“Yes. I had to go off-rez for my schooling but I was ten before the government found me and took me away. My parents had already instilled the importance of my culture into me so the government’s attempt to brainwash me didn’t work. I pretended to go along with them, but kept remembering what my parents taught me, including my language.”
Piper had read that during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries children weren’t allowed to speak their native languages at school, or practice their culture, and if they were caught doing either, they were punished. They had to assimilate into the white culture.
“Do many people still speak the language?”
“Some do. It’s mainly the older generation but some of the young ones are learning. I taught my children and grandchildren.”
Eyota got to her feet and motioned for Piper to follow her out of the house. “Enough of this talk. Tai has a class to get to.”
Surprised, Piper followed her. What class?
When the kids noticed Piper they stared, and one of them asked, “Who’s she?”
“Piper’s a reporter who’s doing a story on me,” Tai explained to them.
“Everyone in the pickup,” Eyota called, and the children all scrambled into the tray of the pickup parked in the carport next to the house.
Tai climbed into the driver’s seat and Piper and Eyota slid into the bench seat next to him.
“Where are we going?” Piper asked.
“School,” Tai answered and flashed her a grin.
The cab space was suddenly too small.
The smile had taken up all the room.
He drove the short distance and led the way inside to a home economics room.
“Tai paid for this room to be upgraded,” Eyota told her as they walked in, pride in her voice.
There was already a whole group of people waiting, ranging in age from six to sixty. The children took their places at different benches and Eyota showed Piper to a stool off to the side.
Tai greeted everyone and after a few moments, they quieted down and he began to speak. He captured the audience: that much was certain. His voice was clear, confident and friendly.
He was giving a cooking class. People in Houston would pay a fortune to attend a class taught by Tai and here he was doing it, she assumed, for free.
He showed them chef’s tricks for slicing and dicing food and making it look pretty, but he also talked about nutrition and balance. They cooked one traditional meal, using only items he said had been on the land prior to the Europeans’ arrival, and then two other easy, healthy meals for the busy person.
Tai was incredibly patient, going from station to station, helping people, teasing some, laughing with others.
Some of the kids cooked as if they had been doing it all their lives. Perhaps they had. Piper hadn’t learned anything like it until well into high school, when she’d attended her own home economics class. Even now she preferred to buy something than make her own.
When the meals were prepared, they were carried out into a communal area where another group had gathered. The food was passed around and they all sat eating and catching up.
Tai came over and handed his grandmother and Piper a plate of food each. Piper was given the traditional meal, a fish stir fry that smelled delicious.
After she thanked him, she asked, “How often do you run these classes?”
“Every Sunday,” he said.
How did he have the time? The restaurant had to keep him busy. “Do the same people come every week?”
“We have a roster so everyone who wants to gets a turn. Some make it every week and some can’t.”
An older man called Tai over and he excused himself.
Many of the adults who were there were overweight, and Piper remembered something else she’d read. “Does the tribe have a lot of trouble with heart disease and diabetes?” she asked.
Eyota nodded. “It’s one of the reasons Tai holds the classes. He never cooks unhealthy or high-fat meals. He’s keeping our culture alive with the traditional dishes, but he’s also teaching them how they can improve their health. See the man over there?” She pointed. “He’s lost twenty pounds since he started coming. The woman next to him now has her diabetes under control. Not everyone wants help, but those who do are getting it.”
The cooking class was such a simple thing, but it was more than that.
“Does Tai ever take time off, time for himself?”
Eyota laughed. “This is his time for himself. This is what he loves.”
Piper glanced over at Tai, who was laughing about something. He was definitely enjoying himself. “He was obviously brought up right.”
Eyota smiled.
“How does he know the traditional dishes?” she asked.
“I remember some things my mother used to cook and some of the elders remember others. Then there are members of our tribe who spend time researching. It might not be one hundred percent accurate, but it’s close, and better than nothing. Our ancestors realized it was safer to be seen to be assimilating with the white culture and so much was lost. There are some things we managed to keep hold of, though. Tai talks about doing a recipe book with it all in.”
“That’s a great idea. I’d buy a copy.” Especially if it was anything like the food at the Wooden Spoon.
When the meal was finished, everyone pitched in to clean up and then went their separate ways.
“I’ll drop you off and then take the kids home,” Tai said to his grandmother.
“That would be great.”
They all piled into the pickup again; and after Eyota got out Tai and Piper were alone in the cab. The silence wasn’t altogether comfortable, but it wasn’t tense.
Refusing to be distracted, Piper focused on her job. “You’re a good teacher.”
He shook his head. “It’s easy when they want to learn.”
“What made you decide to run the lessons?” Had someone asked him, or had it been his idea?
“One too many bland communal dinners,” he said lightly.
Piper didn’t believe him. “Eyota mentioned people have had positive health effects from the classes.”
