Celilo's Shadow

by Wilcox, Valerie

  “No, it’s not,” Beckstrom said. “It’s just—”

  “Weaker than a limp dick,” quipped Patterson.

  Beckstrom snatched a pencil from his shirt pocket and jotted something on the pad attached to his clipboard. Despite his impressive educational credentials, Beckstrom didn’t have a good handle on air entrainment, which was the new process they were now using for mixing concrete. Either that, Sam thought, or he was acting deliberately obtuse. Beckstrom’s blustery posturing was even worse than usual and did nothing to allay Sam’s growing suspicions about the man. When the engineer looked up from his clipboard, his eyes were cold and unflinching, his diminutive physique rigid with military-like bearing.

  Here it comes. When all else fails, assert your authority. If nothing else, the man was predictable. Understanding that characteristic was useful information. Sam didn’t consider Phillip Beckstrom his enemy but he believed the admonition to “know thy enemy” applied anyway.

  “I’m the lead engineer on this project,” Beckstrom said firmly. “If I decide it’s time, it’s time.”

  Dutton and Patterson eyed Sam, silently pleading for backup. “You know, Phillip,” he replied, “they’re right about the wall. Like Dutton said, the concrete is still green. We’ve got to let it set another week before we remove the dike or we’ll have hell to pay later.”

  “What I know is that if you’d get here on time I wouldn’t have to do your job for you.” He tucked the pencil back in his pocket. “I’ve made my decision and it stands. All you have to do now is get your crew to stop their belly-aching and carry out my order.”

  “Damn it!” yelled Patterson. “He’s telling us to fuck up. And we’ll be the ones to take the heat when the wall breaks, not him.”

  “That’s enough!” ordered Beckstrom. “Get your men out of here right now, Matthews, or I’ll write up all of you for insubordination.”

  Dutton and Patterson, like most of Sam’s crew, were skilled and experienced workers. They could be rough talking at times, but Sam didn’t consider them hotheads. He didn’t blame them for getting riled at Beckstrom’s foolish order. Before things escalated any further, however, Sam nodded in the direction of the work site and his men got the message.

  Beckstrom watched the men stomp back down the hill and said, “We need to have a serious talk.” Once inside the trailer, he tossed his clipboard onto Sam’s desk where it upended the thermos and splattered coffee onto the blueprints. Sam righted the thermos while Beckstrom rescued the blueprints, knocking two other rolls onto the floor in the process. “Shit!” Beckstrom screeched. Plucking a monogrammed handkerchief from his trousers’ back pocket, he dabbed at the coffee-stained drawings. “I could use some help here,” he said, glaring at Sam.

  Sam grabbed a wad of paper towels to soak up the coffee that had pooled on his desk and then draped the wet blueprints over the back of a chair to dry. When the mess had been dealt with, Beckstrom repeated his previous demand that they have a talk. He then spent the next ten minutes delivering a spirited, one-sided dialogue about Sam’s frequent tardiness and lack of respect for Beckstrom’s authority.

  “Listen,” Sam said when Beckstrom finally paused to take a breath, “I know you’re under a lot of pressure to make the gate closure on time, but removing the dike before the concrete’s ready isn’t a good idea. If anything, it’ll cause us more delay because we’ll just have to redo it when the wall breaks. And, trust me, it will break.”

  Beckstrom took off his hard hat and ran slender fingers through his reddish-blond crew cut. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have the engineering degree, not you. And that means you shouldn’t even think about questioning my decisions. The order stands.”

  Sam sighed and poured what remained of his morning coffee into the cup.

  Beckstrom’s eyes lingered on the thermos. “I hope there isn’t anything stronger than coffee in there.”

  Sam ignored the dig but Beckstrom carried it a notch further. “I know you think I’m still wet behind the ears, but from what I’ve heard, you’re a drunken screw-up.”

