Tyee was angry with Kolote. Not only did the boy’s Spiritual Quest last longer than expected, the chief had missed his only son more than he had thought possible. Still, when he finally spoke to the boy, it was terse. “A Spiritual Quest is only supposed to be a few days!” he snapped, patting his son on the arm and looking off in the distance.
Still glowing from Mama’s warmth, the familiar chill left a particular sting. Replies to his father had never been possible, only feeble nods before walking away.
By nightfall, a meeting was scheduled in Tyee and Kolote’s Longhouse, where horizontal timbers connected to pole rafters to form a rectangular framework, and thatched cedar bark and rush matting served as a ridge-roof. In the middle of the main room, a vent allowed any smoke to escape as some of the elite elders sat crossed-leg in a solemn semi-circle.
Two old, wizened women, wearing conical basket caps on their heads, waited on their men with patience and submission, their movements slow, designed for continuity. Kolote had witnessed this kind of scene numerous times growing up, but tonight he sensed something very important was about to be discussed.
“As you must all know, one of our families has been killed by the White Man. Tonight, we shall decide what to do.” Tyee’s voice was commanding as he commenced the meeting.
One of the elders spoke up. “As it is our custom to hire someone else to do our killing, we should begin our search now.” Many of the others quietly agreed, mumbling amongst themselves.
“Yes, we shall look for help elsewhere, and after they are hired, there is a small group of White Men,” Tyee continued, “past the Great River, with fields of high corn and small wood houses who would be simple to destroy. They are few in number and cannot fight us well. Let the White Man learn our lessons.”
Kolote’s head jerked up. Why, they were talking about that kind white woman’s area! He had to say something. Opening his mouth, intimidation strapped him in like a tight papoose.
“In the tribe of our neighbors there are warriors ready to kill for us,” Tyee went on. “It is time for the White Man to understand that they can no longer hurt our people!”
Small droplets of perspiration beaded on Kolote’s flat forehead. “Father, I have something to say…”
Surprised, the elders pivoted their heads his way.
“I wanted to tell my story later this week, but you must hear it now. On my Quest, I found my Spiritual Guide. Someone who has taught me about kindness and giving…” Kolote could feel his father’s piercing eyes.
“Yes, Kolote. Tell us,” one of the elders beckoned.
“It is a white woman. She…” Explosive voices shook the walls. He waited a few seconds for a lull. Then, “Wait. Wait. Please, you do not understand. She helped me, she took care of me.” Tyee gripped his own chest.
“You let a white woman take care of you, my son? How could you do that?” Tyee felt sick to his stomach.
“I had fallen, I was hurt. I might have died, but she gave me food and gave me a place to sleep.” Suddenly, Kolote turned defiant. “If it were not for this white woman, I would be as dead as our forefathers,” he continued, scooping up courage like an eagle diving for food. “She taught me about kindness. You cannot tell me she is not my Spiritual Guide, my father.” For the first time in his life, Kolote faced his father and looked directly into his eyes.
Tyee sat still, intractable.
Another spoke up. “Maybe this woman was good, but I still think we should send a warrior to kill the others.”
Once again the room buzzed with conversation, leaving Kolote alone, sitting off to one side. But Tyee couldn’t take his eyes off of his child. Like a young bird that in time leaves its nest, it seemed that Kolote had at last, learned to spread his own wings.
Later, when he spoke to his boy, he was uncharacteristically soft, patient. “Tell me more about this white woman, my son.”
Kolote looked up, stunned. Clearing his throat, he started to explain. “I gave several presents as my form of potlatch. She gave me food, and the most beautiful blanket I have ever seen. I believe it has certain powers, like the woven blanket my grandfather gave to me when I was born over twelve moons ago. This white woman could not make such a beautiful covering without magical powers. This, I believe.”
The room quieted as all eyes focused on Tyee and his son. Then, going over to his sack, the young brave pulled out the quilt, and held it up high for everyone to see.
“Ahhhhhh. Ummmmmm” they all chorused. Glancing at Tyree, Kolote’s chest puffed out and his heart was full; at last he was getting some respect.
“I want to meet this white woman, to see for myself. Will you take me to her?” Tyee whispered.
