River's Song - The Inn at Shining Waters Series (2 page)

Anna could smell rain in the air now. She hurried back to the dock for the box of food she'd picked up at the grocery store, carried it up the stairs, and set it next to her other bags. Despite his rainy day bravado, Anna knew that Henry had probably cranked up his engine by now. She hoped he'd make it back to his river house before the clouds broke. As she dug in her handbag, trying to find the house key, she wondered how many times she'd sat in Henry's little two-room shanty while he and her father loaded store supplies to take back up river. She still remembered the smell of that river shanty— old canvas, damp wood, stale coffee, gasoline, and smoke. She imagined how old Henry would soon be stoking up his little potbellied stove and warming a can of pork and beans—or if fishing had been good he might fry up the catch of the day. Not a bad way to live really.

The first raindrops began to fall, plunking noisily on the metal roof, as Anna searched in her handbag for the keys that the lawyer had given her that morning. He said the brass key was for the upstairs entrance and the stainless steel one was for the store below, but the brass key looked foreign to her. She couldn't remember anyone locking the door to their house while she was growing up. Sometimes Daddy didn't even bother to lock up the store. Despite a fairly steady cash flow in the store, except during the Great Depression, her parents had never seemed overly concerned about thieves or breakins. Each night, her dad would stash the day's earnings in an old tin box that he kept tucked beneath his bed. But he had always been more careful when they made their weekly trip into town. Then he would place the cash in a money belt "in case the boat sinks," he'd explain with a broad grin as he patted the slight bulge under his shirt. Of course, the boat never did sink. And the store never made their family wealthy either.

In fact, the store's income barely kept them clothed and fed during the Depression, but that wasn't so unusual; everyone had a tough time in those days. Each night at supper, after Daddy said the blessing, he reminded them how fortunate they were to have food on the table and a roof over their heads. Anna had been aware of Mother's black ledger book, where she recorded customers' cashless purchases, and that a fair amount of credit had been extended to their neighbors during those hard times. She also knew that customers sometimes paid their bills with an exchange of goods—and that could get interesting.

As Anna worked the key into the stubborn lock, she remembered the time Daddy had accepted a beautiful spinning wheel from Mrs. Sawyer. It was to cancel the Sawyers' rather large accumulation of debt. With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Sawyer had explained how her grandmother had brought the delicate item over by wagon train across the Oregon Trail. It was one of the few pieces to make it all the way to Oregon. Daddy kept the spinning wheel in a corner of the store right next to the potato bin, and every time Mrs. Sawyer came in she would head straight for it, running her hands over its polished surfaces. Daddy kept the spinning wheel for several years. He would occasionally get a generous offer from a collector wanting to purchase it. But each time he said, "Sorry, not for sale." Then one day, Mrs. Sawyer came in swinging her tattered purse and wearing a big smile. She made him a cash offer on the spinning wheel, explaining how she'd been saving up since the day she'd exchanged it. Daddy grinned and, refusing to take a profit, he sold it back to her for the exact price that he'd wiped clean from her bill those many years before.

Anna smiled at that memory, and the key turned in the lock. She pushed the door open with her foot and reached for her suitcase. Taking a deep breath, unsure of what to expect, she went inside. It had only been six days since her mother had died right here in this house. She knew that Mrs. Thorne, a neighbor from upriver, had stopped by last week to share a bucket of clams, and had found her mother on the kitchen floor. The doctor said she'd been dead for a day or two, but had in all likelihood died instantly. Probably a stroke or heart attack. No need for an autopsy, he'd said, nothing suspicious about a sixty-nine-year-old woman dying in her own kitchen. Anna swallowed hard and closed the door behind her. She set her suitcase on a straight-back chair and looked around, sighing in relief. Thankfully, all signs of the recent tragedy had been removed. Everything looked scrubbed clean and neat with even a vase of wild snapdragons on the kitchen table, probably from Mrs. Thorne, or maybe Babette. River folks were like that—they looked out for one another.

Anna set the box of food on the kitchen table, putting the perishable items in the old icebox, which was cold as well as recently cleaned. Now she went straight to her mother's beloved piano. She gently ran her fingers over the keys, playing a scale. Still in tune, but the sound was slightly jarring in the otherwise silent house. Daddy had sent for the upright piano when Anna was around four. It was to be a Christmas present for Mother. Anna still remembered looking on in awe as Daddy and three other men carried the enormous crate from the dock and into the house. She stood in the doorway, watching as Daddy used a crowbar to pry big pieces of wood from the crate. She had been told to keep watch in case Mother came up while he was unpacking it, but Mother had more than enough to keep her busy that day with last-minute holiday shoppers flocking into the tiny store. Anna had hoped that there was a pony inside the big box, and was slightly dismayed when a tall brown piano appeared instead. Mother had cried when she saw it. Then to Anna's amazement she sat down and played—beautifully. It turned out that Mother had taken lessons (in exchange for housekeeping) as a child. And her dream had been to teach Anna to play as well. Consequently, almost every day after the arrival of the piano, Anna was subjected to a long hour's worth of lessons and practice.

