Even As We Breathe

by Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle

  I must have drifted off sometime, my head still filled with questions, because the next time I checked the clock it was almost 3 in the afternoon. It was too hot to sleep any longer. I flipped my pillow over, hoping the opposite side was cooler, trying desperately to think of anything other than the humidity. There are some nights, some days, you just pray it will rain. Not because the crops need it or the wells are dangerously low. Sometimes you just need the clouds to burst and release the pressure building around you. The smoke, its constant swarm and release with changing winds, smothered the skyline, suffocating me in the process.

  I wanted it to feel like it did back at the inn, with the rain pouring nearly every day.

  2

  Stains

  Who has fully realized that history is not contained in

  thick books but lives in our very blood?

  —Carl Jung

  Chapter Twelve

  After a couple of weeks, it grew soggy and weighty in contradictory ways, but during the first couple of days of downpour, Essie and I found dry sanctuary in 447. The weather gave me the excuse to retreat to the room as soon as possible after my work had ended, with the near certainty that Essie would be there as well. The heat had finally dissipated, and the second day of rain must have caused Lee to feel drowsy because he sent us off for the evening early.

  Lee grabbed my shoulder, stopping me on my way out of the storage shed and pulled a camera from the shelf above the workbench. “Son, hold up a second.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stopped, eyeing the camera.

  “Do me a favor, will ye?” He handed me the camera. “I’ve been tinkering with this thing. Think I’ve just about got ’er fixed. Take ’er for a spin. Let me know how she does.”

  I was too afraid to hold the expensive equipment, let alone use it.

  He pulled a canister of film from the shelf. “Here, let me show ye how to load it.” Lee triggered the latch and told me where and how to place the film. Then he held it up to his eye and pretended to take a picture. “You’ve never had a camera?” he asked, handing it back to me.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, this will be a good one to practice on. Just promise you’ll show me the pictures when you get finished.”

  “Yes, sir. But how will I know when I’m done?”

  Lee smiled. “Yer done when the film runs out. Just like a book when the pages run out.”

  I nodded and thanked Lee. “I’ll be careful.”

  I took the camera with me and raced to room 447, stopping only once to snap a test picture of some of the children stringing plucked red clover into green and purple crowns—the girl with the purple ribbon from earlier stopping to share her smile again. I couldn’t wait to show Essie. If I was lucky, she would want to go with me to take pictures around the property.

  As I approached 447, I noticed that Essie must have arrived ahead of me. She, too, must have been in a hurry because the door was slightly ajar. It would not have been noticeable to a passerby, but as I reached for the handle, I realized that I did not need to turn it. This discovery and my excitement about the camera emboldened me to attempt to scare Essie if I could sneak in while her back was turned. I eased the door open and peeked in. I blinked into the soft pink light, sparkling with dust particles.

  At first I could not see Essie, but as I opened the door further, I saw her in ethereal motion. She stood high on her tiptoes, holding her arms above her head. Essie stared longingly at her outstretched fingertips as if they were grasping for the most delicate, most precious object one could ever hope to hold. But there was nothing there. She let her head drop back, her hair wrapping the curves of her shoulders. She closed her eyes and spun her body around, leading with her hip. I pulled the camera to my eye and pushed the button as Lee had instructed. A flash burst into the space, unsettling 447, stopping Essie, and nearly causing me to drop the camera.

  “Cowpie! I’m gonna …” Essie lunged toward me, fist clenched, and holding back an embarrassed smile as tightly as she could. She had coined the nickname on our third visit to the room when I had scolded her for leaving behind a plate of cookie crumbs, calling her “Messy Essie.” That name didn’t stick. Cowpie did.

  I pulled the camera behind my back with one arm and shielded my face with the other. “What?” I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Just documenting the Grove Park’s very own prima ballerina.”

  She reddened with embarrassment, ashamed anyone had seen her dancing so seriously and so alone. My smile faded. I had never seen anything so beautiful, and I knew I was not deserving of that joy in the least.

  “You’re not that bad.” I worked up a compliment when our breathing had settled and we sat on the couch together.

  “Of course I’m terrible. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”

  “No, really. I mean, I can’t say I’m an expert, but—”

  “Me either. I’ve never even had a class. But gosh, I just love to watch ballet. I mean, when I can.”

  “Where do you watch it? Do you go to shows … or whatever they’re called?”

  “I’ve been. Once in Asheville when a company came to town. The best day of my life, I think. But mostly, I go watch movies with dancing in them. Rarely ballet, but dancing all the same.”

  I had never seen a movie with any dancing, and truthfully, had no desire to do so … that is, unless I was taking Essie.

  “One of my favorites is Dance, Girl, Dance. Ever seen it?” she asked.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Well, you’re missing out. I had to sneak off to see that one at a playhouse in Georgia when we were visiting family. Lucille Ball is just a riot! And gorgeous. Oh, and then there’s Broadway Melody. Just wonderful. But, you know, it’s New York. If you’re a real dancer, there’s no other place to be than New York City. Both of those movies take place in New York.”

