“Oh. That’s too bad. Maybe we can work something out. Switch hours with someone else.”
“It’s okay. I knew it wouldn’t work with my assigned days.” She couldn’t tell if Diana was being genuine or hoping that Olivia would work anyway. This woman was good at this.
“Nonsense. It’s done. You will switch hours. I’ll have the housekeeper figure it out with you.”
“Oh.” Olivia felt confused. She had worried this might cause trouble being so new. Her left hand shook. Even after she told the mother she was Seneca that one night of ancestors and family trees, Diana hadn’t asked much. She simply nodded and went back to drawing the lines. Olivia never thought this would matter to her.
“I’ve got to get to a meeting. I just wanted to check in. I’ll be back in time for the dinner.” Diana half smiled. Then she was gone. So often just a fading image.
Olivia lightly slapped her face and then gulped down a Fiji water. Cooling.
She heard George stir through the baby monitor. He cooed when he stretched, or sometimes when he dreamed. The sound could be that, too.
His door made creaking sounds even when slowly opened. “Shhh,” she said to the door. He wasn’t awake but close, as his eyes fluttered.
“George?”
His baby blues appeared, and his smile turned up his whole face. “Olivia!”
“Hi, sweetie.” She laughed and tickled him.
“Stop, stop.” But he laughed even more.
“Off to a nice dinner tonight. What do you want to wear?”
“Hmm.” He put his finger on his chin. Something his mother did. Olivia saw her in George’s head tilt and his facial expressions. His dad also mirrored in George’s gangly, tall three-year-old build. “Blue pants and white buttons-up?” His dimple appeared when he said “buttons.”
“Add a tie and you’ve got an outfit.”
Another struggle. When the doors later shut behind her and Olivia drove her car out of the driveway, his calls after her echoed. The housekeeper pulled him back. It wasn’t unusual for his parents to arrive later than the time agreed. The housekeeper would have to stay as Olivia couldn’t be late.
She had put George down an hour ago. The house grew dark. A very black dark. The security alarm had been turned on so she had to stay upstairs in his suite or out in the long hallway. But she couldn’t move elsewhere without great noise, phone calls, and possibly police.
The railings had been smoothed and stained deep chocolate, a perfection only money could buy. There were no bumps as she ran her hands along the wood. The renovation of the staircase alone must have been in the high thousands. Olivia never saw that much money spent at once. Those intricate carvings moved flowers and vines down the staircase.
Her mother and father had made her and her brother a clean, safe home in the town of Greece, the west side. They never wanted for anything. But she didn’t get the real Cabbage Patch doll when she was seven. A Muppets lunch box had been on sale, so she got that. The only time she experienced pop music was the radio, her grandmother’s older one with a record player, and the records her kindergarten teacher played at nap time.
That teacher, Miss Ananaya, was probably why she loved caring for children. She made that age so fun. A court-jester’s wand. Play-Doh. Chocolate milk. Charlotte’s Web, with voices of course.
A loud banging began. Somewhere near the parents’ bedroom. She hated going in there, such a private space. There it was again.
Olivia’s heart beat faster. She grabbed a mop from the hall closet and tiptoed over. She flung the door open and flipped lights on.
Nothing.
There the banging went again. In their closet. More the mother’s closet. Again, the door flew open with her fast hands.
Olivia pointed her phone, the flashlight app lighting corners. Until one corner she caught orange.
“Hey there,” she said. She picked up a large tabby cat with brilliant orange fur. George would love this animal. “What are you doing in there?”
Olivia walked back to George’s sitting room. Somehow, though, her movements set off the alarm. Or something did.
Shit. What is the passcode? She racked her brain as she ran for the phone. The cat she dropped on the couch. Passcode. Passcode.
“Hello?”
“Yes. We’re calling about an alarm at 20 Crescent Lane. Do you have the passcode?”
“Umm. I think … oh, is it Michigan?” Diana’s home state.
“No. Ma’am, we need the right passcode.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m the nanny. I don’t know how the alarm went off. I stayed upstairs.” Olivia’s eyes welled with tears. Her entire body shook.
“Ma’am, we have to send someone there. They’re on their way.”
“Okay.”
The doorbell rang. Already?
She ran down the grand staircase, her shoes pounding hard.
“Ma’am? We’re responding to an alarm.” The two men were in police uniforms. They had pads of paper ready with pens.
“I know. I couldn’t remember the passcode. I’m Olivia, the nanny.” She held out her hand. They didn’t reach back.
“We need to see your ID,” one officer said.
Up the stairs, then back, she showed them.
“You’re not the owner on file.”
“Well, no.” She looked behind her. Would this wake up George? Would they call Diana and David? “Wait,” she said. “Hang on. Is the passcode this great nation?” David said that all the time. Weird. Something about being a Roosevelt fan.
The two men looked at each other.
“Yes,” said the only officer who spoke.
“Phew. We good now? You didn’t call them, did you?”
“We called them after you couldn’t give the passcode.”
