Celilo's Shadow

by Wilcox, Valerie

  “He paid to take your picture?”

  “Yeah. He was some big shot photographer from New York City. Took me and Sammy Williams and a couple of others up to Fivemile Rapids. Told us to take off all our clothes. Then he gave us some long sharp sticks and had us get out on the rocks to pretend like we was spearing for salmon.”

  “Naked?”

  Oscar laughed. “Like bare-assed newborns. That man didn’t know nothin’, but he had plenty of dough. Charlie Slim Jim wouldn’t get undressed till the guy gave him a pint of whiskey. Then Sammy asked for two pints. And he got them. Pretty soon we all had a pint and was laughing pretty good. Made more money prancing around in the water for an hour than pickin’ for Seufert’s all day.”

  “What do you think he did with the pictures?”

  Oscar shrugged and adjusted his dipnet. “Hell, if I know. Whites, they’s hard to figure.”

  “Oh, I’ve got them figured, Grandpa. And, what’s more, I’m going to do something about it.”

  Oscar shifted his weight on the crate and looked out at the falls. “Should be getting a strike soon.”

  Danny’s tightened his grip on the pole and fought back the urge to have it out with his grandfather. As much as he wanted to, he’d never argue here. Not while fishing sacred grounds. Instead, he laid down his pole, stood and stretched. Across the channel, Danny saw a commotion at a platform on Standing Island. “Can you see what’s going on over there?” he asked.

  Oscar turned to look where Danny pointed. The distance was too great to hear Frank Yallum but both men could see that he was shouting and gesturing toward the water.

  Then Danny got it. “It’s Willie Two Bears!” he yelled. “He’s fallen in!” Willie never wore his safety rope even though the Bureau of Indian Affairs had threatened many times over the years to make him stop fishing unless he did. Willie was as stubborn as he was fat and wrapping a rope around his wide girth wasn’t something he chose to do. As Danny and his grandfather watched in horror, the rapids tossed Willie’s big body around like it was a little rag doll.

  Danny kicked the apple crate aside and, yanking off his hat and sunglasses, flattened himself belly-side down at the edge of the platform. Clutching his pole with both hands, he thrust it toward the water as far as it would go. If he was lucky, Willie would pass by close enough to grab hold of it. After a moment, Danny decided he was too far away from the water for that to happen.

  “How’s my rope?” he called to Oscar.

  Oscar checked the knots Danny had tied when he’d fastened the rope to the platform on his arrival. “You’re good.”

  Relying on the strength of his safety rope to keep him from harm’s way, Danny scooted forward and slid down one of the platform posts until he dangled just above the water’s surface. Planting his feet against the post for support, he could lean out over the water to where he thought Willie might have a chance of grabbing his dipnet pole. The rope cut into his waist but he ignored the pain. Thirty seconds flashed by without any sight of him until he suddenly popped out of the churning foam.

  Oscar spotted his old friend first. Floating upright at the tip of Chief’s Island, he appeared to be heading straight for Danny’s net. “He’s coming!” Oscar shouted.

  “I see him,” Danny said, bracing for the impact. When he hit, Danny thought the jolt would surely break the pole. But it held fast and Willie’s big frame wedged tentatively against the net. Flailing his arms in the tangled netting, Willie tried for several seconds to grab the pole.

  “Come on, man, you can make it,” pleaded Danny.

  Willie made a desperate last ditch effort to grab the pole but missed and was sucked underneath the water. Just when Danny thought he was a goner, Willie popped out of the foam for a second time. His gray hair, usually worn in a ponytail, had come loose and completely covered his face.

  Danny shouted to his grandfather. “Is he still conscious?”

  “Can’t tell. His face is—”

  “I’ve got him!”

  The current had pushed Willie directly into the large dipnet once again, tangling him firmly this time. Danny strained to hold the pole steady and keep him trapped until they could hoist him onto the platform. Willie was motionless, no flailing or grabbing for the pole this time around. His long hair fanned about his head and shoulders like a shroud. “Help me bring him up!”