“You are what you eat.” He pulled up in front of a house and a couple of kids jumped down from the back and waved then headed inside.
Tai checked his rear-view mirror before pulling out.
“You’ve got a lot of kids in the class.”
“You’re never too young to learn.”
He wasn’t giving anything away. “Some of the kids have to fend for themselves, don’t they?”
He glanced at her quickly, his hands briefly tensing on the steering wheel. “Some parents work long shifts, so the older children cook for the younger ones.”
She was sure that wasn’t the whole story, but she didn’t push. Not yet. “You could make a lot of money running cooking classes in Houston.”
“It’s not about the money.”
No it wasn’t. “It’s about culture.”
Tai pulled up outside a house and didn’t answer. This place had seen better days; the garden was full of weeds, the paint on the door was faded and peeling and one of the gutters was hanging on by a nail. Another couple of children hopped down, yelled their goodbyes and went inside.
“Eyota said you’re considering writing a cookbook,” Piper said, hoping to get a longer answer.
He frowned. “I’m thinking about it.”
“What kind of recipes will it have in it?”
He scowled. “I’m not sure. I want to capture the traditional recipes but you can’t get all of the ingredients easily.”
Piper turned to him. “Why don’t you substitute? Show the traditional recipe and then write what could be used instead.”
He rubbed his chin as he considered the idea.
“Will you just do your tribe’s food or collect recipes from others?”
He glanced at her. “I hadn’t thought of other tribes.”
By the time they reached the fina
l stop they had traveled quite a distance from the main town.
“Does the school bus pick the kids up?” Piper asked.
Tai shook his head. “There is no bus. Some of the kids get lifts, others walk.” He unstrapped his seatbelt. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He walked the final child, a boy about eight years old, to the door of a little house, and the child waited while Tai went inside.
The child fidgeted with the bottom of his T-shirt and stared at his shoes. Finally he looked up as Tai came out with a man in his late fifties. The boy hugged the man, then Tai said something else and waved goodbye.
When he got back into the truck he was silent, his shoulders slumped, an air of sadness surrounding him. As he backed out and waved, the smile he gave the two was forced.
Piper wanted to ask what was wrong, but she stayed silent. Now wasn’t the time. Any question could easily be misconstrued as a reporter digging for answers and she didn’t want that.
She didn’t want to intrude on whatever it was that was so painful for Tai.
Tai pulled off the road and parked the pickup in a clearing. “I’ve got to do something. Wait here.” He didn’t wait for her response, but got out of the cab and took a barely there path through the forest. It wasn’t long before he disappeared from sight.
Piper stared after him, surprised and a little uncertain. He’d left her there, in the middle of the reservation, but surely he would come back soon. For all she knew he was going to visit a friend who didn’t have road access to their house.
She got out of the pickup and sat on a fallen tree trunk to one side of the clearing. Something was bothering Tai, and she had an urge to soothe him, tell him it would be all right, but how could she when she didn’t know what was wrong?
Why would Tai leave the boy outside?
Perhaps it wasn’t his home. Perhaps the old guy was his grandfather, and he was looking after him for the night, so Tai was checking he was there before leaving the child.
But then why was Tai so upset?
Was the older man an alcoholic and Tai had wanted to check his mood before he let the boy in? He hadn’t seemed drunk, but then chronic alcoholics could sometimes hide the fact they’d been drinking.
No. The child hadn’t looked scared about returning home, just worried.
Really she had no idea.
The ticking of the engine cooling stopped and silence descended. She was in the middle of a forest and there was no traffic, or people, or any of the usual city noises.
Instead she heard birds calling to each other, the swoosh of the wind through the trees and the occasional scurry of a small animal through the undergrowth.
Piper breathed in deeply: the air was sweet. There was no pollution, no smells of rubbish or food cooking – just the pine scent from the trees and the sweet fragrance of whatever flowers were growing nearby.
She put her hands behind her on the tree trunk and leaned back. It was peaceful. For the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, she had nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
When had work taken over her life?
She’d liked going camping with her family, or heading down to the gulf for the day. Sometimes she’d go for a drive and see where she ended up. She hadn’t done any of it, though, since she started at the Houston Age ten months earlier.
Before that she’d done a very brief stint as a television journalist, which she’d hated, and worked at community papers that were printed weekly rather than daily. There’d still been the deadline pressure but the number of stories she’d had to write per day was far lower.
But she’d wanted the daily job. It’s what she’d dreamed of the whole way through college. A community paper wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to do the investigative stories she wanted to do.
The Age could.
She’d been so sure that was why they hired her: they’d seen the work she’d done on her blog, and they wanted her to do the same sort of writing for the paper. Perhaps her work on these profile pieces would show Geraldine she could handle the responsibility and she’d be able to write hard-hitting pieces – make readers sit up and take notice. Inspire them to want to do something to help. How could they do anything else when they were shown the truth?