  “You ever think about moving somewhere like New York City?” I asked.

  “All the time.” She fell onto one of the leather couches and stared at the ceiling. “Just imagine how much there is to see.”

  I sat across from her. “Plenty to see here, too.”

  “Yes, but it’s different. It’s cultured.”

  “Cultured?”

  “Yes.” She sat up and looked directly at me, hands grasping her knees. “Think about all the music and artists, and oh, just think about the dancing!”

  “We have those things.”

  “Sure, but not like New York. Not culture from all over the world. Everything you could ever want to see, hear, or do in one city.”

  I wanted to tell Essie that New York City was sounding a lot like room 447. She was all I wanted to see, and 447 made that possible. Her voice was all I wanted to hear, no matter what she was saying, and 447 was her microphone. And to kiss her, well, that was all I wanted to do, and I wanted to do it in 447. We were slowly creating the most beautiful culture I had ever known. It grew richer by the day and, as new as it was, it felt ancient, ageless. 447 held our own language, our own art, our own system of existence.

  “So, you think you’ll find yourself a Yankee to marry.” I smiled, hoping she would call the thought absurd.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I may never marry.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, I can’t see myself settling down back in Cherokee, and from what I’ve seen of other men, well, I can’t imagine myself living with one of them forever.”

  “What other men?”

  “The guys here. Your buddies, probably. They’re just uncouth.”

  “Uncouth?” I shot Essie a look letting her know just how ridiculous it was for her to use such a word. She was certainly more sophisticated than me, but not so much so that words such as uncouth should be on the tip of her tongue.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No. Tell me what you mean,” I pried.

  “They flirt with the women here incessantly. Doesn’t matter which one of us it is. Next time you’re in the d
ining hall or walking around on the property in the evening, notice how none of us girls ever turns her back to the men here.”

  “Why’s that? I mean, it’s safe. Heck, over half the men here are sworn to serve citizens like us.” Sarcasm peppered my words.

  “I can’t count the number of times I had the back of my skirt flipped up or was catcalled in my first week here. Men that have never even said a word to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Essie. But it’s not all of us. I haven’t done that.”

  “Of course not, Cowpie. But you’re different, you know. Women don’t need to worry about guys like you.”

  My heart fell, and I was ashamed that it did. I should have taken her words as a compliment, but I knew that they were placing me squarely in the category of men who would never travel to New York City—who would never carry Essie Stamper over some foreign threshold.

  “It’s just how I was raised.”

  “Exactly. I think you’re exactly right. You can almost tell which family folks come from just by the way they act in public.”

  I wasn’t so sure that was accurate. I mean, that meant that Bud and I acted the same in public. “Tell me about your family.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear about them.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Well, there’s Mom, Dad, and my brother Charlie, who’s in the service.”

  “What about your parents? What does your dad do?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t already know all my business. Everyone else in Cherokee sure does.”

  “You’re the one who said I wasn’t like the other guys.”

  Essie shook her head. “He’s away on business a lot. Salesman.”

  “And your mom? She stays home?”

  “Yes, she stays home and tells me how much I need to marry someone unlike my father.”

  “What does she mean by that?”

  “She thinks I need to find someone well-off who isn’t always gone. Or at least if he’s gone, that he leaves me with enough money to keep me entertained.”

  I hesitated, but had to ask, “Isn’t your mother from Cherokee?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just doesn’t sound like something you hear from Cherokee mothers too often.”

  “What would your mother … Oh. I’m sorry, Cowney.” Essie blushed and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “It’s fine. I guess that’s why I ask so many questions—because I don’t know what a mother would say.”

  “But you have your grandmother, right?” Essie recovered.

  “Yes, she’s been like a mother, I guess. Not that she cares too much about who I’m going to marry. I think she is too worried about who my uncle Bud is going to marry.”

  “So she doesn’t pick out your girlfriends?”

  My face grew hot. “I’ve never really had one.”

  “Well, Cowpie. We need to fix that! I will find you—”

  “So you’re turning into your mother now?”

  “I sure hope not! She’d be grilling every girl that grinned at you.” Essie shook her head. “My mother is different. She went off to Carlisle and, as Dad says, never got it out of her system. What she doesn’t realize is that in the end, we’ll all just be buried together. She won’t get to choose her eternal neighbor based on social status.”

  “You think she’s right? About finding someone away from Cherokee?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I just want to fall in love with Prince Charming. Too much to ask for, you think?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Nothing is too much to ask for the prima ballerina.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure. You aren’t going to get any good pictures with your new fancy camera and I’m not going to find my prince if we are cooped up in this room all summer. What do you say we go on an adventure when the rain quits?”

  “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s go canoeing!”

  “Canoeing? Where’d that come from?”

  “I don’t know. It just looks so peaceful.”

  “You’ve never been?”

  “Well, not really. A couple of girls from school tried one time. A couple of the boys had been burning out a log to make a canoe like they used to. We were the best swimmers, so we offered to try to it out. Barely got past wading waters.” Essie shook her head. “Disaster. All their hard work sank to the bottom of the Tuckasegee in just a few minutes. It was fun while it lasted, though. You ever canoed?”

