Wabanaki Blues

by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

  “Mommy! Pretty costume!” She sticks a chubby pinky finger in my direction.

  Her mom has dark circles under her eyes. She doesn’t apologize for the mess her kid made and grabs the hem of my skirt as if I’m a mannequin. “Louisiana, maybe we can find a costume like this for you to wear for Halloween. With a better hat. You can be mommy’s little Indian princess.”

  I am about to explain that my hat is actually a traditional peaked cap, and that I am not a mannequin or a princess, and that what I’m wearing is not called a costume. But the kid’s father picks up one of Grumps’ antlers, and I don’t want to blow a sale. Just as the man pulls out his wallet, Princess Louisiana gets bored with me and drags both of her parents back in the direction of Black Racer Woman’s booth.

  Grumps returns as the loudspeaker booms with the lineup instructions for Grand Entry. The master of ceremonies speaks from a raised wooden platform. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on earlier, with the addition of a buckskin vest beaded with a glittering American Flag. I whisper to Grumps that I think he’s an Iraqi War vet. He says he guesses the man more likely served in Afghanistan because of his eagle-eyed look.

  The master of ceremonies speaks like a drill sergeant. “All First Nations line up at the entrance to the big tent. Royalty up front!”

  There’s a funny look on some of the spectators’ faces when they hear the word “royalty” used to indicate Chiefs and other traditional tribal leaders. Watching the tourists’ curious expressions over these unfamiliar Indian customs is half the fun of attending powwows.

  Grumps tosses a plastic red checkered tablecloth to cover his antlers and offers me his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. “I’m privileged to dance this year’s powwow Grand Entry with my well-dressed granddaughter. Let’s you and me make some Good Medicine in that dance circle. We’re going to need all the good spirits we can muster after dealing with your poisonous snake of a great aunt. Get in line, City Gal.”

  As I mentioned, I’m not crazy about dancing. Thankfully, Bilki offers some timely advice. “The point of powwows is to dance on somebody else’s territory and realize it’s all part of the same dusty earth. We humans are huddled together on a tiny blue bead, spinning through the star-studded universe.”

  That was trippy. My head is still spinning from her words, as the dancers start shaking their feathered headdresses, ankle bells, and gourd rattles to warm up. The women dancers bob straight up and down, the men begin to stomp, and the earth itself feels wobbly, as if it’s moving with them.

  A serious-faced little boy flashing a lime feather bustle and tangerine ribbon shirt carries a shell filled with smoking sage past our line of waiting dancers. I ask him for an extra-thorough smudge, and he circles me up and down with sweet smoke. I need a good spiritual cleansing after meeting tiny Princess Louisiana and Black Racer Woman. They’re standing in front of my aunt’s booth, laughing together, and sharing some demonic joke. My heart flutters fearfully at the thought of them teaming up and conquering the known universe, snuffing out the light of every star in the sky.

  Grumps strays out of line to greet a few more friends. I spot a guy standing beside our vendor booth with spiked dark hair and lichen-green eyes. It’s Del! The first drumbeat thunders. Our eyes meet. A second loud drumbeat sounds. I lunge out of the dance line.

  Someone grabs my arm and brings me back. “There’s no stepping out now, City Gal, says Grumps. “The circle has begun. You can’t break it.”

  I feel the pressure of my grandfather’s hand on my arm. His pulse is keeping pace with the rhythm of the drum, urging my legs to do the same. Del’s lichen eyes plead with me to step out of the circle. But I can’t, even though he’s a magnet for me. I’m thinking maybe Bear is right and it’s unfair of me to have blamed Del for his dad’s addiction. My guilt and longing make me fall out of step. I want his arms around me. I want his soft, fiery lips on mine. I stumble and realize I need to pay more attention to my feet. When we circle around again, Del is gone from our booth. An elder from Shinnecock waves at me reassuringly with her turkey feather fan. I miss a beat. Her smoky eyes pull my concentration back to the circle.

