Even As We Breathe

by Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle

  “Nice to meet y’all.” Peter nodded and then stepped aside, acknowledging a clear path through the open door. “Have a good evening.”

  I nodded in return and walked out. I did not wait for Essie to follow. I wanted to put as much distance between her and myself on the path to the dorms as she had already forced into our relationship.

  I was just a boy then, and had no real insight into a woman’s heart. I couldn’t understand why we weren’t an automatic fit for each other, a promised pair of sameness in this strange place. In the years since, I have learned that not all love is made of equal parts. There are more kinds of deep affection than we are sometimes willing to accept in society. I wish I had known then that she was more than any friend or girlfriend could be. What we had was deeper than a physical relationship and too big to be made simple with naming. It was everything and absolutely indefinable all at once.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I did not want to wake in the morning. I did not want to see anyone I had met last night. Not Lieutenant Peter Franks. Not Andrea. Not the version of Sol without Lee to rein him in. Not the real Essie. I wanted them all to be characters in a nightmare, washed away with the rising sun. But the morning murmurs brought forth heavy boots of mission-driven soldiers outside, Sol’s final boozy snores grappling for a few more minutes of rest, and the clanging of bells too vigorous to inspire any reaction other than a blinded nosedive into the reality of the day. The morning brought smoke, which briefly caused me to believe I was back home. But damn, even if I had been home in the midst of an out-and-out inferno, it still seemed safer than being in a bed surrounded by luxury, military, and beautiful women.

  Because I had to face reality unwillingly, I may, or may not, have bumped Sol’s cot so hard as I walked past on my way to brush my teeth that he sat up with a start. It’s hard to remember the details of such things. But I do know for sure that we both began the day with no desire to be breathing the same air. He cut himself shaving, ripping pieces of toilet paper into tiny temporary triage patches and cursing with each application. As for myself, though the morning sun brought hope for a better day, I had apparently gone to sleep with my hair still damp from sweat and placed my head in such an awkward position on the pillow that a peak of errant black hair jutted from the crown of my head as if I were somehow akin to a new half-breed of ruffed grouse.

  The smoke proved to be benign, but it was evidence that fires had spread. I wondered if Bud found this fortunate—if he thought his hunting exploits would benefit. I couldn’t worry about Bud, and Sol’s behavior was quite typical, but worrying about both men still felt less daunting than addressing how to respond to Essie. I hesitated before entering the dining hall, fearful I would have to make an early-morning decision about her, about us. Should I greet her? Sit with her? Ignore her? Confront her? None of the options seemed plausible. A part of me wondered if she had dreamt the same horrible nightmare that I had or if, when I saw her, she could confirm for me that it had only been a delusion.

  So, when I finally gathered the nerve to open the door and step through into the open hall, I was both relieved and disappointed to see that Essie was not there. The other girls that she would sometimes join for dessert if I left lunch early to return to work were there. They were exactly where they were supposed to be, according to this new summer tradition we had subconsciously developed. I hurried past their table, but felt the collective breeze of their whispers and the force of their stares. Perhaps it was the four winds that Preacherman had spoken of, but they breathed more death than life into me. I could sense, or at least I convinced myself that I could sense their inquisition: searching my face for Essie’s whereabouts and then turning back to the door with an assumption that she would surely follow me through. As secretive as I had hoped my feelings for Essie were from the rest of the world, I also hoped that everyone would recognize our bond, our alliance, and come to depend on it as I had.

  But Essie didn’t follow, and the girls didn’t ask. I scooped a small pile of plain oatmeal into a bowl, found a seat as close to a corner as possible, and shoveled bites into my mouth as quickly as they cooled. I guzzled coffee so fast that it nearly blistered my mouth. It probably would not have been a travesty if a burnt tongue had tempered my words.

