Something to Hold (5 page)

There is a knock at the back door. Our house is small enough that through the wall I can hear Mom go down the short steps from the kitchen and open the door. "You must be Pinky," she says, a smile in her voice. "Nice to meet you. Kitty's in her room. Go through the kitchen and keep turning left."

A few seconds later, the door opens, and Pinky sticks her head in. "Barbies?"

"Sure!"

I told Pinky at school last week about my Barbie dolls—a blond with a silky ponytail and a bubble-cut brunette. I only have a few outfits besides the swimsuits my Barbies came in. She likes the tiny shoes best. Last Christmas, I got a hundred pairs stapled into a cellophane packet.

In no time, we have shoes and clothes spread all over my rug, and Pinky is working the blond Barbie into her evening gown.

"What was it like going to school in Madras?" I ask her after a while. "Before they opened up the boarding school?"

Pinky wraps a fake-fur stole around Barbie's shoulders. "What do you mean?"

"Well, were there any other Indian kids up there?" I wonder if this will feel too personal to her, but something tells me Pinky won't mind.

"Oh, yeah. A bunch of us." She plucks a pair of pink shoes from the pile on the rug and slips them onto the doll's feet.

"Did you know Cathy Watson?" I ask.

Pinky nods. "Sure—she was in my class. How come?"

"She was in Sunday school today," I say. "And some girl with her said"—I hesitate—"something about Indians."

Pinky shrugs and shakes her head. "That we're drunks?" I must look surprised, because she adds, "White people say that all the time."

"I'm white," I say.

Pinky smiles. "Not like that."

She holds up Barbie. Sparkly black evening dress with furs, open-toed shoes showing off red nail polish on her tiny feet.

"Movie premiere," Pinky says. "Hollywood."

We both giggle, and it feels good to laugh with her.

R
IGHT
after lunch, Mr. Nute slams down the windows to shut out the highway noise and the afternoon sun. "To help you concentrate," he says. It's October, but by two thirty the room is steaming.

We're rehearsing for the Columbus Day assembly next week. Each class will perform something about America. We're doing the Oregon state song, which is about free men who conquered the Golden West. We've built a rickety covered wagon out of a packing crate and canvas. Now we're stuck learning the words, and we haven't even tried the singing part.

From his desk at the front, Mr. Nute signals Deland to start over.

Deland takes a deep breath and plunges in. "Landatheempirebuilders..."

"
Stop!
It's '
Land
...
of.
.. the
Em
-pire
Buil
-ders.'" Mr. Nute taps out the beat on his desk with a ruler.

Deland stands there in the aisle, clutching the songbook.

"Again." Mr. Nute raises his arms, the ruler now a baton.

"Landa—"

Mr. Nute slams the ruler down on the desk. "
Land OF!
" he blasts. "Good grief!"

Deland flinches and drops the book. We clamp our mouths shut, hold still. The storm will blow over if we don't move. "Sit."

Deland sits. Reaching down, he scoops up the book.

Mr. Nute scans the rows. He pauses for a second at Raymond, who's hunkered down low at his desk, then nods to Franklin. "Next line."

Each kid reads just one. I don't have to pay attention, because I've counted and there aren't enough lines left.

Franklin slouches at his desk, fumbling with the pages.
He wasn't even following along.
He draws his fist up to his mouth and mumbles into it.

"For Pete's sake, speak up!" Mr. Nute stands, frowning at Franklin, who keeps his own eyes glued to the page. Exasperation rolls in a wave from the front of the room.

"
People,
" Mr. Nute says, "this is our state song. A majestic tribute to every person who came to this land seeking a better life. It deserves more respect."

He sighs again and sits back down. "Orin. Go on."

Orin holds the book up in front of his face like a shield. "Hell to thee..." he reads.

"
Mis-ter Culpus!
" Mr. Nute jumps up, slamming the book on his desk.

Orin looks confused. "What'd I do?"

Mr. Nute stares him down. "It's
hail
to thee," he spits, and points straight out the door. Orin has the good sense to set down the book and go.

