The Beadworkers

by Beth Piatote

  She heard him change positions, perhaps roll from his back to his stomach. “How very life-affirming of you,” he offered.

  “Exactly!”

  “So where is this guy from?”

  “That’s the best thing: he’s from Kamiah! And he’s great. He works for the tribe on salmon restoration.”

  “Salmon restoration! I like a fish man.”

  Iris could tell that Trevor was now sitting up.

  “I know! He’s so amazing. He went to Dartmouth, and then he did a master’s in biology at Idaho so he could come back and work for the tribe. He’s totally committed to our people. He’s coming to Portland in a couple of weeks for a conference and he asked me out.”

  “On a date?”

  “Duh! We’re having dinner.”

  “Sounds like it might be more than just a snag.”

  “Maybe.” She drew in a quick breath. “I hope.”

  “Wait a minute,” Trevor said, his voice fully awake. “He does salmon restoration and he was making out during a film on deforestation? Shouldn’t he be all worried about that? About riparian zones and shit like that? Who did you say this guy is?”

  “Carson,” she said. “Carson Lawyer.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

  Then: “Carson? And he works for the tribe? Kind of a big guy?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “Yeah, I know Carson,” Trevor said. “My sister is having a baby with him.”

  There was another long pause.

  Finally Iris spoke.

  “I don’t know which one of us should be more pissed off right now,” she said. After another pause, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” he said, and hung up.

  TRUST PIT. On the center of the board is an area marked TRUST PIT. The TRUST PIT is the repository for funds taken by the Federal Government. There are three cards marked Trust Pit in the deck of Stick Game cards. If a player draws one of these cards, the player must immediately place all cash assets in the TRUST PIT. All future cash exchanges (gained in Give Aways and passages Home) must be deposited into the TRUST PIT. The player whose assets are taken into trust must simply watch his or her money accumulate throughout the game, as there is no mechanism for removing the funds from trust. If all three Trust Pit cards are drawn by players in the course of one game, the game is immediately over.

  Iris was beading the edge of her wIndin! game board when Trevor came by, dripping wet from the winter rains. She gave him a cup of hot tea as he settled into the padded folding chair at her table.

  “I had an idea for the Stick Game cards today,” she said.

  “Yeah?’

  “It’s a special card called Quantum Leap.”

  “Oh god.”

  “Awesome, right? So you get the Quantum Leap card, and it says, ‘Congratulations! Your auntie got pissed at your mom and told the Enrollment Office that your dad is really not your dad but your mom’s old high-school boyfriend. Since he’s a full-blood, you are now 25 percent more Indian! Give everyone at the table $20 to celebrate your Quantum Leap!’”

  “Okay, but isn’t ‘high-school boyfriend’ kind of tame? How about ‘your auntie blabbed that your dad is really some Tohono O’odham dude your mom snagged at Gathering of Nations.’ Then you could actually collect $20 from everyone at the table so you can make an epic journey back to your roots to find your full-blooded dad.”

  “And his entire clan. Good luck with that.”

  “You know, they’re all full-bloods down there. They all run around like, ‘I’m four/four! I’m four/four!’”

  “Be careful, you might end up at law school down there,” she said. “How about, ‘Your mom just told you that you aren’t really her kid but your Aunt Holly’s, and your dad is some Quechua guy she met at an anti-Columbus rally.’ It would be like, ‘Congratulations! You are really Indigenous!’”

  “You are transfreakinghemispherically Indigenous. And you’re related to Benjamin Bratt.”

  “Dang! That’s no good. That could kill fantasy lives. Should I make the guy Aymaran?”

  “Listen, Iris, there’s something I’ve got to talk to you about.”

  “Does it involve Benjamin Bratt?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not sure I’m interested.”

  “Come on, Iris.”

  “Okay. What.” Iris stopped beading and looked up at him.