  My steps are suddenly in sync for the first time. The earth’s heartbeat surges through my feet—toe heel, toe heel. I take sure steps. The dance circle resonates through my mind, body and spirit. I’m fully connected with it all: toddlers waddling to their first drumbeats, jingle dancers clanging rhythmically, grass dancers spinning into a blur of color, proud grandmothers swishing their long-fringed shawls, old warriors shaking ceremonial clubs and making every arthritic step count. There are Indians here today from across the four winds of this hemisphere—from the Wabanaki people of the eastern dawn, to as far south as mountainous Ecuador, to as far west as the adobe Pueblos and as far north as the Inupiat of the Arctic. I am one with them, one with the circle, one with the universe. I am dancing in step with it all. Toe heel, toe heel. I climb upward into the air and leap on the back of a swooping eagle, toe heel, toe heel. I jump off and fly higher, on my own, beyond the birds and into the heavens.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I look down and catch sight of Del again. His back is turned; he’s walking away. My mind leaves the circle with him. I tumble like a shooting star and crash back toward earth, past the MC, the drummers, the tourists, the ever-watchful tribal elders, the mothers, fathers, babies, and ancestors, toe heel, toe heel. My foot lands hard and the last drumbeat sounds. My eyes dart everywhere. There is no sign of Del. My spirit runs dry.

  I spring from the circle, searching. Someone tugs on my Abenaki cap from overhead. I raise my uncertain eyes and tremble, realizing I almost forgot how delicious butterscotch bangs and licorice eyes can be. It’s Beetle! I shake from the sight of him, from the power of dancing the circle, from feeling the living beat of the drum, from seeing Del and losing Del. Thunder and lightning are falling from the sky, and I am the only one who realizes it.

  “What’s up with the pointy witches’ hat, Guitar Girl?” Beetle asks, yanking me back to a world without ceremony.

  I’m suddenly embarrassed. I’m dressed in moth-eaten wool garments from my grandfather’s hoary trunk. Yet Beetle appears confident, donning his riot of candy plaids and checks, a ridiculous style reserved for the frolicking preppy New England summer elite. Both of us wear our respective regalias. I shudder as the worlds of Indian Stream and Hartford collide.

  Beetle’s super-buff, super-jerk friend Brick Rodman hovers behind him, jeering at my clothes. Auspiciously, two girls in string bikini tops lure him away.

  Beetle continues to tug at my hood until Grumps comes and snatches him by the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, young man,” he says, terse. “You must be careful of that headdress. It belonged to my late wife. I’m Mona’s grandfather, Mr. Elmwood. Who might you be?”

  Before Beetle can respond, I lay a gentle hand on Grumps heaving chest. “Grumps, I know him from school, back in Hartford.”

  Beetle turns on the charm. “The name’s Barrington Dill, sir. My friends call me Beetle.” He reaches for Grumps’ hand but my grandfather swats it away like it’s a bug and sways unsteadily.

  “Maybe you should sit down, chief,” says Beetle, reaching to help him.

  “I’m no chief, boy. I’m Mr. Elmwood to you.”

  Beetle eyes Grumps worriedly and pulls a plastic chair close. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Elmwood.”

  Grumps snarls out a “thank you.”

  Beetle points to Rosalita lying in the other chair at our antler booth. “She’s how I knew you were here, Mona. I recognized your guitar.” He continues to view Grumps, cautiously. “I didn’t know you were spending the summer at Winnipesaukee with your gramps.”

  “We’re staying on a different lake, a little farther north.”

  Grumps’ fist slams on our vendor table. He must have overheard me say, a little farther north. He knows that’s a lie. It’s like sayin
g I live in the ritzy Upper East Side of New York City when I live in the Bronx—which is also up and east, technically speaking. For all they have in common, the people of Indian Stream and Lake Winnipesaukee might as well exist on different planets.

  Beetle scans back and forth from Rosalita and me to Grumps. “I missed seeing you at graduation.”

  I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t my idea to miss it.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He grins. “But just so you know, it was a disaster. Some jackweed called in a threat to kill the principal only a few minutes into the event. We never got our diplomas. All we got was Dibble’s speech about how we should all be kinder to animals. Can you believe it?”

  “I can’t believe everybody at Colt High missed having a decent graduation this year. That shouldn’t make me happy but it does. In fact, I’m inspired to play you a tune.” I climb behind the table, take up my guitar, and play a few lines from “Thunder and Lightning,” the song I wrote about him, daring to expose my true feelings. This powwow dance circle has given me strength and nerve.

