Cherokee America, page 20
Tomahawk squatted, stuck his finger through a bullet hole in a keg, and felt something wet. He said, “We’ve struck gold.”
Puny’s head jerked. He thought Tomahawk was talking about the stash.
But Tomahawk said, “There’s still a little liquor in this barrel.” He stood up and twisted the top off.
They both agreed there was no use letting good liquor go to waste. In a few more days, it’d probably be completely dried up. If it didn’t vanish, the squirrels, snakes, and frogs would get into it. There was no telling what could happen with a bunch of drunk animals that close to the bayou. There could be a mass drowning. That would be bad for the fish. They would swim off in search of better water. People wouldn’t have anything left to eat except corn (if the weather held) and some game, which, after all, gets tired of being hunted. Or so the theory developed.
The barrels were fairly well drained when Puny remembered his cane and bedding. The more sober of the two, he said, “I gotta get my snake cane and sompthing to sleep on.”
Tomahawk said, “Snucan?”
Puny thought he was talking Cherokee. He said, “Snake . . . Cane . . . Bedding . . . Upstairs.” He pointed.
Tomahawk fell back and looked at the ceiling.
Puny grunted himself up off the floor. “Take a nap. I’ll be back.”
The ladder to the loft hadn’t been moved since the night of the killings. But it did look to Puny like the ladder, at that second, might be shifting. He realized he was a little unstable. Grabbed a rung to make the ladder stop drifting. A couple of burps later, he grabbed another rung. He started climbing. The wall seemed taller than he remembered. The loft further off. When he got to the top, he leaned in on his stomach, caught ahold with a foot, and shoved himself in.
He didn’t have room to stand without bending. He rested on the floor. The loft was dim; light filtered through holes in the eaves. The bedding and the sandstone rocks of the chimney stood out clearly. The cane was propped against the rocks, its two forks pointed up. Puny was on his hands and knees more than halfway to the stick when he heard a noise. He lunged. Grabbed the cane. Scooted on his rear until his back hit the chimney. He said, “Who’s there?”
A hissing sound answered.
Puny turned towards the sound. Something moved in the rafters. The hiss came again. Puny’d never heard anything like it. He swung his cane. Shouted, “Don’t ya come near me! Don’t ya come near me! I’ll kill ya!” He stopped and listened. Heard only his own panting and his own heart beating. He scrambled across the floor, threw a leg out of the hole, searched for a rung with his foot. His leg flailed in the air. He dropped the cane to the floor below. Put a shoulder against the side of the hole. But missed a rung or two with his feet. Broke his fall by grabbing one with his hand. Still, he slipped when he hit the floor. He landed on his back, on his cane. He yelled, “Tomahawk! Let’s git outta here!” He rolled over, grabbed the rod, and stood up. He pulled Tomahawk up by the top of his pants.
Tomahawk said, “Wha’th’h’ll?”
Puny still thought Tomahawk was talking Cherokee. He said, “Talk English! Come on! There’s sompthing up there! It’s hissing!”
Tomahawk sobered instantly. He said, “Oh, shit! It’s the white woman’s ghost!” He bolted out of the door. Puny followed fast, limping and putting his cane to good use.
They reached their horses. Managed to mount. Galloped off. After they were gone for a while, the barn owl quit moving its head back and forth. It ruffled its feathers. Settled into an uneasy repose in the rafters. Eventually, it nodded back to sleep.
The Call of Life at Death
Closely confined to Andrew’s bedside, Check couldn’t oversee her boys as well as she commonly did. The older two were mostly off on their own. And coping with their father’s dying in ways she (thankfully) couldn’t imagine. Connell had, in the past, creatively used the saddle in the last stall of the barn to relieve his manly tensions. But lately he’d used it only for the beatings he couldn’t give Hugh. Now he was in a terrible state. His penis was popping up all over the place. Connell was vaguely aware his erections were linked to his father’s dying. Yet every time he made that connection, he hastily erased it from his mind. It felt appalling and disrespectful. Connell didn’t know that yearning for sex is almost universally stronger in the face of death.
