“I’m your father.”
Billie stared at him. He was shorter than she remembered, squarely built, and had a deep scar on his forehead. He was wearing overalls and a threadbare shirt. It looked as if he hadn’t slept in a very long time. He had heavy pouches under his eyes.
“She your oldest?” one of the men asked.
Sam Bassett nodded. He grabbed Billie’s bag, and they walked together hand-in-hand through town. He shuffled with his head down, but he held her fingers firmly.
Billie was no longer afraid.
The town consisted of a hardware store, feed store, creamery, café, and post office. The community was quiet, but the highway they walked along was not. Motorcars of all shapes and sizes rattled past them. The Minnesota Scenic Highway was the lifeblood in this part of the state. It brought tourists from the big cities and their money too.
Billie breathed the fresh air of Lake Mille Lacs. It was crisp and cool, tinged with the slightest hint of fish. She had heard it was nothing compared to Lake Superior to the northwest, but to her, it was huge.
Billie’s father was silent as they walked. She wondered if she inherited her quiet ways from him.
“We turn here,” he mumbled, and they crossed the highway onto a dusty, dirt road. On the right side of the road was an abandoned town hall with a teeter-totter. The paint was faded, and the grass was growing tall around it. She remembered playing on it.
At last, they arrived at the little tar-paper shack set in a grove of maples. Around the back was a hayfield. As they approached, chickens scattered, and an old mongrel waddled up. Billie bent down and scratched its head while she looked at the house. It was a one-story structure with two windows. A stovepipe protruded from the roof, and a lean-to with faded blue paint rested against one wall.
The front door opened, and a woman stood with a toddler on her hip. She had long braids and was wearing a faded housedress. She stared at Billie wide-eyed. Her chest heaved suddenly, and she put the child down. Rushing over, she pulled Billie into her arms. It was her mother. She cried and mumbled Chippewa in her ear.
It had been a long time since anyone had hugged Billie, and it brought tears to her eyes. A flood of memories returned. She remembered her mother’s scent and the warmth of her embrace. “Mama,” she murmured.
Rose Bassett pushed Billie back to look at her, touching her cheek. Billie remembered that face. It was a strong face, lined with determination. Her hair was streaked with gray, but her smile was bright.
An elderly woman was standing nearby, holding the toddler’s hand. She had on a buckskin shift and was wearing a man’s derby that was old and dusty. She too had braids, but her hair was completely white.
“I’m your Grandmother Juneau,” she said in Chippewa and held out her arms.
“Nookoo!” Billie exclaimed, running and hugging her.
“And this is your sister, Emma.”
The three-year-old stared up at Billie with her thumb in her mouth.
“How are your brothers?” her mother asked, standing up.
“They’re fine, Mama.”
“And there will be another baby soon,” she said, touching her large belly.
Billie smiled.
Wiping her tears with her apron, Rose said, “Come eat. Are you hungry? We’ll make flapjacks.”
Suddenly, Billie was famished, and she stepped into the house. Everything looked familiar. There was the woodstove in the corner with the metal washtub and washboard, the kitchen table covered with red oilcloth, and the blankets partitioning off bedrooms. Pots and pans hung from the walls. Shelves were lined with preserves and rows upon rows of bottled maple syrup.
She walked over to the wall to look at a beaded Indian cape hanging next to a woven basket. She had forgotten about these things. The teachers at St. Matthew’s told her to forget about being Indian and that she should hide her heritage and bury it deep.
“Touch it,” Grandmother said, stepping up. “It is yours as much as anyone’s.”
Her grandmother was speaking Chippewa again. It had been so long since Billie had heard it that it sounded strange, but she still understood it. She ran her fingers over the multicolored beads on the cape. There were thousands of them.
“Imagine sewing all those on.”
“Does everyone want flapjacks?” her mother asked, putting a cast iron griddle on the stove. “Or just Billie.”
“Everyone should eat,” Grandmother Juneau replied. “This is a celebration.”
Billie looked back at the gown. “Did you make this Nookoo?”
“No, it is from your father’s family. They are Choctaw, a tribe from the lower Mississippi. You have French in you too. That’s where the name Bassett comes from.”
Sam Bassett was sitting at the kitchen table, bouncing Emma on his knee. He was smoking a pipe and watching Billie. He nodded and mumbled something in a language she had never heard.
Billie looked at her grandmother. “Is that French he’s speaking?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. Some of what he says is the tongue of his Indian people,” she explained, removing her derby and dusting it off. “And some of it is gibberish. Your father is a long way from home. He came here riding the rails, looking for work in Duluth. That’s how he met your mother.”
Billie’s jaw dropped. “He came on a train?”
“Not in the way you think. He came in a freight─”
Rose gave her mother a sharp look.
Grandmother Juneau said, “Someday, your mother will tell you more.”
“Come sit,” Rose ordered. “The flapjacks are almost ready.”