  “I think it’s really cool that you are getting your art out there. But I think you should talk to some other artists, you know, get some advice. Maybe help you decide if you should go back to school or figure out the next thing. Because there is more out there than Indian Art Northwest. And Design Depot.”

  Iris returned to her work. “I think I’ll see some artists at the show.”

  “You mean some other artists.”

  Iris stopped beading and looked up at him. “Look, just because I don’t have my life all mapped out like you do doesn’t mean that I don’t have a plan.”

  “I know,” he said, dropping his gaze. She leaned farther into her work so that Trevor was looking at the top of her head. With her needle, she plucked each bead and drew it into place. The loop of thread tightened and slackened, tightened and slackened.

  Suddenly she stopped and looked up at him. “What?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.” He sat up straighter in his chair.

  “I think there’s something.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I have something for you.” He produced a small white card from his pocket. She laid down her needle and took it from his hand. She recognized the 505 area code, but not the rest of the number. “It’s Marcus Amerman’s cell,” he said, proudly. She stared at the card. “So you can call him,” he added.

  “And why would I call him?”

  “Just to find out if he’s coming to Portland in May. And then you can ask to see him.”

  She laid the card on the table, on the other side of the board. She picked up her needle.

  “Look, you call him up and you say, ‘You’re an artist and I’m an artist and we’re both showing at Indian Art Northwest, and I’d like to talk with you.’”

  “Right,” Iris said, popping a pair of deep blue beads onto her needle. “Then he hangs up on me.”

  “I don’t think he’s like that. I think he’s chill,” Trevor said. “But what if he did—what if he said no?”

  Iris didn’t speak. She continued to work. Presently she said, “How did you get this?”

  Trevor shrugged. “My auntie knows him.”

  [Stick Game] Your uncle just died and all his kids showed up at the funeral, so now you finally know how many relations you have. Congratulations! Your family has made a Quantum Leap. Give everyone at the table $20 to celebrate.

  [Stick Game] Your Tribal Council has voted to extinguish the blood quantum requirement, making tribal membership based on descent and adoption. Congratulations! Your people have made a Quantum Leap. Give each player a horse and burn your CIB card to celebrate.

  [Stick Game] Your Tribal Council has voted to exercise its sovereignty by conducting same-sex marriages. Congratulations! Your Council has made a Quantum Leap. All players toss $200 in the TRUST PIT for your Legal Defense Fund.

  It was springtime again and forsythia bloomed its brilliant yellow and purple crocus popped out of dark earth. Trevor received acceptance letters from six law schools, including New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Washington, Lewis & Clark, and Stanford. Iris was putting the finishing touches on wIndin! and beginning work on her next installation piece: a Columbus Day booth for selling absolutions. She planned to set it up next to the annual Native American Student Association Bake Sale at the university.

  Trevor had until April 15 to make his decision about law school, so he and Iris had mapped out a two-week road trip through the West to visit potential institutions. But four days before they were to leave, Iris got a call from home. It was ten thirty at night, and her sister was crying and
barely able to speak. Iris understood her well enough: they were all at the hospital, and the priest was on his way.

  Iris dialed and held her breath until Trevor answered. She said that she had to go home, that she was leaving right then.

  “Come get me,” Trevor said. “I’ll drive you. I’ll take the bus back.”

  She agreed. She would throw her things in a bag and be right over.

  “Iris,” he said. “I’m at Brian’s.”

  USUAL AND ACCUSTOMED PLACES. A player who lands on this space should collect five hundred dollars from the bank for each player at the table, then distribute the money equally around the table, much like the Salmon Chief apportions salmon. The ability to apportion correctly is a requirement of the Salmon Chief. The player rolls again.

  Trevor opened the door and held his arms wide when Iris arrived. She folded easily into his body. She could hear Brian working in the kitchen, assembling a bag of food for their trip. Brian shortly came out to greet her, handing the bag of sandwiches to Trevor, and telling Iris how sorry he was to hear the news. His eyes were languid and kind. Trevor stuck his toothbrush in an inside pocket of his bomber jacket and gave Brian a sturdy hug, no kiss.

