Soldier Sister, Fly Home

by Nancy Bo Flood

  “Make that double chocolate.”

  “It’s a deal.” Gaby held up her palm, and we slapped hands. Then she said, “Ride him.”

  “Ride Blue? Never. I’ll exercise him, lunge him till he begs for mercy. But I won’t ride him.”

  “OK, OK, fair enough. But keep running, little sister.”

  “You come home.”

  “I will. All the way home.”

  Then it was time.

  —

  We all stood alongside the pickup—Mom and Dad, me, Grandma and Grandpa—and we watched as Gaby pushed open the kitchen door and lugged her duffel to the truck. She wouldn’t let anyone help.

  “Sit in the middle, next to your dad.” Mom nodded to my sister. “I’ll ride shotgun.”

  Dad looked at me. “Sorry you can’t come too, Tess.”

  “It’s OK. Anyway, it’s best if I stay here,” I said. “There are a dozen ewes that have yet to drop their lambs. Grandma could use some help, especially with all the extra hay and water that need hauling.”

  And then my sister left.

  —

  Gabriella texted me from the Phoenix airport:

  Next time, sis, flying like the wind, two sisters. Promise.

  I texted back a poem.

  Ten little Indian

  girls

  grew up.

  One became a doctor,

  two work in Phoenix,

  three went to college,

  two got married,

  one was a

  warrior.

  And the last

  little Indian,

  a soldier-girl Indian,

  ran, ran, ran, all the way,

  all the way

  home.

  All the rest of that day, I avoided going into the empty house. Finally it was dark. I was tired and needed to get some sleep.

  An eagle feather lay on my pillow. Its quill was braided with thin leather ties, and next to it was a note: When you are ready to fly.

  I reread the note and placed it with the feather next to my pillow. I didn’t even change my clothes—just lay down, wrapped Shimá’s quilt around me, and fell asleep.

  —

  The rattling of a gourd startles me. The rattling starts out soft, then grows louder.

  A Yé’ii stands in the doorway.

  His leathery face is painted turquoise. Black feathers fan out around his head like a halo—a dark, feathery halo.

  He keeps shaking his bloodred rattle while dancing around me.

  I am holding the eagle feather, and I walk toward the Yé’ii.

  We face each other on the sidewalk in front of the Tuba City Trading Post, where I bought a chocolate bar—dark chocolate—for Gaby when she comes home. I hold the chocolate bar in my hand.

  The Yé’ii shakes his red gourd, and his mask towers above me.

  I hold out my hand. “Here, take it.”

  His eyes peer through narrow slits. His mouth is an open circle, but he doesn’t speak.

  “Take it,” I say again. “Keep my sister safe.”

  The Yé’ii laughs. He shakes his bloodred gourd and takes the chocolate. Good. He takes the chocolate.

  chapter nine

  flunk!

  I had two more weeks of classes in Flagstaff, and then the school year was done. Track season ended, the one good part of school. I was named “All-Around Best in Track,” but getting that award didn’t make me any friends like I was hoping it would. Some kids accused me of cheating and said that I’d gotten some weird Navajo magic from a medicine man. How can anyone cheat at track? And there’s nothing weird or magic about medicine men.

  In the hall by the lockers, girls clustered in tight bunches, already jabbering about the summer ahead, giggling, making plans, exchanging cell phone numbers. That left me out. The cell phone service on the Rez was intermittent and unreliable. Most of the time I had to stand on top of a sand dune near our house to get reception. Even then, I could text but not talk. Internet meant a trip to Tuba City to the tiny outreach library or the new espresso café. But it didn’t matter, since no one asked for my number. And no one said anything about my soldier sister in the army, overseas, deployed. No one. I couldn’t get out of that white school fast enough.

  But home felt lonely without my sister around.

  —

  First day of summer vacation. Dad was back in Phoenix, Mom was working, Grandma and Gramps had gone to the Crossroads flea market to get a load of hay. I wandered down to the horse barn. It felt better than hanging around an empty house. Blue left me alone, and I left him alone, except to make sure he was OK. No scratches, no limping, and I checked that he had fresh water, clean hay, enough feed. He was antsy to get out of the corral. I knew I should exercise him, but I wasn’t ready. But I had promised my sister. Maybe…

  I stood next to the corral. Blue seemed to know that something was different. He trotted over to the fence, nickered, and looked at me.