* * *
The summer months flew by for Billie. Much of it was spent working alongside her mother and grandmother at their roadside stand selling maple syrup, wild rice, and birch bark souvenirs to tourists along the highway. They would spread a blanket on the ground, set up a canopy shelter, and sell their wares. The drivers had to slow down as they entered Pemmican Falls, so the Bassetts had their stand at the entrance of town. Early every morning, Billie would hang tiny birch-bark canoes, teepees, and dolls on a laundry rack to entice shoppers. By noon, they were busy. It was women whose eyes they would catch. Usually white and well-dressed, they would shop as the men smoked.
Business was brisk. Grandmother was an artist, not only in birch-bark novelties but in sales. She would do crafting demonstrations to pique a customer’s interest and make jokes as Billie and her mother worked the food table. They sold wild rice and maple syrup and, when they were in season, blueberries.
Late one hot afternoon in July, when traffic had died down, Billie finished straightening the food table and stretched out on the blanket next to her mother. Rose’s energy was low, being far along in her pregnancy, and the heat was swelling her ankles. They listened to distant voices in town. Occasionally, a cool breeze would find its way up from the lake and wash over them. Grandmother was weaving, and little Emma was asleep under the canopy.
Billie opened her eyes and looked at the birch-bark crafts hanging on the rack. “Mother, does anyone still live the old ways?”
Her mother rolled her head towards her. “You mean in wigwams, that sort of thing?”
Billie nodded.
“I don’t know of anyone living in wigwams, but some of the clan still move from place to place, following the seasons. Ricing in the fall, syruping in the spring─ that sort of thing,” she replied lazily.
“Did father ever do that?”
“No, he has always worked at the boat works.”
“Except for the war?”
“Except for the war.”
Rose brushed away a fly and put her arm back over her eyes.
“What happened to Papa?” Billie asked.
There was a long pause, and Rose said, “We aren’t sure, little one. Probably shrapnel hit him. He can’t remember. What I do know is that he was a talented radio operator. The best they had. His commanding officer wrote me a letter telling me. Before his injury, your f
ather loved to read, just like you. He had a fine mind.” Her mother reached over and patted her knee. “We are all very proud of him, you know.”
“Yes, Mama. We are.”
* * *
One morning, Grandmother Juneau told Billie it was time for blueberry picking. Rose would take care of the stand while they foraged. Little Emma would accompany them.
Billie loved Emma. Being away at school at such an early age, she had never known her siblings. Even though her brothers were at St. Matthew’s, she seldom saw them, so spending time with her sister was something special. They shared a bed, and every morning, Billie helped Emma dress and put clothes on her little rag doll. Billie sewed several new jumpers for it.
“Which one today?” she asked Emma.
“This one,” the little girl said, reaching for a blue calico doll dress.
In a few years, Emma would be enrolled in St. Matthew’s Academy too. Billie couldn’t wait to have her there. She would take her under her wing and make her feel at home.
After Rose left for the stand, Grandmother took Billie to her room and said in Chippewa, “We’ll be out in the bright sun all day picking blueberries, so you must have a hat. Choose one.”
“Really? May I, Nookoo?” Billie asked in English.
“Speak our language, at least when we are at the house. It is our job to keep it alive, little one.”
“Yes, Nookoo.”
Hats of all different types were hanging on the wall. There were derbies, flat caps, stocking caps, winter hats with ear flaps, fishing hats, and straw boaters.
“No girl’s hats?”
Grandmother Juneau wrinkled her nose. “They are too silly. I have always loved men’s hats. I look better in them.”
That sounded like a good reason to Billie, so she went back to looking. She noticed they were all old and battered.
“Where did you get all of them, Nookoo?”
“Different places. Many were in the ditch along the highway. They blow off men’s heads as they’re driving. Sometimes they stop and retrieve them, sometimes not. It has taken me years to find this many.”
“This one looks new,” she said, pointing to an expensive fedora. “Did you buy that?”
“No,” Grandmother said and smiled, her face compressing into wrinkles. “I was at the stand one day and a man passed by in an expensive motor car. There was a beautiful woman in the front seat next to him. They were driving fast, and his hat blew off. They just laughed and kept going.”
“And you picked it up.”
“Yes, I did.”
Billie went back to the wall. “May I wear that one?” she said, pointing to a straw boater.
“Good choice. Nice and cool. I’ll wear a straw too.”
“What about Emma?”
“She’ll wear her bonnet. Now come, girls. We must be off.”
They walked for what seemed like a long way into the woods, pulling two wagons, and stopped in a meadow surrounded by pine trees. There were bushes covered with netting, and when they walked closer, Billie saw blueberries underneath.
“This keeps the birds out,” Grandmother Juneau said, removing the netting.
For hours they worked, picking berries and putting them in shallow tin pails. They moved from meadow to meadow all morning. The repetitive work gave Billie a chance to think about her friends from school. Many went home for the summer or to work on farms; only a few stayed back at school, like her brother, Frankie. He had been sick off and on all year, in and out of the school infirmary. She said nothing of it to her parents. She knew they would worry.
Emma grew restless, and Billie had to chase her. At last, they completed the final bush. Billie exclaimed, “Done!”
Grandmother straightened up stiffly, placed her hands on her back, and stretched. “Done until after lunch. Then we go into the woods to look for more.”
Billie’s jaw dropped. She was tired, her hands were sticky, and she was starting to attract bees.
