The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  Finally, he walked to the main post office in Lawrence, and inquired as to proper postage to Paris. The postal clerk gave him an odd look, checked in a book, and told him the amount: nearly a dollar in all.

  “Don’t you want a return address on it?” the clerk asked with a sly grin.

  “I … No, it’s not needed,” John said quickly.

  He hurried back to the school and tried to calculate: How long would it take his letter to cross the continent, then the Atlantic by steamship, on to Paris by train, and the reply back to Kansas in the reverse order. Weeks … Months, maybe.

  But now he could wait.

  He had something to hold on to.

  SEVENTEEN

  John realized that it would be weeks or even months before he could expect an answer to his letter. He threw himself into his studies and his constant exercise and training routines. He did so with more enthusiasm now, knowing that contact had been established. Still, the waiting was slow and frustrating.

  The summer break was approaching. Some students returned to their homes, but most stayed at Lawrence, or in the area. There were many summer jobs on farms in the surrounding hills, and John had no trouble finding work, for room and board and a little pay. He tried hard to do what was expected. It helped that he had placed himself on a demanding, scheduled routine. He had not fully realized the importance until he chanced to overhear a conversation between his employer and a neighbor. John was cleaning and oiling harness in the barn. It was hard not to overhear the talk just outside.

  “I heard you hired one o’ them Indians from over at Haskell,” the neighbor was saying.

  “Yah,” said Hans Schneebarger. “Dis vun ist goot vorker.”

  “I heard tell they ain’t very reliable as to showin’ up on time.”

  “Mebbe so, mebbe not. Dis vun ist goot.”

  Inside the barn, John was very quiet. Even though the conversation was favorable to him, he was embarrassed. It was demeaning to be classed as part of a group that was being considered irresponsible. He could see how this had evolved. Among his people, time of day was defined loosely. When will the council be held? When the time comes. The sun comes up; it goes down. The white man is preoccupied with the numbers on the face of his clocks and watches.

  John had tried hard to learn the white man’s ways. His years in the government schools had helped. It startled him a bit to realize that he had been successful enough to be singled out as one who “ist goot” about promptness. He was uncertain whether to accept the compliment, or to resent the lumping together of all Indians as unreliable. Then it occurred to him that he was guilty of the same thing. He had a tendency to lump together all whites. White men do this … . Do that … White men pay too much attention to their clocks … .

  This line of thought was interrupted by the conversation outside.

  “I tell you vun t’ing,” Mr. Schneebarger was saying, “dis boy, John, ist der best I ever seen mit horses. He can talk mit dem!”

  “Aw, c’mon!”

  “Yah! Ist true.”

  The two men walked on to look at something over at the hog pen, leaving John in wonder. His employer rarely gave him a word of praise, but apparently was quite impressed with John’s horsemanship. It was something that he had never thought much about. Horses had been a part of his life in younger days, and he had missed them. Here, he was enjoying the renewed contact. The smells of a sweaty animal; the not unpleasant, slightly ammoniac scent of warm sun on the hard-pounded earth of the corral brought back memories. The sense of smell recalls perhaps more, deeper memories than any other, and he was reliving the more pleasant times of his childhood. He had not realized recently how much he had missed the horses of the People.

  Somehow, the summer passed. He wrote another note to Jane via Emily Brighton-Jones, still not knowing whether his first one had been received.

  In early August a letter arrived, recognizable by the French stamps and postmarks. His friend Walter Goingbird walked out to give it to him. It was addressed in the handwriting of Jane’s coconspirator, Emily. There was something about the envelope that made John suspect that the envelope had been tampered with, but he could not be sure. Possibly, there was merely the wear and tear from being tossed around in a mailbag and lying in the musty hold of an ocean liner.

  That evening he sought privacy at the top of the hill behind the Schneebarger farmstead and opened the letter, his heart racing. The faint scent of her perfume lingered even now.

  My dear one,

  I know not whether any of my letters may have reached you. I have not heard from you. I have to consider that you may not want me with the same passion that I feel for you, and this tears my heart to pieces. I prefer to think, and this is my dream, that we are one, and that we are being prevented from contact.

  I know that my mail is being censored, both incoming and outgoing. This may not even reach you. Since I have not heard, I must assume that either you have received none of my notes, that you did not try to answer, or that you tried unsuccessfully. I choose to cling to the latter interpretation. Your mail, too, may be censored, you know.

  I do not know how long I will be able to continue in this wretched condition, not knowing. Maybe, someday, our trails will cross once more. Until then, know that I want you, need you … . But for now, I fear that my father has won. I will continue to write, but without the confidence that I once felt, until I can hear from you.

  Yours always,

  Jane

  At the top of the hill, John voiced a long, wailing sob, like a song of mourning, which in fact, it was. It echoed across the woodland, the grassy meadows, and the cornfields of Hans Schneebarger. Horses raised their heads to listen.

  “Vas ist das?” Helga asked her husband.

  “Ist nothing. Dot Indian … John. Zum sort of chant … Like it vas dere church, maybe.”

  “Yah,” she agreed. “Dot’s likely. But he better come. His supper he vill miss!”

