Dances Naked

by Dani Haviland

  Red Shirt picked up all of the potatoes and cradled them in his arms. Marty’s eyes popped wide: they were still plenty hot. He was probably getting second-degree burns on his arms from the load, but there wasn’t a show of pain in Red Shirt’s face, only pride.

  Yes, these tubers were hot, hotter than he had expected, but he would not drop them or rush in giving one to each member of his tribe. The faithful would be served first and receive the largest ones, the fussy old women would have to wait for theirs. Suddenly, the food wasn’t so hot anymore. He’d move just a little slower so they had to wait longer. But, he would still feed them. Maybe next time they’d listen to him, not ‘her.’

  Marty took out his little boot knife and cut into the potato, pushing in on the ends and sides to open up the steaming pulp inside. He saw that he was the demonstrator on how to eat this new food. Even Rachel wasn’t used to eating baked potatoes. “Salt, please,” he asked her. Whether or not he was being correct in the Cherokee mealtime etiquette, they were still looking to him for instruction.

  Rachel passed the salt then reached for the knife used for cooking, copying Marty’s slash, slash, push, push technique to prep the potato. He passed the salt back to her then decided he’d use the knife as a fork…at least until he got to the end when he’d chew the insides like watermelon off a rind, saving the best until last, the skin. Marty looked around and saw that everyone was copying him. Apparently, even the old women had knives and were employing them, deftly cutting into then sniffing the white, fluffy insides. They weren’t too sure about the new food, but the white man seemed to enjoy it. At least it shouldn’t make them sick if he was eating it, too.

  “Hey, this is good,” commented Rachel with mouth full as she fed a bit to Junior. “They’re easy to fix, too.” She swallowed and asked sincerely, “Do these grow on trees?”

  Marty choked back a laugh, pretending that it was from food that had gone down the wrong pipe, patting his chest in both physical and emotional recovery. “No, no, these grow underground. That’s why there was dirt on them.” Marty saw Rachel cringe in embarrassment. He hadn’t intended to make her feel ignorant. “But they do look like they’d grow on a tree and just fall onto the ground when they were ripe…that’s why they’d be dirty.” Rachel gave a weak smile. She knew he was covering up for embarrassing her.

  “Now, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. I think your husband,” Marty said and watched her glow with the designation, “will be taking me, um, home, in a few days or weeks or, ahem.” He cleared his throat that was starting to tighten with hope at the mention of being back with Bibb and tried again, “What I’m trying to say is that I won’t be here in the spring. I want you to make sure you hold back a dozen or so, at least, of the potatoes to plant when the ground warms up but before the rains. Those little dimples that were in the spuds, potatoes, are called eyes.” Rachel pulled her head back and Marty saw that Red Shirt was listening to him, too, and was also shocked at the word.

  “They’re called eyes but what they really are, are places where the sprouts start for a new plant. By springtime, you’ll see what I mean. What you need to do is cut each potato into segments so that each one has about three,” he held up three fingers and wiggled them, “sprouts. Let the potato cuts dry out for a few days and then plant each chunk, that is, piece, in a trench, about two feet apart. Only put about so much,” he spread his fingers about an inch apart, “dirt on top. The little sprouts will start to turn into leaves. Keep burying the new plants with a bit more dirt every week or two until you have a hill. New little potatoes will form underground. If you get hungry and can’t wait until harvest, that’s after the plant has bloomed and then withered, you can burrow into the hills and pull out what they call new potatoes. They don’t have the tough skin on them and you can’t save them as long as the mature ones, but they taste even better, at least to me they do. So, do you think you can be the chief cook, bottle washer, and farmer?” he asked with a smile.

  “Bottle washer?” Rachel asked. She already knew what cooks and farmers were.

  “Oh, just, I mean, the one to take care of feeding the babies,” he fumbled. She wouldn’t understand the innuendo about breastfeeding, bottle-feeding and washing bottles anyhow.

  “Yes, I can take care of the babies, and Big Sister helps with the cooking, and I’m sure she’ll help with the farming, too. But I don’t think they have any bottles around here so that’s a good thing, I think,” she said, still confused.

