Charity

by Paulette Callen

  Gustie wrote in the book, “I, this day of November, 1899, have distributed annuities to all who were present, as marked in this book.” She signed it boldly Augusta Caine Roemer, so there would be no doubt who was responsible. Then she sat down and put her head in her hands. “He’s been cheating them. He is supposed to help these people.” She raised her head. “Look at this place.” The agency was supposed to be a place the people of the Red Sand could come for their annuities, to trade, and to buy things. The shelves were poorly stocked, and what was there looked too old to be of use anymore. In fact, many things that had looked usable Gustie had moved into the store-room and added to the rations given away that day.

  Gustie sighed. Lena sat down, too, knowing better than to say anything.

  Gustie put her hands on her knees and looked up and around, “It’s not going to continue.”

  “What are you going to do?” Lena was alarmed.

  “I don’t know. Something. Let’s get out of here.”

  They were putting on their coats when they heard a sliding, scratching sound in the back room. Jack Frye was not dead after all. He was pulling himself up and over to the door. “Don’t hit me,” he whined. “Just open the door. I gotta have some water bad. I gotta pee. Real bad, Ma’ams.”

  Lena jumped up and grabbed the skillet again. “I’ll teach him a lesson. I’ll break his head open, the little scheister,” she said vehemently as she opened the door.

  Jack Frye cringed. “Don’t hit me. Just some water. I’ll sit right here.” He backed up with his hands in front of him to ward off any blow and sat on the edge of his filthy cot. Spindly legs and arms, a four-day growth of whiskers, a pot belly peeking through his long johns where buttons had popped off—he was not a pleasant sight. His greasy brown hair stuck to his head. He had the temerity to point a grubby finger at Gustie, “But you, Ma’am, I’m going to report you to the gov’ment.”

  Gustie was buttoning the last button on her coat. “I hope you do. Indeed, Sir, I hope you do.”

  Frye looked surprised and unhappy. “Let’s go. Your sisters will be wondering what has happened to you.”

  Lena picked up her muff and threw the key at Jack Frye. “Get your own water, you pig.”

  That night by candle light at Dorcas’s table, Gustie drew out her writing papers, pen, and ink from the case she always carried with her now, and wrote letters—detailed, scathing letters—to the Department of the Interior, the President of the United States, and, finally, to a man widely known for his devotion to justice and his connections to people in high places, no less so than the United States Senate. She wrote:

  Dear Father,

  I know I have disappointed you. I write to you now, not as a daughter who has never ceased to think of you often and with love and respect, but as a citizen writing to a man who is passionate about correcting wrongs. For a terrible wrong has come to my attention which I cannot ignore...

  She wrote far into the night. When she finished, she addressed the envelope: The Honorable Magnus August Roemer. Then she added a postscript to her letter:

  My dear Father, as you know, when I left, I didn’t take any part of my inheritance or any of the money you offered me. I felt that since I had disgraced the family and hurt you so deeply, I had no right to it. I have changed my opinion. If you have a mind to send it, I could use some money. Always, your loving Augusta.

  She addressed and sealed the other envelopes. When she finished, Dorcas, whom she believed had been asleep for hours, said from beneath new blankets on her new bed, “Won’t do no good.”

  Gustie seldom woke before Dorcas. This morning had been one of the exceptions. When she returned to the cabin with two buckets of icy lake water, Dorcas was awake, dressed and sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “Stay right there,” commanded Gustie. “I’m going to wait on you.”

  “Wait on me? I’m right here.” Dorcas sounded cross.

  “No, it doesn’t mean I’m waiting for you. Waiting on you means that I will serve you.”

  “You treat me like a baby,” Dorcas grumbled. “Or a man.”

  “No, I treat you with honor.”

  “Oh.” Dorcas’s pouty face brightened. “That’s pretty good then. When do I get my coffee?”

  “Soon.” Gustie cooked with near efficiency now at Dorcas’s awkward stove. She kneaded the bread dough and hoped that Jordis would return in time to join them.