She studied a silver-framed photo on the piano. She had seen it hundreds of times, but suddenly it was like seeing it for the first time. It had been Easter Sunday when her family had posed for a neighbor in front of their store before church, all three of them in their Sunday best. Anna must've been around seven or eight, because it was before the Great Depression and the last time she would have pretty shoes like those for a while. The shoes were soft white leather with dainty straps and not a bit practical for life on the Siuslaw River, but Daddy had thought they were pretty and brought them home for her just a few days earlier.

Although the photo was black and white, in her mind's eye she could see it in color, and her dress was a delightful robin's egg blue with several layers of ruffles on the skirt. Mother had made it for her. Anna's long dark hair was pulled back with an oversized bow that matched the dress. Even as a girl, it was easy to see that Anna would take after her father in build and height, already resembling a gangling colt, and her face taking on angles not normally seen in the Siuslaw people. But her eyes were dark and clear and full of life. Eyes that Anna had not seen in years.

The dark-eyed girl in the photo was smiling happily. Life had been good for them. She was her parents' little pearl, and the world was her oyster. Anna's focus moved to her mother. How incredibly young she looked! Almost like a girl herself.Her mother stood nearly a foot shorter than her six-foot-tall husband, but unlike many of her race, she was neither squat nor heavy. Her facial features were traditional Siuslaw—broad nose, big dark eyes, and full lips with the corners turned slightly up—but her eyes were downcast, as if she were too shy to look straight into the lens of the camera.

In this photo, Mother's sleek black hair had been recently cut into a stylish short bob. Anna could still remember the horrified look on Daddy's face when Mother had come home from town after having her long tresses cut. He had lamented the loss for some time, then must have noticed Mother's somber face close to tears, and he quickly recovered, reassuring her that she looked very nice in her new "boy's" hair. Mother wasn't a beauty, but she was attractive in a wholesome way. Her dress, like all their clothing, had been sewn by her. It was an off-white linen, straight and sensible, not unlike the fashion of the times, and her lace-up shoes were sturdy and practical.Her appearance was exactly what one would expect for the wife of a store proprietor in the late 1920s, except, of course, that she was Indian.

Anna's gaze moved over to Daddy and she smiled. He stood ramrod straight, looking directly into the camera as if he were the proudest man on the river. Not the kind of pride associated with arrogance, but the kind that showed he was happy and satisfied with life. His jacket was slung casually over his arm, and he had on his good suspenders, or braces as he called them. His long, narrow tie seemed to exaggerate his height, but Daddy had never been a bow-tie man. But it was his smile that stopped her. Big and broad and sincere. It was that smile that brought people into the store even if they didn't need to make a purchase. Old Mrs. O'Neil had once commented that "Oscar Larson's smile was just like sunshine." And with overcast days so common to the Oregon coast, a slice of sunshine could be a priceless commodity indeed.

After all these years, Anna would still agree with Mrs. O'Neil. How she missed that sunny smile and those clear blue eyes that crinkled at the edges—Daddy's whole face seemed to light up when he smiled. People used to say that Anna had her father's smile. Certainly, no one would make that claim anymore. Time and trials had worn it away. Just last week her mother-in-law had commented that perhaps the reason Anna was approaching forty without facial wrinkles was because she rarely showed emotion. Anna might have received that as a compliment, but her mother-in-law quickly added, "I guess that's just the way it is with your people. I've always thought that Indian faces look as if they're carved in stone." Anna had wondered if her mother-in-law's heart might also be carved in stone. But out of habit she had held her tongue. She had long since learned that to respond to her mother-in-law's continual barbs only made matters worse.

Anna replaced the photo and moved to the north window that looked out over the river. She slid back the faded blueand-white gingham café curtains that her mother had sewn before the war. She reached for the string on the roller shades, which were blocking the view as well as the light, probably pulled down by a well-meaning neighbor. As she gave the cord a tug the whole works tumbled down in a loud crash. Not that Anna cared much. The stiff and yellowed shades had only been put to use on unusually hot summer days to keep the sun out and the house cool. Because Mother, like Anna, had always welcomed the light into the house.

