“A box? Great. Should make for hours of entertainment.”
“Not the box. It’s what’s in the box.”
I picked up the metal container. Small pieces of some kind slid about inside. I desperately hoped that I hadn’t already broken the one thing that Essie was convinced would keep us together, alone, in this room.
“Open it,” she urged.
I obeyed and pried off the lid, almost spilling out the set of small alabaster tablets inside.
“I hope they’re all there.” Essie peered over, digging her slight fingers into the box.
“What are they?”
Essie let her hand fall to her side and looked at me, surprised. “Dominos.” Each syllable slowing as she reached it. “You’ve never played?”
“Played? It’s a game?”
“For heaven’s sake, Cowney. You’ve never even heard of dominos?”
“Guess not.” I felt ridiculous.
“My folks used to play all the time. Every Saturday night after supper.” Essie beamed. Her memories of family were pleasant and it made me smile to know that.
“I don’t guess we had anything like that.”
“You didn’t play games growing up?”
“Not with adults. I mean, my family sounds like it is a little different than yours. My mom …”
“Cowney. I know your folks. You know that, right?”
“I mean, everybody knows everybody in Cherokee, but sometimes …” I lied, unsure of which line of Stampers she came from.
“You’re right,” she corrected herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t presume to know all about you. Just, well, you don’t need to explain. I know about your mother.”
I wondered if that meant that she also knew about Bud and Lishie and everything else in between. Did she know anything about my dad? Did she know more than even I knew about his life and death? “No, to answer your question. No games that I played at home. Played plenty with kids, but not like this.”
“Well that is the most exciting thing I’ve heard all day. You, Cowney Sequoyah, will learn something brand-new tonight. And it’s fun!”
“Well, I guess I’m your captive. I’d rather stay here than try to sneak back out, anyway.” I picked out one of the tiles from the box and turned it over between my fingers. “You hear about my dad then, too?” I searched her face.
“Yes. I mean, he died a war hero, right?”
“I don’t know. He died away from here, but a hero? Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Most people think so. Why don’t you?”
“Ahh. No real reason. Sometimes stories don’t line up and I never feel like people are telling me the whole truth, you know? Maybe you’re right. Maybe he was a hero.”
“That why you wanted to come here? Be like him?”
“I ain’t nothing like him. I’m here because I can’t serve my country.” Saying it aloud made me nauseous.
“I guess we all do what we can with what we got.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
We played that night for hours. Probably hours. Neither of us had a watch, but when we landed back at our respective quarters later, even the nosier inhabitants were so far into their dreams that they could not wake to interrogate us. The siren too had faded, leaving no evidence as to its meaning. I told Essie more about Lishie and Bud, still careful not to incite sympathy or disdain. She told me little of her family, speaking mostly of her girlfriends, a tight-knit group of five who were growing apart as they got older. I told her more of what I had learned from Lee and Sol, still careful to censor the language a bit. I told her just which girls were lonely, which were most definitely not, and which guests to stay far, far away from. I pulled the napkin-wrapped chicken leg I had smuggled from dinner out of my pocket and picked it clean until there was nothing more left than delicate bone as she shook her head at my uncouth manners.
But mostly, we talked about what was ahead of us. At least, what we hoped was ahead of us. Miss Essie Stamper was not the girl I thought she was when she climbed into the Model T, and I was desperately trying not to be the Cowney Sequoyah she had taken a ride from. By the end of the evening, she was just Essie, and that was more than enough.
Chapter Eight
There were few days at the inn that I wasn’t in a hurry to leave work, scarf down dinner, and escape to the room with Essie. But on the day I found the bone, everything and everyone else around me—all the soldiers and guests and Sol and Lee—just seemed to fade from existence.