  “So if we go for a short walk—I lead, you follow—you promise to behave? No rearing, kicking, or running off. Tell you what: I’ll give it a try, and if you behave, then I’ll take you out for an evening stroll every day until sheep camp. Did Gaby tell you about sheep camp? Lots of mares down there in the canyon at sheep camp. Yep, you’ll have fun. Next week you’ll leave with the sheep.”

  I felt stupid talking to a horse, but hearing the sound of a human voice, even my own, made the place feel less empty. I also felt guilty thinking about Shimá trying to manage the sheep, her horses, and Blue by herself, taking them all down to the canyon. But my sister was the one who should feel guilty, not me.

  Blue bobbed his head, ears twitchy and flattened back. I stepped away from the fence.

  “I know you’re mad. You’re tired of being cooped up in that corral.” I tossed a flick of hay over the fence. “Sorry. I’m doing the best I can.”

  Blue snorted at the hay, nosed it, pushed it away, and snorted again. I liked this less and less.

  I eyed the rope halter Gaby had left hanging on a fence post. If I could get it over his head, I could lead him out of the corral and walk him around for a while.

  Show him who’s boss. Don’t let him know you’re afraid. Good advice, Gaby, but you forgot to tell me how.

  I had an idea. I got my sister’s riding jacket and put it on. Maybe if I smelled like my sister it would help. I held the halter in one hand and reached over the railing with my other hand full of grain, careful to keep my palm flat. “Here, have some. My peace offering, sweet oats. Your favorite.”

  Blue trotted over. He sniffed the jacket from cuff to shoulder and snorted out a puff of dusty snot.

  His ears went back again. I should have known. But I kept my hand flat, even though it was shaking, and stuck it under his nose. He sniffed the oats and scarfed up every kernel.

  I breathed out, started to relax. Saw Blue’s big teeth, but too late.

  “What the hell?”

  Blood dripped.

  Blue snorted, spun around, and trumpeted his victory.

  That sucker bit me. I can’t believe he bit me.

  Ride him? Never.

  Maybe Gaby will flunk deployment camp. Some soldiers do.

  Flunk, Gaby, flunk.

  I took off Gaby’s jacket, threw it in a corner.

  Why did I ever say I’d take care of your dumb horse?

  I quit.

  A craawk scolded from overhead. I looked up.

  No sign of a raven.

  Black feathers lay in the dust.

  chapter ten

  a real indian

  The days were huge and empty. Gaby was still gone. I got out a stack of old comics, flipped through a few, but tossed them back on the pile. After lunch Grandma asked me to go with her to Tuba City. She had some business to do, plus grocery shopping for sheep camp. I was happy to ride along. Usually Gaby drove Grandma into town. Today Grandma drove, even though she could barely see over the steering wheel or reach the floor pedals.

  Two girls,
one my age and one much younger, stood and watched as I helped Grandma step out of our old red truck.

  In town when I spoke to my grandma, I addressed her in formal Navajo, shimá sání, to show my respect. Today she was dressed in the traditional clothes she wore when she went to town on important business—blue velvet layered skirt, matching blouse, her turquoise necklace, and, of course, her modern white ankle socks and her favorite lime-green sneakers.

  “Look, a real Indian!” the younger girl shouted, pointing at Grandma. “Look, Meggie, is she a real Indian?”

  I hoped Grandma didn’t hear her.

  Shimá reached back into the truck to get her rug. She was bringing it to the trading post before she took her sheep down into the canyon for the summer. The rug was rolled up, wrapped in flannel, and tied with twine.

  “I can carry that for you.”

  Grandma shook her head. I knew she would. She didn’t even trust Mom to handle her prize rugs.

  “She really is an Indian.”

  “Shhh, Becca, and don’t point. It’s rude.”

  I tried to ignore the little kid’s remarks, but I recognized the older girl’s voice. They stood side by side in front of the trading post, right where we were going. The older girl was from my school in Flagstaff. Megan. She was in my math class. She was smart, pretty, and popular. Great, just my luck.