Mr. Nute watches to make sure Orin gets to Mr. Shanahan's office. Then he settles himself into the creaky old chair at his desk. "Who's next?" he asks.

This is not a safe moment to raise a hand. In the weeks we've been in school, I've learned to read Mr. Nute. At times like this, it's best to stay out of range.

But it doesn't work. He gets up, walks slowly down the aisle, and stops right above my desk.

"Kitty," he says, "you read the rest for us."

I stand, wipe my sweaty hand on my skirt, and hold the book still so that I can see the words. I read the second stanza and then sit.

Mr. Nute walks to the front of the room, then turns and stands, hands clasped behind his back.

"Kitty," he says, "what is this song about?"

"Explorers," I say.

He rocks back on the heels of his cowboy boots. "
And?
"

I hate when teachers want you to guess what's in their head. "Uh ... pioneers coming to Oregon?"

"And
why
are they coming to Oregon?"

I feel like an idiot. But he's waiting. I say the first thing that pops into my head. "This is the land of the free and the home of the brave."

Beside me, Benson snickers and shakes his head.
I know it was stupid.

That must have been close enough. Mr. Nute says, "OK. At least one of you has some idea what we're talking about."

He starts pacing up the row, boot heels clicking against the polished floor.

"We are
all
immigrants," he says, "And America is the
greatest
country in the history of mankind. It was established on the backs of those who came before us."

Mr. Nute pauses for a second to let that sink in, then he unleashes an oration on Columbus Day and the ideals on which this country was founded. All made possible, Mr. Nute tells us, because this one man and a bunch of others who came after him had the courage and vision to seek out this empty and savage New World, to plant their flags so that civilized men could tame it, men like our country's forefathers and the great explorers who made the Oregon Territory safe for the pioneers, all of whom sacrificed so much so that we can have the freedom—the unearned and unappreciated
luxury
—to sit here and wallow in our ignorance.

"Now, let's take it from the top," Mr. Nute says quietly. "One more time."

***

After supper, I have to help Bill drag the garbage can out to the alley. It is already mostly dark now. No more long evenings bathed in twilight.

He holds the screen door open. "Hurry up!" he calls over his shoulder. "I've gotta get over to Jimmy's to finish up our social studies project."

I pull my jacket off the hook in the back hall and follow him. "Something for Columbus Day?" I ask.

"Nah, current events—that thing with Cuba." He bends and twists the garage handle, pulls on the heavy door, and heaves it up so it slides across the metal track above our heads.

"We're having an assembly about Columbus. Every class has to present something on America."

His smile pities me, a kid who has to do such dumb stuff. "And what are you guys doing?" he asks as we wrestle the stinking mess out to the alley.

"The state song. You know, 'Conquered and held by free men.'"

Bill chuckles. "Ironic, huh?"

"What?"

Bill wipes his grimy hands on his jeans. "Well, don't you think it's weird to make Indian kids celebrate Columbus—
and
the empire builders?"

"He discovered America," I say, "and they settled it."

Bill rolls his eyes. "Oh, please," he says. "Think about that."

And he turns and jogs back into the house.

H
AIL
... to thee ... Land...of... Pro-mise," Deland reads. We have worked all the way back to him.

I think about the long lines of wagon trains and the people who rode or walked all that way across the country. And the seasick masses of immigrants who were drawn to the beacon of the Statue of Liberty from all the way across the ocean. That's how all my ancestors got here, as far back as the pilgrims on the Mayflower. For three hundred years, my genes have stretched across the Atlantic Ocean.

Then it hits me.
This song is about white people.
I scan the room and count—just me, Mr. Nute, and Franklin, who is sitting over there slouched down with his book propped up in front of his face and his eyes closed.
What about everybody else?

Benson catches me looking around. "What are you doing?" he whispers.

Mr. Nute is way up front, his boots crossed on his desk. So I lean toward the aisle. "Where'd you come from?"

"Huh?"

"Before now. Where are you from?"

Benson shakes his head. "Highway Three," he says.