  Dorcas had finally explained last night that Jordis and Little Bull had been kept from the Agency by the stove at the school, which belched smoke and sparks, driving everybody out and setting fire to some crates the children were using as benches to sit on. They had put out the blaze and spent the day taking the stove apart and putting it together again. Without it the school they had labored so long over would be useless till spring.

  Gustie had the impression that Little Bull was everywhere, on and off the reservation. He showed up to mend stoves or arbitrate disputes. Already, since becoming chief, he had been to Pierre to speak to the state legislature on behalf of the Red Sand. He still found time to visit Dorcas once in awhile. Jordis helped him where she could but still adamantly refused to teach. Since the weather had looked threatening, Jordis would have spent the night with Winnie and Little Bull. But the morning skies were clear; she would come back soon. Gustie brimmed with anticipation.

  The coffee was just poured and the bread fished out of the popping grease when Gustie heard Biddie whicker, the muted gallop of Moon’s unshod hooves stopping in front of the cabin, bounding feet on the porch steps. Jordis burst through the door. The blue beads on her high winter moccasins flashed from beneath the hems of her split skirt. She wore several heavy flannel shirts that looked big enough for Little Bull and a poncho cut from an army blanket. She dropped the sack she was carrying and took Dorcas’s hands in greeting. “Hello, Grandmother.” Then she reached for Gustie.

  “Where you been?” Dorcas demanded through a mouthful of frybread. “We sittin’ here waitin’ for you.”

  Jordis took Gustie’s hands and brought them to her lips. “You did not tell me you were coming.”

  “Your hands are so cold!” exclaimed Gustie. “Don’t you have any gloves?”

  “I have rabbit fur mittens somewhere that Winnie made for me last year. It is not cold enough yet.”

  “Not cold enough! You’re so tough,” Gustie teased as she rubbed Jordis’s hands briskly between her own. “I didn’t know I was coming till last night, when Lena asked me to drive with her. Her sister is about ready to have that baby.” Then she gave Jordis a warm cup of coffee to hold.

  When they finished the plate of bread, Jordis announced, “I brought you something.”

  “What?” Gustie gathered the plates and put them in the bucket of water she had been heating on the stove.

  Jordis held up her forefinger in a “just be patient” gesture and pulled open the sack she had brought in with her. She took out a pair of moccasins similar to her own, but with more elaborate beading. Gustie admired them and waited for the next thing, the small thing that might be for her, to come out of the bag.

  Jordis leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Well, try them on, Augusta.” When Jordis used her full name, she pronounced it with a degree of dry pomposity that always made Gustie smile.

  Gustie took one of the moccasins. She traced her finger over the many tiny beads sewn across top and sides and examined the fringes that ran along the side seam. “These are for me?” she asked softly.

  “Red Standing Horse’s wife Carrie made them. She was saving for a special giveaway. She wanted this to be it.”

  Gustie sat on the edge of the bed, untied and pulled off her shoes, and eagerly slipped her feet into the moccasins. The leather was supple, the fur lining soft and warm. She had never worn anything so comfortable in all her life.

  “That is not
all.” Jordis took out a beaded leather sash.

  Gustie stood up and tied it around her thin waist. Then she turned like a prima donna, letting Jordis and Dorcas admire her.

  Jordis commented, “The moccasins are not as soft as buckskin, but they are pretty good. We cannot get buckskin anymore.”

  “Why not?” Gustie sat down on the bed, stuck her feet out, admiring them some more.

  “No deer,” said Dorcas.

  Gustie laughed. “What do you mean?”

  “No deer around here anymore,” explained Dorcas. “They went with the buffalo. All dead. All gone. Saw the last one many winters ago.”

  Gustie thought she was being teased but Dorcas went on grimly. “That is why we eat the white man’s cattle. Spotted buffalo we used to call them. They smelled bad, all penned up together. We did not understand how the wasichu could eat such bad smelling things. Tasted funny too. But we get used to it.”

  “But I’ve seen deer,” Gustie ventured.

  Dorcas’s eyes glittered. “Where?”

  “Here at the lake. And I saw one behind my house once.”

  “Where they come from?”

  “I don’t know. They were just there, and then they were gone.” Gustie shrugged.

