When Raven Dances, page 10
She paused to take a swig of her soda and returned the bottle to the water before continuing. “And they filled in the riverbed, and made it Jefferson Street, so now the town isn’t divided in half anymore. I was in first grade when they did it, and I guess I’m happy about it. Lowell Creek wasn’t just a little creek, after all. It could be scary--how does your shin feel?”
I had forgotten all about it. Our toes were chilled to the bone. We rubbed them, encouraging blood to return. We returned to find that other hands had completed our decorating chore, so we walked toward my house. On the way, I told her about Gardner, and Daddy, and what Mama and I wanted to do with our house.
She had an older sister and a little brother, and her father was the finance officer at the fishery. Her mother taught piano, she said, and they had lived here throughout the war. She also told me that she was Jewish. I had no idea what Jewish was; she may as well have said that she was Martian for all that meant to me. I thought her family was brave to have endured those scary days during the war. I was thinking of questions to ask her, but more than anything I was happy to know someone who was my age. We made plans to meet again, probably on the Fourth downtown.
Midmorning on the big day, Mama and I walked to the Brosius Building to witness the parade. Streamers and rosettes decorated the occasional charred wall, left over from the 1941 fire, as well as newly painted ones. The flag on the firehouse flagpole fluttered gently. VFW members, the ladies of the churches, the town leaders, all stood behind tables, purveying Alaska delicacies—moose pot pies, smoked halibut, bear stew, and king crab cocktail.
It was a great day for a parade. We stood with those few remaining citizens, who were not serving food or would not be sitting on a float, to await the parade. In time Cynthia joined us, with her little brother in tow. Major O’Keefe appeared, Crackerjack boxes sufficient for us three children in his hands, and he stood beside Mama.
At last we heard thin strains of a Sousa march, and then we saw two fine, spirited horses approach, their male riders sporting black cowboy shirts with white trim, and KENAI LUMBER COMPANY emblazoned on the back. A contingent of members of the Oddfellows marched by, throwing candies to the audience. The school band approached next wearing frilled uniforms and marching proudly, drums tapping out a quiet tattoo. Next came a number of floats, including one advertising JESSE LEE HOME 40TH ANNIVERSARY. “That’s the home for the orphans and abandoned native children,” Cynthia explained, munching her caramel corn. “They’re going to come back this summer from all parts of inland Alaska. Most of the people in town don’t mind but the snobs don’t like that at all.”
She then turned to her brother, “Aaron, I told you to quit throwing corn on the sidewalk!”
“Where are the children?” I asked. “Why don’t they want them here?”
“The children were moved out early in the war, along with people from all the islands, like Attu and Kiska. The government was afraid they’d be killed or become prisoners of the Japanese. You do know the Japanese bombed Dutch Harbor? Well that scared us a whole bunch. Anyway, the children are coming back now and I bet some of the same stories are going to start.” She tipped her head from side to side as she mimicked the voices, “‘Those kids are sick, they have influenza germs, they shouldn’t be able to mix with the people in the town.’”
She reprimanded her brother again, “For pity sakes, cut it out! Don’t spit!”
I had just met Aaron. He was mischievous, there is no doubt. But I liked him from the first moment. There were only three things you needed to know about Aaron—he was very smart, he didn’t miss anything, and he had a dimple in his left cheek. Oh, and if you play chess with him, prepare to lose.
Cynthia’s comments about the orphans and the townspeople made me think about the Navajo children in Gardner. They always seemed to have runny noses and they never looked you in the eye. For the first time, I wondered about the attitudes of the people in Gardner and in Seward. It made me feel uneasy.
“Hey, look!” Cynthia blurted, holding up her Crackerjack surprise. “I got a flag pin!”
“And I got a ruby ring in my box,” I exulted.
The parade continued: a curried and combed goat named Sergeant Bill approached wearing a big striped ribbon around his neck. Next came the tomato-red fire truck, the marching military police squad with white gaitered legs, and finally the police car, its siren shrieking. That signaled the end.
Cynthia was to meet her mother and sister at the USO booth, so she set off, Aaron in tow. I walked with Mama and Major O’Keefe toward the grandstand. Across the street, I spied two girls, perhaps two years older than I, and much more grown-up, even sophisticated. They were pretty and totally involved in their separate, happy world, which I doubted would ever include me.
We turned and walked toward the train station and it was there that my eyes took in a sight totally alien to anything I had ever encountered before. A spotless white Cadillac sedan passed us and stopped about fifteen yards ahead. A spotless car in Seward was itself a rare phenomenon, so when the driver, in a tan suit and derby hat, with skin the color of a Snickers bar stepped out, my jaw dropped. He opened the backdoor and offered his arm to a lady who grasped that arm and headed toward the railroad station. Attired in a patriotic red skirt and jacket, feet shod in white pumps, she carried a small white leather purse in her left hand and clutched what looked like a pair of white gloves. White shoes and gloves in Seward? I was spellbound. On her jacket blazed and dazzled a large pin encrusted with red, white and blue stones. Her hair, swooped up and piled on her head, was barely darker than bright red. It was an amazing sight. I thought she was glamorous, in a ragged kind of way.
