Celilo's Shadow

by Wilcox, Valerie

  Dessa stuffed a chunk of brownie in her mouth and washed it down with the last of her Coke while she thought of an excuse.

  “Pretty please,” Ellie begged. “I bet you know exactly what to do.”

  “I don’t think I—”

  “Let me show you something first,” she said, plucking a folder from the box atop her bed.

  Whatever Dessa’s shortcomings, a lack of curiosity was not one of them. There wasn’t much that went on in Hillcrest that Dessa didn’t manage to learn one way or another. She never knew when something she uncovered might be publishable in her newsletter. Not that she expected the folder in Ellie’s hands to contain anything useful for her purposes, but she took the bait Ellie waved in front of her. “What is it?”

  “My artwork,” Ellie said. She removed several pages of pencil sketches from the folder and fanned them across the bed. “Let’s decide which ones to put on the walls while we wait for my furniture.”

  Dessa picked up a few of the sketches without enthusiasm. She had as much interest in decorating Ellie’s room as she did in arranging furniture. The sketches were mostly different views of horses—horses galloping; horses trotting; horses grazing. The subject matter was dull but remarkably well done. She was particularly struck by how realistic the horses looked. Almost like photographs. “Hey,” she said. “These are really good.”

  “Thanks,” Ellie said, clearly pleased with the compliment.

  “Have you ever sketched people?”

  “You mean like a portrait?”

  “Yeah, portraits.”

  “No, only horses. I love horses.”

  Girls and their love affairs with horses made Dessa want to puke. Stifling a negative quip, she focused on Ellie’s artistry. “I bet you could sketch a face so that the person would be instantly recognizable.”

  Ellie pooh-poohed the idea but Dessa was convinced that she had the ability. One of the problems she had with publishing her newsletter—besides no printing press—was not being able to include photographs. If Ellie could draw other things as well as she drew horses, Dessa had found the answer to at least one of her problems.

  “Furniture’s here,” Mr. Matthews said, opening the bedroom door. After a quick consultation with Dessa, Ellie told the movers where to place the furniture in the room. Dessa noted with amusement how careful the movers were to keep their eyes focused strictly on their work while Mr. Matthews was present. Once they’d finished unloading the van and had left, Mr. Matthews said he had an errand to run downtown. “You girls will be all right here by yourselves, won’t you?” he asked.

  “Honestly, Dad,” Ellie shot back. “We’re not babies, you know. We can take care of ourselves just fine.”

  He raised both hands as if to ward off an attack. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry if I sounded like I doubted you.” He gazed affectionately at his daughter and added softly, “But you’ll always be my little girl, Ellie, no matter how old you are.”

  Dessa couldn’t picture her own father ever apologizing after she’d called him out for something he’d said.

  When Mr. Matthews left the room, Ellie complained, “He drives me crazy! Don’t do this, don’t do that. My father is the biggest worry wart ever. I hate it!”

  “Jeez, don’t have a cow about it. Your father’s no different from any other parent around here.” Dessa thought it best not to mention that a young girl in town had been attacked recently as she slept outside in her own backyard. She didn’t know if Mr. Matthews had heard about the incident, but every other parent in The Dalles had been on edge ever since. “Let’s get back to your art,” Dessa said. “Why don’t you try sketching me?”

  Ellie’s interest in drawing had passed. “Not now,” she said scooping up the sketches. As she tucked them back inside the folder, the doorbell rang. “Oh, no,” she said. “Not someone else with more food.”

  Dessa looked out the bedroom window and spotted a red convertible parked at the curb. “Yuk! It’s Tony Rossi. He has some kind of package with him, but I doubt it’s food.”

  “Mr. Rossi? Really?” She jostled Dessa aside. “Let me see!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of him for you.”

  “NO!” Ellie shrieked. “Why would you do that?”