  I looked down. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize me. I scooted to the other side of Shimá, took her arm, and pretended to help her across the parking lot.

  “Can I take your picture? I’ve never seen a real Indian before.” The younger girl held up her camera and pointed to it, I suppose in case we didn’t understand English. I shook my head and guided Grandma faster toward the trading-post door.

  “Tess?” the older girl asked.

  My face flushed, and I smiled one of those polite I-wish-I-could-disappear smiles.

  “Tess, I didn’t know you lived…here.”

  “Oh, hello, Megan. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Are you visiting, ah, relatives?” Tess looked at my grandmother.

  “No.” I looked at her confused face. “You were right the first time. I live here.”

  “We’re shopping for jewelry,” the younger girl blurted out. “Indian jewelry.” She kept right on talking. “Look at that necklace, Megan.” The younger girl pointed at Shimá Sání’s squash-blossom necklace. “Is it real?” Then she giggled. “And those shoes!”

  Megan tugged at the girl’s sleeve. “Becca, hush.”

  Why was I embarrassed? I hated feeling this way—ashamed. Who wanted to be like these stupid white girls?

  Me. That’s who.

  It was the same at school: part of me wanted to be one of those girls, and part of me wanted to stay invisible. Maybe my folks were right; maybe I was getting a better education. But what they didn’t understand was that I was also getting a different kind of education.

  “Hello, I’m Rebecca.” The younger girl pushed in front of Megan and held up her camera. “One picture? OK?”

  “Oh, sorry, this is my little cousin. Her family is visiting from Boston.” Megan turned and frowned. “Rebecca, please stop being so rude. Tess is a friend.”

  “She’s your friend? A real Indian?” Rebecca’s eyes grew wide. “Do you live in a tepee?”

  “Do you live in a log cabin?” I asked. “Come on, Shimá Sání, Mr. Snow is waiting.” I reached for the door.

  Grandma didn’t move. She motioned for Rebecca to come closer. Rebecca’s eyes grew even wider, and she looked at Megan.

  Megan nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Grandma held up her turquoise pendant. “Yes, it’s real. Sterling silver, very old, made by my grandfather and given to my grandmother. For many years it was hidden in a secret place like buried treasure with all our silver and turquoise. That was during the Long Walk. Probably you don’t know about all that. In the trading post are interesting books about Navajo.” Shimá Sání slowly smiled. “Yes, we are real Indians. More correctly, I am Navajo, Diné.”

  Rebecca stared, didn’t say a word.

  “You want a photo?” Grandma asked.

  Rebecca glanced again at Megan. Megan raised her eyebrows. “It’s OK.”

  “Give your camera to Teshina, my granddaughter. Rebecca, come over here.” Grandma motioned for Rebecca to stand next to her.

  “Teshina, take our picture. One real Navajo grandma and one real white girl.” Shimá’s eyes were twinkling. Rebecca handed me her camera and stood near Shimá. I snapped a few pictures and handed the camera back.

  “Enjoy your visit here, Miss Becca and Miss Megan. Sorry we don’t have more time to talk. We have business to get done in the trading post.”

  I took Grandma’s arm and moved toward the door.

  Grandma ignored my tug. “Good that we met, Miss Becca. Hózh.” She held out her hand to Rebecca, who smiled and returned the handshake. “Now we both walk in beauty, in harmony.” Finally Shimá Sání turned and stepped out of the bright sunlight into the air-conditioned quiet of the trading post.

  I felt as if I had barely escaped. Why? This was my home. The home of real Indians. Real Navajo. I looked at my grandmother. She was about as real as Indians came, but me? I wasn’t so sure.

  The manager, Mr. Snow, rushed over as soon as we walked in.

  “Let me help you, let me help you. My, such beautiful ladies visiting today.” He gave a little bow to Grandma and then to me.

  Mr. Snow towered above us, smiling a huge smile with broad white teeth framed by a thick black mustache. As a little kid I thought someone got mixed up and gave him the wrong name. Mr. Snow always wore big black boots, black jeans, black Western shirt, and a wide-brimmed black hat. The only parts of him that were snowy white were the pearl buttons on his shirt and his teeth. He always had a smile, a genuine smile. He also always had a box of chocolates tucked under the front counter. With a polite bow, Mr. Snow presented a fancy-wrapped candy to Grandma and one to me.