For the past few days Papa had taken to sleeping in the barn. First that horrid machine stealing her heart away from him, and now this incident with the Indian. His first instinct was to punish her further, but recognized now was probably not the time; they had all been invited to one of their neighbor’s farm for a day of food and socializing, a monthly ritual everyone looked forward to. He didn’t have the heart to call it off and make Mama, or anyone else, stay home.
The trip to the neighbor’s get-together seemed interminable. Papa, clicking furiously at their horse, kept flicking the mare’s hind quarters with one of his homemade switches as Mama nervously checked her jam and jelly pots every two minutes. Paul began an endless round of hiccups while Martha hummed manically.
At the gathering, the women raced through the process of serving their families, then quickly formed a tight circle around Mama. How fast could her machine go? How many things had she made by now? Mama answered each question with a little decisive gesture, as if she were Mr. Singer himself, lecturing onstage about his famous product. By the time the afternoon light had shifted from golden yellow to bluish mauve, she had convinced most of the women there to pressure their husbands into getting one of their own.
Papa, outside on the weathered porch, listened to Indian trouble talk, still annoyed by Mama’s posturing inside. But soon, his full attention was drawn solely to the discussion around him.
“Seems those two Smithlyn brothers were up to no good,” his host reported. “On their way home, they robbed and killed a Chinookan family. One of the fur traders up the Columbia River said he heard the Chinooks are hoppin’ mad about it, too. Gonna do something about it, he told me. Might even hire an assassin! That’s what the Chinooks do, you know. They can’t do the fightin’ themselves, the cowards, so they get others to do the deed!”
Everyone sat still, taking it all in. Finally, Papa announced fiercely, “Well, I ain’t gonna let ‘em take my cabin or hurt my family, no sir! Maybe if we stick together, they won’t try ‘n get us. Strength in numbers, y’know?”
Compliant nods were a’plenty, but no words; everybody was too dazed. Indian trouble was so infrequent in their territory. After many goodbye handshakes and hugs, Mama could tell by Papa’s look that conversation was out of the question during their ride back home. He wouldn’t have answered her much anyway; he was far too consumed with protecting his family.
Tyee and Kolote toe-heeled carefully alongside the Columbia River into the dark green forests and on towards the sun-brushed cornfields. The wind was whirling up into a low pitch in the sky, but the moccasins on their feet cushioned the crunch of leaves as they walked. At night, Tyee knew exactly how to stoke a small fire, just enough to keep them warm, but not so large as to call attention to themselves. As they sat together near the low, crackling flames, Kolote looked at his father and his heart felt full. He admired Tyee’s competence, his protectiveness, and his wisdom. And when Tyee looked down at his young son, he could feel his heart opening up just enough to let in love and pride.
The following day, the sun promised to be warmer than most autumn days. Papa stayed close to the cabin, doing odd jobs in the barn so he wouldn’t be too far from his family. Mama hurried through her chores then scrambled down to the cornfield, clutching a large basket filled with an almo
st completed Log Cabin quilt in one hand, an extra spool of thread clenched in the other. Faint, child-like laughter filtered out through the cabin door and windows, making her smile as she settled down to sew, if only for an hour. She fingered the coverlet and took a deep breath, slowing her pace, as she drifted into the familiar peaceful mindset she had come to know so well. Made out of their old worn-out clothes, this current quilt embodied years of memories: one of her favorite dresses, Papa’s wedding shirt, Martha’s swaddling cloth, and Paul’s first breeches, the ones he had stubbornly refused to take off right before bedtime. As she stitched, she kept stroking the top and feeling the batting between the layers, still marveling at how fast she could finish a quilt with her Singer.
Softly, Tyee and Kolote paced themselves through the cornfield, careful not to create any extra noise. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Tyee froze, then turned to Kolote, his neck, half-twisted upward, curious, alert, but Kolote motioned for him to press on, bending each bursting corn stalk slightly, making sure the stems didn’t snap back at them after the husks had flexed like bows in the wind.