“Mama!” I whispered. I knew better than to point, so I motioned with my elbow toward the lady. “Look at that lady! She’s really pretty, don’t you think? You could wear your hair like that and you would look beautiful!”
Mama looked over to see what had caught my eye, looked back at me, pushed my elbow down abruptly, gave Major O’Keefe a look I could not fathom, and said quietly, but firmly, “When pigs fly, sweetheart.” She grabbed my hand and we began walking at a brisker pace.
“When pigs fly, Mama?” I sputtered. “I don’t understand—” I struggled to keep up with Mama as she pulled me along.
“Exactly,” she said, as Major O’Keefe burst into a long and hearty laugh.
SETTLING IN
One early August morning a half-ton army truck pulled into our driveway, and two uniformed soldiers, wearing those envelope caps like the one Major O’Keefe wore, knocked on our door to inquire if they could drop off some salvage beds and mattresses. We quickly assented, and in they came. Of course I immediately thought of the two who delivered Daddy’s footlocker, but the difference was that this time I didn’t want to cry. I said a little prayer of thanks for whatever this strength was that had been delivered to me, and started wiping down the beds.
“My goodness, thank you, young men!” Mama exclaimed.
“Don’t thank us, ma’am, thank Major O’Keefe.”
So we happily walked to town immediately and did just that.
“Well, I tell you, ladies,” he smiled down at us, “you are very welcome.” He then suggested that we take some wood from the piles behind his office, and arrange to have some furniture made of it. “Good lumber,” he remarked. “No sense to waste it.”
So we did that, too. We hired the town woodworker, Mr. Menamin, to fashion furniture for us from flooring planks, salvage studs and plywood. His first creation was a fine pine wardrobe for our bedroom. Next, he built side-tables. In the parlor, on one of them, soon sat a framed photo of Daddy. Next to the picture sat our new Philco radio, a farewell gift from Tia Susana. Resting at its base sat the rock containing the footprint of a pterodactyl Daddy had found on one of our treks near Gardner and Fort Busby.
Our daily life in Seward took on a semblance of routine. We became addicted to WVCY, Seward’s very own radio station that brought us local news and news from what we called the lower U.S. We listened as Russia clamped down on its satellite countries, President Truman desegregated our army and navy, and the U.N. Security Council met for the first time.
We also listened to our own music program, presented by the Triple Triad, the local singing group. They sang everything and their be-bop wasn’t bad. On Saturdays, we planned our meals around The Shadow (the adventures of a wealthy man about town, Lamont Cranston, and his lovely friend and companion, Margo Lane). At first, we had already heard the stories, but that didn’t matter, we loved hearing them again anyway. In Gardner, when I first heard the program, I was enchanted by the name Margo, and I still think Margo is the most sophisticated name I have ever heard.
We posted a notice in the post office and in the grocery store, Pleasant, Hospitable Lady desires respectable tenants. Bedroom/bath and supper daily. Price reasonable. Come by 3rd Avenue across from the Lutheran Church. To the notice I had added a few little flowers in the corners, brightly colored and quite imperfect.
Soon we had our first tenant. Miss Mary Ruth Tenney arrived on the ship in early August. She was to be the new first grade teacher, but she quickly became more than a tenant to us. She took care of her own breakfast, enjoyed helping Mama in the kitchen, and they became friends—a friendship that still lasts today.
Soon our second prospective tenant arrived at our door. He was massive; in fact he filled the entire doorway. He was Mr. Lauber, a carpenter in town. His rugged face sported a short, wiry, light brown beard that made me think of Mama’s worn wire pot scrubber. I hadn’t heard of Vikings at that age but as I think back, that word would have described him well. At breakfast, when he dipped his toast in his coffee, a gooey crumb or two would stick in his whiskers. When that happened, I was mesmerized, watching those crumbs jump up and down, sometimes cascading onto the bib of his overalls.
Our third tenant would be Mr. Norman, the assistant port manager. He was born in Sweden and, while he could have been a Viking, he was the image of a gentleman. From the first, every day when he left for his office he was attired in a dark suit and tie, and a worn homburg hat on his head. In winter, his attire changed little. During the coldest months, a heavy, long, dark gray, wool coat and tweed scarf were added to his sartorial routine. He must have had to wear boots occasionally, or gloves in the winter, but I only remember that hat, which upon occasion proved to be a source of worry for him as he walked against Seward’s often diabolic winds. Mr. Norman took great care with his hat and his mustache. When he came to the table at breakfast or dinner, the mustache was freshly combed down and shaped to curl around the sides of his mouth. He told us stories about his tiny village near Oslo, and his stories, told in his Scandinavian lilt and peppered with an occasional, Ja, ja, made me grin.
Over the next years, the members of our boarding house family changed slightly, but the size remained the same.