Things would change. Her words would cause the change. The world would be a better place. Her frenetic pace now would be worth it when that happened.
She sighed.
And maybe she was kidding herself.
Her dream was a very long way off and right now she wondered whether it really would be worth it in the end.
***
Tai needed to get out of the suffocating little cab and breathe. Piper was too close and the situation with Jerry and Bradley was too fragile. He shouldn’t have brought Piper with him. He should have left her behind with Eyota and done the drop-off on his own.
He strode down the little path into the forest to the place he’d run to when he was a child. He could breathe here, sort out his emotions and be at peace.
It had been a while since he’d visited and the boulder next to the little stream where he used to sit was covered in moss. He took off his boots, rolled up his jeans, and sat on the rock, careful not to disturb the greenery. He dangled his feet in the cool water.
Immediately it soothed him.
The soft gurgle of the water running along the stream told him to relax, that some things were the way they were, and that he couldn’t control everything.
But damn, he wanted to try.
Jerry was the only responsible family Bradley had left. The kid’s father was addicted to drugs, and his mother had left the reservation and wasn’t coming back. But Jerry was struggling with his own demon. Depression was its name.
Ever since his wife’s death, he’d refused to take the medication he’d been offered, saying it messed with his head, and he refused too to take part in tribal activities that would keep him busy and connected.
Instead he stayed in his house, far away from neighbors, lived how he wanted to live and let the depression rule him.
Each Sunday when Tai dropped Bradley off, he went into the house first, to make sure Jerry hadn’t given up, that depression hadn’t won – that he was still alive. Tai couldn’t be there every day when Bradley got home from school, but he held on to the hope that if Jerry ever did lose his battle, he would do it on a Sunday when he knew it would be Tai to find him, not Bradley.
Finding someone who had committed suicide haunted you for life.
He shut out the images and focused on the water, watched the patterns it made as it flowed down the stream, saw the bubbles in places and felt its calming caress.
Life was not fair.
He’d learned that from a very young age, but it didn’t stop him from trying to tip the scales in a favorable direction.
There were days when he thought he was winning and then something would happen to remind him he wasn’t in control. There were too many people wanting contradicting things.
Piper was proof. He hadn’t wanted to do an interview, had said no, and somehow, despite his best intentions, she was sitting not so far away from him, in his home, in a place where he’d brought no one else. He’d thought he had control of the situation but he didn’t.
He got to his feet. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there and Piper was probably getting antsy. There was no cell reception and she’d be eager to get back to civilization. He put his boots back on, rolled down his jeans and walked along the path back to the truck.
At the edge of the clearing, he stopped and stared.
Piper was leaning back on a fallen log, her head tilted up, eyes closed, catching the few rays of sun that filtered through the canopy above. Her hair glistened gold and there was a slight smile on her face. Her whole posture was relaxed and calm.
She was beautiful.
He’d been expecting to find her pacing the clearing or writing something in her notepad. But not this. This was far harder to resist.
Her eyes flew open, she sat up straight and her hand flew to her chest when she saw him walking toward her. “You startled me!” She frowned when he said nothing, and got to her feet. “Are you all right?”
At that one simple question, he hesitated, stopped walking only a few yards from her. No one ever asked him that. He wasn’t all right: he was angry, worried and confused, and he wanted to tell her, to share with her.
But that was ridiculous. She was a reporter. Reporters couldn’t be trusted. He ignored the fact that if he’d brought her there he must trust her a little.
She walked over and put a hand on his arm. Her touch grounded him. His eyes were drawn to hers and he desperately resisted the urge to step closer, but she made her own decision, moved closer and wrapped her arms around him.
Chapter 6
Tai’s arms moved on their own accord, circling her, bringing her closer and drawing from her the comfort he needed. He rested his cheek on her head, breathed in the sweet scent of her hair and let himself relax.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let his defenses down this way. He was the strong one – but right now he needed the comfort more than he needed his barriers. She was warm in his arms, soft and soothing. Somehow it felt right, as if he’d known her for years rather than days. He should question it, but he didn’t have the will.
Finally he stepped away, unsure what to say, what to do about his display of vulnerability.
He was never vulnerable.
All his barriers snapped back into place.
“We’d better get back,” he said, and headed for the pickup, not looking at Piper. He didn’t want to see her reaction.
She climbed into the cab with him. As he turned the key, he waited for her to comment, to ask a question, but she was silent.
The whole drive back was silent.
Piper looked out the window, but she didn’t speak, she didn’t ask what was bothering him. She was surprisingly quiet for a reporter.
He pulled up outside his grandmother’s house and turned off the pickup. The silence grew louder and he got out of the cab, running from it. He’d never shown his vulnerability to anyone and of all the people for it to happen with, he had to do it with a journalist.
The Texan Quartet (Books 1-4) Omnibus Page 86