  Trevor and Iris got into the car without speaking. They stopped in Coburg for gas, then Trevor eased back onto I-5. The car sliced dutifully through veils of rain as Iris gazed out the window at the red and gold lights on the back of semis and the regular announcement of towns on road signs that emerged out of the dark with reflective white letters. It went like this for some time, neither of them speaking. Sweet Home. Brownsville. Albany.

  Salem. Brooks.

  Woodburn. Wilsonville.

  Portland.

  Troutdale. Hood River.

  In The Dalles they stopped at a drive-through for coffee.

  At Celilo they stopped to switch drivers. Trevor pulled over and shut down the engine. Iris looked at him wearily.

  “Sandwich?” he asked, lifting an offering from the bag.

  She nodded. He watched her unwrap the wax paper and take a bite. She felt his attention, and her eyes flashed to meet his. “It’s good,” she said. He relaxed a little bit. He reached over and laid his hand on the angel wing of her shoulder.

  “I don’t feel anything,” she said.

  “That’s good,” he answered. “That’s your body taking care of you, making sure you get home okay. You will feel it when you get there.”

  They sat together for a while. She gradually felt aware of the weight of his hand on her back.

  “How long have you been back with Brian?” she asked.

  “Since November. Since . . . Halloween,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Trevor didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. I guess I thought you wouldn’t understand. Or that you’d be pissed.”

  Maybe on another day. Maybe she would have been angry, would have said something. Not today. She leaned back against the seat and Trevor withdrew his hand. She closed her eyes and allowed her head to fall against the headrest. It was quiet except for the gentle cadence of rain hitting the roof.

  “My auntie used to talk about this place,” she said. “Celilo. She used to come here when she was little.”

  The rain tapped a muted rhythm on the roof.

  “Wyam. That’s what my grandmas called it,” Trevor said. “Wyam.”

  “Your family came here, too?”

  “Everyone used to come here. And they were here, you know, at the end. On that last day. That last day before they blew it up for the dam.” Trevor turned away and peered into the darkness. The sound of cars splitting through water on the freeway surged and faded beyond them. “That last day,” Trevor said. “Was your family here? Your auntie?”

  “Yeah,” she answered, her voice disappearing like vapor.

  Tears rose and breached, spilled out of her closed eyes in streams down the sides of her face. She cried absolutely noiselessly. Her body had not yet broken open, but she felt her proximity to that deep river of grief. She no longer felt numb, but rather she felt the accruing weight of loss. She felt that her body was filling with sand.

  Trevor stroked her hair, held her hands. After a time, with the chill of the spring rains seeping into the car, she composed herself. Trevor suggested that he continue to drive, and she said yes.

  Soon they were traveling through the starry cocoon of a clear night along the Columbia. As they propelled eastward into the morning sky, the carmine glow of sunrise saturated the car. Just after 5:00 a.m., they crested the final hill to at last see Pendleton laid out before them, twinkling with lights and the early awakenings of dawn. Trevor drove Iris straight to St. Anthony Hospital, but they had already taken the body away.

  Trevor merged gracefully into the chaos of a grieving family. There was tremendous work that needed to be done, and he readily made himself useful, as there were people to feed, drummers to assemble, items to be removed from the home of the deceased. Indian people flooded in from every direction, even some of Trevor’s relations from Yakama. He slept for short hours on the corners of couches and the back of vans. He barely saw Iris during those blurry and intense days.

  After ceremonies that lasted thirty-seven hours straight, Trevor arranged a ride to Portland with one of his cousins. Iris walked him out to the car in the Longhouse parking lot. Her face was swollen and her eyes red from crying, yet she exuded a tranquil sense of self-possession. She embraced him and thanked him. She said that she was sorry to give up her road trip with him, but perhaps he could go with Brian? Trevor said he would give it some thought. He hugged her again, kissed her cheek, then got in the car.

