Indian Pipes (32 page)

“You are a paid lobbyist for the shipping company, Peter, the same company that runs the
Pequot
from Vineyard Haven to its casino in Connecticut. I have said enough. Do you have a pen? Perhaps Obed will lend you his.”

Peter pulled the paper toward him, read it quickly, reached into his pocket for his silver pen, and signed with a flourish, drawing a curved line under his name. He slid the paper back to the chief, who studied it for a moment and set it to one side.

“I’m sure you need to make arrangements to clear out your office. You’re welcome to make a statement. However, if you have nothing further to say, you may leave now.”

Peter shoved his chair back and stood up. “Fuck you. All of you!” he spit out, and swept out of the conference room, through the door that closed behind him with a hiss and a click.

The rain spattered against the window and the oak leaf that had been plastered against the glass slid down a few inches.

“Our next order of business,” said the chief calmly, “is to appoint a
pro tem
tribal chairman. This, as Peter Little pointed out, is only until the tribe holds elections. Obed, I am asking you to take that job.”

“But…” Obed looked around desperately. Victoria smiled. The chief sat impassively, his hands folded over his stomach.

Obed said, “A woman has always held the position of tribal chairman. Since the beginning of time.”

“Times change.” The chief moved another paper to one side. “The next order of business is to announce that the federal government has approved a grant submitted by you, Obed VanDyke, to fund a three-million-dollar shellfish hatchery you proposed.”

Obed stood up and thrust his fist into the air. “All right!” He sat again, grinning.

The chief lifted his head slightly so he could look at Obed through his glasses, which had slipped down again.

Victoria moved her chair back so she could see Obed better. “Congratulations!” She offered her hand, and he shook it, still grinning.

“Was it Dojan who got the grant approved?” Obed asked.

“Dojan has been working hard in Washington.” The chief nodded toward Dojan, who stared out at the rain as if he hadn’t heard.

“Now for the next order of business.” The chief shifted more papers. “I have in front of me the results of the survey we sent to all Aquinnah residents. We had an eighty-five percent response, almost unheard of. We asked how residents felt about a gambling casino. Only five people out of almost three hundred said they wanted a casino.” The chief moved a paper to one side. “That, too, will have to be voted on. But we know now, for a certainty, the sentiments of the tribe.”

“Thank the good Lord,” Obed murmured.

“Lastly,” the chief went on, “all of us, with the exception of Victoria Trumbull, know why I asked her to this meeting.”

Obed and Dojan turned to face Victoria.

“It is my pleasure to give you this certificate, appointing you an honorary member of the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head/Aquinnah.” The chief faced Victoria.

Obed and Dojan stood. Obed reached into his pocket, brought out a package wrapped in tissue paper, and presented it to Victoria. She
opened it to find a wampum necklace of sea-smoothed quahog shell teardrops set in swirls of antiqued green copper, wrapped like a vine around a leather thong. Obed fastened it around her neck. Her lavender turtleneck matched the purple wampum.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Shouldn’t we smoke ceremonial pipes now to commemorate this?”

“Indian pipes, Mrs. Trumbull?” Chief Hawkbill laughed. “As I said a moment ago, times change. This is a smoke-free campus.”