  It wasn’t possible that Beckstrom knew the full story behind Sam’s fall from grace, but the rumors were out there. As much as Sam wanted to forget the past, there was always going to be someone around to remind him of how much he’d lost. It was his life now and he couldn’t afford to be needled into doing something that would jeopardize his current assignment. With men like Phillip Beckstrom it was best to let them think they had the upper hand. It had proven to be a useful tactic over the years. “You’ve made your point,” Sam said, donning a hard hat and retrieving the still-damp blueprints as he left.

  When Sam arrived at the job site, he gathered Dutton, Patterson, and the rest of his crew together for a tailgate meeting. He told them to remove the dike as the lead engineer had ordered. After a moment or two of inevitable groaning and grousing, he added, “But I have a feeling that the removal’s going to take a while. Probably another week or so.”

  He shrugged off the questioning looks from his men. “You know how it goes, fellas. Bulldozers break down, people get sick, parts go missing, and important things just have to be delayed.” His meaning quickly sank in. He acknowledged the grins on the faces of his crew with a grin of his own. “Building a dam is like that sometimes.”

  Chapter Four

  Reba watched the shuyapu stand in front of the Long House and stare at the faded yellow flag atop the structure. Most whites were unaware that the flag—hanging limp and flat in the windless afternoon—signaled a village in mourning and the temporary suspension of fishing at the falls for three days. This time it was in memory of Willie Two Bears but there’d been others in the past. Whites would be disappointed and sometimes angry when they realized that they’d come all the way to the village for nothing.

  The sweet smell of arrow-wood and young salmon cooking over open fires hung in the smoky air and Reba was sure that the mouth-watering Noo-sak soup she tended was what turned the man’s attention in her direction. She poked at the smoldering fire with her stick as she kept a careful eye on him. After a moment’s hesitation, he began to lumber across the wide expanse of the village’s communal area toward her fire.

  He was the biggest white man she’d ever seen. Even from a distance she could see sweat dripping off the fleshy folds that framed his round, ruddy face. Willie Two Bears was fat, but he’d been comfortable in his skin. This man looked betrayed by his body. His gray business suit was thin and shiny in spots; not from overuse but by the extra effort it took to contain his heavy frame. His watermelon-gone-soft belly hung over his belt and jiggled with each labored step he took. Pausing midway in his trek, he loosened his tie and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. As he mopped the sweat from his brow, Reba studied his face for telling details. What she saw in the determined set of his jaw convinced her that this white man was neither angry nor disappointed. No, he was not pushing his bulk through the dusty heat of the village to watch men fish; he was here for some other purpose.

  Her experience with white men was limited but whatever reason had brought the big shuyapu here couldn’t be good. She remembered with distaste the last time a man with the same determined look on his face came to their village. He called himself sheriff and spoke with a harsh tongue about her son. He accused Danny of doing bad things, destructive things, things that could get him locked up if he didn’t stop.

  She tightened the grip on her stick as the man reached her fire. “How do, ma’am,” he said, wiping his blotchy red face and neck with the handkerchief again. He wasn’t wearing a hat and his bald head was shiny and wet. She wondered what he would’ve done if he’d had a hat. She’d seen white men tip or remove their hats in the presence of a lady and believed the gesture was a form of respect.

  Reba’s guess w
as that this shuyapu didn’t consider her a lady deserving of respect. At least not like any white lady. Did he even notice her clean denim blouse and skirt, the coin and feather earrings dangling from her pierced ears, or the double strand of beads around her neck? Was he aware of her tall, slender figure? Did he consider her young-looking for her thirty-eight years? Or did he see just another “old squaw” as the sheriff had called her? At least his eyes didn’t linger on her breasts. Remembering how the sheriff’s cold stare had made her feel, she pushed back a strand of her waist-length black hair and straightened her shoulders. She would not let herself be intimidated again. She raised her eyes to meet the shuyapu’s and waited for him to state his business.