They needn’t have been so careful; Mama’s concentration had blocked out all sound. When the chief and his son approached her from behind, Tyee was surprised at how petite she looked. Could this possibly be the spiritual guide his son talked about? What kind of powers could someone that small have? And a woman! He suddenly noticed Kolote nodding enthusiastically, then pick up speed.
Closer and closer they padded until finally, they stopped within a yard of her. It was at that exact moment, Mama decided to take a quick break. Stretching her arms out towards the sky, she opened her mouth to sing a church hymn as she stood up to revel in the beauty of their ripe corn undulating gently in the fall breeze. Instead, she let out a shriek.
Papa came racing from the barn, his heart bursting out of his chest. He scoured their property for Mama, but of course, she was hidden in the cornfield with that damn machine. Sprinting towards the field, he knocked over a bucket of water that she had forgotten to bring back into the cabin, and dragging it with him for a couple of paces, cursed the day that Isaac Merritt Singer had ever been born.
Mama recognized Kolote and smiled. Extending her hand out to her new friend, Tyee jumped forward using his warrior pose, but Kolote pressed him back. “Do not worry, my father. This is my spiritual guide. It is all right for her to touch me.” Tyee dropped his arms, retreated several feet, and waited.
Striding over to the sewing machine, Kolote pulled the quilt up and out from under the needle, demonstrating to his father what he had been talking about. Fascinated, Tyee gestured for Mama to continue sewing. She sat down obediently, shoved the quilt back below the needle, and started stitching. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
Papa paused at the edge of the cornfield. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Well, she must be all right if she’s sewin’ again. He turned on his heels for a return trip to the barn when suddenly, the tingling on the back of his neck made him pause. Spinning around again, he inched up on his toes to peer through the high corn, but was met with only a sea of stalks. Cautiously, he maneuvered closer to Mama until the machine clattered as if it were next to him. Just then, a gust of wind blew several of the hanging cornhusks back so far they almost doubled over and he caught a good look.
There was Mama, bending over the machine, talking and laughing with two Chinook Indians! He instantly went into fight-or-flight mode, ready to pounce, but to his amazement, the machine stopped, Mama pulled out a quilt and, wrapping it around the older Indian, gave a little laugh before hugging the younger one. Papa, his feet glued to the ground, stared as the older Indian nodded and bowed to his wife. Then, pulling a hand-basket out of his large sack and placing it on top of the iron device, Tyee said something in Chinook Jargon and bowing once more, exited with his son through the south end of the cornfield.
With the corn still at a ninety-degree angle, Mama spotted Papa, gasped, and braced herself for a full tirade. Instead, he remained silent. Then, after several seconds, he spoke. “Seems like you might have saved us from an Injun war.” Looking directly into her blue, apprehensive eyes, he grinned for the first time in months and by the time the corn began its rustling again, they were already leaning into one another, holding hands, and conversing in soft tones.
A few days later, the sun positioned itself in a windless sky, warming up Papa as he marched through the cornfield to Mama’s favorite spot. Attached to his belt was a small wreath of Juniper leaves swishing and crackling as he walked, and in his arms, a large bundle of threadbare clothes, ready to be cut and pieced into a quilt. He stopped just shy of the ‘Devil,’ and placing the wreath gently on top of the mahogany casing, laid the clothes neatly in the Indian basket, whistling a childhood song he had suddenly remembered.
At that exact moment, nestled inside his Longhouse, Tyee wrapped his new Log Cabin quilt more securely around his shoulders as he and the other elders sat knee-to-knee in a semi-circle. Everyone had turned to him, eyeing his movements and anticipating major plans for revenge. Instead, with a studied calmness, he opened up a nearby horsehair sack and drew out a long, feathered pipe. He was prepared to talk peace.
LYLA’S SUMMERS OF LOVE
August 1969
Face down on the floor in the darkened room, surrounded by tiny light bulb shards, the girl seemed smaller than she actually was. Her fine, shiny hair, made crusty by dried blood, appeared dull, disheveled. Still, Yee’s forensics team at first glance commented on what a babe she was.
“Turn her over carefully, so Captain Maynard can take a look.” Yee was matter-of-fact. Nothing ever bothered him. Meantime, the low hum of verbal forensic note taking served as a steady background noise.