  Before heading out to find Lee and Sol, I paused for a moment to consider whether or not I should go to her dorm to check on Essie. I knew the trouble that would be caused if she showed up late for duty. Had she overslept? Had she found Andrea again and was she still with him in the morning? Had he hurt her? Had another, less forgiving guard found them together? … Who was I to even ask? That was the question that released me. I had no authority to ask anything but what was the next job I was expected to perform for the inn and its “guests.” And so that is what I did. I left the responsibility of Essie to Essie and went to find Lee and Sol sharpening tools in the shed.

  “‘Bout time you rolled out of bed,” Lee jabbed without looking up from the file in his hand and the spade lying across his lap. He greeted almost everyone in this manner on most days. I was grateful for some semblance of normalcy. Sol did look up when I entered, but his face was flat and expressionless. It was possible that our encounter the previous afternoon was not as memorable for him as it had been for me.

  “Yes, sir. Always hard on a Monday morning,” I replied to Lee out of habit. “What’s on tap for today?”

  “Better find a bandana to cover your face. We’ll be clearing brush and this damn smoke just gets thicker.”

  “It’ll clear with the morning fog,” I offered.

  Sol rolled his eyes. “Some kind of Indian prophecy?”

  “Science. And fuck you!” I stared hard into him.

  Lee shot out an upsurge of laughter. “Goddamn, son. What was in your oatmeal this morning?”

  I shook it off and took an ax from behind the shed door. “Let’s hit it then.”

  I spent the remainder of the day within twenty feet of where I had found the bone. Its mystery interrupted a near obsession with imagining where Essie could be or if Andrea was watching me, or exactly how much time I would have to spend in Sol’s presence for the remainder of the summer. To avoid all of these things, these people, I chose to take my lunch in silence and return to the exact place of the bone. I built a bologna sandwich in the dining hall and pocketed a small red delicious. Keeping my eyes lowered, I managed to avoid Essie’s table and her friends while both washing up and collecting my lunch. She may have been there. They may have been there, but I didn’t want to know either way. We had made plans to play another round of dominos, but those plans were made before knowing she could make plans with anyone else. At least, before I knew it.

  Outside, I sat on a stump above the spot where the bone had once been semi-buried. There was a part of me that wanted to talk to the bone, as odd as that sounds. Even though I knew the bone was no longer there—even though I knew it wouldn’t talk back. I chewed slowly, listening to the laughter of the diplomats’ children and the warning calls of mothers, an orchestra of languages, curt and simple, so clearly in response to the children’s actions that I could translate every word into both English and Cherokee. Careful. Stop. Not so fast.

  The guards watched everyone, even each other. Some lingered over the mothers, some over the children, some over the workers. They, too, took their lunch on the job and chewed like I imagined they unloaded their Brownings—reckless and rapid.

  Twice I found myself edging close to the Japanese diplomats as they smoked cigarettes on the back veranda, speaking their native tongue but always within earshot of guards. I tried to pick up subtle clues to their language, perhaps pick up enough to casually approach them. I knew they understood English, as all diplomats should, but if I was going to broach the subject of bear medicine, then they needed to trust me, and language does much to build that trust. Yes, I had decided while eating lunch that first day alone that I had nothing, absolutely nothing to lose by brokering a deal for Bud. Hunters trade meat all t
he time. What did it matter who the buyer was and what otherwise useless part was being sold? It might even keep Bud off my back the next time I was home.

  Unfortunately, the third time I angled near two Japanese men, I caught their attention. They nodded and I stood to address them directly. But nothing came from my mouth, not even a weak attempt at ohayo, the only phrase I had picked up. Their brows furrowed as they waited and then laughed off my awkwardness, turning to face the guards.

  A guard called over, “Sequoyah, you need something?”

  “No, sir.” I bent back into the shrubbery and pulled nettle from the plants’ bases, piercing my fingers through the heavy leather gloves.