Noting my growing frustration with Sol’s bullshit, Lee sent me mid-morning to the perimeter of the property to dig new holes for warning signs—No Trespassing—Federal Property—ominous threats with an ambiguous intended audience. The morning rain had slowed to a mist, but my boots still sank into the ground as I trudged across the property. While I was glad to be shed of Sol for a couple of hours, the heavy stick of outside felt anything but freeing. Nonetheless, I began my work, all the while daydreaming about the fresh cool waters of the Oconaluftee. As I knelt to remove rocks that slowed my shovel strikes, my coveralls absorbed the wetness of the ground. I worked quickly and mindlessly.
So much so, I almost tossed it away.
Covered as it was in soft dirt, I only recognized its solidity at first. But as my fingers curled around it, I recognized it for what it was—a bone.
It most likely had been carried there by a wandering scavenger—one of the many hungry animals that translate a being to a body, to a carcass, to a bone, to an artifact now for my amusement. I marveled at the thing, holding it above my head so as to find some bit of sunlight to illuminate it. Small and solid, cleaned by tooth and claw, stained by mountain earth.
I had certainly seen my fair share of animal bones, either happening upon them in the woods or excavating them from a fresh hunt. Something felt different about this one. I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was because it was in Asheville, an environment I assumed was devoid of elemental remnants such as discarded bones, castoff feathers, and rock faces that scowl like relatives. There was brick and concrete and glass and steel in Asheville, for certain—anything else seemed misplaced. The bone, in such a tangible state, reminded me of home and what I loved about home—the simplicity of knowing what each day held and the certainty that people said what they meant and meant what they said. There were no flashy distractions, but there was strength, there was resolve, and they were foundational. I knew exactly where I stood and when to stand there. I had wanted so badly to fit into the shine of Asheville, but it never seemed to fit me. Back home, being Cherokee meant I fell into a role. Unfortunately, it also meant I had only a few options: I could farm. I could work for a white man. I could leave. I learned that pretty quickly in school. They instructed us in the trades, but they were trades to stay, to exist, to fit into a slot already carved out for me. Sure, it was safe in a lot of ways. I didn’t worry that I would starve; my family and church and neighbors saw to it that no one would starve. But oh, the hunger! I always felt half empty, like I was missing out on some grand feast just over the mountains. I was tethered in all the good ways and in all the bad.
I pulled a red bandana from my back pocket, wrapped it around the bone, and tucked the parcel into my pocket. With the rain starting to pick up again, I haphazardly planted a Federally Restricted Area sign, filled in the dirt around it, and hurried back to the barracks. Before changing clothes, I tucked the bone inside my suitcase so that I wouldn’t forget to take it home when I returned to Cherokee for the weekend. I needed more time with it. I knew I had junior college textbooks at home that might just help. Maybe I would finally be able to put them to use.
Chapter Nine
Asheville Citizen-Times
Local Hero’s Whereabouts Unknown
Reports this week indicate that Lt. “Peanut” C o l of Nor C lina Camp after surviving miles Death March.
served with returned safely and recounted the
harrowing acts of his brother in battle. Likely, a c
ombination
starv , disease, and ible t led
A name, folded and smudged. Misspelled. I probably didn’t even know him. Wasn’t related. Maybe the family was even from Oklahoma. But it was a Cherokee name. No doubt about it. Even incomplete there was no question. My eyes jumbled the letters of his name, struggling to spell out my own. I knew it was an impossible feat, but that did not sway the compulsion.
I pried apart the folds of soggy newspaper, carefully salvaging what remained of the brief report. No telling how long it had been there. The date was completely faded, and the guys had been using the paper to wipe their muddy feet since the rain started. It felt like it had been raining almost a full two weeks straight now. Maybe more. It started the night Essie and I had entered room 447, baptizing us as we made our way back to our dorms. I can’t remember more than a few hours’ break from it. And oddly enough, according to folks back home, there had been nothing but a dry heat all summer. It was odd that we could be only a couple of counties over and yet it felt like two totally different worlds. I found myself eager to escape the weather of one place only to quickly crave it again shortly after leaving.