  “Uh . . . my name’s Hiram Potter, reporter for The Dalles Chronicle, and I’m looking for a Dan or uh . . .” He withdrew a small spiral notebook from his back pocket and thumbed through a couple of pages. “Let’s see here . . . Danny. That’s it. Danny Longstrand.” He consulted his notebook again. “Or maybe it’s Longstreet. Whatever,” he said, flipping the notebook shut. “Do you know where I can find this boy?”

  Reba knew Danny wouldn’t have business with a white man but she was curious. What was a reporter for the town’s only newspaper doing at Celilo? Why would he want to find her son? Had something happened? Was Danny in trouble again? Forcing herself to remain calm, she asked, “Why do you seek Danny?”

  “These shoes are killing me,” the man said, grimacing and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I missed the turnoff and then backtracked for several miles. I was running low on gas so I just decided to leave the car where it was and walk the rest of the way. Big mistake. I must’ve walked a hundred miles to get here.”

  It was a frequent problem for visitors. Celilo Village was not well marked with directional signs and it was easy to miss the turnoff. At forty-one acres, the village was larger than most people realized.

  “I gotta sit down,” he said, looking around for a place to perch. After settling on a nearby log, he removed his dust-covered shoes and rubbed his hand over the instep of each foot. “Ah, that’s much better,” he said. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me why you are looking for my son.”

  Potter stopped rubbing his feet. “Your son? The Longstreet kid is your son?”

  Reba nodded. “But he won’t talk to you.”

  “Maybe yes and maybe no.” He gazed at her thoughtfully, tapping a pudgy finger against his ample chin. “You’re here, though. I could talk to you.”

  Potter’s reply confused her. Why would he want to talk to her? The reporter retrieved the notebook and pencil that he’d laid down by the log. Flipping to a blank page, he smiled through crooked teeth and said, “How’d you like a voice in the newspaper?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s called quid pro quo. I happen to know that the Wy-ams, and your Danny in particular, have been quite vocal in their opposition to the dam. You get your son to tell me about what happened at the falls yesterday and I’ll include a blurb on the Wy-ams. He noted her confused stare. “You know, a write-up about why they won’t agree to a monetary settlement with the government like the other tribes have. Or something along those lines.” He consulted his notebook. “Do you know the Injun . . . uh, that is, the fellow who was killed?”

  “Willie Two Bears.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. We heard the kid tried to rescue him from drowning.”

  “He failed.”

  Potter nodded. “Right. My editor thinks the rescue attempt would make for a good human interest story. Especially, he says, since Danny Longstreet is a known trouble maker.”

  His characterization of her son stung. It was true that Danny was impulsive and sometimes reckless, but wasn’t that often the way of young people? He was a good boy with strong beliefs, especially about the dam, and wasn’t shy about expressing himself. She realized that his actions could be interpreted differently by others, especially the whites, but that didn’t make her any more receptive to hearing about it from this stranger. She was usually slow to anger but the shuyapu caused her to speak sharply. “What possible interest would that be to your readers?” Frowning, she added, “Your white readers.”

  Potter either missed the fire in her voice or was amused by it, for he laughingly said, “You know, I asked my editor that very question. He said our readers are interested in what happens to you folks out here at Celilo.” He waved his hand toward the river. “Because of the falls being destroyed and all.” His eyes took in the pot of soup brewing on the open fire as if seeing it for the first time. “I guess it’s because your way of life is ending. Just like the South during the Civil War.”

  “I see,” Reba said. Although she didn’t know what he meant about the South, the war reference was clear enough. War changes everything. And so will the dam. She poked at the embers with her stick. Unlike her son, she accepted the dam as their new reality. No warrior could change that, not even Danny.

  A fly buzzed around Potter’s head. He swatted it away and said, “So we’re agreed? If you or your son tells me what happened to this Willie Bears fellow, I’ll write about your side of what building the dam means to your people.”