  For the entire week, I repeated the practice—minus interactions with diplomats. I spoke little to anyone other than to Peter occasionally and whatever spirit lingered from the hollow space once occupied by the bone. The smoke met us in the early morning and dissipated with the lunch bell. I watched it fade west—blacken with its retreat until the afternoon’s work was illuminated with hot sun. I did not return to 447, though I wondered often if Essie did. I took dinner at the very last moment, much to the irritation of the women on dish duty, who had hoped to finish early at least one evening in time to join an impromptu barn dance or card game. I knew I would have to face Essie again, even if I could avoid Andrea. I would have to take her home at the end of the summer and it would be a long ride; but I couldn’t face her just yet. I had nothing to say. I gave it all to an empty space, spilled into an echo of the bone.

  I was fully intent on continuing this pattern of solitude the morning that Lee, sensing I needed a change, perhaps, diverted my plans.

  “We’ll be in the big house today, boys. Plumber is out sick or hung-over and they need us to come help out.”

  “I ain’t no plumber,” Sol grumbled.

  “Me either.” I agreed with Sol on one point at least.

  Lee shook his head. “Not asking you to be. I’m not either. They just want us to come over and help clean up.”

  “Shit!” moaned Sol.

  “Yep, probably some of that, too.” Lee laughed as he put the tools on a bench and dusted himself off. “Better than being out in this smoke anyway. Those fires out your way seem to have gotten outta hand, Cowney. Heard tell Balsam’s burning. We’d choke if we were outside all day. Let’s get to it.”

  My oatmeal breakfast rose until it burned my throat. The inn’s main building was the last place on earth I wanted to be. “You need us all in there?”

  “Oh, hell yeah, he does,” Sol interrupted. “You ain’t getting out of this one.”

  “I wasn’t trying to get—”

  Lee rescued me. “Yes, Cowney. All hands on deck. If we divide up the work, we can be on to the outside chores by lunchtime.”

  Our work inside was just as Lee had described. Dripping water, overflowing toilets, clogged drains. The problems were rancid, but not overwhelming. The issues were reserved to only a few areas and rooms. And while the military paid a licensed plumber for such tasks, they were simple enough for our unprofessional skill sets.

  The guards’ break room: an overflowing toilet.

  Two guest rooms, both with German occupants: a slow dripping sink that simply needed the faucet tightened before the water irreversibly stained the porcelain.

  Six common rooms or unoccupied spaces: clogged showers that were to be snaked free of hair and soap buildup.

  General cleanup: water, stains, damp nests of hair, paper, and human waste.

  The building manager cut off water to some areas where the licensed plumber would be needed, but he assured Lee that that didn’t mean we couldn’t go ahead and take care of the cleanup. The sheer amount of congealed human refuse made me question just how many people we were living with. I never had a sense that the inn was at full occupancy, but this mess seemed to be the work of many. Perhaps it had just never been tended to after the paying guests left. Either way, I had to control my urge to vomit each time sprays of water broke free, sending particles of piss, shit, hair, and skin splashing against my body.

  “Don’t they have maids for this shit?” Sol grumbled as he mopped a pool of dust balls, red clay mud, and suicidal ants in the inn’s prep kitchen.

  “Yeah, but they’re shorthanded, too. Plenty of other messes for them to clean up.”

  What did he mean by “shorthanded”? Had someone not shown up this morning?

  Sol gave me a look. “Maybe those maids need to focus more on their work and less on their leisure.”

  “Seems to me like we all do,” Lee reminded him. “Come on, Cowney. Sol’s got this covered. I’ll show you the next one on the list.” He grabbed a toolbox and mop and handed both to me. I was grateful to Lee that he had removed me from Sol’s sarcasm, but each time we moved to a new room, my heart pounded against my chest as if I might convulse into cardiac arrest at the first sighting of Essie’s uniform, probably quicker if it were a glimpse of Andrea’s scowl.

  “What’s wrong with you today, son?” Lee asked as we climbed the staircase I had so quickly escaped several nights ago. “You seem on edge. Everything okay back home?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. I mean, sometimes this place is a little much for me.”