Wherever he went, he started positioning his hat in front of his pants. Finally, in a desperate state, he rode into town for a serious talk with Florence. He told her he was pining for her day and night. Told her he could get relief only from her. Said he didn’t know how much longer he could wait. Said he would properly propose when he could talk it over with his parents. Said they were in difficult straits. He tried appealing to Florence’s loving nature. To her full womanhood. To her compassion. He whined a bit.
Florence wasn’t buying any of that. However, she did like hearing it. She asked for details. And they discussed them over and over. Really, they got to the point where they couldn’t discuss anything else. That made it worse for Connell. And Florence, though she wouldn’t admit it, began thinking of Connell’s penis very possessively. Even tenderly. However, with Connell not proposing, she wasn’t about to give in.
Hugh was in a bad way, too. His dick was like an eel he’d once reeled in and left on the bank to expire. Just a flop here and a roll there. He pulled back its hood, examined its top. Looked closely at its sides and bottom. He talked to it; called it Buckaroo in the same throaty way Willow did. When that didn’t work, he called it Buckaroo in a commanding tone, like an officer ordering a soldier. He squeezed it, ran his hand up its shaft, held it to attention. When he let it go, it usually fell to the left, the same side his leg was shot on.
Hugh began to see some symbolism in that. He recalled the four horsemen of his dream; particularly the first one, faceless, speaking of whoring, worms, and rot. That horseman’s blind, noseless, mouthless face looked to Hugh a little bit like Buckaroo. He knew he’d sinned by getting Claudette shot. And was afraid that rider foreshadowed his punishment. Afraid Buckaroo would never rise to the occasion again. Afraid he would rot.
Reading the Bible to his father didn’t diminish those fears. And for the first time in his life, Hugh contemplated the meaning of his existence. It certainly wasn’t to raise potatoes. But he’d known that before he got shot. And before Claudette had sacrificed her life to his lust. So Hugh left off playing with Buckaroo. He played with his little brothers, started toilet training Paul, and felt a general despair about his life. He was wallowing in the pit of misery when, late on Sunday afternoon, about the time Puny and Tomahawk were scrambling away from the bawdy house, his father’s moaning pitched higher and lengthened. It took on the quality of the call of a calf stuck in a fence. Unable to go forwards or backwards. Hugh was pierced by every yell.
Alabama Investigates
Andrew’s last pangs of dying were not yet known beyond the farm, and life elsewhere was not yet suspended. Alabama, in particular, had her nose in her own affairs. It’d been two days since her conversation with Bell, and she’d not yet told Dennis that she owned the bawdy house. But she was going to do it; and she decided if he asked about the lag, she’d tell him she’d delayed because he was busy and didn’t need to be bothered. However, the deeper truth was that the Cherokee Nation was one of the few places on the continent where a married woman, still more often than not, controlled her own property. Alabama was a great admirer of the old days, when the women owned all the crops, all the houses, and all the other improvements, and she’d been raised by Granny, who was shrewd about money. So, although Alabama had conjured an explanation because Dennis would have to know, she didn’t feel guilty about not immediately laying her business out flat in front of her husband. She wasn’t spreading dough with a rolling pin.
Besides, she wanted to check Bell’s facts. She did that with a visit to May Goss, her first husband’s first cousin. May was much older than Lafayette. But still had most of her mind, and knew all of the Adairs, both living and those dead for a long time. Though occasionally she did get those two categories of Adairs jumbled up. That Sunday afternoon, May was in her rocker on her daughter’s front porch. She was wearing a patchwork dress of blues and reds; her sleeves were long, her hair unbraided. May was blind, and her daughter off visiting their neighbors. Alabama announced who she was as soon as the dog started barking. May recalled her immediately, and was glad for her visit. During the War, they’d been in the refugee camp together.
Alabama handed May a jar of strawberry preserves. The old woman settled the gift on a little cane table next to her chair. Then Alabama pulled a rocker close to May’s good ear, and turned down an offer of snuff. They talked about the weather and its effect on the joints. Then they talked about a hog that had run into May’s daughter’s house and was shot scampering out the back door. From there, they moved naturally to the recent killings at the bawdy house. May was Sanders’ aunt by marriage. The old woman took some pride in the subject.
