A Thousand Voices

by Lisa Wingate

  “She seems happy.” I moved toward a painting of Hopi women climbing a canyon trail to a pueblo. Some small, self-conscious part of me wondered if Jace could see that I envied Shasta’s life. I envied the way Benjamin looked at her as if she were the most amazing person in the world, the way he wrapped his tiny arms around her neck and snuggled his head under her chin and seemed perfectly at peace. He didn’t care if his mother had a college degree. Every time I watched Shasta and her little boy together, I felt an instinctive yearning. “There’s nothing wrong with having a family.”

  Jace’s sigh was long and slow. “Depends if it’s an excuse to avoid life. A lot of girls around here come from low-income families, broken homes, economically depressed areas, whatever. They don’t see much opportunity here, but then they look at the outside world, and they can’t imagine what they’d do out there, so they get pregnant and answer the question. I don’t know what it’s like in Kansas City, but that’s the way it is here. I never thought my sister would end up like that. There’s a long tradition in our family of the women going to college. My mother’s a nurse, Nana Jo was a teacher, her mother was a teacher. In the Choctaw tradition, women are the leaders of the family.” I heard him cross the hall slowly, until he stood behind me, studying the watercolor wash of canyon and pueblo, the Hopi women so small they were almost nonexistent, their climb seemingly made steeper by the fact that the easel was leaning slightly to the right.

  “Shasta could still go to college.” I felt obliged to defend her, perhaps because for years now I’d been on the receiving end of the don’t-have-children-young speech. Even Grandma Rose, before I was ever part of the family, made sure to point out that she had left her parents’ house and supported herself independently, working as a mother’s helper, and later inching her way up the chain of command in a department store, before she married. A woman, she said, must always know she can stand on her own two feet, if need be. “UMKC advertises programs for married students and parents all the time. They have day care on campus and everything. I’m sure some of the colleges around here have that, too.” I sounded like one of those Pollyanna university commercials about how it’s never too late to get a degree.

  “You should talk to her about it.” I was suddenly aware of Jace’s nearness, and an electric sensation went through me as he leaned around my shoulder to rebalance the easel. “She doesn’t want to hear it from us, but I can tell she admires you. She says you’re quite the world traveler.”

  I shook my head, surprisingly pleased that he had been talking to Shasta about me. My stomach fluttered unexpectedly. “I just had a couple of lucky opportunities.”

  “I doubt that.” There was a smile in his voice. “Luck usually has a lot to do with preparation and skill. The older you get the more you’ll realize that.”

  “I guess.” His age-related comment let the air out of my balloon, quashing the giddy flutter inside me.

  “I tell my students that all the time,” he added, and I turned away from the painting. I didn’t want to be one of his students.

  He glanced out the door as a group of Choctaw girls in brightly colored tribal dress gathered on the front walkway for a picture-taking session. The wind caught their multitiered cotton skirts, and some of the younger ones twirled on the sidewalk, creating swirls of color and fabric. A girl in a blue dress lost the tall, crown-shaped beaded headdress that marked her as a Choctaw princess, and it clattered down the steps, landing at the photographer’s feet. He picked it up and handed it back, then loudly reminded the girls that this picture would be going in the tribal newspaper, Bishinik, and if they didn’t straighten up he would just take the picture and they could all be embarrassed. The girl who’d lost her headdress planted it back on her head and crossed her arms under a long ruffle that fell over her shoulders like a shawl. She didn’t look like she wanted to be a Choctaw princess today.

  “Now that looks like Shasta,” Jace commented. “She never was into all this stuff. Nana Jo made her do the princess contest, and Shasta couldn’t have cared less. She’s got a big pout on in every one of the pictures.”

  Outside, a little girl I recognized from Camp Reid turned to look into the building. Spotting us inside, she waved. The photographer about popped a cork.