  “Work’s too hard?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just strange, you know. I mean every other guy my age is off fighting. The only ones here my age are in uniform.” I followed him into the hallway of the fourth floor. We stopped in front of a large window looking over the mountains. “And I’m here cleaning up after foreigners we’re supposed to call guests. It’s just weird, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s not forever. Just try to remember that. Shoot, aren’t you even off to college in the fall? Isn’t that what I heard?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Still not sure.”

  “Oh, you like cleaning up shit that much, huh?” Lee nudged my shoulder.

  I smiled halfheartedly. “Ah, I don’t know. Not sure I belong places like that.”

  “Well, son. I can promise you one thing. None of us belong in a place like this either.” He walked down the hall with me trailing after him.

  “It’s this one. He pointed to a guest room. No one is staying in here anymore. Rumor is, they got traded for an American diplomat. Got to go home.”

  “Home? To D.C.?” According to the little news I had heard, all of the diplomats and nationals staying at the inn had been bused down from Washington, D.C., but I felt sure they would not be allowed to return until the war ended. How odd it was to consider someone deciding where your home is or will be for you, especially if you have never set foot on the land before.

  “Doubt that. Just heard the soldiers talking the other day. They said home. Who knows what that really means.” I could relate.

  Lee unlocked the door and showed me slick tile floor and damp carpet. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  It wasn’t until I heard Lee’s footsteps disappear down the hall that I was able to orientate myself to exactly where I was. Had Lee and I ventured two more rooms down the hall, we would have been standing in front of 447. My chances of seeing Essie just doubled. I considered closing the door to the guest room behind me as I worked, but mold permeated the carpet and the stench was too strong. I resolved to work swiftly and quickly get back downstairs.

  Twenty minutes or so into the job, I thought I might just make it out without confrontation. I should have known better.

  “Sure got yourself a mess there, don’t you?” It was Peter making his rounds. Essie never mentioned that guards made rounds so close to room 447. Likely she knew that bit of information would deter me for certain.

  “Yeah, could have been worse. It’s mostly just water.”

  “Good.” He reached out and handed me a key. “Can you return this to your boss for me? He let me borrow some tools from the shed. Tell him I will get them back to him shortly—just as soon as we finish shoring up the fence line. Won’t take long. Really appreciate it.”

  I tucked the
key in my pocket. “Sure. Will do.”

  “Mind if I take my break here?” Peter asked as he flopped down on the bed and lit a cigarette. Sweat ringed his collar.

  “Not my place to mind where you go,” I responded, wringing the mop outside the open room window.

  “So, you said your name was Sequoyah, right?” His pronunciation had gotten better since his first attempt at the gate.

  “Yes. Cowney Sequoyah.”

  “Like the alphabet guy?”

  I pulled the mop back inside and faced Peter, surprised by his knowledge of the originator of the Cherokee syllabary. “Yes, that’s right. How’d you know that?”

  “Well, it’s not often I hear the name. I guess it just sticks. Plus, I mean, it’s not every day that someone just up and creates a language.”

  “Syllabary,” I corrected as gently as possible. “We’ve had a language forever. He created a system of writing. A syllabary.”

  “Still damn remarkable, don’t you think?” Peter sat up on the bed and ashed his cigarette in the tray on the nightstand.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.” I closed the window and laughed a little, thinking about what I knew about Sequoyah. “You know they say he was insane. Wife burned his papers twice.”

  “Figures. Women have such a hard time recognizing genius.” Peter and I laughed together. I think it might have been the first time I truly breathed all morning.

  “Ah, don’t mean to hold you up from your work, Sequoyah.” Peter extinguished his cigarette. “Let me help you out. Maybe get you to lunch early.” He pulled up the towels I had laid on the carpet to soak up the moisture, opened the window again, and wrung them out of it in the same way I had the mop.

  He told me about the girls he had dated and why he joined the army and how he’d give anything to see more action, both with the girls and the military. I didn’t have to nod or tell him how much I understood how he felt. He would glance at my foot periodically as he spoke. Not in a demeaning way. Not in the way others did that made me feel uncomfortable. It was almost as if he were calling for an “amen,” and my deformity was that unspoken response.