Today, however, was dreary and even with the shades up there wasn't much light. Anna looked out on the dull gray scene before her. This was a day when Anna could've used a small dose of Daddy's famous sunny smile. The late afternoon sun was low in the slate-colored sky, and big fat drops were pelleting the smooth surface of the river, coming faster and harder until she could barely see the river. Anna hoped that Henry was docked by now.

For a long time she stood there, mesmerized by the watery world outside of the north window. Eventually the deluge eased itself into a steady drizzle and Anna continued to stare out across the river.
Her river.
Even on a gray and rainy day, there was a soothing quality to the slow-moving water. It was constant and dependable, ebbing and flowing with the tide, yes, but continually moving westward on its journey to the sea. The Siuslaw had always filled her with a sense of peace, a calm reassurance that life would continue. But how long had it been since she'd experienced that kind of peace in her own life? Was it possible she could ever experience it again?

How many times had she stood in this exact spot, looking out over her peaceful river world, thinking that it would never change? Truly, the river never did change. Outside of its seasonal rhythms and tidal flows, its song remained the same. A timeless melody of blue and green, water and trees, sunshine and moonlight, rain and wind. And for a brief moment she felt as if nothing in the entire world had changed.

And yet, she knew, nothing was the same.

With hungry eyes, Anna looked around her childhood home. Thankful that Mother had changed so little in the house over the past two decades, she was relieved to see that even the furnishings were in the same places. Maybe that was Mother's way of preserving the past. Even the smells were the same. Pungently comforting. The ever-present mustiness that came from living near water; the faint aroma of sweet cedar from the wood paneling on the ceiling; the smoky smell from the fireplace that never drafted properly in a windstorm, and all tinged by the lingering fragrance of dried lavender. Mother had always kept a large bouquet of these purple aromatic blossoms in a big white pitcher that sat on top of her old Singer treadle sewing machine. At the end of every summer the bouquet would be replaced by a fresh one.

Mother had acquired this habit from her good friend Babette McDougal. Babette had come from France as a young bride with her first husband, Pierre, just before the turn of the century. Pierre had come over to help an elderly uncle who'd been working an old gold claim in southern Oregon, certain that it was only a matter of weeks before he would strike the mother lode. After several backbreaking years, the mine actually began to pay off, but Pierre's uncle's lungs were giving out. By the time Pierre hit a solid pocket of gold, the uncle was long gone.

Tragedy continued when, shortly after Pierre and Babette began to enjoy the fruit of their long labors, Pierre was killed in a collapsed mine. Babette became a very rich widow, and decided that she wanted to live near the ocean. Anna had been surprised to see Babette at the funeral today, looking not much older than the last time she had seen her; Anna wondered if the French had some antiaging secrets.

Anna had expressed her sympathy for Babette's recent loss of her second husband, Bernard, but Babette had merely smiled and patted her hand, saying, "These things happen, ma chérie. Death is just a fact of life. Please, do come and visit me on the river, chérie. I would love to hear more about how you are doing and about your little daughter." Then tears clouded her faded blue eyes and she whispered, "I will miss your mother, chérie. She was like a sister to me." Anna didn't know why, but Babette's simple words had touched her deeply—more than anything had in a very long time. Her kindness felt familiar and warm. She would definitely spend some time with Babette during her visit here.

All at once Anna was overcome by an unexpected eagerness to relive and relish every single pleasant memory that her old homestead could conjure up. So much of her disappointing adult life had made her feel hard and dry, like a stiff, thirsty sponge deprived of all moisture. But life on the river had never been like that. It had been fulfilling and peaceful, and right now she needed to know and remember that there had truly been such a time.

A selection of baskets caught her eye. They were nicely arranged on the coffee table that her father had created from a burled piece of myrtle wood. She could tell by the intricate weave and geometric design that the baskets were Indian made. Strange. Her mother had never learned the craft, nor had she ever cared much for the traditions of her people.

Anna's mother had been a
modern
woman. She even read modern women's magazines. And theirs had been a
modern
home. Anna remembered the first time her best friend, Dorothy, had come over to visit. They'd been about eight or nine that summer, and Dorothy had been eager to spend a day with Anna. As soon as Dorothy's dad dropped her off, she'd walked silently around Anna's house, as if she were searching for something she couldn't find. Finally she turned to Anna with a look of disdain and declared, "Why, Anna Pearl Larson, your house is just like mine!"

"Why shouldn't it be like your house?"Anna had retorted as she ran her fingers over the piano keys, showing off for her good friend.

"Because I expected to see
genuine
Indian stuff. Where do you keep it all anyway?"