  “Guess we’d better get out of the way.” Shaking a playful finger at the girls, Jace pulled the door closed. “Come on. We’ll go out the other exit.” Starting down the center hall, he gazed at a sepia photograph of an early tribal council on the wall to our right, and seemed to drift into his own thoughts. I’d begun to notice that about him—occasionally he turned quiet and contemplative, then he’d say something to start up the conversation again. He glanced at me as we wandered down the hall, and I wondered what he was thinking.

  As usual, he asked me a question. “So, how did your morning go? Any luck?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “I did get a copy of my birth records at the courthouse, but after that it was a dead end. I couldn’t find my father’s name or my grandparents’ names in the phone book. I looked through high school annuals for the years around my father’s graduation—no luck—and that was about it. The information from the courthouse says that my father was born here. I guess it’s possible that his family moved and he grew up someplace else, but if he wasn’t raised here and didn’t have any family in the area, why would he have brought my mother here?” The last words ended with a wistfulness I couldn’t conceal. This process of welling up with hope, only to run into a brick wall, felt like an endless series of crash landings.

  “Genealogy isn’t an exact science.” It was the tone Jace had used when telling Autumn she was going to have a good time at her grandparents’ house today—the tone that said he wasn’t really sure himself, but felt obliged to offer a ray of hope. “Even the professionals don’t usually get lucky enough to find lost relatives in a day. Give it some time. There are plenty of other sources—the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Muskogee, the archives in Oklahoma City. Granted, they’re more useful for tracking down family members further back, but it’s worth a try. You never know what you might dig up, given a little time.”

  I don’t have time. My parents don’t even know I’m here. “Maybe next trip.” Would there be a next trip? How many times was I going to lie to James and Karen and take off for Oklahoma?

  “Hang in there, kid. I’ve had students come up dry on their ancestor searches through several sources, then stumble onto something completely unexpected.”

  The word kid and being lumped in with his high school genealogists blanketed me with a heavy sense of disappointment. “I’m not one of your students.” It sounded surprisingly petulant. Ever since I’d started this trip, my emotions had been like bullets fired into a room of mirrors and steel—ricocheting off one thing, crashing through another. There was no way to predict the trajectory from one minute to the next.

  Jace’s lips curved upward as he held the back door open for me. “I know that.”

  “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t like me to be so out of control. In fact, it wasn’t like me to be out of control at all. One thing the Spencers loved about me in Ukraine was that nothing, from sick kids to hijacked supply shipments, rattled me. Since childhood, I’d known how to turn on the emotional numbness, how to be powerless in a world that went from peaceful to chaotic in an instant. When I’d needed to, I’d always been able to disconnect from what was going on around me. Why couldn’t I do that now? Why was I so touchy, so close to the surface? “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s been a weird day.” Month, year…

  “It’s all right.” He was easygoing, as usual. I suspected that he knew the trick of turning up the mental static when necessary. It probably served him well, teaching school. He gave the impression that nothing got to him. “Tough morning, huh?”

  “Yeah.” As we wound through the festival grounds, passing tourists, musicians with instrument cases, and dancers dressed in powwow regalia, I related the story of the courthouse, of seeing my name in
my father’s handwriting, then sitting at the library, flipping through high school yearbooks, thinking that sooner or later I’d turn a page and there he would be. I would look, for the first time, into the eyes of the man who brought my mother to Oklahoma, who signed my birth records, then left both of us behind.

  Jace reached across the space between us and rubbed my shoulder sympathetically. My skin tingled where he touched it. “Sounds like too much to handle on an empty stomach. How about some lunch?”

  “That would be wonderful,” I answered, and he veered off toward a booth where a group of women was serving up Indian fry bread covered with taco toppings. One of the servers knew Jace and slipped us a couple of tacos on the side, so we wouldn’t have to wait in line. She asked how his kids were doing and gave me a curious look as we walked to a nearby picnic table to eat.