  “Mmmmm.” Dorcas squinted hard at Gustie. Then she muttered, “She comes to you, then.” The old woman nodded her head in satisfaction.

  “Who comes to me?” Gustie was confused.

  Dorcas spoke sharply. “You two get out. I want to drink my coffee and think without all this talk.”

  Gustie grabbed her coat and Jordis her poncho. They filled Dorcas’s cup with the last of the coffee and left the old woman to her thoughts.

  Gustie and Jordis walked hand in hand. The hills, thinly dusted with snow, sparkled like sugar candy under a bright blue sky. The air snapped with cold.

  “What was that all about?” asked Gustie finally.

  “I do not know.”

  They walked along in silence. Finally Gustie asked, “Why don’t you and Little Bull put a stop to it? You know Jack Frye has been cheating you.”

  “Little Bull has tried. He has been to Pierre. He has written letters to Washington. He has confronted Frye. But he wants to get rid of him legally. I think Little Bull is wrong. The white man’s law has never worked to our benefit. I just wanted to kill Frye. That is why I don’t go for annuities any more. Little Bull will not let me kill him.”

  Gustie was not sure if Jordis was serious or not. She was afraid to ask.

  But now she was finding it hard to say what was on her mind, what she had come to Crow Kills for. “It’s going to be a long winter.”

  Jordis nodded.

  “There is nothing to keep me in Charity anymore.”

  “You have friends there.”

  Gustie felt annoyed. “You’re not there.”

  “I visit.”

  “I don’t want visits!”

  The long pause that followed made Gustie’s stomach cramp and confirmed her fear that she had spoken too soon and in the wrong way. She wished she could take the words back. They could go on like this—visits back and forth, endless days of waiting between—for all eternity if that was what Jordis wanted. She didn’t want to lose her. She was willing to be with Jordis on any terms. Gustie looked at the ground, then out across the sugar-candy hills. “I’m sorry. You think I’m crazy.”

  “Yes. I think you are completely crazy. We will have to build a house. I thought—right over there.” Jordis pointed to a spot in a clearing of cottonwoods about a quarter mile east of Dorcas’s cabin. “Close to Grandmother. The snows are coming. The house will have to wait till spring. But you could move to Wheat Lake. There’s an old place on the outskirts of town to the south. It is not as nice as what you have now, but I will help you clean it up. We could make it winter tight. Little Bull and I are now stove experts.”

  “How long have you been thinking about this?” inquired Gustie through slitted eyes.

  “Since the Fifth of July.”

  “I see.”

  “I found the empty house in Wheat Lake about a month ago. I did not think you would be ready to move before now, though.”

  “I guess you had it all figured out.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re very clever.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Gustie looked down and saw a dip in the earth filled with snow. She quickly scooped up a handful and threw it at Jordis who squealed in surprise. There was hardly enough snow for a good fight, but they managed. Finally, Jordis out of breath from laughing and throwing snow and dodging Gustie, stood wiping her face with the tail of her poncho, said matter-of-factly, “I told you you would live by a lake.”

  Gustie shook the snow out of her skirts and hair, and remembered the night in the lake when she poured water over Jordis’s back for the first time. “Yes, you did.”

  “Grandmother says I am a pretty smart Indian.”

  “Too smart.” Gustie kissed her.

  They walked slowly, happily, back to the cabin. Dorcas, cocooned in her blanket, stood on the porch watching them. She looked like a statue hewn from an old tree. They stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at her.

  “Augusta Roemer. We will talk.” Gustie and Jordis started up the stairs. “Not you.” Jordis stopped. “Go play with your horse,” Dorcas commanded. Gustie’s expression clearly asked Now what? and Jordis’s answered I have no idea—you are on your own, Augusta.

  In contrast to the cold, bright outdoors, inside the cabin was hot and dim. Gustie shed her coat and removed her glasses to wipe off the condensed moisture. She sat across from Dorcas. On the table between them rested a wood box that Gustie had not seen before. “I want to give you something.”

  Gustie was about to protest that she’d been gifted well enough for her role at the agency. Dorcas raised her hand. Gustie held her tongue.