I laid the broadsheet across the cage of the floor fan nearest my bunk, turning the dial to its lowest setting. As the blades churned, the words dried and separated from each other, forming legible sentences, solidifying into their story.
We didn’t get much news at the inn. Not that the newspaper didn’t come a whole day earlier than back home. People just didn’t talk about it like they did in Cherokee. Someone would read a line or paragraph over lunch, but it was usually just greeted with a “Mmmm” or a “No kiddin’?” No one offered another version or an opinion. Maybe they were afraid of what the guards would say. And the guards never told us what they thought. At home, everyone had their own version, their own theory, their own take on the rest of the story.
Back home, Lishie was like my own personal Ernie Pyle: “Paper says it’s going to snow this week. We’ll see about that. Blueberries are budding. Probably just the stores overstocked winter coats.”
I pulled my suitcase from beneath my bunk and unfolded the bandana around the bone. I needed to touch something tangible, and ever since finding the bone at the edge of the property, it had served that purpose. It was real when so much of the inn felt staged. I wanted to share it with Essie so she, too, would feel grounded. Or maybe I shared it for other reasons—for the mystery of it. Either way, just like Essie had given us the room, which was becoming our own sanctuary, I wanted to offer something no one else knew about. I had waited until I could clean it and consult my books at home, but now, having returned to the inn, I was eager to share it.
So the Monday following its discovery, as we arrived in 447 soaked and chilled, I barely let her enter the room before blurting out, “I found a bone. A human bone … Probably a little kid’s or something.” I shrugged. “It’s pretty small.”
“Oh. Which one?” She feigned interest.
“I don’t know. A dead one, I guess.”
“No. Which bone? Leg? Jaw? Pinky toe?” Essie sighed.
“A rib,” I gushed. “Curved just like one.”
“Maybe it’s Adam’s.” From the corner of my eye I saw her flash a tiny smile.
“Adam who?”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Never mind.”
I felt a warm, wet embarrassment wash over me. I had pissed away my opportunity. “Oh! Ha … right.” Jesus, I’m an idiot. Biblical references were not exactly my nineteen-year-old self’s forte.
“Anyway. I found it when I was digging fence posts.”
“Are there more?” She asked, seeming already bored without even knowing my answer.
“Didn’t see any others. Figure some bear or bird or coon ran off with this one.”
“Then how can you be so sure it’s human?”
“I have an anatomy book at home. The one thing I kept from junior college. Right measurements and all. Plus, it’s not brittle and thin like any animal I know this size.”
“How close was it to the inn?”
“Oh, it was out a bit. Still on property, a goodly five hundred feet inside the woods line.”
“And it was just laying there? All by itself? No other bones?”
“Yep. That’s why I figure some animal carried it there.”
“Where is it now? Did you keep it?” I could feel her eyes on me. Perhaps secretly searching my person for the bone.
I wasn’t sure how to answer this. It might sound creepy if I told her the truth. That I’d wrapped it in the red bandana taken from my back pocket, carried it home, washed and dried it, then slid it in the bottom of my bureau drawer so no one else would find it and claim it as their own. When I returned to the inn, I brought it with me. “Yes. I mean—I know where it is.”
“If you think it is human, why don’t you tell the police? Did you move it?”
I was quickly approaching taboo. Moving human bones, even one that was obviously far removed from its whole, was questionable, at the very least. If Essie thought I had disturbed an actual grave, she might never speak to me again. I was pretty sure my Darwinian obsession with scientific inquiry was not compatible with what was most likely a Baptist upbringing or a traditional Cherokee value system. Neither permitted room for my curiosities.
“Well, I wasn’t sure when I saw it. Like I said, I have this book and until I looked in there, I thought it was just some animal bone I could make a knife handle from. Then after looking it up, I figured I had taken it out of its rightful jurisdiction. I mean, who do I call? Asheville City Police Department? That would go over really well. Hi, sir. Yes, my name is Cowney Sequoyah from Cherokee and I’m here with some dead person’s rib that I think belongs to you.”