  Back at school in September, John threw himself into his training with gusto, but it was no good.

  “What’s the matter, Buffalo?” yelled the coach after a fumble during scrimmage. “You’re just not concentrating!”

  After practice, the coach took him aside. “John, is something wrong?”

  The coach was calmer now, having gotten past the rush of frustration over a poor performance. What could be wrong with one of his star athletes?

  “No, sir,” John said grimly.

  There was no way he could explain his feeling of helplessness, the terrible loss that gnawed at his heart, with no possibility of remedy.

  Likewise, there was no way for the coach to reach him. From past experience, it was apparent when one of the Indian students adopted this attitude. This was an emotionless stone-faced front, a stoic defensive posture that was completely impenetrable. It was futile to try to breach that facade.

  “Okay,” said the coach helplessly, “if there’s anything I can do to help, you know where to find me.”

  A strange young man, he thought, but no more so than a lot of others. More sensitive, perhaps.

  He wondered what had occurred during the summer break that had so changed the world of John Buffalo. Maybe he could drive up to the Schneebargers’ and ask about any unusual happenings. But it would have to wait. The football season was in full swing just now. They had to prepare to meet Missouri’s Tigers, and it looked as if Buffalo wouldn’t be ready. Maybe he could use George Bacon, or Edward Whips-Along … .

  John was doubly frustrated now. He watched from the bench, knowing that he could do better than the players on the field. He had done better. But then, on the heels of that thought, a realization: That had been when he was filled with the emotion and energy of a thrilling love. That love still existed, but was now unattainable.

  On one of his few free afternoons, he took a hike into the hills south of Haskell. He realized that he should probably have been in the library, but his spirit called for renewal.

  The war
m autumn sun found him on a hilltop, watching the big red squirrels so common to the area. They were busily gathering acorns from several varieties of oaks. Leaves were changing color … . The slope across from him to the east was a tapestry of gold and scarlet and the yellow of cottonwoods and the green of an occasional cedar. It was good.

  A thought came to him, a quotation … He did not remember the source, and it had made no sense to him at the time: Those who can, DO. Those who cannot, TEACH.

  Why should this have popped into his head, as he sat here nursing his misery? This—his last competitive season in school—was not to be a good one. It was probably too late now to salvage anything from it. But his greater goal—to become a coach … Regardless of this season, he would have to do something else next year, anyway.

  Maybe he could find employment. Mr. Schneebarger had seemed satisfied with his work, especially around the horses. The man had hinted that he could maybe come back next summer, but John had paid little attention. He was too depressed at the time to even think about it.

  Besides, the pay was poor. Room and board, but meager cash. Not that money had ever been important to John. Still, one must eat. But it was an option.

  Maybe a better one, however … Those who can’t, TEACH … . When he had heard that saying, it had meant those physically unable. But could it not as well mean those no longer in school? He’d enjoyed the coaching that he had done. He had seriously considered it as a career. Only recently had the distraction of his thwarted romance driven it from his mind.

  He realized now that he had been depending considerably on Senator Langtry to guide his athletic career. Maybe, Olympic competition. Now that was gone, too, along with his lost love. He shook off his bitterness. Surely there were others to whom he could turn.

  Naismith! Of course … The man had expressed interest in him, had offered him kindness and help, not once but twice. Once in Massachusetts and again since the coach’s arrival at the University.

  Yes … He’d walk over to the University and ask to talk to Dr. Naismith. Maybe there would be some sort of assistant-coaching job for which he could apply.

  He rose with new purpose, and hurried back to the Haskell campus.

  EIGHTEEN

  John waited in the outer office, under the watchful eye of a guardian secretary or assistant of some sort. The secretary, a young man with unruly hair and a face badly scarred by the pitting of smallpox, was busily sorting papers and arranging them in folders, presumably in alphabetical order. From time to time he glanced up toward the visitor, a bit suspiciously, perhaps. That look was not unusual. You are different … . I’m watching you to see that you don’t try anything … .

  John wondered if he and his fellow students at Haskell might exhibit a similar attitude toward whites. This struck him as ironic, and might have seemed more so, if he had not been overwhelmed by the enormity of his present problem. He withdrew further into his protective shell.

  Conversational voices behind the door marked J. Naismith, Dir. Athletics rose a trifle in volume, yet with good humor apparent. The visitor must be preparing to leave. Now the door opened. A young man shook hands with the coach and turned away, with a glance and a nod at John Buffalo.

  “A fella to see you, sir,” said the pockmarked secretary.

  Naismith looked up, puzzled.

  “Yes?”

  “A few words with you, sir,” John mumbled.

  “Yes … Come in … . Mr … . ?”

  Confusion was plain on the coach’s face as he struggled to place his visitor.

  “Buffalo. John Buffalo.”

  “Ah, of course! Haskell … Before that, Carlisle, right? Football and track, wasn’t it? Come in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Naismith gestured toward a chair, and circled around his desk to his own seat. He folded his hands, elbows on the desk, and leaned forward.

  “How’s your season going, Buffalo?”

