“It’s okay.” I reached out to embrace her. “Are you okay? What happened?”
She stopped short of my arms and looked at me. Her eyes were red with tears. “You read it, Cowney. I know you did.” Her face was sharp and exacting.
“Read what?
“My letter. I wasn’t going to say anything when I noticed it was put back in the wrong place. I thought I could trust you. First you go and read my personal … I can almost forgive that, but then you share my secrets? How could you tell them—”
“Okay. Okay.” I tried to calm her with my voice. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have read it, but if you think I told anybody—”
“How did they know where Andrea and I were? That I would be with him? Did you set us up? Could you really be that jealous of what we—”
“I never said a word to anyone … I mean, Peter knows about you two, but no one else unless it was one of your girlfriends.”
Essie shook her head and then stopped cold, raising her eyes to mine. “Oh, Cowney. I was mad. I thought you had—” Essie’s eyes flooded with tears. “I told them about the—” Her voice shattered. “I didn’t think they were connecting you to this. I didn’t know a girl was missing. They were asking if we’d seen anything out there. And I remembered what you told me. I just told them about the—and then they—I mean, it was a child and they said you might … It was too late for me to explain.”
Even all these years later, I will never forget the way her eyes met mine. How they grew as if she thought they might form around me in some protective encasement. There was guilt there, but the kind of guilt that ripens from sorrow and innocence, still dewy from the realization. She was altogether responsible, yet by no definition was it intentional. And at the very moment that I was recognizing this, so was she. Her mouth remained closed because, I imagine, she knew it caused what was about to happen to me, and what was about to likely happen to her. My skin grew cold.
There was no time. She had told the soldiers about the bone; that was a certainty. Had she also confirmed my attempts to carry out Bud’s business? They would fill in the blanks themselves: one missing child plus one bone plus one brown-skinned day laborer equals conviction, both in the judicial and the spiritual sense. If they even bothered to separate the two.
I nodded, closing my eyes briefly in order to avoid hers.
She leaned forward as if she might speak, but I turned away before she could. No one, certainly not Essie, could protect me now. I had never been in trouble, not with anyone other than Bud. As soon as I knew that I couldn’t do what the other boys could, grow up to serve as my father and my uncle had, my sole duty was to keep my head down and bring home a decent wage. Now her words stripped all of this away. Committed it to the forgotten.
I heard people talking down the hall. English voices. Not the guests. The guests, by now, had a sixth sense about the rhythms of the inn. They slid quickly behind the large oak doors when the pressure grew and the soldiers began to churn. I had seen this only a couple of times before, but their movements were divergent on “lockdown days,” the only days I was expected inside the inn myself. A distinct siren roar and the guests were out of sight, out of mind.
And now, the loud speaker sounded its warning again, an unscheduled demand for retreat. I wished I’d thought to do the same as the guests, or that I even could do the same as the guests, and found an alcove of respite. I intentionally spent as little time as possible inside these walls, thinking that would serve me well. So, at this moment, the irony was thick. The long hall spreading out before me was disorienting.
Of course, I could have stayed. I could have waited for the questions, the accusations. I could have taken a breath, prepared my responses. We almost always have choices in moments like these. But I don’t remember choosing. I don’t remember options, other than which way to run. So my body ran, with or without my mind—with or without my heart.
I was moving too fast to read the directional signs, though the room number ranges would have meant nothing to me. I could find my way out in the open air or find 447. Both options seemed unlikely as the buzz of voices converged from every angle.
“I saw him go this way,” the first discernible voice bellowed.
“Step it up. And you two, head to the main gate!” boomed from farther away.
I ducked into a recess and crouched out of sight of the hallway, bringing my knees right up to my chest. I was struck with the thought, odd as it may sound, that I was no different than Edgar—far from home, crisscrossing a foreign landscape, running from something or for something, neither of which I knew. Was I as free as Edgar or as tamed as Edgar?
From where I squatted, I could see the sun break through the clouds and stream through a series of lead-lined, poured-glass windows framing the alcove. I was on the second floor. Two more up and I could reach the room. Two floors down and I could run the maze of the basement, a space I had entered periodically for storage supplies, where there would be fewer eyes and a hope of making my way outside. If I were seen, then I would have to make a third choice. But for now, no one, save Essie, could confirm that I was running from anyone. There had been no eye contact, no shouts of “Stop!” or “Wait!” to indicate they knew I had seen them.
I wondered if Essie might meet me in 447 or if she was still standing as I left her. More than anything, I did not want to include her any further in this moment. I didn’t want to consider what the guards would do if they found us in a room together. Conspiracy is far more criminal than whatever it was they suspected me of. I hoped that Essie had gone to the room to wait, though I feared she had most likely sought consolation from Andrea. That was far more likely, in fact. Still, the secret room didn’t breathe—there was no alternative exit without the likelihood of running into a guard. Once I entered, or we entered, there was no leaving until nightfall. I could not stand the thought of being trapped alone, or worse yet, being trapped with the one person who betrayed me in the one place I thought we would always be safe.