“Come, we’ll wash up in the water I brought and then eat. You’ll feel better.”
They found some shade, spread out a blanket, and had hard-boiled eggs.
Emma picked dandelions and sprinkled them on Billie’s hair while she ate.
“In a few more years, she will be with me at school, Nookoo,” she said.
Grandmother frowned and took a drink of water. “I don’t like to think about that.”
“Why? You always say school is good.”
“Yes, but not boarding school.”
“Mother thinks it is a good idea,” Billie argued.
Grandmother was silent.
“Doesn’t she think St. Matthew’s is a good thing?” Billie asked. “I thought she wanted us to leave.”
Grandmother Juneau looked at her sharply. “Of course, she doesn’t want you to go. You are old enough now to know that it rips her to pieces. Your father too. The government wants you to go. We don’t.”
Billie was stunned. “Mama always said boarding school was good.”
“She says that to make it easier for you.” She reached out with gnarled fingers and took Billie’s hand. “Keep writing letters, Billie. Your parents treasure them so.”
“I didn’t know it made them sad.”
“Now you do,” the old woman said, struggling to her feet. “Now we must get back to work.”
Billie took Emma’s hand, and they returned to the blueberries.
* * *
Several days a week, Billie took a hot lunch to her father at Lakeside Boat Works. It was a two-story wooden building overlooking the lake with large rooms and lots of windows. Lakeside Boat Works built crafts for the commercial fishing trade on Lake Mille Lacs, as well as rowboats, canoes, and an occasional sailboat.
Billie was not allowed in the shop, so when she brought lunch, she always waited by the door until she was noticed. This gave her time to observe the busy surroundings. Men were always hard at work with saws, planes, and hammers. Large skeletons of boats rested on frames, the floor underneath littered with curly wood shavings. The room smelled of sawdust, varnish, and oil, and it was loud. Someone was always sawing or nailing.
Grandmother Juneau told Billie, before the war, Sam Bassett had been an expert boat builder, but now his duties were more menial because of his injury. Nevertheless, the owners found work for him, even during the winter months.
“Well, there she is,” one of the men boomed, “our beauty queen.”
Billie smiled.
“Look what we have for you,” he said, walking over to a chair and returning with several newspapers.
The men knew she loved to read, so each day they saved the Minneapolis Tribune and the Duluth Herald for her. There was no library in Pemmican Falls, and purchasing books was a luxury her family could not afford.
“Thank you very much,” she said with a smile and tucked the periodicals under her arm.
Sam shuffled up. “Eat with me today?”
Billie blinked with surprise. This was the first time he had asked her to join him.
“You can have my cookie,” he said.
She nodded and followed him.
“Come back and see us when you’re a big shot newspaper girl,” one of the men shouted from across the shop.
Again, Billie smiled. The men, many of them from the reservation, were always nice to Billie, and her father seemed proud of her.
They sat on a large rock by the lake, watching the gulls. Occasionally, Sam Bassett would babble something, and Billie would nod.
“Here,” he said at last in English, handing her the cookie.
“Papa, do you ever get homesick for your Choctaw family?”
He looked out across the lake and nodded. “Yes, sometimes I forget and use the old language.”
Billie took a bite of her cookie. “We get in trouble for using family language at school.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Very dangerous for me too. Go to prison.”
Billie frowned. He seemed afraid and started wringi
ng his hands.
“No one would send you to prison for that, Papa.”
“Must not talk. Must not talk,” he said, standing up abruptly and shaking his head. He started back to the boat works still mumbling.
Billie watched him leave. What was it she said? Why was he so frightened? Swallowing hard, she picked up the lunch pail and started for home.
* * *
One afternoon in late August, after the stand was closed, Rose and Billie decided to put up pickles. Grandmother and Emma had gone into the woods to forage, and Sam was still at work. They were slicing cucumbers when Rose noticed a boy ride up on a bicycle. Wiping her hands on her apron, she met him at the door. He handed her a telegram and rode off.
With shaking hands, she gave the letter to Billie. “Read it,” she murmured.
Billie opened it and read:
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bassett
R.R. 2, Pemmican Falls, MN.
Francis seriously ill. Advised to come immediately.
Reverend Mother, Margaret Marie O.S.N.
St. Matthew’s Academy
Radisson River, MN.
Billie’s mother sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Read it again,” she said.
Billie read it again.
“Dear God in heaven. Has Frankie been sick?”
“He was getting better,” she mumbled and dropped her eyes.
“Better!” her mother barked, jumping up. “What do you mean better?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. He had been sick off and on all school year,” Billie cried.
“With what?”
“A cough and his chest hurt. But he got better. I swear, Mama!”
“Did he cough up blood, Billie?”
“Yes, for a while. That’s when they put him in the school infirmary.”
“The infirmary! Oh, sweet Mary. Did they say the word tuberculosis or T.B. to you? Think, child!” Rose grabbed Billie and shook her. “Think!”
Tears ran down Billie’s face. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t think it was bad─”
Rose started to pace. “I can’t go. I can’t go to my little boy. I’m about to give birth.” A sob escaped her. “My little Frankie.”
The Image Seeker Page 2