  “It’s Willie Two Bears.” Except for a couple of dogs and some children playing ball, the area was almost deserted. While Reba finished cooking soup for her family’s evening meal, the other women who’d been tending salmon on drying racks had already left for home. Later they would slice and pulverize the dried salmon to be placed in large circular baskets lined with steelhead skins to keep for their sustenance during the long winter months. The reporter seemed to be waiting for her to say more. “I already said Danny won’t talk to you.”

  “Yes, you did. But perhaps he’ll change his mind when you explain to him how important a big article in The Dalles Chronicle would be to your cause. People ought to hear the Indians’ side of things first hand, don’t you think? Talking to me about how he tried to rescue his buddy could make that come about.”

  Reba weighed her options. She didn’t trust the shuyapu but what he said made some sense. Maybe Danny could be persuaded to talk. His tactics so far hadn’t converted any whites to their side. If anything, the stunts he’d pulled had done just the opposite. The sheriff made that point perfectly clear the last time he’d accused Danny of some foolish prank. She tried to think whether that was before or after he’d pulled up the government’s survey sticks at the dam site and replanted them at a new housing development in town. “You think an article in your newspaper would really make a difference?” she asked.

  Another fly landed on the reporter’s bald head. He swatted the fly and said, “Absolutely, ma’am. People respect the written word.”

  Reba knew that was a lie and called him on it. “Like they respected the written treaty that gave us fishing rights at Celilo Falls for all time?”

  Potter raised one eyebrow as if surprised by her frank response. “That was the government’s doing,” he said with a dismissive shrug. He wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue. “Now, let’s get started. I’ll need some background. Your name, how long you’ve lived here, stuff like that.”

  She shook her head, unwilling to tell this white man about herself. How long had she lived at Celilo? The years had passed so quickly; it was hard to believe she hadn’t always lived in Oregon. She was a member of the Lakota tribe and had come west with her parents when she was still a young girl. How different life was then. The rivers and coastal streams abounded with salmon; fish weighing fifty and sixty pounds were common. Nowadays when one is caught that weighs thirty pounds, it’s cause to celebrate. She didn’t like to think about what would happen to the salmon runs when the dam was completed.

  The reporter tried a different approach. “Okay
, then. Could you tell me something about the Wy-ams?”

  “We’re called Wy-am-pums. It means people who have always heard the echoing waters of the Great Falls.” Reba didn’t explain further, but water was their life and their name reflected that. Like the Wascos or Was-co-pums, the last part of their name meant people. The Was-co-pums also fished at the falls and their name signified the people and their bowl. It referred to the place where they drew their water.

  “That’s good,” Potter said. “Very good. Now we’re getting somewhere. What about your husband? Was he fishing at the falls when that old guy fell in?”

  Reba tugged on one of her earrings. Jimmy had given the jewelry to her the first year they were together as husband and wife. She remembered how they’d argued at first. They were both very young and headstrong. She’d been angry, accusing him of caring more about fish than her. He’d responded by telling her about the creation. “First,” he said, “deep, thundering waters covered the earth. Then the Creator spoke. He brought huge rocks up out of the deep, raised high mountains between which cascading waters poured in a turbulent river—the Columbia. On the spray-drenched rocks the Creator placed his chosen people, the Wy-am-pums. To us he sent the Great Food—salmon—so we would never suffer hunger.” Then Jimmy had cradled her in his arms and whispered, “The Creator gave me fish to fill my belly and you to fill my heart.”

  “My husband was killed many years ago.”

  “What was it? The falls again?”

  Reba turned away from the reporter and gazed at the fire’s dying embers. His presumptuous questions offended her. She wished he’d just leave.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Reba whirled around at the sound of her son’s voice. Danny stood with his arms folded across his chest. How handsome he looked, even in his wrathful pose. The reporter ignored Danny’s hostile stance and stood upright, extending his hand in greeting. “Hello. I’m Hiram Potter, reporter for The Dalles Chronicle.” Danny kept his arms folded.