  He seemed curious as to why a player from another school would be here to talk to him in mid-season. Perhaps even a bit suspicious.

  “Not the best, sir.”

  “But I thought Haskell was having a pretty good go at it, eh?”

  “Oh … Yes, sir. Not bad. I thought you meant myself.”

  “Well …” The coach seemed confused. “Well, I did, to some extent. Both, maybe.”

  “I see … . But … I’m not starting,” John blurted. “I haven’t played much.”

  Now the coach appeared astonished. “You’re not? An injury?”

  “No, sir. Coach felt I wasn’t ready.”

  “You? Not ready? Buffalo, I’ve seen you play.”

  Naismith leaned back in his chair with a chuckle, and then forward again.

  “You’re not in trouble?”

  “No, sir,” mumbled John, “not that way.”

  He was embarrassed, wishing he hadn’t come. The coach, experienced in talking with young men, took another approach.

  “Let’s see … . This is your senior year. Your last season, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not certain how it stands. I was at Carlisle for two years … .”

  “Yes. And then you transferred to Haskell? I don’t understand—it seems backward, somehow.”

  “I had no choice, sir,” John said stiffly. He was very uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going.

  Naismith nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  John had the impression that maybe the coach actually did understand, and he felt a little better. Maybe he could state his problem.

  “My reason for coming wasn’t about this season, sir. I know it’s my last collegiate competition, good or bad. I was thinking of next year. I … Well, how does a man go about looking for a coaching job?”

  Naismith leaned back in his chair with a more relaxed chuckle.

  “Oh, so that’s it, eh? You’re looking for a job for next year. A good plan, Buffalo. But … Let’s see … Your credentials are confusing. You won’t have a degree. Really odd. Why would they—? Well, never mind. What I’m getting at is that you won’t be qualified academically, even as an assistant. You might work as a trainer or manager while you take enough credit hours to hold a degree. You could work on your track events toward the Olympics at the same time. McGregor told me you’re pretty good. Discus, wasn’t it?”

  “Well … Javelin’s probably my best event. That and cross-country.”

  “Yes … I suppose you realize that distance runners don’t really peak in their careers until they’re nearing thirty?”

  “I’d heard that, sir.”

  “Well … Let’s see, now … . Your first move will be to inquire. You need to know how many credits you’ll have at the end of this academic year. How many more you’ll need for a degree. Where did you intend to enroll?”

  “I hadn’t even thought about it, sir. I didn’t know where to start.”

  “Well, it would need to be where you can find a job of some sort. Preferably, in athletics, eh? Several colleges in the area …”

  “Would there be anything here?” John asked. “As a job, I mean.”

  “Maybe … Let’s find out about the credits and requirements. Ask your registrar at Haskell for a transcript, and we’ll take it from there. Meanwhile, keep working hard.”

  Naismith rose, which seemed to indicate that the interview was at an end. The coach opened the door into the outer office, where another young man was waiting, and now rose excitedly from his chair.

  “Coach!” he said breathlessly. “They offered me a job. Basketball coach!”

  Naismith threw up his hands in resignation.

  “I keep telling them. You don’t coach basketball. It’s just a game! Well, come on in.” He turned to John. “Buffalo, let me know when you have that transcript, eh?”

  It was not the easiest task to get a copy of his records.

  “They won’t be complete until next summer,” grumbled the clerk in the administrator’s offices. “What do
you want with your records anyway, Buffalo?”

  “I’ve been asked to submit them,” John said stiffly.

  “Well, we can’t just give them to you. We’d have to send them to an accredited institution.”

  “Then send them to Coach Naismith at the University.”

  “There’ll be a charge. A dollar.”

  “Okay, I’ll pay it.”

  “Be a couple of weeks.”

  “Then go ahead, please.”

  The dour clerk shrugged noncommittally and went back to his pens and paper.

  In due time, with much insistence, the needed documentation was ready. He was even allowed to hand-carry the sealed envelope to the University.

  “It has to stay sealed,” warned the clerk.

  “Of course,” said John brusquely, laying a hard-earned silver dollar on the counter.

  He made his way back to Naismith’s office as soon as his schedule permitted.

  “Oh, no, not here,” said the pockmarked secretary. “Take it over to Administration.”

  “May I speak with the coach?” John asked.

  “Huh!” grunted the other. “He’s out of town.”

  The door to the inner office was closed, but John had no reason to question the secretary’s statement.

  “When … Never mind … Would you tell him that John Buffalo was here? That I have the papers he requested.”

  “Yes, I’ll leave him a note.”

  The young man smiled. Maybe he wasn’t really as gruff as he tried to appear. Just doing his job.

  John asked directions and found the appropriate office, where he handed his envelope to another clerk.

  “I’d like to speak to someone about completing a degree.”

  The other nodded.

  “Have a chair,” he gestured, as he turned toward an inner office, carrying the envelope.

  It seemed to John that he waited a long time. He could hear a conversation in the inner office and eventually a tall, thin gentleman with fuzzy sideburns and a full, bushy mustache emerged with some papers in his hand. He peered at John over small but thick spectacles, as if he were observing a scientific specimen of some sort.