  I was immediately taken back to the splash dam. The walls of 447 felt like the logs pressing down on me as the rain poured outside. Essie’s description of the canoe seemed so similar. “No.” I laughed, shaking off the memory. “I guess we aren’t very good Indians, are we?”

  Essie laughed with me. “No, Sacajawea and Pocahontas would be so ashamed.”

  “And I wanted so badly to be on a postcard.”

  “Sorry, Cowpie. It’s not in the cards.” Her smile grew. “Literally!”

  “Sure does sound like you could use some fresh air for those jokes. So where are we going to get a canoe?”

  “Some of the girls mentioned that some of the soldiers have access to a couple. Just have to make the right friends.”

  “Sounds good to me. I don’t really know any of the soldiers, but as long as I get a few hours shed of that damn Sol, I welcome it.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “You know how it is. You get out of Cherokee and people like to remind you how damn dark your skin is.”

  “What a fool.” Essie shook her head.

  “Yeah. Ah, forget him. About this trip—and just where are we going canoeing?”

  “Supposed to be a place where the Swannanoa and French Broad meet. People back home call it a-na-to-ki-as-di-yi.”

  “The place where they race? So this won’t be as leisurely as you described.”

  “A little competition gets the blood pumping, don’t you think?”

  “Okay, I’m in. Assuming this rain ever stops.” I was thankful that the opportunity to compete, especially against the soldiers, would not require me to be on my feet. I might just have a fighting chance.

  “Should be the perfect place, from what they say back home. Cherokees used to race there all the time.”

  “Can you imagine what it would be like if Cherokees still lived here? Lived in Asheville—all over this region?” I mused.

  “We do. You and I are living right here.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Is this about the bone again? You really are fascinated with that thing, aren’t you?”

  “I guess it’s the mystery. Once you see it, you’ll understand. It’s not gory or anything.”

  “Maybe. It’s not the bone itself so much as it is thinking about it belonging to someone. I can’t help but feel sad about it.”

  “Think about it this way. You said your mother would want to choose who she was buried with. Mingle bones with the upper crust and all. Maybe this person was just trying to do that at the Grove Park.”

  “Cowney Sequoyah! You speak of the dead so easily. And that’s my mother you’re talking about!”

  “Ahh, Essie. I’m just kiddin’ around.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, let’s talk about something else.”

  “Fair enough. Here.” I handed the camera to Essie. “Give it a try.”

  Essie took the camera and instructed me to pose by the fireplace. I smiled wide and confident, pleased that Essie had focused her cultured eye on me for the moment.

  I left the camera high on a shelf in 447, certain that the best pictures would be made in that room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite the fires, the next Sunday I went to church with Lishie. Essie stayed in Asheville, and I had had my fill of imposing buildings already that summer at the Grove Park, so I pretended to sleep in; but Lishie knew this game all too well. She began by banging around in the kitchen and then by humming “The Old Rugged Cros
s” until the kettle whistled and she broke into a full-on belting of “Amazing Grace” in Cherokee.

  U ne la nv i u we tsi

  I ga go yv he i

  Hna quo tso sv wi yu lo se

  I ga gu yv ho nv.

  I never could resist that song. I knew both the English version and the Cherokee version better than I knew any other song, well, except for “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and that was Essie’s fault. She sang it incessantly.

  “How sweet the sound—”

  I crawled out of bed, following the smell of bacon grease, and shuffled into the kitchen. Lishie smiled without turning from the stove. “Well, sunale, sleepyhead. Thought I might have to wake you for dinner.”

  “Mornin’.” I kissed the top of her gray head and inhaled the comfort of lye soap and sweet corn. “If you’re cookin’, you know I’m awake to eat.”

  “Everyone should have a full stomach on the Sabbath.”

  “And go to church?” No sense in waiting on her to ask.

  “Well, if a body’s able, I reckon one should.”

  “Go on and get dressed. I’ll finish this.” I took the fork from her hand. She wiped her palms on her housecoat and smiled. “Oh, good. I have a new dress I’ve been wanting to show off.”

  “Now Lishie, Preacherman’s married.”

  “Oh, Cowney. Stop that foolishness.” She was blushing. “Besides, you know I just want to show Myrtle how much better of a seamstress I am than that good-for-nothin’ daughter-in-law she’s always crowing about.”

  Lishie had a way of making boasting sound humble.

  The smoke still lingered in the air, graying the sky, though it felt somewhat lighter than the evening before. As we crawled into the Model T, I couldn’t help but think about how much I would have preferred it to be Essie sitting shotgun. Nothing against Lishie. For every moment of reserved silence Essie offered on our ride to Asheville, Lishie offered stories tenfold. In truth, I often enjoyed the stories that allowed me to sit silent, stare off through the windshield onto the road ahead, regardless of who was telling them. On this particular ride, Lishie was not disappointing.