  She had to be kidding. Anyone with eyes and ears could tell the realtor was a fast-talking greaser who would say or do anything to get what he wanted. As newcomer, Ellie probably hadn’t heard the gossip about him. Mainly that Tony had a wandering eye and had seduced more than one housewife in Hillcrest. The liaisons usually ended when the bruises from Tony’s fists became too difficult to explain. No names had ever been mentioned but Dessa had her suspicions. Just another juicy tidbit that she dared not print. “Everybody says Tony Rossi is nothing but trouble.”

  “I don’t believe that. Mr. Rossi is the reason we’re living here. Dad wasn’t interested in buying a house but Mr. Rossi could tell how much I wanted this place—and made it happen.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.” When the doorbell rang, she hurried to her dressing table. “I think he’s wonderful,” she said, checking herself in the mirror.

  When the doorbell rang a second time, Ellie was still at the dressing table, running a brush through her ponytail. “Better hurry,” Dessa chided. “Sounds like Mr. Wonderful is getting impatient.”

  Ellie tightened the rubber band holding her ponytail together and, discovering a few loose strands, tucked them behind her ears. After telling Dessa to wait in the bedroom, she dashed off to answer the door.

  Dessa didn’t know what to make of Ellie Matthews’ favorable impression of Tony Rossi. Had he already set his sights on the new girl? Or did Ellie have her sights set on him? Whatever the case, Dessa didn’t intend to wait in the bedroom and wonder about it. Tiptoeing down the hallway, she stopped just short of the entry where she couldn’t be seen but could still hear everything that happened.

  Chapter Eight

  It was ten o’clock in the morning when Danny arrived at the Pit Stop Bar & Grill. Most of the regulars started drifting in around noon but Danny’s friends were already there. The Pit Stop was their favorite hangout. When the beer-fueled squabbling got too spirited, a rip-roaring fistfight inevitably followed. The food and music were good, too.

  How a red-haired, one-eyed Irishman named Mike Fitzgerald wound up running a booze joint that catered to Indians was the subject of much speculation. The story that Danny liked best was that Fitz was hiding out from the law. He’d been a pit crew boss on the race car circuit back east somewhere until a freak accident blinded him in his right eye. When he took blood revenge on the idiot who caused the loss of his sight and job, Fitz fled west before the authorities had a chance to come after him. With his money quickly running out and a mistaken notion of how to get to the California coast, The Dalles was where he landed. He bought the long-abandoned tavern dirt cheap, slapped on some new paint and called it good.

  Although Danny would never admit it, he liked Fitz. The guy literally turned a blind eye to a lot of what went on at the Pit. He had a baseball bat behind the counter and always made a big show of taking it out when the brawls got too wild. As far as Danny knew, he’d never clubbed anyone. What really sealed his approval in Danny’s eyes was Fitz’s disregard for the law. He made it his practice to be as uncooperative as possible anytime the local authorities came snooping around his place of business, which meant he wasn’t above lying if necessary to protect himself or his patrons. It also meant that it was a good place for Danny and his pals to make their plans.

  Danny noted that Ernie, Henry and Walter were already at the tavern. Ernie and Henry were playing pool while Walter sat at the counter eating fry bread, hash browns, and eggs with a cinnamon roll on the side.
Although he had plenty of young women eager to cook for him, Walter preferred to take his breakfast at the Pit, which he did almost every day. Of all his friends, only nineteen-year-old Walter was as tough as Danny. His strong, rock-hard body gave enemies pause and girls the shivers. Walter had a reputation as a good man to have on your side when a fight broke out, but unlike Danny, he had an easy-going manner and it took a lot to get him fired up. His winning grin endeared him to almost everyone in the village, especially the girls.

  Walter read a newspaper while he ate. His eyes were so bad that he hardly ever read anything more complex than a comic book. He had glasses, but thought the sissy-looking things were too embarrassing to wear in public. The Pit Stop wasn’t technically a public place, but it was still surprising that Walter wore his glasses today. Danny straddled the stool alongside his friend and snatched the cinnamon roll—a Fitz breakfast specialty—off his plate. “Hey, man,” Danny said, taking a big bite, “what’s with the specs?” He pointed to the newspaper. “Something in that scandal sheet I should know about?”