  Mr. Snow and Shimá exchanged the usual comments about the weather and everyone’s health, and then both became quiet, their faces serious. The ritual of bartering began.

  Grandma stepped over to the glass display case and unrolled her rug. She smoothed her hand across the entire top, and then stepped back. Mr. Snow studied the rug, looking at the overall effect of colors and pattern.

  “Exquisite work.” He clicked his tongue. “This rug is truly one of your finest.” Then he began a meticulous examination, counting the number of threads per inch, feeling for any irregularities. Grandma’s weaving was well known and respected, sought after by collectors. One of her Wide Ruins rugs was displayed in the Heard Museum in Phoenix. Being a weaver of rugs: Did that make her a real Indian?

  Shimá Sání was especially proud of this new rug, a large one, nearly six feet long and four feet wide. She had woven the Navajo Tree of Life, which was not actually a tree but a fully leafed corn plant. Its roots twisted through dark red earth, with slivers of turquoise between the roots. Deep green branches reached across the rug. A dozen different birds flew between the branches—bright yellow finches and red-winged blackbirds. Other birds sat perched on the leaves—bluebirds, small brown thrushes, and desert wrens.

  Grandma and Mr. Snow spoke quietly in Navajo. The bargaining might take only a few minutes, or it could last more than an hour before both were satisfied. I listened hard, trying to understand their words, trying to push away that nagging question. Real Indian? What makes one a real Indian? I didn’t go to my sister’s ceremony, like a real Navajo. I didn’t weave, never wanted to, and I didn’t even speak much Navajo. Mr. Snow spoke fluent Navajo, and he was not a real Indian. He was Bilagáana, a real white.

  Gramps had been a Code Talker, a real warrior, but he didn’t go to his brother’s ceremony. For a while he worried that he wasn’t even a “real brother.” Shimá could butcher a goat as quickly as Gramps. She could look at the sky and know when rain was coming. She could ride her horse across a mesa, f
ind an injured sheep, and never get lost. Most Flagstaff kids didn’t know a butte from a mesa or a sheep from a goat.

  And me? What did I know?

  Mr. Snow extended his hand. They had agreed on a price. Grandma shook it once, gently, the Navajo way, like a real Indian.

  chapter eleven

  espresso

  As we left the trading post, Grandma stood for a moment, her hand shading her eyes from the bright sunlight. The girls were gone, nowhere in sight. “Teshina, remember that pointing is rude, especially if you are a real Indian.” She laughed, but what was funny about that?

  “Why didn’t you tell that Rebecca girl about pointing, Shimá? Talk about being rude!”

  I took Grandma’s arm, but she laughed again and shook herself loose.

  “No, Teshina. When someone looks down on you, listen and learn. Walk with them.”

  “I’d have given her a piece of my mind.”

  Grandma clicked her tongue like she did at a misbehaving sheep. “No, Tess, we choose. We can laugh or bite. Laughing is better for the belly.” Grandma chuckled as she walked across the parking lot, right past our truck.

  “Hey, where are you going? I thought we had to go straight home.”

  Grandma kept walking, right to a new little coffee shop, Internet Espresso. I hurried to catch up.

  I hadn’t been to this café since it had opened. Grandma walked right in as if she were a regular customer. “Coffee latte. Extra hot. Small.”

  “Latte?” I stared at my grandmother. “Grandma, you ordered a latte?”

  She turned to me. “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know you liked lattes.” I didn’t know my grandmother knew what a latte was.

  “Good coffee. Kind of pricey. Stronger than the cowboy coffee at sheep camp.”

  That was the first surprise.

  Grandma paid for her drink and walked over to a computer.

  “What are you doing?”

  Grandma smiled.

  I couldn’t believe what she did next. Sitting in front of the computer, wearing her velvet skirt, satin blouse, turquoise jewelry, and green sneakers, my real Indian shimá sání logged onto the internet as if she’d been doing it all her life.