Peering out from the protection of a corner wall, I watched as two uniformed guards raced past me toward the end of the hall. They moved with such single-mindedness they did not notice me. I located an EXIT sign only a few feet away. A louder murmur was closing in. I darted across the hallway, flung my body weight into the door, and almost tumbled down the staircase when the door opened far more easily than I expected. As much as I wanted to run down the stairs, I was careful to mute my steps and pause before exposing myself to the open landings and then, finally, I reached the basement.
I made my way through an open door into the cool, dim light of the inn’s dual cellar and bomb shelter. Hazy light seeped in from the high slit windows bordering the ceiling. I felt as if I were walking into a wet blanket, slowing my escape to a standstill. I smelled the sharp twang of peeled onion remains buried inside three large trashcans. The earthiness of potato peelings mingled among the translucent membranes, and my subconscious mind questioned if I had actually wandered into Myrtle’s kitchen.
All this because of a bone, a trinket of boredom-born obsession. Not only was I now likely a suspect of some heinous crime, but also Essie and I could never again return to who we were to each other. I wondered if she regretted sharing our secret or was grateful that it had distracted the authorities from her and Andrea’s secret.
In truth, had Essie begun to slip away weeks ago? Each time she uttered Andrea’s name, I could almost see the divide between us grow. My stomach ached. Had she given them my name to save Andrea? Was this an effort to prove some sort of loyalty? How safe was anything I had told her?
Those thoughts were unsettling, but not as much as the final question that purged me from the basement. How safe was anything she had told me? I could not be caught because I was not sure I could protect Essie’s stories if questioned by the guards. I was not as strong as the POWs Bud talked about, not as strong as my father. I waited a moment on the top step leading out to the exterior storm doors, listened for any sign of
life on the other side, and slowly inched the cellar door upward. More daylight peeked in; I blinked as my eyes painfully adjusted.
I could hear a bird: such a sweet, simple chirping it nearly convinced me that it had all been a bad dream. If I could just drench myself fully in the sunshine waiting outside, I would awaken in a kinder, simpler world. I pushed the door further, barely enough to squeeze my body into the open air.
No one direction was better than the other. There was no escape. I might have been standing in a Smoky Mountain resort, but it was no more than a prison camp wrapped in periodic strands of barbed wire and trigger-happy sycophants. Each edge of the property was just as exposed as the next. It was time I prepared myself to be questioned. I needed to make sure my story was clear in my head, even though every ounce of it was truth. It had to be clear to the soldiers. I reasoned that it might be useful to appear to be working if caught. It would be difficult to explain why I was not inside the inn during the lockdown siren, but perhaps I could formulate a story around finishing my work. I eased back into the basement, searching for my alibi. There were brooms, rakes, and shovels. I found stray two-by-four boards and broken light fixtures. Each item seemed unrelated to any work I could possibly be doing or else too closely resembled a weapon. I reached for a rake, a tool practically useless in the summer months, but my eye was suddenly drawn to a glisten in the far left corner of the room. Three silver paint cans were haphazardly stacked upon one another. Dried drips of white paint stained the sides. I grabbed a can and brush.
I made my way back to the exterior steps and eased the door open as carefully as I had the first time. I set the bucket and brush just outside, then slid out the doors, slowly lowering them behind me. My view to the shed was still clear, so I hurried toward the west end of the property, to the place where I had first found the bone. The soldiers would most likely secure the property exits, leaving this area to the last of their checks. I had to go quickly, but not suspiciously, because if seen, I could not appear to be running. The guilty run.
I used the great oaks peppering the property as protection. I clung to each one of them as if they were life preservers. The air vibrated with the siren’s pulse, but all other sounds were drowned, with the exception of my footsteps and pounding heartbeat. The grounds were pocked with shallow holes where shrubs had been redistributed or rodents had burrowed. I had learned early on where they were, but now I seemed to stumble into every one. The bucket swayed in my hand, and I prayed the lid was fastened tight so as not to leave a trail of paint behind me. As soon as I could see the brush pile, a marker I had chosen to leave when I first found the bone, I checked my periphery and shot toward it. I knelt beside the nest of branches and bark, setting the paint can and brush beside me. I sifted through the loose wood, running my hand across the rough, veined bark. I hoped both that I would find more bones and that I would find nothing. What evidence would prove me innocent? Maybe I could unearth a grave marker or woodland creature’s skull—anything that would complete the story for the soldiers before they completed it on their own.
In short order, I recognized the absurdity of the scene I had created. There I was, kneeling at the edge of wilderness accompanied by whitewashing tools. Military guards swarmed like bees all around the perimeter. I was a wayward child playing in his yard while the tornado siren warned of impending doom. I could almost hear Bud’s disgust closing around me. Can’t even keep your mouth shut and mind your business. Have to go and piss off a buncha white folks with guns. A gray squirrel almost knocked me over in surprise as it leapt from one branch to the next above my head. I pulled aside a large rotting log, causing a family of three tiny field mice to dart toward the fence line, as desperate as I to save their own lives. Their exit exposed a small hole, and inside I could almost—
“Stop what you are doing and stand up, slowly,” Lieutenant Peter Franks’s voice was clear, close, and unsteady. “Stand up, Cowney.”