  Beetle elbows me. “That tune rocks. Got any lyrics for it?”

  My throat closes up because the lyrics are about him. Yet he has no way of knowing that. Besides, I’m desperate to hear his awesome voice. Beetle performed the title roles in our school musicals of Les Misérables, Pippin, and Jesus Christ Superstar. I don’t want to miss hearing him sing my best composition.

  I grab a pen and paper from our booth. “I’ll write the words down. You can sing them. My voice stinks.”

  Grumps grunts at that comment and struts away to chat with a Mohegan vendor selling carved gourds.

  Beetle and I launch into “Thunder and Lightning,” my original blues song. A few people crowd around the minute I start playing. There’s a guy our age with an arm tattoo that says “Mi’kmaq,” a skinny little kid wearing beautiful brain-tanned buckskin, and a grimacing Narragansett elder, all listening intently.

  Thunder and lightning fall down from the sky, badum, badum

  Since time began, no one has ever asked why, badum, badum

  The crashing symbols, the big brass drum, badum, badum

  Just like you baby, they’re big loud and dumb, badum, badum

  While we perform, Beetle stares at my hands as if he is worshipping them. We finish and a few bystanders clap. The grimacing Narragansett elder steps in front of us and speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. “A Mohegan can’t be expected to know enough not to play blues at a powwow.” A smile flickers across her lips. “But at least you both have talent.”

  Her mixed review is fair. Nobody puts on this sort of display. My decision to perform with Beetle was straight up selfish, regardless of any trumped-up justification I might devise about making good medicine with dance and song.

  Beetle spontaneously touches my chord hand to thank me for our song. His tan is glowing and he’s beaming at me like he’s my own personal sun. He leaves his hand on mine.

  “Your guitar playing gets better and better. You and Rosalita will be famous one day soon.”

  Grumps returns and clears his throat. Beetle’s hand lifts off of mine.

  I put a finger to Beetle’s soft lips, “Your voice is great.”

  Brick Rodman leaps in front of us, performing a made-up Hollywood Indian dance. “Princess Many Strings, ’sup?” He plucks Rosalita’s strings.

  I swing her behind my back, protectively. “So Beetle, I see you invited your classy friend to stay at Winnipesaukee with you.”

  “Don’t you know it,” says Brick, tossing an arm around Beetle.

  That gesture makes me feel like I’ve been violated.

  “Yo, Beetleman, time to hit it,” says Brick. “Rasima is helping your mom throw a barbeque at the house, tonight. She told me she invited some local girls. We gots to go.”

  Beetle doesn’t respond to him. He stares at my hands, like he always does, only this time his face is strained. “Mona, we’ll practice together when we get back to Hartford. Right?”

  I say nothing and cast my eyes down. I’m not sure this is a good idea, with him headed for college.

  “Peace out, Injun scout!” salutes Brick, grabbing his friend’s arm and heading off.

  Grumps starts coughing up a lung, which I presume is a show of disdain over that remark. But he keeps coughing well after Brick leaves.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I am, but you may not be. This was on your chair.” He hands me a folded powwow flyer with a message scribbled on the back.

  Hey Dancing Lady,

  Sorry to have missed you. Deeply sorry. Great dancing, by the way. Keep on swinging that blues axe. I expect to see your name in lights soon. I apologize for being such an idiot.

  Love always,

  Del

  My heart sinks deep into the dusty earth. Why did he leave before talking to me?

  I picture Del’s smile, the one true, smirk-free smile I’ve ever known. If Grumps and Bilki love the Pynes, why am I so critical of them? I run to the parking lot at a full clip, my chest and throat afire. In the distance, I spot a lemony head inside a Saab beside a tuft of spiked black hair. I hate that lemony head because I know it’s thinking about utilizing a love charm.

  I guess my face tells the whole story when I get back to the booth because Grumps hugs me with all his might.

  He shakes a finger in the direction of my great aunt’s booth. “Anything bad happening here is her fault. That snake creature is Bad Medicine. You want better luck, stay away from her.” He snatches a bee from the air, squeezing the life out of the poor creature with his fingertips. He buries it in the dirt with his toe and covers it with a sprinkle of tobacco. “That was probably another one of her friends.”