  “The thing is, I don’t know why, after all these years, I’m so tied in knots about finding my biological family,” I admitted after sampling my taco. “I know I’m making a bigger issue of it than it is. It’s not like I don’t have a good life.”

  Straight, dark hair fell over his smooth cheek as he tipped his head and considered the comment. His gaze seemed to connect with parts of me that I didn’t want anyone to see. “It’s a big issue. Big enough that you drove all the way here from Kansas City without even a hotel reservation.”

  I blushed and looked down at my plate. “Not very smart, huh?”

  “Some things you just have to strike off and do before you lose your nerve.” I liked the way his lips curved upward when he knew I was partly joking and partly in need of reassurance.

  Our gazes caught and held for a moment. “I guess so,” I whispered, then we returned to the business of lunch. Jace asked about the youth music exchange program and my world travels. We talked about Europe and the orphans’ home in Ukraine, which was in some ways similar to the Choctaw boarding school where he worked. The boarding school, which had been started in the eighteen hundreds as a Presbyterian mission, still dealt with the difficulties inherent in caring for kids in a group setting.

  “Most of our kids aren’t orphans,” Jace pointed out, “but we do have a lot who’ve experienced some sort of family problems, or trouble in a regular school situation.” Pointing with his fork, he turned the subject back to me. “So how did you go from touring Europe with the symphony to working at a mission in the former Soviet Union? Seems like quite a leap.”

  “It just sort of happened.” As flaky as that sounded, I didn’t have a better explanation. “My parents—my adopted parents—weren’t too thrilled about it. They wanted me to come home and apply for Juilliard. There was a lot of pressure about the Juilliard thing, and I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I guess maybe that’s part of the reason I went to Ukraine—delay tactics.” I’d never said that out loud to anyone.

  “You don’t seem like the type for delay tactics.”

  I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I turned my attention to my plate. Nearby, a grandmother was trying to make it to a table while juggling two kids and three plates of food. I got up and helped her.

  “See?” I said, when I sat back down. “Delay tactics.”

  Laughing, Jace pointed a finger at me as he finished the last of his taco and moved on to fry bread with honey. “You’re not as innocent as you look.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I whispered, and he laughed again. I couldn’t help laughing with him. His smile was infectious.

  His dark eyes narrowed, taking me in, and suddenly it seemed as if there were no one else around—no noisy vendors, no crowd waiting for Indian tacos, no music floating from the amphitheater. “Judging from the concert you put on at camp last night, I think you should go for Juilliard. You’re really good.”

  “Thanks.” The praise was edifying, but behind it was the pressure that had come from all directions since I was thirteen, when James and Karen enrolled me at Harrington Academy. Everyone seemed to know where my life should be going but me.

  Jace was about to say something when the motorcycle-riding stockbrokers from the tour group asked if they could use the other end of our table. They slid in, and Jace spent the rest of the meal answering questions about the museum tour, the festival, and various aspects of Choctaw history.

  As soon as I’d finished my taco, we made our apologies and abandoned the table, then walked to Jace’s truck and headed for Gibson Academy, where he taught junior and senior history.

  “Are you sure you have time for this today?” I asked as we left the fairgrounds. “I feel like I’m taking you away from the homecoming festival and your kids.” I couldn’t help thinking about Willie and Autumn, and that they were missing all the fun. I could picture Autumn in a colorful Choctaw dress, dashing through the aisles, trying to win prizes at the carnival, laughing on the carousel.

  “No, they’re having a good time at Neenee’s house. I checked on them before my last tour. Autumn started out timing how fast Willie could run across the yard, and then she built an obstacle course and tried to race him against the dog, but the dog ran off. By the time Autumn caught up with the dog, he was barking out by the fence. They found one of the baby goats with its leg caught in the wire, so now everyone’s occupied with goat rescue and cleanup. Neenee’s going to help her fix a stall and get the patient settled in the barn.”