Eventually, Alabama said, partly in Cherokee, “May, remember Mrs. Mackey, that white woman who owned that place?”
May’s wrinkles folded into a laugh. “Phewee! Sure do! Haven’t thought about her for some time.”
“I hear she’s dead.”
“Who told you that?”
Alabama reverted to English. “Bell Rogers, the sheriff.”
May reverted to English, too. “He’d probably know.”
“Well, ever since I heard about the killings, I’ve wondered who she sold that house to.” In the Nation, land was held in common; ownership extended only to improvements, like houses, crops, barns, and fences.
May spit into a can. “Didn’t sell it. Her boy inherited it. Guess she is dead, now that I think on it.”
“I suppose so. Do you happen to know who her boy sold the house to?”
“Didn’t sell it. Lost it in a poker game.”
“You know that for sure?”
“Yep. Lost it to my brother.”
“Which brother was that?”
“Wash. The one with the hook nose.”
Except for the winning rather than selling, it was the same story Bell had told. But Alabama continued her questioning, trying to sound conversational for fear of May clamming up. “I guess Wash passed it on when he died,” she said.
“Yep. Willy got it.” She was referring to William Penn Adair. After being a commander, he’d become a diplomat to the US government and other tribes.
Alabama was so stunned she completely forgot about being clever. “And Willy allowed it to be used to sell whiskey! I don’t understand that.” She shook her head.
“Didn’t sell whiskey there when Willy owned it. He rented it out.”
“Had tenants in it?”
“Yep! Then, when the troops waz around, they used it as a headquarters. Least, that’s what I heared.”
Alabama thought her first husband must have gotten the house from Willy shortly before he was killed. But she and May had been in the camp on the Red River. Maybe May didn’t know any more than she did. She rocked, trying to remember anybody saying anything about Willy selling the house to Lafayette.
May closed her eyes; her head dropped a little. Alabama was glad she dozed off. Took the opportunity to study the situation more. But soon a rooster crowed, and May awoke with a jerk. She wiped dribble off of her chin with her handkerchief. “Messy stuff,” she said. “Don’t ever take it up.”
Alabama said, “No, I probably won’t.”
May felt around in her chair and pulled out her pouch. She pinched a little tobacco and tucked it in her lower lip. She said, “I guess you’re wondering how Lafayette got the house offen Willy?”
Alabama was startled by the question. Felt like May had read her mind while dozing. And she wondered how many other people knew she owned the house now. She sat up straight in her rocker. Felt grateful the old woman was blind. “Well, yes,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”
“Won it on a horse race. Twer right before the War, as best I recall.”
Alabama shook her head. “Lafayette didn’t bet on the horses.”
May cackled. “That may be what he said. He’d bet on anything as a boy.”
Alabama left shortly after that. When she got home, she asked Dove to serve their supper in the study, and let her go for the night. Towards the end of the meal, she told Dennis the story. Then she said, “You were Lafayette’s best friend. Didn’t you know any of this?”
Dennis was behind the desk. His maps had been moved aside to make room for their plates. “I was in California, Bamy.” He leaned back, pushed his spectacles to his forehead, and frowned.
“I wasn’t suggesting you knew it in California. I’m saying a horse race is an awful public place to win a house. You’d think somebody would’ve mentioned it sometime.”
“Maybe everybody thought we already knew it. And why bring something like that up? ‘How do ya like selling illegal whiskey?’ is not something most people will say to your face.”
“Well, it looks like they’d say it to yours. That’s my point.”
Dennis took his glasses off, laid them on the desk, but eyed his maps. He wished he could just think about the stash. Wished his wife didn’t own the bawdy house. He usually liked property, but not this property. “Nobody’s ever mentioned it to me, I can assure you of that. But they will just as soon as I start running for chief.”
“I’m sorry, Dennis. I still can’t believe it.” Alabama was genuinely distressed. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and regretted her husband’s ambition. Under less public circumstances, she’d dispose of the bawdy house without bringing it to his attention.
“Well, Willy’s back from Washington. I’ll see him in Tahlequah and ask him about it.” Dennis spoke through his last chew of pork.
