by Davis, Mary
A girl about eight, bundled in a coat, stood outside her gate staring up at the house. Her black hair was braided like an Indian’s.
Rachel opened her front door and stepped out into the cold. “Hello. I’m Rachel.”
The girl just stared.
“Did you want something?”
“To see.”
To see what?
She rubbed her arms as she watched the girl slowly walk away. That was weird.
Rachel went back inside and to the phone in the kitchen. She lifted the handset but the spiral cord was twisted around itself, so she leaned down. Yes, a dial tone. She worked to untangle the cord then placed a collect call.
“Baby, I’ve been so worried about you. I’ve called your cell phone several times and left messages. Why didn’t you call last night?”
She didn’t dare admit she hadn’t called because she hadn’t thought about him much since arriving on the island. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy here, I lost track of time. And then my cell phone doesn’t work here.”
“I’m just glad you’re safe. Is the place nice?”
“It’s a cozy little cottage.”
“Is it in good repair? Will we be able to sell it quickly on the market?”
Her stomach twisted. “I don’t want to sell it, Christopher. You should see this island. It’s a resort island, and they only have horses here, no cars.”
“Baby, you know I’m not fond of horses.”
“You don’t have to ride a horse. There are horse-drawn carriage taxis that will take you anywhere you want to go. Or you don’t have to do that at all. The people here ride bicycles to work. This would just be like a summer getaway place.”
“You sound excited about the place—more excited than you are about selecting our wedding invitations.”
How could invitations compare to Mackinac Island? “Just give this place a chance. If you really hate it here, we can talk about selling it later.” But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Christopher simply had to be given the opportunity to fall in love with the place, too.
“If you really want to keep it that badly, we’ll give it a go.”
Why did that concession make her feel as though Christopher was slipping away from her? “I’m already making plans to refurnish the place. It has this really great rustic furniture my grandfather made. . .but it’s not really our style.” Or rather not his style.
“Whatever you want to do with the place is fine with me, baby.”
Which meant he was placating her until after the wedding; then he’d try to convince her to sell. Well, when his father had the prenuptial agreement drawn up, she’d be sure to include her being the sole owner this house. She would not let it be sold from her. It was her link to her past. She would make Christopher see that keeping the house was the best thing to do.
That night she dreamed about Indians attacking her home and trying to take it away from her. The girl with the braids watched from the side.
❧
The next day, bundled in her coat, Rachel headed for the library to do a little family research. The librarian told her the best person to talk to would be the high-school history teacher. The K-12 school wasn’t far, just up the road, but she was hardly dressed for hiking around town, and the taxi that had dropped her off was long gone. She pulled on her gloves and marched out. It wasn’t far. She could make it in her heels.
Once at the school office, she asked for the high-school history teacher.
“He should still be at lunch. I’ll send for him.” The secretary gave a slip of paper to a student who left.
“Thank you.”
“Excuse me.” The secretary turned to answer the phone, so Rachel turned to a bulletin board and perused the announcements there.
“Rachel!”
She spun around. “Will? I didn’t know you worked here.”
“High-school history and English. Kally said a beautiful woman was asking for me in the office.”
She widened her eyes. “You’re the history teacher?” Had she known, she might not have come. There was something about Will Tobin that drew her in. Whatever it was, she couldn’t let it happen. She was engaged and wouldn’t entertain thoughts of anyone else. She would keep anything between them strictly business.
“I’m the one you want.”
“You are?” No, Christopher was the one she wanted. She straightened out her thoughts. “I was at the library, and the librarian sent me over here.”
“How can I help you?”
“I was just wondering if I had any other relatives on the island.”
“Dancing Turtle was collecting information on every family member he could to create a family tree.”
“Who?”
“He had a brother who, I think, had three children—”
She waved her hands in the air. “Who is this Dancing Turtle?”
“Your grandfather, Dancing Turtle.”
Her insides twisted, and she dared not to breathe for a moment. “That sounds Indian.”
“We prefer Native American. Columbus thought he’d reached India.”
“My grandfather was Ind—Native American?”
“Ojibwa. So am I. A lot of the islanders have some Ojibwa or Ottawa blood in them.”
She stared at him stunned. Yes. It was there. His long hair; the wide, beaded choker; the structure of his face. Will seemed to drift into the distance. If her grandfather had Indian blood in him, then that meant she—Oh, Christopher. His family detested her sort. What would they say about having one in the family? She knew exactly what. They would not tolerate it for one moment, as they hadn’t tolerated a cousin for having a Korean wife, even though she was sweeter than all them combined.
“Thank you.” She turned to leave. She needed to get back. Needed time to think and sort this out.
“Rachel.” A hand on her arm stopped her, and Will came into focus. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
He released her arm. “I’ll come over after work and help you find that information in your grandfather’s things.”