Once in awhile those two girls I’d seen on the Fourth of July walked down the street past my house. One had dark blonde curls and eyes with long lashes like I had seen only on fancy dolls whose eyes never closed unless they lay under chintz and satin coverlets. The other girl was slightly pudgy, her face seemingly made of porcelain. They often wore full gathered skirts and polished saddle shoes. I wondered how they kept them so clean. I suspected they were wearing lipstick, something I didn’t even want to contemplate. I saw sailors in town giving them long looks, too, and I saw them blush and look away. Those girls were of a class not yet in my understanding.
We visited our post office box almost daily, hoping for letters from Tia Susana or Aunt Maureen, or Abuelita Clara. We craved news from what had been so recently our happy life. On our way home, we bought canned food at the Brown and Hawkin store, stopping often for a soda at the Palace Café. Huge heads of lettuce, tomatoes and squash arrived at our door delivered by a booted, pistol-packing lady named Ida Swift.
When a letter arrived from Gardner, I read it over and over, and answered it immediately, practicing my newly-acquired flourishing handwriting style with curls on the ends of my “y’s” and “g’s.” Naasha wrote to Mama and me together; it was a chore for her to write, so we didn’t get those very often. But we treasured every one. I wrote to Silvio again, and didn’t receive an answer. I decided that he thought my letters were silly, and perhaps they were. I pretended to be nonchalant and forgiving, knowing that he could never find a friend as loyal as me. The passing of time caused me to think about him less, and hope that his life was going just fine.
We often stopped for cups of coffee and cocoa on our walks and we began to catch some of the local gossip. We heard that George Nishiyama, who had run a noodle shop in Seward before the war, had just returned from an internment camp in Idaho. We knew that could become a problem in town; fury and anger over the Japanese still roiled in everybody’s minds, ours included.
While listening to the town gossip, we heard that part of the closed military hospital was reopening to take care of tuberculosis patients, and the bridge at Mile 18 would be finished any day now, and we discovered for the first time, that Seward was supposed to have been washed away by a tidal wave just a few months before we arrived! We didn’t mind missing that event.
We were home on a Tuesday morning in mid-August when the children destined for the Jesse Lee Home began arriving in earnest. Of course the ship’s horn signaled its arrival, and we could see the children hugging the railings of the ship. Within the hour, they were walking past our house, older children herding the smaller ones, each child carrying a substantial satchel in his arms or on his back. They were quite an assortment; boys and girls, wearing nearly identical shoes, dressed sensibly but adequately. Some had diamond-shaped faces, some long faces; some were dark skinned, some had my coloring. Some had blue eyes and some were tall and rangy. The fact is that they sure looked like the rest of the people in town. I waved to them from the porch and they smiled and waved back. I was curious about them. I knew they must have stories to tell and I wanted to hear them. Two of the children who had recently arrived at the home spoke only Japanese. They had been kidnapped by the Japanese when they took Attu Island.
Mama registered me in the fourth grade at William H. Seward School, two blocks from my house on Third Street. There would be ten fourth graders this year, seven fifth graders and ten sixth graders. Miss Tenney’s first graders and the remaining grades would be combined. Seventh and eighth graders constituted the junior high. They had classes in a separate building which they shared with the high school, which served the thirty students in grades nine-through-twelve.
That made twenty-seven of us in our combined fourth, fifth and sixth grade class. Those two girls were in sixth grade, along with a boy named Andrew. He had lots of friends, but the person he spent the most time with was his little brother, Earl. Actually Earl wasn’t little anymore. He was shorter than his brother, but he was built like a fireplug.
Earl would be my first experience with someone who had come into the world with mental difficulties. Something about his eyes led me to know that he was different. But he smiled so much, I sometimes wondered if his face ever ached. He wore all kinds of hats, usually a wool striped cap, or an old leather aviator’s cap, but once in awhile he would surprise me by wearing something different. He had trouble keeping up with fourth grade subjects, but he worked so hard at each chore, it was impossible not to admire him as well as like him. In case anybody was tempted to take advantage of him, his brother was always there with him. Andrew called him Early and those two were best pals.
Of course Cynthia was in my class, and I began to feel that I was going to like it in Seward. I connived to sit near her in class. Cynthia’s wardrobe in fourth grade was iconic. She nearly always wore a jumper to school which reflected her mother’s penchant for green and brown. Her feet were a little longer than mine, and, like mine, nearly always encased in brown oxfords or saddle shoes when weather permitted.
Our teacher was Mrs. Vohlman. We figured she was in her early fifties and tried to be a good teacher, but though we were few, we proved to be a challenge for her. In retrospect, I think we were an unusually bright and imaginative group and therefore difficult to control. We were forever dreaming up projects and it taxed the lady dearly to keep up with us. Since we unkind children thought she must have been a Mrs. for a hundred years, we often pondered just what had happened to Mr. Vohlman. We giggled, imagining Mrs. Vohlman sorting his socks and folding his BVDs over and over, until they were thin as gauze. Perhaps she wore him out, just like his socks and his undies. Or, we thought he might have expired from always sitting up straight and using the proper fork.
Mrs. Vohlman’s skinny frame fed our demonic imaginations. We figured she was so old that all her wrinkles and creases would run together someday, and she would just slide under the classroom door and out of the school like a cup of oil, her eyeballs blinking back at us.