“Oh my God. They’ll be so mad.”
“Have a good evening, ma’am.” The officer tipped his hat, his face somber.
When they left, the alarm finally stopped. She reset it and ran upstairs. But it went off again. For the love of Pete. This time, she gave them the right passcode.
Five minutes later, his parents were home.
“Are you okay, Olivia?” Diana said. She put her hands on Olivia’s shoulders.
“Yes. I don’t know what set it off. I’m so sorry I didn’t remember the code.”
“Did they check the house?”
“No.”
“David, go check around. Were you up here the whole time?”
“Yes, only up here.” She motioned with her hand.
David checked everywhere. Olivia pointed out the cat to Diana.
“Good grief. How did that thing get in here?” She sniffed and raised her nose.
Olivia knew the cat would be in a pound that night. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Wait, what?” said David. “You’re coming in tomorrow, right?”
“No, it’s the Ganondagan Festival. Diana had me change my hours so I could volunteer.”
“Oh. That’s right. I did,” Diana said.
“But we don’t have a nanny tomorrow,” said David. His hands formed fists that opened and closed.
“What happened to Lisa, the new girl?” Olivia asked. Her heart pounded.
“She canceled. That’s twice this week. And on a Saturday.” She sighed. “So we let her go.” Diana straightened the blanket on the couch, refolding the material at an angle.
David turned to Olivia. “We need you tomorrow. So you’ll come in.” He walked away, headed to his bedroom.
“I’m sorry, Olivia. He’s right.”
Before she could refuse, the two were gone. Olivia clenched her hands. She wanted to punch the perfectly fluffed pillows. But she held back. She blasted her music on the drive home, instead.
Olivia rang the doorbell at six a.m. Saturday morning didn’t mean a later time. She rang again. Then waited in her car. This happened a lot, even though she wasn’t allowed a key. At seven, Diana answered the doorbell intercom, sounding like sleep still
held her. “I’ll be right there.”
She opened the door. “Good morning, Olivia. Remember, no butter.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. She usually tried to hold those back. But too tired to care, she trudged upstairs, set her stuff down, and woke George.
“Olivia!” He smiled, his dimples making small pockets. George hugged her. “You’re again here.”
“Yup. I wanted to see you two days in a row!”
“Good. Now let’s get my outfit.”
Olivia laughed. Anger rolled away as the day passed. She didn’t forget the festival or the duties she’d backed out on. But George kept her busy. And she played for him some social dance music.
“That’s really great, Olivia. Can we dance?”
“No, not here. But if you go to the festival, you can.” She tickled him, and his giggles carried. He almost lost breath. But he asked for more.
“Olivia.” Diana’s tone was stern. Olivia didn’t know how long she had stood there. “Let’s talk.”
The two stood in the tiny kitchen, no room to turn.
“I don’t think you should tickle him. He gets too excited.”
“Okay. Sure, Diana.” Olivia’s heart sank. Sometimes George asked for tickles or tickled her. He was just a kid.
“Let’s also tone down the music.” So she’d been there awhile.
“Of course.” Olivia let her voice get stern.
“Okay. That’s all. I’m grateful you could stay today.” She touched Olivia’s arm and then left.
She sighed in relief when their car left. “Story time, George.”
“Yeah!”
When the couple returned that night, Olivia was reading. George had been tucked away hours ago. David went straight to their bedroom, which was strange. He loved TV. But he appeared tired.
“Long night?” asked Diana.
“Not too bad.” She packed her books up and grabbed her purse.
“We’ll see you tomorrow.” Diana sighed.
“Umm, no, I won’t be here.”
Diana raised her eyebrows. She looked about to cry.
“I have my volunteering tomorrow. I can’t miss again as it puts a strain on the festival.”
Halfway out the door, Olivia turned back. “You might consider bringing George. He likes our music. And by the way, his morning smile is the greatest thing. You should see it sometime.”
No other words were exchanged.
I’m so fired. Done.
Olivia waved at Marley. The woman drove by in the golf carts Olivia envied every year. They looked like fun. But she wandered the stations, filling in where needed. Always the floater.
“Can you go organize the dancers?” Bernadette asked. “Make sure they’re good to go.”
“Sure.”
“Why aren’t you dancing this year?” she asked.
Olivia shrugged. “I thought I had to work.”
“They should know you’ll be here.”
“Next year.”
Bernadette nodded and started talking into her walkie-talkie.
The dancers seemed okay. They all asked where her regalia was and why she wasn’t dancing. Olivia finally left. Walking up the hill, she heard her name.
Weird. Maybe Bernadette needed something.
“Olivia!” George ran and literally bumped into her, hugging her legs.
“George? What are you doing here?”
“Mama told me we could come.” He motioned his thumb toward his mom. Diana waved.
“Oh, hi.”
“Olivia. Good to see you.”
“Mama. We got to go see that longhouse. That lady was talking about it.”
“Okay. Well, give me a moment with Olivia.”
George ran circles around them.