It didn’t matter. She just needed to get alone and think. “That’s fine. Whatever works for you.” She walked out the door but stopped suddenly when she noticed a girl just outside the door staring at her—the same girl who had been at her house last night.
She hurried down the cement path to the street. When she got back to the library, she called a taxi and waited outside for it to arrive.
Dancing Turtle? Ojibwa? How could she be part Indian—or rather Native American? There had to be some mistake. The taxi came and took her home. She stood outside the gate and stared up at the house. The house she’d come to love already. She took a deep breath of the crisp fall air and went up to the door and inside. Her breath caught. It wasn’t rustic, it was Indian. It was so obvious. How could she have not seen it before? The gallery of framed photos of Indians. Were any of them Charles Dubois? And the black-and-white drawing of a man turning into an eagle. Or was it an eagle turning into a man? One thing was for sure, the man was Indian.
She sat in the chair adjacent to the couch then immediately shot out of it and spun around. Was this furniture of Indian craftsmanship? What did it matter? She sat back down and rubbed the beaded bracelet her grandfather—Dancing Turtle—had made then put her hands to her face.
Everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was suddenly slipping away. She wished she’d never come.
❧
Late in the afternoon, Will walked up to Rachel’s door with chicken parts to fry, rolls, and a Caesar salad in a bag. He knocked and waited. He knocked again. He peeked in the front window through a gap in the drapes. The place was dark and seemed deserted. Where could she be? He took the groceries back to his house and called her. No answer.
Was she all right? She had been a little pale when he’d seen her earlier today.
He wrote a note for her to call him when she got home, including his phone number written out. Just in case
. He stuck it to her door and left.
Four
The next day Rachel unlocked the door to her Boston apartment. The harsh black furniture slapped her in the face. Nothing warm and inviting here.
The taxi driver set her suitcases inside the door. She paid him and closed the door. The apartment seemed stuffy, and even though it was cold outside, she opened some windows. She unpacked her suitcase and threw in a load of laundry before calling Christopher.
“Baby, you’re back.”
How did he know that?
“My heart jumped for joy when I saw your apartment number come up on the caller ID.”
That’s right. She didn’t have caller ID so never thought about other people having it even when she knew they did.
“When did you get in? It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re back.”
How could she tell him who she really was? Or who she thought she might be?
“I’m coming right over,” he said.
“As much as I’d love to see you, too, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day. I’m going to turn in as soon as I hang up.”
“I could come and stay with you.”
She heard the hopefulness in his voice. He had been getting more and more persistent about starting the honeymoon long before the wedding. Her mother had told her to hold out for the ring. She gazed at the engagement ring on her hand. This one? Or the wedding band? She never said. “We agreed to wait until after the wedding. It’s not that far away. Only four months.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ll take the morning off and come take you to breakfast then.”
“I’m going to have to pass on breakfast. I have an early call in the morning; then I’m heading right back to Mackinac Island.” She wouldn’t have come back if it weren’t for the one-day modeling job she’d agreed to weeks ago. She’d almost forgotten about it.
“What? So soon? Why do you have to go back at all?”
“There is a lot to do. There is a lot of junk to get rid of.” She had to purge the house of anything Indian related before Christopher ever saw it.
“We can hire someone to do that.”
“I want to do it. A hired person wouldn’t know if there was something of my grandfather’s that I would want to keep.” It may not be the most desirable heritage, but it was hers, and she wanted to hold onto at least a little of it.
“What about planning our wedding? You have a lot to do there, as well.”
“I can do that, too.” Besides, her mother-in-law-to-be had all the connections and was doing most of the planning. Muriel would show her five different wedding invitations, and she’d just have to pick one; three different place settings, and she’d pick one. Should the reception be here or there? Muriel had great taste and often agreed with Rachel’s choices. Her wedding was going to be bigger than anything she had ever imagined—five hundred guests. Most of whom she wouldn’t know. The only thing Rachel absolutely had to be around for was choosing and fitting her one-of-a-kind designer wedding dress. There was plenty of time for that. “I want us to be able to stay at my grandfather’s house on Mackinac Island for a few days at the end of our honeymoon.” If she still had one.
“I don’t think that will work out. I’ve almost planned the whole honeymoon.” He chuckled. “But I’m not going to tell you where. It’s a surprise. You’ll love it though. I promise.”
She hoped she got a chance to love it. But still she felt Christopher slipping away from her. When she knew something for sure and not just hearsay, she’d tell him.
“I’ll drive you to the airport. What time do you leave?”
That was a compromise they both could live with.
❧
Late Sunday night, she stepped back into her house on Mackinac Island and filled her lungs with fresh air, exhaled, then inhaled deeply again. She could breathe again. What was it about the air here that made it so cleansing?
Soon someone knocked on her door. “Will?”
“I saw the lights on. I was worried when you didn’t answer your door or phone on Friday night.”