  Grandfather and grandson struggled, fighting the current, Willie’s bulk and their own physical limitations. If only there’d been more men to help them, they’d say later. If only they’d been stronger. If only . . .

  After several long, frustrating minutes, Oscar said, “He’s with the spirits now. It’s time to stop.”

  Danny hung on as Oscar withdrew. “NO! We can’t let him go.” But his bone-weary arms finally gave way and the pole slipped from his hands. The river gods had won.

  Pushed under again but still tangled in Danny’s net, Willie Two Bears tumbled downriver. He bounded above the foam once or twice more until he vanished out of sight.

  Gasping for breath and shivering, Danny didn’t think he had any energy left to climb up the post to the platform.

  “Take my hand,” Oscar said. “I’ll support you.”

  Once he’d clambered to safety with his grandfather’s help, Danny rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

  The nearby fishermen, who’d watched in silence during the rescue attempt, cried out now, loud and strong for Willie Two Bears. “Yi-eeee. Yi-eeee.” Their lament, deadened by the falls’ ceaseless thunder, lasted several minutes. Then, one by one, they laid down their poles and headed back to the village. No more fishing would take place this day.

  Chapter Three

  Day shift had been underway for half an hour when Sam Matthews pulled his pickup into the parking lot. His office at the dam was a thirteen-foot trailer atop a hill overlooking the busy construction site. A warm breeze laden with dust and noise from bulldozers, trucks, and other heavy-duty equipment swirled through the cab’s open window. Begun in 1952 with a handful of workers, the dam now employed hundreds of skilled men working three shifts a day to complete the project on schedule.

  Transforming the untamed Columbia River into a major source of hydroelectric power represented more than just a job. The electricity produced when the transformation was complete would benefit hundreds of thousands in the Pacific Northwest. When water finally tumbled over the nearly 1,400-foot-long spillway for the first time, Celilo Falls would be flooded and silenced forever. The Indians who’d fished the falls for centuries would have their lives profoundly changed. Sam considered their loss regrettable but that was just the way things worked in life. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way, starting with the loss of his wife.

  Ellie was only four years old when her mother died of ovarian cancer and Sam took on the role of single parent. If it was difficult when Ellie was younger, it was doubly difficult now that she was a teenager. She seemed to change from little girl to young woman almost overnight. Her beauty both awed and alarmed him. Sam didn’t think she had a sense of just how appealing she’d become. But it didn’t escape her father’s notice—or that of every male over the age of twelve. The two rules Sam had established years ago were now more important than ever: 1. Trust no one. 2. Suspect everyone. He knew it was a cynical way to live but so far it had kept him alive and Ellie well protected.

  Grabbing his lunch bucket and a set of blueprints, he hoisted himself out of the truck and went inside the trailer. Two battered gunmetal gray desks facing each other dominated the small office space. Metal filing cabinets lined one wall underneath dirt-smudged windows. Graveyard foreman, Ralph Chambers, sat at one of the desks and looked up as Sam entered.

  Sam checked the wall clo
ck and winced. “Sorry I’m late,” Getting to work at the start of his shift seemed to be a daily struggle these days.

  “Everything okay at home?” asked Chambers. It wasn’t a rebuke. The white-haired foreman never complained about Sam’s tardiness.

  Sam eyed the framed photo of Ellie on his desk and sighed. “Okay, I guess—if you can call a motel home.”

  “Motel living’s gotta be tough. When’re you moving into your new house?”