“This is great. I didn’t know this was here.”
She watched the mother stare off into the distance. She looked nervous. “It’s not near Park Ave,” Olivia said.
“Far from it.”
The pause was long. The sound hung there between them. People talked. Drums beat. Cooking meat sizzled. A child cried. Peter, the site manager of Ganondagan, picked up the microphone in the main tent. He invited people to watch the dancers.
“Dancing is starting.”
“Dancing?” said George. “Oh, Mama. Olivia. Let’s go.” He pulled them both.
“Olivia has to work right now, George.”
George beamed his smile.
“I think I can make some time.” Olivia poked his nose. A small bubble of excitement built. Maybe hope.
George giggled.
The two each held one of his hands. They both walked slower than George. Behind him, in similar strides. Diana gave Olivia a smile that had potential, maybe even a realness about it. The big tent stood over them, feet stomping the stage, singers singing, rattles rattling.
Dancing Girl
They watch her small feet. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. When she bends over, her small dress reveals a diaper. The girl plucks grass and giggles. Then she catches up with her mother.
Adult women smile. How cute is this little girl running around.
Her mother holds out her hand. Come on, sweetie. Follow us. She shows her daughter steps. The girl copies the best she can. Tap tap. Shuffle.
She twirls when the drummers speed up the songs. Arms outstretched, face to the sky, sun heating her cheeks pink.
Her feet have become steady. The patterns more clear. Shuffle, tilt, shuffle, move hips, dip with the notes. The girl wears a traditional top, purple calico with black ribbons. Ponytail drawing back hair. Other girls move and she watches. She copies them. Her mother chats with other women, bobbing her head with the music. Nodding approval toward her.
She calls out the song where words repeat and refrain. Like a habit, she knows them but doesn’t understand meaning. She tilts more, following music, following drummers, following dancers.
Off to the side, the girls sit at picnic tables, giggling, whispering.
Her mother calls her. Girls, join us. She waves them over.
The girls roll their eyes and shake their heads.
She sees her mother dance. How she tilts, looks at the sun, the trees, the other dancers. Her mother’s moves are slower than before, but deliberate, a cadence. The breeze pushes back her hair. She notices her mother laugh with another woman. They lean in, smile, then follow the men and other women. Stomping. Stomping. Shaking the ground. Faces turning serious.
She feels that vibration, hears the sound, notices the birds land near them, and the trees bend and sway. But the girl holds tight to the table.
Her hair is so much longer. She twists the ends and throws them behind her. Moccasins hold her feet, make them steady, tied to the ground. Jeans stretch. The song tells the Creation Story, and they recreate shuffle, shuffle, pat, pat. Drums flow through her blood; the blood pumps to the beat. She grasps her belly and thinks of Sky Woman. Her body tilts and sways and her arms wing out. She turns and follows. The men’s singing calls out, throbbing, rattles shaking.
Moves shape her. Make her. Learned habits she would remember, her body sometimes when she can’t. Ingrained. Her feet to the earth. Her feet to the earth.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to all of those who guided me through crucial times and who showed me how words can make a difference. I learned from others how to unsilence those moments often left hanging in the air.
Thank you to the Amerind Museum for the time to reflect and write; to Alyea Canada, my editor, who believed so strongly in these stories and so kindly thought about the lines; to the Feminist Press for first seeing something in this book and for loving it to fruition; to Ganondagan for always teaching; to Gathering of Good Minds for keeping us in our better minds and relationships and always thinking as family; to Writers & Books for that early space to know other writers, to explore words freely, to teach others, and to read “Phillip”; to what has become and remains my home city, no matter how far away I am, Rochester—you are a space that slows
down and embraces the arts; to Maria Brandt, Julie Johnson, and Toni Jensen for comments on early drafts; to various writing groups across the years; to those at readings who desired my book in print and wanted to buy the book right then; and to all of the tossed-out stories, images, and lines.
The errors and infelicities of language are mine. I impart them in loyalty to the characters, the closeness to their voices, and the orality of bringing realities to these stories. There is a cadence and a rhythm to how we all speak every day, to how we speak in certain groups and communities, and to how we relate with one another. My attempt here was to think about that orality in story, although imperfect in execution. It’s a process breaking the rules and expectations set into our minds through education systems about Western language and sentence rules. But here we are, moving forward, sliding through the syllables, around the commas, and into the voice. Our voices. Translated into the sound and the images.
MELISSA MICHAL is of Seneca descent. She teaches creative writing and literature, and loves helping students find that they too can write. She is a fiction writer, essayist, photographer, and professor. She has her MFA from Chatham University, MA from Pennsylvania State University, and PhD in literature from Arizona State University, where she focused on education and representation of Indigenous histories and literatures in curriculum. She has been grateful to read at the National Museum of the American Indian in DC and the Amerind Museum in Dragoon. Her work has appeared in the Florida Review, Yellow Medicine Review, and other places. She currently lives in Tacoma, WA.
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Living on the Borderlines Page 18