She hadn’t wanted to face anyone after the news he had given her earlier that day and had ignored the world. She had needed to sort things out. She still did. Going back for the job hadn’t afforded her any time to think.
She had locked the house and taken the next ferry off the island. She’d stayed that night at a hotel near the airport in Alpena, but she knew ignoring it would not change anything. She had decided on the second leg of her flight that she had to come back and find out if it was all true. So before leaving the Boston airport she had booked her returning flight.
“Is everything okay?”
“I had to rush back to Boston for work. But I’m back for a while to sort through things.” Not just the things in the house but things in her head, as well. “I’d still like to hear about any relatives I might have, but right now I’m really tired.”
“I can come over after work tomorrow.”
She forced a smile. “That would be great.”
Tomorrow she would find out the truth. And what her future might hold.
She changed into some flannel pajamas that had been her grandfather’s and curled up in the bed. She stared at the framed artwork on the wall in the moonlight of an Indian maiden with a wolf at her side. The maiden looked exotic and proud. As the moonlight shifted, the picture crept into the shadows, but she could still see the maiden in her mind.
What would she do if she were indeed part Ojibwa? Would she be proud of her ancestry? Or deny it? She had always wanted an ancestry, a heritage. But did she want it badly enough to risk her future with Christopher? She could share his legacy.
❧
Late the next afternoon, there was a knock on Rachel’s door. Her insides flipped. That would be Will. She would finally have her answers. She opened the door.
“I hope this is a good time.” He held up a bag. “I brought dinner. Mind if I take over your kitchen for a while to make it?”
She stepped aside for him. “Go right ahead.” A man cooking for her? She couldn’t pass that up.
He headed for her kitchen and called back over his shoulder, “I hope you like spaghetti.”
She used to, but she didn’t usually eat pasta anymore.
After pulling out a pan, he unwrapped some ground meat from white butcher paper and dumped it in. He pulled a jar of store-bought spaghetti sauce from his bag. “My secret ingredient.” He set a pan of water on to boil. Precut, prebuttered French bread and salad from a bag rounded out his meal.
Her stomach rumbled softly at the aroma of the cooking meat. She drank it in. How long had it been since she had beef?
When everything was ready, he pulled two plates from the cupboard and handed her one. “You go first.”
She scooped a few noodles onto her plate and a spoonful of sauce and took some salad. She skipped the bread and went to sit at the table.
He joined her with a full plate. “You don’t eat much, do you?”
“I’m really not hungry, but I wanted to try some.” Her stomach was still in knots over what she might learn tonight, despite its small rumble earlier.
“Shall I bless the meal?”
Pray? Why not? “Sure.” She bowed her head as he did and then raised it after he said amen.
He twisted spaghetti onto his fork. “I’m glad you’re back. I was worried. Not knowing what had happened I just kept praying for you that everything was okay.”
That was sweet of him, but she didn’t like it when people said they were praying for her. She felt as if she owed them something in return. They prayed for her, and so she would be expected to do something for them.
“Did my grandfather have any other children besides my mother?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
That was disappointing. She had hoped.
“But he did have a brother. That’s where you’ll find your relatives.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“I met one of them once. There was some kind of break between Dancing Turtle and his brother. He never talked about it. I could tell it pained him.”
“So I do have relatives living on the island?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“But—”
“None of them would talk to or acknowledge Dancing Turtle. He was, like, removed from the family. If they won’t acknowledge him, they may not you, either. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
She might have family, and they were going to be stubborn? She turned her mind to another issue that interested her. “How did my grandfather come by the name Dancing Turtle when his legal name is Charles?”
Will smiled. At a memory she assumed. “Your grandfather was never in a hurry. So he was called Turtle. I could walk back and forth to town twice before he ever got to town. He took his time in everything he did.”
She rubbed the beaded bracelet around her wrist. “Even his beadwork.”
He touched the choker at his throat. “He waited for the piece to speak to him and tell him what it wanted to be.”
“Did he make yours?”
He nodded. “He said it would help me find my way.”
“And did it?”
“I have no clue. I never understood what he meant by it, and he wouldn’t tell me. I don’t feel lost at all.”
“So where did the Dancing part come from?”
“At the Ojibwa-Ottawa ceremonies, he participated in the tribal dances. The only time the Turtle would move very fast.”
“Do you have an Indian name?”
“Native American. And yes.”
Native American. She had to remember that. “What is it?”
“If you’re done, we can go to Dancing Turtle’s office and see about that information you wanted.” He picked up their plates and walked to the kitchen.
She followed him. “You are avoiding my question. If you don’t want to tell me, then say so.”
He put the plates in the sink. “Squandering Arrow.”
She had to smile at that. “How?”
“I don’t exactly hit what I’m aiming for when we go hunting.” He walked to the office workroom.