  I squeeze the red leather pouch under my shirt. His blaming my great aunt doesn’t help. I slouch into a sorry lump of wool. Something rustles on the ground beside me, and I reach for it. It’s a bouquet of indigo blue cornflowers with a card addressed to M.L. The question is: are these from Del, too? Do those initials stand for Mona Lisa? Or Mona LaPierre? It matters. Del calls me Mona Lisa. Beetle knows me as Mona LaPierre. So who is it from? The note says, “Blue flowers for a Blues woman.” Both guys are musicians, so the note doesn’t help identify the gift-giver.

  No guy has ever paid attention to me until this summer. Now I don’t know which one is leaving me flowers. Maybe my creepy new great aunt isn’t such bad luck after all. I study the note on the flowers for a clue to their sender. I can’t figure it out. But I realize I have something that may help!

  I pull out Black Racer Woman’s pouch filled with May apple root. As she instructed, I name one piece of root “Mona,” one “Del,” and one “Beetle.” The idea is to draw together the two roots of the people who are meant for each other. I roll the three withered pieces of root around, and they vibrate in my palm. This is it. I feel like I’m choosing between two lifestyles rather than two guys. Beetle globetrots the planet like a celebrity. Del burrows into The Great North Woods, like a bear in winter. I roll the roots in my palm one last time for good measure and then squeeze my fist, holding my breath as I begin to open my palm.

  Someone shouts, “Louisiana!” and I look up, just as the number one Disney princess girl slams into my booth, knocking me and the three pieces of May apple root out of my hand and into the dust. The girl’s mother lunges forward, swoops up her daughter and storms off, trampling two of the roots to smithereens. The third piece, she kicks away, out of sight. I comb the ground with my fingernails, searching for my ruined fortune. But there is no trace of the May apple root. My future is forever embedded in the New Hampshire dust.

  Nine

  Headed for a Good Fall

  It’s mid July, nearly a month since I arrived in Indian Stream. Grumps shifts his chin, cutting a ragged new trail into his earth-brown skin. “I hear distant thunder. A storm is coming.”


  What he means is that my parents will be picking me up today. I think about how I’ll soon be able to use my cell phone again. Funny, I almost don’t care. This summer, I learned to appreciate the woods. I even learned to accept Grumps’ odd relationship with black bears, though they still maintain a wary distance from me, always posturing, like the friends of your enemies. There is one thing that hasn’t changed—despite the upturn in our relationship—I still hate that Heidi book.

  Outside, the liquid silver sky grumbles like a waking spring bear, tarnishing to squirrel gray, then charcoal, as thunderheads march overhead like an army of sky warriors. A mighty west wind sweeps in, bowing down the tallest pines until their needles brush the forest floor like giant brooms. A golden crack of electricity unzips the grizzly sky, illuminating explosive sheets of rain that turn paths and roads into sputtering white-capped streams. Grumps mumbles something about how lucky we are not to have to worry about losing power. I ignore that remark and retreat to my room, moved by the fierce weather to add a third verse to the song, “You are My Lightning.” I think about Beetle, the guy who inspired its lyrics, and wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

  Outside my window, a slate-colored thunderhead darkens and expands. That sight is perfect for a bluesy recluse like me. I’m not kidding about the recluse part. Since the powwow, over a week ago, I’ve stayed home. Maybe I’ve been woodshedding because I realize my music is all that matters. Maybe I’ve been afraid I might see Del and Scales together somewhere around town. Either way, I’ve plucked and picked at Rosalita till her strings frayed. A worn spot on her body reflects the pressure of my wrist. Occasionally, I’ve heard Grumps sing along when I strum an old Beatles song. Otherwise, he’s kept his distance. He’s been getting rides to the general store from a mysterious gal pal he calls Sadie. All I know about her is she drives a biodiesel beater that smells like french fries.

  I’d be lying if I said I’ve spent all my time indoors. The other day, Grumps took me on a hike to identify sugar maple fungus. He showed me the ugly pockmarks on the leaves. I was inspired to write a song in honor of these sick maples, called “Too Sweet to Die.” It may be that he’s obsessed with keeping the maples alive because they’re my grandmother’s namesakes. Protecting them matters to me for a different reason: I want to keep eating pancakes with real maple syrup. While I’ve been here, I’ve probably eaten a hundred.