I reached for the paint can, causing Peter to pull out his sidearm and point it.
“Okay, Lieutenant. Easy. What’s this about?” I stood slowly and raised my arms. I was a poor liar, but Peter seemed too nervous to distinguish truth from fiction.
Peter walked toward me. His right foot caught in one of the many hollows and he struggled to regain his balance, eager to keep his gun aligned with my chest. “Colonel just wants to ask you some questions.”
“What about? Can I put my hands down now?” I hoped my confidence would outweigh his apparent influx of authority.
“Yes … but leave the can.” Peter pointed at it with his gun. “It’s about the missing girl. That’s all I know. You need to come with me.”
“They haven’t found her?” I hoped ignorance might put him at ease, but I immediately regretted it since he surely knew everyone on the property was now aware of the reason behind the siren’s continuing alarm. “Okay. Okay. Just put that thing away.” I walked toward Peter, still showing my palms, careful to maintain eye contact.
He nodded. Peter’s eyes briefly hinted at reluctance, but Lieutenant Franks quickly took over. He holstered his gun and grabbed my right elbow, escorting me back toward the inn.
Peter and I walked in silence, both doing our best not to arouse the gazes of the workers or guests. As we neared the main entrance, Peter grasped the back of my right arm and began leading us toward a row of army vehicles.
“Where are we going? I thought you said that Colonel—”
“Keep your mouth shut. Colonel’s busy right now. We need to take you to a secure location until he returns.”
“Secure location? What are you talking about?”
I shook my head and chose not to speak to Peter until we returned to the inn, entering the main building together. White curtains inched open as I was led beneath the guestroom windows. Peter had radioed ahead, so by the time we reached the inn’s lobby, several soldiers greeted us, heavily breathing and sweaty. They seemed to share in some sort of communal victory. The alarm had wound down to silence in my absence, and maids emerged as if no time had passed, utterly indifferent about beginning their work again. Another soldier flanked my left side, and two more fell in behind us. We walked down the west-wing hallway and into a small lounge.
“Sit here and the colonel will be with you shortly,” Peter robotically offered.
I did not share Peter’s definition of “shortly.” I sat in that room, too terrified to move, for several hours. I was not offered food or water, not that I could have brought myself to consume anything other than fear. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream like the mother bear and silence the voice in my head. Why had Peter done this to me? Why had Essie done this to me?
As cold as Peter had been, my stomach still grumbled with disappointment when he left the room, effectively signing me over to an ever-changing rotation of three nameless uniforms standing in the back of the room and a higher-ranking uniform yet to arrive. I sank deep into a maroon leather club chair facing a dormant stone fireplace. Above the fireplace hung a grand, regal portrait of General Andrew Jackson. President Jackson, others would likely rather say, though I’ll always see him as a leader of war rather than diplomacy. He glared outward, toward some unknown point of interest high above my head. Along with my seat, two other matching chairs and a small, similarly finished couch surrounded a rectangular coffee table made of cherry wood. The table was bare, except for a book and the twinkling shadow figures cast from the chandelier fastened from the ceiling above it. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, showcasing colorfully leather-bound volumes of science, law, and literature. I scanned the titles and authors, hoping one would be familiar, but knowing that would be unlikely. The room was pristine, yet still smelled of dust and old paper. This space was intended for drinking and bullshitting before the army took over. I imagined it was still often used for those purposes, though I doubted I’d be offered a shot of whiskey on this day.
A uniform cleared his throat.
Another cracked his knuckle
s.
The third passed in front of me, under the resolute gaze of Jackson.
A clock ticked from high on the bookshelf.
My mouth went dry. My shirt grew wet from sweat.
Finally, the door behind me creaked open. I heard the shuffling of papers and the three uniforms snapped to attention, then disappeared beyond my periphery, presumably out the now open door.
“Mr. Sequoyah?” It was the colonel’s voice, calm and deep. “Did you hear the warning alarm today?” He walked around to face me.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I assumed it was a drill and I was behind in work this morning.”
“Is that so? And were you also aware that a child has gone missing?”
“I’d heard something of it.” Half truths were easier to cover.
“Something … Hmmm.” He paused, staring curiously into my eyes so directly that I couldn’t resist looking away. “Listen, son. You are going to have to be more specific. What exactly do you know about the missing child?”
I felt my face flush. “Well … I heard it was a little girl … a guest’s daughter. Heard she just up and disappeared a couple of days ago. That’s all I know. I didn’t connect the two. The siren and the girl. Why was the siren just now—”
“You’re here to answer questions, not ask them.” The colonel turned away from me. He unbuttoned his front shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, shaking his head. He lit the cigarette and inhaled a long drag. “Cowney. I know that is not all you know. We’ve scoured this place in here”—he waved the cigarette around his head—“but I have a feeling that little girl is not in this building. And if she is not in here, well, she certainly passes through where you are assigned to work. One thing I know for sure. You can’t trust a goddamn Indian. So don’t think for a minute I’m just going to take you at your word.”
Even As We Breathe Page 17