  Walter removed his glasses and pushed the paper toward Danny. “Read it for yourself,” he said, grabbing what was left of his cinnamon roll out of Danny’s hand. “It’s mostly about you anyway.”

  Local Indian Drowns at Falls

  Celilo Falls claimed the life of Wy-am Indian Willie Bears on Saturday, June 5. According to witnesses, Bears fell from a fishing platform on Standing Island. He was not wearing a safety rope. Sheriff Leonard Pritchard said, “That’s not unusual for these fellas. We’ve warned them time and time again about the necessity for using proper safety gear, but many Indians stubbornly refuse and wind up paying with their lives.”

  Despite the danger involved, an attempt was made to save the man’s life. Danny Longstreet, a well-known outspoken opponent of The Dalles Dam, risked his own life trying to save Willie Bears. Officials close to the incident were surprised that he made such an effort. They describe Danny as a hot-headed troublemaker not given to heroics. Longstreet declined to comment. Sheriff Pritchard said, “Danny Longstreet is the leader of a gang that is actively engaged in disrupting and delaying progress on the construction of the dam. As sheriff, I’m charged with protecting the welfare of the good people of this community and I vow to put a stop to the actions of Longstreet and his band of hooligans before someone gets hurt or killed.” Funeral arrangements for Willie Bears were unknown at press time.

  -Reported by Hiram Potter

  As Danny finished the article, Fitz came by to warm Walter’s coffee. He flashed a lop-sided grin. “Cheers, Danny. I see you’ve made the paper.”

  Danny tossed the newspaper aside. “Just the back of page six. Been aiming for the front page.”

  Fitz leaned his forearms on the counter and frowned. “Don’t take this wrong, lad, but you keep messing up and that’s exactly where you’re headed. And it won’t be no hero article.”

  Danny shrugged. “That so-called reporter couldn’t get the story straight if it was dictated to him word for word.” He tapped the paper with his forefinger. “He never even got Willie’s name right. And he promised me he’d report our side of the dam issue. You see how that made the news.”

  Walter set his coffee mug on the counter and stared at Danny wide-eyed. “You talked to a reporter?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. He came to the village and gave my mother a hard time, so I set him straight.”

  “I guess that explains the printed attack on you,” Fitz said, shaking his head. “But the Wy-ams did make the front page.”

  “Yeah, right,” scoffed Danny. “It’s a sacred journalistic rule: No Indians on the front page. We’d have to massacre half the town’s population first.”

  Fitz picked up the newspaper and began to read. “Looks like they’ve made an exception to the rule. This here’s a report on the government’s plan to relocate your burial sites. According to the article, they’ve finally located a property for the new cemetery.”

  Danny and Walter exchanged concerned looks. Danny’s father was buried on Memaloose Island, as were both of Walter’s parents. Never mind that the dam would flood the island. Just the thought of disturbing—let alone moving—their gravesites, especially by white men, struck Danny as obscene. He couldn’t gauge Walter’s reaction but Danny struggled to contain his anger as he asked, “Does it say who’s in charge?”

  Fitz folded the newspaper and set it on the counter. “Naw, just that it’s some guy from the government.”

  “You know who he is?’ Danny asked.

  The barkeep erupted in hearty laughter. “Hey, now, lad,” he said when he’d caught his breath. “I may be a white man but that doesn’t mean I know all the white eejits in town.” He winked at Walter as he picked up his dirty dishes and then carried them through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  Danny helped himself to a bottle of beer from behind the counter, popped the cap and headed for the jukebox. He inserted a dime and the raucous beat of “Blue Suede Shoes” exploded from the speakers. It was his favorite song when he was angry and right now he was so enraged that he wanted to hit someone. Swing a punch so hard it’d send the bum flying through the bar’s front window. He surveyed the room for a likely candidate, but, except for his friends, the place was empty.