Anna had been taken aback at first. She didn't even know what Dorothy was talking about. But then she'd just laughed it off and taken Dorothy over to visit Grandma Pearl. She lived in a little cabin about a hundred yards from the store. And although Grandma Pearl liked some modern things, she did many things in the old ways too. That visit had satisfied Dorothy's hunger for some "genuine Indian stuff." In fact, it was partly due to Dorothy's sincere interest and appreciation that Anna began to see Grandma Pearl in a whole new light. Unfortunately, Anna's mother did not share this enthusiasm.

"We live in the modern world, Anna. We do things in the new ways," Mother had patiently explained one day after Anna had spent a long afternoon at Grandma Pearl's little cabin. She'd been learning to twist and roll scratchy river reeds over the top of her knee, making them into long pieces that could be woven into a small sewing basket. As she did this, Grandma Pearl had been working with the more stubborn Sitka Spruce roots, explaining that they were much harder to find as well as to work with. But after Anna mastered reeds, she could move on to roots.

However, Mother questioned what she referred to as "A complete waste of time." Pressing her lips together in a tight line, she sighed deeply. "There are better ways to use your precious time, Anna Pearl," she said in a controlled tone. Anna knew by the blackness of Mother's eyes that she was losing her patience, but since Mother never lost her temper Anna knew that it was safe to persist.

"But Grandma says the old ways have been lost," pleaded Anna. "We need to save them or they'll be gone forever."

"Good riddance then. This is a new age, Anna. The old ways were fine for the old people, but they are useless for our lives today."

"But Grandma said it's possible to weave baskets that can actually carry water,"Anna explained with wonder.

That
had simply made Mother laugh. She picked up a tin bucket. "
This
can also carry water. And it doesn't take me days and days just to make one. Now, why don't you go fill it up with huckleberries from the woods? That should make you feel like a good little Indian squaw."

Thankfully, Mother didn't forbid Anna to spend time with Grandma Pearl. So for the next few summers, Anna spent hour after hour learning how to do "Indian things," the kinds of things she kept quiet about because, other than Dorothy, most of her friends would not have understood. And she knew that her mother would say it was worse than senseless. Fortunately, summertime was also the tourist season. People from the Willamette Valley and other inland places would journey west to see the ocean or do recreational fishing or camping on the river. This was the busiest time for the store. Daddy would stock the shelves with more colorful and interesting items, including sweets and money-making knickknacks, the sorts of things tourists liked to spend their cash on. Consequently, her parents stayed busy and as long as Anna's chores were done to satisfaction and she had practiced piano, no one seemed to mind having her out from under foot—usually spending time with Grandma Pearl.

It was helpful that Daddy approved of Grandma Pearl. Perhaps he missed the family relationships he had left behind in Sweden, or maybe, like Anna, he just thought that Grandma Pearl was entertaining. Whatever it was, he had great respect for his mother-in-law, and he encouraged Anna to continue spending time with her. He was even known to take his pipe over to her cabin and spend a good portion of an evening just visiting with the old woman. He enjoyed hearing her tales of days gone by, and the old stories of her ancestors.

Daddy often took a little notebook with him and he would attempt to record her stories as she told them. Sometimes at night, if it wasn't too late, Anna got to sit in and listen too, and she would watch in wonder as Grandma closed her big brown eyes and tried to get the stories
just right.
Anna didn't get to hear all of Grandma's stories because, as Daddy explained to her privately one night, some tales were better understood by grown-up ears. "Someday you will hear them too."

Because of this, Anna became even more curious as to what was in Daddy's "legend book." She sneaked it to her room and tried to read from it once, but because Daddy's mother tongue was Swedish, his phonetically challenged spelling was rather strange and difficult to unravel. That was why Mother always kept the books for the store. Anna wondered if Daddy's notebook might still be around the house somewhere, although she doubted she would have any more luck understanding it now than she had back then.

One summer, an anthropologist had stopped by the store for supplies, and Daddy had mentioned that he was trying to record Grandma's stories. At first the anthropologist was very interested, but when he learned that Grandma had become a Christian during a turn-of-the-century revival that had taken place in Florence, he waved his hand in dismissal, saying that Grandma's stories would be tainted with Christianity now and no longer
authentic.
Anna asked Daddy what "Authentic" was, and he said it was like telling the truth. That's when Anna decided that the anthropologist was full of beans because she knew that Grandma stories
were
authentic. Grandma Pearl wouldn't lie.

Anna couldn't specifically recall her mother ever taking the path that wound back behind the store over to Grandma's cabin, except perhaps the time when Grandma was very sick and Mother had taken her soup and medicine. Grandma drank the soup, but wouldn't touch the medicine. Instead, she relied on her own herbal remedies. And the herbs must have worked because Grandma was up and well after just a few days. After that, whether it was an extra loaf of bread or eggs or produce from the garden, Mother usually sent it by way of Anna.