Essie snickered. “I can see your point.” She paused for a moment and then gave me a curious look. “Hey, what if it’s Cherokee? I mean, our people used to hang out around here, right? There are all those stories about burial grounds.”
“Could be, I suppose. Shit. Then I really can’t tell the police I found it. White people are the only ones allowed to dig up our bones and move them.” I laughed.
“Yeah, and put them in the ground in the first place.” Essie shook her head and sighed.
“Well, I figure it’s on me to make sure it gets buried properly. I’m just not sure where that should be, though.”
At dinner, I asked Essie if she wanted to read the newspaper, the one I had dried in the barracks. She didn’t. She barely even lifted her eyes while shaking her head. So I packed the paper away in my weekend bag and let it marinate among the dirty socks and soggy work boots.
I couldn’t figure why Essie wouldn’t want to read it. I knew she was a reader. I’d seen her read plenty. She read books from room 447 and almost always had a magazine with her during her breaks. Lately, she studied a single page of stationery over and over. Probably from someone back home ensuring that her summer paycheck made its way back to Cherokee. I guess she was homesick enough to read even that multiple times.
I especially liked to watch Essie read. She fell into pages like they were deep lagoons. She bit her nails when she read. Yes, I know this shouldn’t have been particularly attractive, but it was a rare moment when Essie forgot proper womanly etiquette. It was honest and natural and completely unacceptable to everyone but me. As much as she pressed her uniform or pinned her hair or reapplied her lipstick, she was just a curious young girl when she read, and that made it alright for me to be just a curious young boy for once.
Maybe Essie didn’t want to read the newspaper because she was afraid. Lots of people were afraid of the news. Still, I was glad I had something to take home. Once the paper was completely dry, I folded it like a store-bought gift for the journey to Cherokee, and that’s how I presented it to Lishie as soon as I unpacked during the next weekend visit back home.
Chapter Ten
I handed the crisp clipping to my grandmother, along with her reading
glasses. I knew she would mimic reading it on her own, but I would need to fill in the gaps, tell her the content. Her eyes failed her more and more every day. Her English-reading skills were fading even quicker.
“Mmm. I see,” she mused.
“Do you know him?” I asked her.
“Can’t make out the name.”
“No, it’s faded, but thought you might have heard about someone who was over there. Looks like the last name might start with a ‘C.’ Catolster. Cornsilk. Calhoun. Something like that.”
“Sounds familiar, but can’t place ’im. You know we got plenty of boys over there, but some of ’em come straight out of boarding schools out west and up north. Readymade soldiers. Hadn’t seen ’em ’round here in so long I forget they’s grown.”
“Says he survived a death march, but died in a prison camp. Starvation. Disease. Something like that.” A death march. Aren’t we all just death march survivors?
“For heaven’s sake.” Lishie twisted a pale blue dishrag in her hand. “I thank the Lord every day that you …” she trailed off. I hated when she said things like that. “Does it say who his folks are?”
“No. Mostly about all the torture he likely went through. I think most of it’s speculation. Says another soldier was with him for part of it, but he escaped from the prison camp so he didn’t know all the details.” I turned the page. “They included this picture, too. Don’t think it’s him. Just a stock photo they have of another prisoner. Nothing but a sack of bones.” I shook my head.
“They really shouldn’t put things like that in the paper. Just awful,” Lishie complained.
“But it’s real. I mean, don’t you think people need to see what’s really going on?”
“I just think about your daddy and uncle. Oh, how I worried myself sick with ’em gone. Your father was about the same age as you are now and so sensitive to each way the wind blew; and Bud, he was a great deal more patient, but wasn’t that much older than your dad. There’s got to be a lot of mothers and fathers out there looking at these pictures and seeing their young’uns faces on those bodies.”
Even As We Breathe Page 7