  Dorcas considered her through squinty eyes, produced one slow back-and-forth motion of her head, and said, “No deer.”

  Gustie, afraid that Dorcas would think she was mocking them, claiming to see deer when the Indians could not find them, replied gently, “I did see them.”

  “There’s no deer. But Deer Spirit comes to you. Very sacred thing. The spirit of deer is your helper.”

  “How can these things have anything to do with me? I am not Dakotah. I don’t even know about these things.”

  “The deer people are gentle. You have the deer spirit. You walk softly, Augusta Roemer. You can be quiet, so you can hear. You can see. The deer are gone, but Deer Spirit is still here. That is good.”

  Gustie did not doubt the earnestness of Dorcas’s beliefs. She felt, though, that the old woman was influenced by wishful thinking, a longing for the past. No matter how flattering it might be for Gustie to believe it herself, she did not. She had seen real animals—not spirits—stragglers, perhaps, passing through on their way to somewhere else. But she did not feel like arguing with Dorcas.

  “Now we call you Woman Who Sees the Deer,” Dorcas said. “Woman Who Sees the Deer,” she enounced again with satisfaction. “I give this to you now. It is your medicine.” Dorcas opened the box and took out a small piece of bone on a leather string. When Gustie held it in her hand, she saw it was the tip of an antler, hollowed out for the leather to be run through, and smoothed at the edges. Nothing could have been plainer; nothing could have filled her with more tenderness, even awe. She put it around her neck and looked around at the tiny cabin, so poor in every way but warmth. “Why have you been so good to me?”

  Dorcas said, “Old Indian legend. You rescue somebody, you stuck with them for life. Can not help it.” She continued seriously, cocking her chin toward the outside where Jordis murmured to the horses. “My little wounded bird—you took the arrow out of her heart.” A warming quiet filled the cabin as Gustie, used
to Dorcas’s silences, waited for her next words. The old woman’s head was down, almost as if she had dozed off, but Gustie knew better. She waited patiently.

  When Dorcas lifted her head, her eyes were open, but in the way of some of the very old, she seemed to see the past more clearly than her present surroundings. She began as someone who has been waiting a long time to tell this story. “I want to tell you about our old ways. How it was before the black robes and the missionaries. And the soldiers.

  “There was a woman in our village. When I was a child, she was very old. She lived alone in her own tipi. She was no man’s wife. Never was. She was a two-spirit person. One sent to us with two spirits—the spirit of the man and the spirit of the woman in one person. The two-spirit ones are blessed, since the Great Mystery gives them two, not just one spirit. They were respected among the people. Always invited to the naming ceremonies to give the secret names to our children.”

  She paused and continued with more animation. “But the stories told about her were not told because she was a two-spirit woman. The stories were told about how she got her name. I heard this story from my mother and my grandmothers, and from all the old people who were there and saw it. Once I heard it from her. In her own tipi. There was a terrible battle with our enemies, the Rhee. Our warriors were outnumbered. All had got away but Walking Crow. His horse was dead and he was on the ground. He was surrounded by the enemy. His sister—the two-spirit woman—watched the battle with the women on the hills. At that time her name was Blue Stone. Blue Stone and Walking Crow. Brother and sister. Blue Stone saw the warriors running for their lives. She saw Walking Crow, her brother, on the ground. She jumped on her pony and galloped in among all the enemy warriors. She did not make the tremolo in the way of women, but she gave the warrior’s yell. Blue Stone came riding through all the enemy warriors making the warrior yell. Her brother swung himself up behind her. She rode out with him. No arrows touched her. The warriors on both sides cheered her. The Rhee and the Dakotah cheered her, and the women on the hills made the tremolo. There was a great feast that night. We lost the battle. But Blue Stone’s courage lifted the hearts of the people. Made our enemy respect us. Blue Stone was given a new name. Warrior Heart Woman. Two more times she went into battle at the side of her brother. Two more times, no arrows touched her. She lived in honor her whole life. She wore the eagle feather because of her victory in battle. She took a wife. When I was a child, she had already lived many winters. Many many winters.”