  Iris spent four more days at home with her family. On the fifth day, she packed her car and drove back to her apartment. It felt good to drive again. She felt strong. It was springtime.

  As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, she saw that an envelope was taped to the door. Iris peeled off the envelope and opened it. As she extracted the letter, a card fell out and fluttered to the floor. She glanced at it, then turned to the letter.

  Hey Iris,

  We are off to find the most scenic locale for me to get my ass kicked, Socratic-style. I will call you from random places so PICK UP!

  I hope that your time at home was everything you needed it to be.

  The enclosed is for you. You can thank me later.

  Love,

  T

  She carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. She looked at the card on the floor. She squatted down and picked it up, stared at its backside for a long, still moment. Then she turned it over.

  Rootless

  The problem was, we were trying to board the bus during shift change. We waited as the arriving passengers streamed out, but the second my foot touched the step, the bus driver’s hand went up. “You gotta wait, Miss.” She pointed to a cordoned-off area on the sidewalk approximately five feet away. “You wait over there.”

  A burly man and I exchanged looks, then wheeled our bags the long way around to reassemble behind the flat yellow tape. Perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps it was to cover our docility, but we did nothing to intercept the thin woman. We just stood there and watched her attempt to board the bus, observing the driver’s mouth move and the finger point in our direction.

  The woman maneuvered into line with us. She wore jeans and a linen tunic, and her longish blond hair in bangs. The man stepped back and gestured for her to get in line in front of him. The new driver, carrying a small bag and clipboard, arrived and boarded the bus.

  “The air is thick here,” the woman said. “Is the air thick here?”

  I scanned the bunch grass of the estuary, then the sky above the city. “Yes,” I said, although I had no real basis for my statement.

  The doors of the bus snapped open and the first driver stepped out, waving goodbye to the new one.

  “I haven’t been here for two years,” the woman said. “Lost a lot of weight since then. Seventy pounds
.”

  “Really?” I asked, and saw the burly man turn his face toward us. The woman looked like the type who had been thin all her life, and seventy extra pounds was something to picture. “How did you do it?”

  “Stress.”

  The bus woke with a rumble and rolled forward five feet, exhaling as it stopped in front of us. The doors popped open and we boarded. The woman slid into the row of seats that faced the baggage rack, and I sat down, too, not too close. Her hair was flecked with gray, and her forearms were covered with freckles.

  “I’ve been taking photographs for the last nine years. In Nevada. Virginia City,” she said. “Taking photographs of tourists! Can you believe it? People come from all over the world to dress up like cowboys and whores.”

  The woman carried a soft brown leather purse, the kind sewn with the nap side out, with a long shoulder strap. It was trimmed with turquoise beads and fringe. She held a thick paperback novel called Shenandoah on her lap.

  “You don’t have any bags,” I said, as the bus pulled away from the curb.

  “That’s right.” She threw her hands in the air. “It’s an adventure!”

  Just then my phone rang. I fished it out from my bag, pushing aside a small container of camas roots. I was returning home from Root Feast on the Rez, or maybe I was returning to exile, taking my roots with me. It doesn’t seem right that one should be returning on both ends of a journey, but that’s how it felt. On the phone I explained to my boyfriend that my plane had been delayed, so I would be at the station a bit later. “Call me when you get to MacArthur,” he said.

  When I hung up, the woman said, “If you ever run away from home, hold on to that thing. Because you just can’t put a coin in a box anymore.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “You can’t even find a pay phone. When did that happen?”

  “It’s too bad. Sometimes you need a phone like that.”

  She shrugged. “What are you going to do?”

  The bus rolled noisily past warehouses and taco trucks. She leaned toward me. “Will you help me listen? For the station? I have trouble,” she said, pointing to her right ear.