  Suddenly everyone’s attention was at the far end of the camp. Old Woman had been tottering back to her makeshift palace with her cronies when something startled her. “Blah, blah, blah!” she shouted then repeated her threat again, verbatim, “Blah, blah, blah!”

  The three braves rushed to her aid. Big Sister pulled Rachel and the babies back to her, protecting them as only a six-year-old with an attitude could. ‘Stay with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you,’ she said with her stance.

  Then Marty heard it. Or rather, he heard her. “I don’t mean you any harm. I was just looking for the white man who came to our store earlier,” she said, a false bravado unsuccessfully trying to cover the squeak of fear as the word ‘our’ came out.

  Marty hopped over the fire, skipped then ran over to the gathering, hoping to avert any problems before they started. Old Woman was shaking her staff at a white woman, trying to terrorize her with the end of it from a safe ten paces away. They were both scared—that he could see. Red Shirt was at the perimeter of the fracas. Marty couldn’t see his face but he’d just about bet that he was smiling at the confrontation.

  “Hi, you were looking for me?” he asked as he stepped into the low glow of the campfire. The old women had been at the dinner party and had let their fire burn low. He stooped down and threw a couple more faggots onto the embers. The light would hopefully brighten the attitude and douse the eerie feeling that the low light created.

  “Yes, I thought that, um,” she faltered then inhaled sharply. She had already made her decision and now she would have to stick with it. She started again, “I thought that you might need a pot for all those beans that you got…and maybe a bread pan or two,” she added, suddenly feeling braver.

  A young, fine-figured white woman with an oversized cap walked into the light, a lumpy green cotton print bag in one hand, a fancy, carpetbag satchel in the other. She pulled her shoulders back proudly then walked toward Marty, her head bowing sharply just before she got to him, hiding something.

  “Why, I thank you for the gift, gifts,” he corrected then leaned sideways to see why she was hiding her face. “Is there something wrong?” he asked. “I mean, surely you shouldn’t be out here at night, all by yourself, should you?”

  “No and yes. Or yes and no. Shoot,” she exclaimed, suddenly frustrated and showing a true emotion for the first time. She took two small steps back away from him and began her heartfelt explanation. “I guess I’m running away from home. I overheard you tell my father that you had a big family and, and, well…I’m running away from home and would like to stay with you.” Her confidence faded quickly as she added, “But I didn’t think you had an Indian family. I mean, I only heard you, I didn’t see you. I mean, I didn’t know you didn’t wear pants!” she said in exasperation.

  “Well, I do sometimes,” Marty admitted with a chuckle. “It’s just I got such a good deal on a trade for this…” he joked as he flipped the edge of his breechclout. Marty looked around at the stern faces of the old women, Red Shirt and the other two braves. They weren’t impressed with his casual banter with the female intruder. He had to do some quick damage control.

  “I think you’ve put us at risk,” he said somberly. “It’s going to look like you’ve been kidnapped, at least. White women don’t just walk up to Indians and say I want to be part of your family.”

  “Yes, they do,” Rachel piped up, Junior on her hip, Big Sister on the other side, holding Baby Brother.

  “Well, not very often,” Marty correc
ted. “But you didn’t have any family, not really,” he added softly to Rachel, “and you do,” he said sternly to the woman, her age still indeterminable. “Are you the one who your father was hoping would get married soon; that he was saving the big ham for your wedding?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied dejectedly. “But I didn’t want to get married, to, ugh, the man he wanted me to marry. And anyone that I, um, liked, wouldn’t look at me, at least look at me twice.” The young woman set her bags down at her side and walked closer to Marty and the firelight, and then pulled back her wide flounced mobcap. “See,” she said with a shrug of her shoulder.

  Old Woman started in again, “Blah, blah, blah! Blah, blah, blah!”

  Marty looked over at her and said coldly, “Shut up, Old Woman.” He heard Red Shirt and Number Two snort quickly, an outburst of laughter sneaking past their lips then contained just as fast as it had slipped out. Marty looked back to the generous visitor and said, “Okay, so you’ve got a port wine stain birthmark on your cheek. So what? You seem intelligent, obviously have a kind heart or you wouldn’t be sharing, must be healthy if you could walk all the way here…You did walk, didn’t you? I mean, I’d hate to be accused of horse stealing, too.”