“In the meantime,” Alabama said, “I’ll sell it quietly.”
“You won’t have any luck.” Dennis swallowed and frowned.
“I will too. I bet it’s a fine house. As hard up as people are for places to live, somebody’ll snap it up. I’ll probably get a lot of money for it.”
“I doubt it.” The corners of Dennis’s mouth turned further down.
Alabama suddenly felt the pride of ownership that most people feel when they’re thinking about selling their assets for a good price. “And why not, Mr. know-it-all?”
“Well, Mrs. bawdy-house-owner, because it’s haunted. That’s why.”
Alabama’s eyes went from narrow to wide. “What makes you think that?”
“Puny was by before you came in. I gave him a quilt. He was down at that house today, hoping to get his bedding. But he and one of Sanders’ boys were run out by a ghost.”
“Whose ghost is it?”
“That dead woman’s.”
Alabama stood. She walked to the window and looked out over the lawn. The dark gave her no comfort. Dennis wiped a finger over his plate, sucked grease off it. The grease helped him some, but not much. The Bushyheads’ fine minds and educations didn’t preclude them from believing in ghosts. Everybody in the Nation believed in spirits. Educated white people in Boston, New York, and London believed in them, too. In those cities, the elite were holding séances around trembling tables. Asking dead people questions. Sometimes fainting outright. But Alabama was satisfied with dealing with one world at a time. That was trouble enough. She said, “Damn it to hell!”
No Fieldwork Tomorrow
Check felt the linen over Andrew’s privates. It was dry. His thighs were gray and sunken. He moved a leg and let out a cry. Check covered him again. She said, “Let’s give him more dope. Hold his head.”
Ezell waited until Check had the spoon to the bottle. She put one palm on Andrew’s temple, cupped his chin with her other. She said, “We ain’t gonna hurt ya, Mr. Singer. This’ll make ya feel better.” She opened Andrew’s jaw and turned her face away. Andrew’s legs shuffled under the sheet. Check stuck the spoon over his mouth and turned it. His breath was rancid. She gagged and tried to conceal it.
Both women backed off. Andrew twisted and yelled. Hugh put a hand on his father’s foot. Connell stood up from the sill. Moved to the bed to catch him if he rolled over. He said, “We’re gonna need help.”
“We’ve got it.” Check nodded towards the windows. The hands were squatting in the yard. On the edge of the porch, one strummed a banjo softly. Twilight was falling.
“They need to be up early,” Connell said.
“There won’t be any fieldwork tomorrow,” Check replied.
Connell left the room. He wanted to saddle his horse and ride. Maybe gallop down the Military Road. Maybe ride to see Florence. Ride anywhere to get away from the dying. To get away from Hugh. He couldn’t fight him while he was still on crutches. But he’d give him the licking of his life when he was surefooted. Connell kicked Hugh’s bed in the hallway. Felt thankful they currently weren’t sharing a room. He walked out into the evening. Passed the hands on the porch and in the yard on his way to the barn.
The last dim light of day fell in the doors. Connell shut those behind him. He used the slivers of light streaming in between the boards to check the stalls. Found only a delinquent sitting hen. Looked up the ladder to the loft, but didn’t climb it. No one went up there unless he had to. He turned to the last stall. It was dark, but his eyes had adjusted. He patted the horn of the saddle, cupped it in an affectionate squeeze. The other hand he used to unbutton his pants. He guided his penis into the space between the leather and the blanket. Felt immediate comfort. He sighed. His anger started draining away. He moved his penis just a little. Tears came to his eyes. He moved his member slightly more. He didn’t want to come too soon. He just wanted some relief from the grief, anger, and fear that were filling his body. The muscles in his chest contracted, expanded, contracted again. He held on to the horn. His penis was wedged safely in. He didn’t need to hold it. He put his right hand over his left on the horn. He moved a little more. Imagined the leather and soft wool as the dark recess between Florence’s legs. He began to tremble. His breath was heavy and hot. He rocked back and forth. Began to pant. He wanted Florence so much, he didn’t think he could stand it. And he wanted his father to live.