  He gave the jukebox a swift kick. Not good enough. He needed to destroy something. His eyes settled on a small round oak table. Imagining it as somebody’s head, he smashed his beer bottle against its scarred surface. The shattering glass caused Fitz to peer out of the kitchen’s open pass-through just as Danny grabbed the table and flipped it over. The table landed on the hardwood floor with an unsatisfying thud. A metal chair was the next to go. When Danny threw it on top of the table, Fitz stepped outside the kitchen with the baseball bat. “Enough, lad! That wee table didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

  Danny spotted the bat in Fitz’s hand and clenched his fists. The two men glared at each other for a few uneasy seconds until Danny gave in with a shrug. “Shit,” he said, slumping into a second, still upright chair.

  As Fitz passed Walter, he chuckled and said, “War dance seems to be over.”

  Walter grinned. “Got a peace pipe?”

  “No, but there’s a mighty nice broom and mop out back.”

  Walter retrieved the cleaning supplies and joined Danny. After he’d righted the table and wiped it down, swept up the broken glass, and mopped the beer-soaked floor, he brought two fresh beers from the bar. Setting the bottles atop the newly cleaned table, he grabbed a chair and sat down. “Furniture’s good to go for another round.”

  Danny glared at his friend a moment and then got up to feed the jukebox. When he returned, he took a quick swig of beer and belched. “I don’t get you, man.”

  “Huh? Why’s that?”

  Danny shouted over the music. “Memaloose! Your parents!”

  Walter set his bottle on the table. “So?”

  “Aw, Walter,” Danny said, shaking his head. “Don’t anything bother you? You’re just like my grandfather and the rest of the old men in the village. All talk and no action.”

  Walter reached into his shirt pocket. Leaning forward, he placed a faded and creased black and white photograph on the table. “This was taken right before my parents died.”

  Danny stared at the couple in the old photo. They were standing by the falls. Walter’s father was holding up a large Steelhead, maybe a 40-pounder by the looks of it. Walter’s mother, her hand resting on her rounded belly, gazed up at her husband with the same wide grin as her son’s. “You mother was pregnant?”

  Walter nodded. “Nine months.”

  Everyone in the village had heard the basic story—his parents’ car had broken down on the railroad tracks and Walter was
the sole survivor when the train struck. His mother’s pregnancy was something new. Walter never talked about the accident. He just went to live with his uncle afterward and that was that. Danny hesitated a moment. He wanted to ask more about the accident, but was reluctant to bring up bad memories. It was unusual that Walter had revealed as much as he had. Restraint was the Wy-am way.

  Walter must have sensed Danny’s reluctance to pry. “Want to know how it happened?” he asked.

  Danny nodded.

  “Remember Dry Hollow Motors?”

  Danny remembered it well. The car dealership had burned down a few years ago and was never rebuilt. Arson was suspected but never proven.

  “That’s where my parents bought the used car they were driving when they were killed. My mother had her heart set on a wood-paneled wagon she’d seen on the lot. My father thought the car was silly but he’d do just about anything for her. Saved up his fish money until he had enough to buy it. They were driving back to the village—just a couple of miles from the dealership—when it broke down on the railroad tracks.”

  Walter took a drink before continuing. “Anyway, Dad lifted the hood and tinkered with the engine. I was only three at the time and they say a little kid can’t remember that far back.” He ran his fingers across the photo. There was a hard edge to his usually mellow voice when he added, “But I remember everything.”

  Danny suddenly regretted the way he’d attacked him earlier.

  “Every time I hear a train I’m right back in that car. As soon as he realized what was happening, Dad rushed to get me out. He pulled me from the back seat and told me to run. A fellow from the car behind us scooped me up in his arms, but I turned my head just in time to see the train hit. The last thing I heard was my mother’s scream.” Walter paused. “It was probably just the train’s whistle.”