By the same token, Grandma Pearl rarely came into the store. And although she was quite old, it wasn't that she couldn't get around easily, because the fact was, most of the time Grandma was as healthy as a horse. She would take a large root basket and spend hours in the woods collecting berries, nuts, and herbs until the basket was heavy and full. Anna suspected the reason Grandma didn't come by to visit was because she didn't feel very welcome at the store or the house. The only time that Anna could recall Grandma stopping by the store, her mother had grabbed up the broom and become very busy sweeping an already spotless floor. At the time, Anna had thought it strange; now she understood it was Mother's way of keeping Grandma at a distance.

Mother didn't approve of Grandma's long gray braids ornately tied with strips of deerskin, or her homemade clothing, often decorated with found embellishments from nature—things like shells, feathers, and carved bone. Nor did she approve of Grandma's smell. Mostly it was kind of a smoky, musky smell. Anna never understood the problem. But when Mother gave Grandma Pearl a bottle of toilette water (Babette's suggestion) Grandma Pearl took it home. But thinking it was something to use for cooking, she sampled it. Naturally, it tasted terrible, so she poured out the cologne and saved the bottle to fill with "good medicine." Later she told Anna, with a sour expression, "The stinky water was no good.
Rotten."

Anna remembered a day when she'd been sitting on the old hewn log that served as a bench in front of Grandma's cabin. She and Grandma Pearl had just finished shelling a basket of pea pods that Anna had picked and carried down from their garden. It was one of those flawless summer afternoons, and the glassy surface of the bluer-than-blue river reflected a perfect mirror image of towering trees and cloudless sky. They both sat peacefully, without speaking. The only sounds were the birds' occasional calls and the lapping of water at the river's edge from a fishing boat that had recently passed, and then Anna had spoiled everything by asking Grandma why she and Mother didn't get along very well.

After a lengthy silence Grandma answered, her dark eyes serious, "Your mother, my Marion, lives in moving man's world." Anna knew by then that "moving man" was an old Indian term for white man, assigned to them when they moved to this part of the country from somewhere else about fifty years ago. "Your mother does not know the ways of her people, Anna. She does not want to know . . . she wants to forget. I accept this. I, too, once tried to forget the ways of my people."

"Why would you do that?"Anna asked. "I think your ways are wonderful." She held up a basket recently made by Grandma's old wrinkled hands. "The things you make are so beautiful."

Grandma smiled, revealing uneven yellowed teeth. "There was a time when it was very good to be a Siuslaw Indian. Before my time. When my mother and father were young people, they were free to hunt and fish and live good life. Our people on the Siuslaw were not many, but they strong people—good people. They work hard and they help each other." She pointed to the basket in Anna's hand. "They skillful people too."

"But then the white man—the moving man—came?"

"Yes. Before I was born, the moving man came to the river. Not many at first. Our people welcome them. Our chief share his home. We share food. The moving man hunt our otter, our beaver. Not for food. For skin only."

Anna nodded. She had read of trappers and such in school. History books credited companies like the Hudson's Bay for settling the Northwest Territory.

"First the moving man say this"—Grandma waved her hand in all directions—"All you see from here to the ocean, to Tahkenitch to Yachats; all is your land. Reservation."

"All the land?"Anna was surprised. "All belonged to the Indians?" She had never heard this before.

Grandma Pearl waved her hands more vigorously. "All the land; all you see and more." Now she pointed to her head with a sly look, cunning like a fox. "But moving man, he change mind. He think—no, no, wait, let's see . . . this
good
land. This very good land. Too good for Indian only." She clapped her hands together so loud, so fast, that Anna jumped. "No more reservation!"

"Then what?"Anna waited anxiously for the rest of the story.

"Sickness come with moving man. Our numbers became less and less. I think about one hundred then. My grandparents die of moving man diseases. The others, my mother and my father, they taken from their homes and their land. They herded like horses onto beach. Walking, walking, north to Siletz Reservation. My mother walk for fifty miles up beach"—she pointed to her belly—"with me inside of her! She walk carrying baby. Many, many people walk. Coos, Siuslaw, Alsea, Coquille, Umpqua—all our people from here walk. My mother almost die, but she strong woman. I born on the reservation. Only moving man food on the reservation, bad food. Make us sick. But no one can go gather berries, fish, bring good food. One night, my father worry about my mother and me. He sneak out to gather clams and berries. He never come back. Before she die, my mother tell me, white man chase my father, hunt him like coyote, and kill him because he want to find food."