I take a quick glance at Mr. Nute, then try again. "I mean your family."

Benson shakes his head like I'm not making any sense. "No place," he says. "We've always been here."

"No—I mean
way
back."

I should have quit sooner.

"
Miss
Schlick!" Mr. Nute is standing up, glaring. "Do you have something important to share with the class?"

Nothing to do but look sorry and hope for the best. "No, sir."

He gives his head a little shake. "I expect better from you."

***

Pinky catches me in the hall on the way to recess. "What was that all about?"

It is getting chilly outside. I button up my sweater and shake my head. "Nothing."

She chuckles. "You've hardly said anything in class, and today he's
disappointed?
"

We push out through the big front doors. "Benson says he's always been here," I say.

Pinky turns at the bottom of the steps. "Yeah?"

I try to explain. "Well, everybody comes from somewhere." Kids swirl around us in the sunshine.

For a second she has that same look:
What are you talking about?
Then she says, "Three tribes were put on this reservation. I'm Wasco—we lived up on the Columbia River. The Paiutes were dragged off the desert. But Benson's people are Warm Springs. They were—" she sweeps her arms around— "
right here.
"

"For how long?"

" Well
—forever.
" Then Pinky adds, as if it's going to help, "Since the animals were people." And she runs off to play foursquare.

***

When I go into the house for lunch, the kitchen is empty—the table is not even set. I hear soft voices from the living room. Mom sits on a chair pulled up close to the couch. She is handing a cup to an Indian woman about my grandma's age who is sitting back against the ivy pillow. A dark scarf is tied back around her head, and she wears a plaid wool jacket over her wing dress and high moccasins.

Mom says, "Kitty, you remember Mrs. Queahpama? She gave you a ride last summer."

The woman eases the saucer down onto the coffee table, then reaches out a small, wrinkled hand to me. I quickly cross the floor and take her warm palm in mine. She was wearing dark glasses last time, but when I look into her eyes, I remember her.

"I was resting on your steps, and your mom invited me in for a cup of coffee," Mrs. Queahpama says, a web of smile lines spreading out from her eyes. "It's a long walk from the clinic back to my house."

I smile back and settle myself into a chair by the sofa.

"I've been telling your mom about the old days," Mrs. Queahpama says.

"Very old?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah. When the mountains were young." And then she chuckles and her whole body jiggles.

This is what I want to know. "Were the animals really people once?"

Mrs. Queahpama nods, smiling. "You
are
talking about old times."

"Well, how could they be people?" I ask. I hope I'm not being rude.

Mrs. Queahpama doesn't look offended. "The Creator put our people here," she says, "to care for the land so the Earth will provide a home for all living things. Before people, the animals were the caretakers. My
káthla
and my aunties, when they told stories, they always started that way, 'When the animals were people.'"

"That must be a long time ago," I say.

"Our home has always been here," Mrs. Queahpama says. "Since long ago, when the animals prepared the world for us."

I think about the empire builders. "But then the white people came," I say. "And made Indians live on the reservation."

Mrs. Queahpama leans back into the sofa cushions. "Do you know what that means?" she asks.

I thought I did—that the government made the people live in a certain place. The way she asks it makes me wonder. So I shake my head.

"We signed a treaty with the United States government," Mrs. Queahpama says. "They took almost everything. But we reserved this land for ourselves."

I hear both sadness and pride in her voice.

"Most of us were forced to leave our homes." She nods, then leans toward me. "But we carry our roots with us "—she touches her creased palm to her chest—"right here. So we never forget who we are."

I have to hurry out the door to get back to school in time. The trees haven't shed their leaves yet, all gold and green around the campus. The walk is quiet and sunny, a good time for thinking.

I have no idea how it would feel to carry those roots inside so they'd stay with me wherever I went. I wish I did.

I do know one thing, though. Mr. Nute has never heard of the animals who were people.

M
R.
Nute hangs his jacket on the hook, picks up the songbook, and stands at the front of the room. It's now or never. I raise my hand.