  “No, I walked,” she said.

  “But you’ve placed us in an awkward position. As I was saying, I’m sure your father will be out looking for you in the morning, if he isn’t already. Say, how did you find us? I mean, I had a hard time finding this place and I’d been here before and had a guide.”

  “I, um, cut a hole in one of the bags of cornmeal. It wasn’t a big hole, just enough so a few grains of meal slipped out.” The woman saw Marty’s stern scowl and added, “But I only saw the trail because I was looking for it. You must have stopped once because there was a bigger pile of it by some rocks, but I covered it up with dirt. Nobody will find me, us. I promise. Besides, I left a note for my father. I said I was going to Washington to catch a ship and sail to England. I have an uncle there and he said I could stay with him anytime.” The girl huffed with confidence at her cleverness, just coming short of issuing an ‘hmph!’ in satisfaction.

  “Washington? D.C.?” Marty asked. Surely, she couldn’t mean Washington State—that was still wild country and on the northwest coast of America.

  “No,” she replied and shook her head, wondering what he was talking about. “They used to call it Forks of the Tar. They changed the name a few years ago in honor of General George Washington. Big ships come in and go out of there all the time. I was going to sell my pendant for passage to England.” The young woman smiled broadly. “At least that’s what I said in the letter. I know it’s a sin to lie, but I told father that the tinker agreed to take me to Washington as a favor to him, not to worry about me, and that I would write to him when I got to England and Uncle Remus.”

  Marty looked to Red Shirt for the answer to the question on everyone’s mind: what are we going to do with her? He was just the interrogator. If Red Shirt didn’t understand everything she had said, he at least got the gist of her story. Letting her stay with them was a gamble. Either way, they couldn’t send her back in the middle of the night. She’d have to stay at least until morning.

  Red Shirt canted his head at Marty then looked to the pretty woman with the purple mark on her face. ‘Bring her to our camp—she can stay the night,’ he said with his body language.

  “Well, it looks like you can stay here at least until morning. I’m Marty Melbourne, by the way. And you are?” he asked, waiting for her to answer.

  “Prudence. Prudence Huntsman, but I’ll take any name they want to give me,” she said as she nodded to the apparent man in charge.

  Marty watched the three braves watch the woman as she watched them. Number Two’s eyes were smiling even if his mouth wasn’t. His brother-in-law had just found a white wife—maybe he could have this one.

  “Come on, Miss Waiting-for-a-new-name,” Marty said as he moved toward her bags. Number Two rushed over and picked up her carpet bag before Marty could retrieve it then reached around her and grabbed the kitchen cookware duffel, too, wordlessly offering his services as porter. Marty tucked his chin in and dropped his jaw, surprised at the white glove service the problematic intruder was receiving. Maybe there was going to be a new Mrs. Number Two soon.

  “Why, thank you,” she said and smiled at the good-looking man who had just taken the bags for her. “You are such a gentleman.”

  ‘Maybe ‘very’ soon,’ Marty thought silently. It could be that Rachel and Big Sister would have help with the cooking, farming, and bottle washing.

  13 Morning Star

  umber Two led the ladies to the campfire, dropped the bags without a word or even a grunt, then went into the shadows. He would watch this new white woman and see if she should stay or be returned to her family. It would be Red Shirt’s decision but he would ask for her if he thought she would be a good wife and mother to his children.

  Big Sister took Prudence’s hand and pointed to the cleared area on the other side of her bedding. “Please,” she said, offering her the warmest place available.

  “Thank you,” she replied then sat down, crossing her legs under her ample skirts, covertly surveying the isolated location. Yes, this place would not be easy to find without a guide, good directions, or a cornmeal trail. Even if her father suspected that she had followed Marty, he still wouldn’t be able to locate this site.