  “We’re just waiting on the bank. There’s a paperwork backlog.” Tony Rossi had been right about the fast-selling housing market. The sheer number of sales had the bank scrambling to keep up. Sam’s pre-assignment briefing had included a detailed description of the Hillcrest Development and its residents before he’d ever met the pushy realtor. According to his bureau chief, “The ranch-style homes are affordable, but more important, you and Ellie will fit in easily with the Hillcrest lifestyle.” Meaning a widowed construction foreman and his lovely teenage daughter would be welcomed and accepted by his neighbors without suspicion. As difficult as single parenthood had become, it served his undercover role very well. If Sam had had a choice, he would have preferred a home on an acre or two well outside the town limits. He’d been running his family’s farm in Idaho before the war and, although farming was not without its hardships, Sam missed the rural lifestyle. Hillcrest’s cookie cutter houses with their neatly manicured lawns inhabited by people of the same social class, watching I Love Lucy while eating the same tasteless TV dinners, conforming in every outward respect to a common mold, held no appeal for him whatsoever. But buying a home in the Hillcrest neighborhood served his current mission. So that was that. His only consolation was how happy it had made Ellie.

  If Tony Rossi had known about Sam’s house buying plans, he wouldn’t have bothered with his so-called tour of The Dalles. Ellie had spotted the shiny red convertible long before Rossi dashed out of his office to introduce himself and invite them for a ride. “Look, Dad,” she’d said, pointing to the car. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have a car like that?” Sam had promised her that The Dalles would be a fresh start for both of them, but he’d made promises before that he couldn’t keep. If riding in a convertible somehow helped Ellie believe things truly would be different this time around, Sam had been willing to put up with Rossi’s annoying chatter. Even though Sam had downplayed his interest in buying a house, the realtor’s timing couldn’t have been better for his purposes.

  Chambers tucked a number two pencil behind his ear and slid a clipboard across the desk to Sam. “Speaking of paperwork, here’s the turnover report.”

  Sam started to apologize again but Chambers cut him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I just now got the damn thing finished anyway.”

  “Still, I should’ve been here sooner.”

  “It’s okay I tell ya,” Chambers said, lighting a cigarette. “Once you get the house situation settled, you’ll be fine.”

  Sam hoped the man was right, but Chambers didn’t have any kids. He couldn’t begin to understand what life was like with a teenage girl. Ellie’s emotions went up and down faster than a roller coaster these days and Sam didn’t always make things easier for her. She’d started her period this morning, but he’d forgotten to buy the supplies she’d requested and had to make a quick trip to the corner grocery before heading to work.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Sam said, retrieving the clipboard. “Living at Hillcrest should be better. There’s gotta be a helpful mother around to bail me out from time to time.”

  Chambers smiled through yellow-stained teeth. “Yeah, the ladies will be falling all over their selves to help a good-lookin’ widow man like you. Especially the single ladies.”

  There was something about a man raising a daughter on his own that tugged at the heartstrings of most women. While Sam welcomed their willingness to step in when he needed them, it often had unintended consequences. No matter how much he insisted that he wasn’t looking for a wife, no one seemed to believe he really meant it. Sam couldn’t begin to count the number of women he’d been told would be “perfect” for him or how many times there’d “just happen” to be a single woman at whatever dinner or activity he was invited to. Not that he was opposed to dating, but his work was complicated enough without adding romance to the mix. He had a lot of secrets to keep and ensuring his daughter’s safety and happiness had to be his paramount concern. Sam had made some serious mistakes lately which had damaged his relationship with Ellie. The last thing he needed was to hurt someone else he loved.

  Chambers watched as Sam skimmed through the report. “Can you read my hen-scratchings?” he asked.

  Sam nodded. He suspected Chamber’s hard-to-decipher scribbles had more to do with the arthritis plaguing his rough, liver-spotted hands than bad penmanship. He wondered if the guy would last long enough to retire when he turned sixty-five next month. Besides swollen, painful fingers, Chambers’ résumé included a heart attack and a bum knee. Sam admired the man’s grit but when he expressed concern about his ailments, Chambers quickly downplayed the seriousness. “I’m like one of them Timex watches. I take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.”