Face up, even through the bruises, cuts, and swelling, you could tell how stunning Lyla was. A perfect ‘10’ body, clothed in a tie-dyed T-shirt and blue jean cut-offs, she looked like someone you might care about.
“I see some blood in her hair and around her nose. Multiple jagged stab wounds. At least six. Two on her back and four on her front. She’s also been hit on the face…further tests will tell us more.” Yee had already become detached. To him, her body was only for professional purposes now, much like an artist concentrating on his nude model’s form and structure, totally ignoring his libido.
“There’s something else. Here’s a note we found next to her.” Yee pointed to a small, yellow piece of paper as the room fell silent.
H ❏ J A C ☩ T ♂
L ∑ M + I ∃ ∦ K
u N ⊯ F ∀ T ⋈ J
± W Y ∞ s ∑ V ∎
℧ F ℞ ⅄ Ↄ ✮ ♛ b
w q ☯ m ♐ L T ♨
Signed ♁ The Zodiac
“The Zodiac again?” Captain Maynard looked glum.
No one spoke for a few seconds. Then, guiding his small, narrow flashlight in a circular pattern around the room, the captain focused in on a small table in one corner and steadied his hand.
Covering the surface of the side table, drug paraphernalia, caught in the thin beam of light, showed boxes of Zig-Zag papers, a couple of alligator roach clips, plastic baggies loaded with weed and pills, crumpled Kleenex sheets, and a beer can intermingled with two colored bandanas. A drug stockpile collecting dust.
Captain Maynard snapped on his gloves before offering anything. “Check out this note with the guys up in the Sacramento Bureau of Criminal Identification & Investigation. Let’s make sure it’s real.” He paused. Then, as an afterthought, “We’ve got to get this guy. He’ll be writing the newspapers again. Soon.”
April 1967
Up in his San Francisco State college office, Professor John Cummings stared down at the pile of student papers and sighed. How many times could he read through this stuff without going out of his mind? Year after year, history class after history class, it was all melding together. Soon, he wouldn’t give a damn about anything.
Being married to Susan for twenty-four years didn’t help either. The perfect wife; the perfect mother. The frigid wife
; the tiresome homemaker. The perfect high-society party hostess; the endlessly acerbic personality. Lately, these phrases had begun circulating in his head, no matter how hard he tried to squelch them.
He stood up. On, the hell with it! I’m going out for a walk, he thought. Sorting through the papers on his desk, he made sure his top right-hand desk drawer was locked before turning off the lights.
Strolling down Schrader Street, then crossing the “Panhandle” part of Golden Gate Park, he could feel himself perking up. Hippies were everywhere; Edwardian clothing, long paisley dresses, tie-dye skirts, sandals, dirty blue jeans, East-Indian earrings, long hair on boys’ heads and short hair in girls’ armpits, all made for great sightseeing. It never failed to amaze him just how far these kids had strayed from his own generation. He was both fascinated and envious.
He continued walking until he reached the front door of the I Thou Coffee Shop. Outside, a line had already formed, and giving out his name to the hostess, he lit up a cigarette and leaned against the side of the building, just taking in the day’s semi-fair weather and hoping for a new lease on life.
“Hey, Prof, when’s the next meeting of the SDS?” asked Tom Wallenstein, a particularly annoying student in his History 101 class, shuffling by, his shirt hanging halfway out of his pants.
“Don’t you ever read your SDS bulletins, Tom? It’s next Thursday at 8 p.m. Be sure to be there.” Amenities weren’t a high priority today.
“Thanks. I know I gotta clean up my act. See you there, man. Later!” Tom clumped away, happy to have run into his teacher. Everybody liked the Prof. He was like one of them—a true liberal—vehemently against the war in Vietnam, and a chapter head of the local Students for a Democratic Society organization. No establishment there; around him, you could just relax and be yourself.
The line dwindled down to two couples just as some dark clouds were rolling in. By the time he was inside and seated at a table, a few sprinkles were already flicking against the windows as he snubbed out his cigarette and opened up a menu. Feeling better, when one of two waitresses finally ambled over, he actually tossed out a big grin.
Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads Page 20