  Big Sister situated herself next to the lady with the big, strange hat, shifting her brother to her shoulder so she could sit closer to her. “She’s beautiful,” Prudence commented then frowned and lifted the tyke’s long shirt. “He’s very handsome,” she said, correcting herself. “Where’s your mother?” she asked cautiously as she accepted the boy into her arms, glowing at the trust the young girl was showing her by letting her hold the baby.

  “She died, of the measles, I think,” Rachel answered in resignation as she came to sit down in the empty spot in the little impromptu parlor. “I’ve only been with this tribe for two days. I’m Rachel, Red Shirt’s wife,” she said politely in introduction. Her arms suddenly felt very empty. Red Shirt had Junior, she’d have to let his father give him a new, better name; and Prudence was holding Baby Brother, Big Sister cuddled next to her. “So, why do you want to be here?” she asked brusquely, her tone changing with the subconscious threat of another adult woman in the tribe, stealing the attentions of her newfound family.

  “Well,” Prudence started, feeling uncomfortable with the direct cross-examination she was getting from a white woman who appeared to be about ten years her junior. “I, um, well, I wasn’t happy.”

  Rachel gave her a snort and a sharp stare: what difference does that make? Isn’t that how life is most of the time?

  Prudence saw ‘the look’ and changed approaches. “My father was very controlling. I was, am, ugly and no man wanted to marry me. So, my father was going to pay this pig of a person to be my husband. He was fat and ugly and rude and when my father wasn’t looking, he’d grab me. ‘Ooh, nice bosoms,’ he’d say or pat my bottom and tell me that I was sweeter than a two dollar whore. He had red bumpy spots on his arms and face. My father said that I shouldn’t pay them any mind. After all, I had this one big one on mine,” she said as she touched the birthmark that covered a large part of the left side of her face.

  Rachel listened but didn’t comment. She knew there was more to the story. “My father insisted that I marry Sylvester. I didn’t want to, really I didn’t. I knew, sort of, what a man did to a woman after they were married. He told me not to worry about that even though I never brought up the subject. He wanted to talk about it all the time—he was obsessed with it. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I wanted to make sure I knew how to pleasure my wife so I’ve been going to the whorehouses since I was yay high,’” Prudence quoted in a squeaky voice, and then indicated a youthful height. “He said he knew all about,” she shook her head in disgust, “all the places he could put his prick to make me happy.�
�� She shuddered in recollection. “Daddy didn’t believe me when I told him about the way he talked to me. He said that I had to do what my husband told me to, that I shouldn’t be so picky because I was so ugly, and that I should be happy that a nice gentleman like Sylvester was willing to make me his wife.”

  Baby Brother started squirming in her arms as she attempted to finish her story. “Here,” Rachel said and took him from her. “It’s his bedtime,” then bared her breast to feed him.

  She gave Rachel the baby, grateful for the break in her story. She didn’t like thinking about Sylvester or her father, but she needed to explain to this young woman why she didn’t want to go back. Maybe she could convince her husband to let her stay. But, whether she could or couldn’t, Rachel could probably ask him ‘not’ to let her stay. Two arguing women in one house, or small tribe, would make life miserable for everyone.

  “You have a beautiful son,” Prudence praised as Rachel settled herself, now ready to resume the conversation.

  “He’s not my son, he’s Number Two’s. Big Sister here is his daughter, too. Their mother died while he was out hunting. I’m feeding him until he’s old enough for big people food. That’s my husband and my son,” she said as she nodded to Red Shirt, playing his poke and tease reflex game with his charge. “We were just married a couple of days ago. He’s a good man. So, did Sylvester hit you?” she asked sincerely—she was starting to like Prudence. There had to be another reason why she wasn’t willing to marry the man.

  “No, he just touched me where I didn’t want to be touched,” she answered. Rachel nodded that she knew how that felt but didn’t interrupt. “But his spots: I knew what they were. He had syphilis. I read about the symptoms in a book. I told him I thought that was why he had the bumps. He got mad, real mad. He said I’d better not tell my Daddy about it. Anyway, he said it was a lie. He said that some of the whores he’d been with had it, but that he couldn’t get it. He was imbued or commune or something—I forget the word. Anyway, it’s like if you had the measles once, you’d never get them again.”