  Sam’s undercover assignments had often involved construction work. He hadn’t known Chambers before coming to The Dalles, but he’d worked alongside quite a few of the other men when he was stationed at Bonneville and Chief Joseph dams. His skills were notable so his background as a former Seabee who’d served with the Department of Navy during the war was never questioned. There was some overt resentment when he made foreman, however. Sam didn’t know whether it was sour grapes or rumors about his past that had caused the trouble. Like all rumors, there was just enough truth mixed with the nonsense to raise a few eyebrows. Whatever the reason, he’d had some difficult days at the dam in the beginning.

  “Your crew will come around in time,” Chambers had assured him. “Who you need to watch out for is Phillip Beckstrom. That college boy don’t know shit from shinola, but he’s in charge, so try not to cross him.” Sam had managed to win over his crew as Chambers predicted, but lead engineer Beckstrom was still a work in progress.

  The two men discussed the shift report and then chatted for a few minutes about Chambers’ favorite topic—fly fishing. Sam had learned early on that establishing a connection with key people was a valuable practice. He never knew when things might turn dicey and having a friend or two in his corner had saved his butt on more than one occasion. A few tall tales later, Chambers stubbed out his second cigarette and pushed away from the desk. “Well, I better get out of here and let you get some work done.”

  Sam unrolled the blueprints he’d carried into the office as Ralph Chambers shuffled to the door. As much as the old man claimed he was looking forward to retirement, he seemed like the kind of guy who would miss the job no matter how good full-time fishing proved to be. Even without the report as an excuse, Chambers could always find a reason to linger at the office a bit longer than necessary.

  “Oh!” Chambers said, halting at the door. “I almost forgot. Beckstrom was here earlier looking for you.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Hell, if I know. I buried my nose in the report until he finally scurried off to make trouble for someone else.”

  “Why don’t you admit it?” said Sam, grinning. “You’re going to miss Beckstrom’s ugly mug when you retire.”

  Chambers hooted and wagged his backside. “Kiss my ass, Matthews.”

  Finally, alone, Sam unscrewed his thermos and using the lid as a cup, poured his first coffee of the day. Shuddering at the bitter taste, he opened his desk drawer and stared at the half-empty Jim Beam bottle inside. “Damn,” he muttered, slamming the drawer shut. Some promises were much harder to keep than others.

  A second cup of the unspiked bre
w later, he heard shouting outside the trailer. The office window was too dirt-encrusted to see anything so he stepped outside and spotted Phillip Beckstrom striding briskly up the hill. The skinny twenty-five-year-old had a master’s degree in engineering from MIT and was on the management fast track with the Corps. Beckstrom had an officious, know-it-all attitude which, coupled with his limited on-the-job experience, made dealing with the man an ongoing challenge.

  Trailing closely behind Beckstrom were Brad Dutton and Johnny Patterson, two of Sam’s best crew members. They were both big men with well-developed muscles honed from long days of physical labor at the dam. They looked mad enough to chew the engineer into tiny pieces and spit him out with no apologies for bad table manners. Dutton and Patterson weren’t choir boys but Beckstrom had a way of goading even a saint to fury. Sam tried to insulate his crew from the man as much as possible.

  The engineer clutched a clipboard tightly against his spindly chest and ignored the waving and shouting coming from Dutton and Patterson. Once they crested the hill, Dutton managed to overtake Beckstrom and blocked his path. As soon as Beckstrom stopped, Patterson planted himself alongside his coworker. The men dwarfed Beckstrom’s slight, five-foot-seven frame.

  A red-faced Dutton glared at Beckstrom, “That order is nuts!” he barked.

  “And you’re even nuttier to suggest it,” Patterson added.

  “It’s not a suggestion,” Beckstrom said. He scuttled around the two men and resumed his trek to the office. When he saw Sam standing by the trailer door, he pointed at Dutton and Patterson. “You need to get these guys back to work.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Sam.

  “The problem is—”

  “The problem is College Boy here,” Dutton blurted before Beckstrom could finish. “He wants us to take out the diversionary dike. But everyone knows that concrete’s still green.”