  “That must be quite an adventure,” I said as we drove under the brick archway that marked the entrance to Gibson Academy. The treelined drive wound lazily up the hill toward a complex of old brick buildings, which gave the impression of someplace well established and quiet, a Southern plantation or a museum. “Sounds like a busy morning.” I leaned forward to take in the buildings as we came closer.

  “I’m glad they’re having a good time with their mom’s folks,” Jace admitted. “It’s been tough for the kids to go there, especially Autumn. They have a lot of memories of their mom in that house, and then there are old pictures and belongings. It’s just hard.” He stopped the truck in front of the largest building, a three-story structure with enormous white columns and a grand set of stairs leading to a second-story entry. “This is the classroom hall. The library’s on the third floor.” As we stepped out, he pointed toward the rear buildings. I could hear kids playing basketball somewhere not far away. “The rec hall and dormitories are out back. Gibson was originally a residential school for Indian youth, but these days we’re only about fifty percent residential. Some of the live-in students come from bad home situations. Some come from families who live too far away from the school to get them here every day. Some stay here during the week, and go home on weekends.”

  “It must be strange, living at school.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to grow up in a place like this.

  “It’s a good place for the kids,” Jace commented as we climbed the steps. “Our graduation percentage for foster children living at Gibson is much greater than for kids going to public school and dealing with the ups and downs of the foster care system. The kids here have a safe place to be. Something permanent until they’re eighteen. They need the stability Gibson provides. It’s hard for kids to move on after big upheavals in their lives.” He glanced at me apologetically, as if he’d suddenly realized who he was talking to.

  We climbed the remainder of the steps, and I stood on the landing, taking in the expansive front lawn as he fought with the old brass dead bolt.

  “This thing has a mind of its own,” he commented. The lock finally surrendered, and he opened the door. I stood looking up and down the silent hall in the dim glow from the doorways of sunlit classrooms. With its old wood floors, high ceilings, and arch-shaped windows at the ends of the hall, the place was reminiscent of Harrington Academy. For a moment I had the sense of being back in high school.

  “The watch was a good idea, by the way,” Jace said, distracting me from my thoughts. “It took Autumn’s mind off the visit to Neenee’s house, gave her something else to focus on. The first few minutes are always the hardest. When sh
e walks in the door, she’s hit with so many memories of her mom. Once she’s busy with something, she has a good time there. It’s just getting through those first few minutes.” He opened the door to a stairway with light shining in from a tall window above. “In here.”

  “I was that way after Grandma Rose died,” I said as we started up the stairs. “I’d wake up some mornings thinking of something I wanted to tell her. Sometimes I’d be up and putting on my shoes, and then it would hit me that she wasn’t across the river anymore. It was like having her die all over again. For a while, it was hard going to her house because all the sounds and smells and sights were tied to her.”

  He nodded somberly as we walked up the stairs side by side. “I think that’s how it is for Autumn. Willie’s so young that he doesn’t remember as much. It’s easier for him to move on.”

  “It’s good that they keep visiting their grandparents’ house,” I said. “Over time, you make new memories, and the place begins to seem complete the way it is now. If you don’t move through that process, I think the place would stay suspended in time. Whenever you went there, it would be like going through the death again.” I knew that was why I didn’t dream very often about Grandma Rose or Mama now. Eventually, I’d had to let go so life could move on without the painful spasms of grief.

  Jace caught my gaze as he opened the door to the third floor. We stood close together, our thoughts intertwined in a way that was powerful. How long? his eyes asked. How long does it take?

  “She’ll let go when she’s ready,” I said quietly, and he nodded as we walked into an enormous room with sloped ceilings and dormer windows all around. Library bookshelves had been set up at one end. At the other end, a maze of gray fabric office cubicles seemed out of keeping with the antique surroundings.

  “In the old days, this was the grand ballroom,” Jace explained. “Graduations and school plays and cotillions with the residential girls’ school nearby were held here. These days, we’re co-ed, and cotillions are out of style, so now it’s a library and office space.”