in her lungs gurgled. They’re going to get fired for this. I’ll file a report. I’ll call the police. Her arms flailed and she tried to grab at their legs. She glanced up. The waitress from Tokyo Oki walked beside her. The waitress leaned down. Snot dripped onto Elaine’s face.

  The door to Mr. Severson’s room was open. Without his glasses, he saw Dr. Reed and a few nurses hauling a bag of laundry toward the back door. At once, the frog chorus began, droning and bellowing, growing louder and louder, throbbing throughout the hospital. All night long the back door remained open, the air reeking with a sweet mossy odor.

  Date: 1970s

  Recorded by John Swanton

  Assisted by Tooch Waterson

  The Woman Who Shushed

  Berta held her purse close to her body. A man bumped into her. Excuse me. Excuse me. People seemed polite in Seattle. She wasn’t really watching where she was going, though. Their faces held little interest to her; she was looking for a pair of small feet in red rubber boots, when it occurred to her she should be looking for red high heels. That gave her hope. Thinking about the alternative, that her sister had disappeared, presumed drowned when she was young, was to consider the taboo.

  How do you talk about something that shouldn’t be talked about? Something taboo: jinaháa, bad mojo, whatever you want to call it. I guess you don’t talk about it, you skirt it, you insinuate, you talk around it. She understood the taboo, and so did her sister, Mariela. They learned about it when they were kids sneaking up on their aunties’ and uncles’ card-playing sessions. They heard stories of people marrying creatures, and creatures drowning people, tipping their skiffs over. And whenever they asked the adults, they would be shushed. Their parents warned them to never say that name in the woods or on the water. Maybe Mariela had accidently said the word that day? She would never know.

  They were told never to say the Tlingit word out loud, which is why, now, as Berta was in A
nita Bay picking their crab pot, they didn’t talk about it, yet they did talk about it. She closed her eyes and imagined Mariela with her. Was it taboo to imagine the dead living? Berta tucked her gray tendrils into her blue bandana. She held the throttle of the outboard with one ungloved hand and the gunwale with the other. The salt spray coated the hand holding the throttle. They were in her husband, Ole’s, fourteen-foot Lund, heading into the bay to pull his crab pot. Ole had gone long-lining for halibut and had asked her to go check the crab pot. He’d be gone about ten days, he said, so he figured she’d be able to pull it at least a few times. He wanted her to do this every couple of days, but it had been four days already. And their kids were grown now and had their own fishing skiffs or were raising kids of their own. Besides, Berta loved any excuse to go out on the water. She’d been waiting for a sunny day to take the skiff out. She was a fair-weather skiffer. She didn’t like to bounce around in the gray waves. Mariela never minded, though. Mariela was braver. Was.

  Berta looked across the length of the skiff toward Mariela. Mariela’s long black hair was tied in a ponytail and tucked into the front of her rain jacket. She had on a dark green rain hat tied beneath her chin. Her feet flopped out in front of her in her favorite red rubber boots, her back to the wind. She grinned like a dog hanging its head out the window of a pickup truck.

  Today, Anita Bay was glass-calm. Berta slowed the outboard down. She wasn’t worried about using the old Evinrude outboard, the one that said rude on the side. The rest of the red letters chipped off from years of river sand beating against the cowling. Ole was an expert mechanic. He had to be since he’d spent his whole life running the Stikine River and running his skiffs and his assortment of fishing boats around the bays surrounding Wrangell Island. So, no, she never worried about the motors. Ole taught her how to change the spark plugs, pump the bulb, get water out of the gas—general maintenance stuff. And he always provided a nice kicker, just in case.

  Originally, Ole had wanted to put a steering console in the skiff, but she’d resisted. She was taught to run a skiff by steering from the back, not from some sissy steering console. She liked to feel the engine, to listen to it for clicks and ticks, and to check to make sure the water was still streaming out the back like it was supposed to. Now, she twisted the throttle back and the skiff slowed as it entered the bay.