The American Café

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  Sadie pulled out the dormant account report Tom had told her about and skimmed the list. Nothing looked out of order, but she looked up account transactions on the computer for a while to help pass the time. The clock chimed announcing it was only three o'clock. Two people had graced their door since they'd opened at nine, not counting George Stump. Only two hours left today and eight tomorrow, she thought, then she would never have to look at the world from the back side of a banker's desk again.

  After spending the rest of the afternoon browsing account information, Sadie was relieved to hear the clock deliver five chimes. She noticed Polly had already balanced her drawer and as soon as Sadie locked the front door, the teller carried her cash drawer into the vault.

  A few seconds later she emerged from the vault and picked up her purse. “I'm ready to go. Do you want me to wait for you? I have my own key, you know.”

  Sadie looked at the unhappy teller. “No, go ahead and go. I'm going to put these reports in the vault for Tom and then I'll be leaving too.”

  “I just thought since you were all paranoid about security and all…”

  Sadie frowned. “I'm fine. I can set the alarm on the vault. See you tomorrow.”

  Polly headed for the door and let herself out with her key. Sadie turned off the computer and walked behind the teller counter to make sure everything was put away. She carried the stack of reports into the vault and placed them on a small counter next to a metal file box containing signature cards.

  She returned to the huge vault door and opened the back compartment to set the overnight timers. After thinking for a moment, she decided on twelve hours. That way, the timers would expire before 6:00 a.m. They wouldn't need to open the doors until eight o'clock, but she liked to allow a little leeway. She turned all three timers, careful not to exceed the determined hour, then hit the light switch on the wall outside the vault extinguishing the lights inside.

  A cold chill swept over her just before a gloved hand reached from behind her and covered her mouth. Adrenalin surged through her body as she struggled with her assailant, trying to scream. But she was no match for the arms of steel that turned her toward the vault and flung her inside. As she fell forward, she tripped over the step stool used to reach the top safe deposit boxes and fell hard to her knees. Before she could turn and see her assailant, the heavy vault door closed with a thud behind her and the locking mechanism clicked shut as the wheel spun, sealing her inside.

  Darkness enveloped her. In a claustrophobic panic, she thought for a moment that her heart might explode from the sheer volume of blood pumping through it. Fire shot through her right knee where she had fallen on it. She rolled over onto her rear and rubbed her leg.

  After a few moments the pain subsided slightly. She blinked her eyes three times as if that might help her see. It didn't. She stuck out her right arm and tried to feel the wall of safe deposit boxes. Nothing. She listened to see if she could hear what was going on outside the vault. Nothing.

  Her mind raced. This didn't make any sense. If it was a robber, they weren't very smart because all the money was already locked up. Then it hit her. It wasn't a robbery. It was a personal attack on her.

  She drew in three deep breaths and tried to regain her composure. Who in the world would blindside her like that? And why? Polly couldn't possibly be that strong. Where did her attacker come from? There was no one in the bank when Polly left.

  She tried to relax. At least she was safe for the time being. The vault was sealed up tight for at least twelve hours. Then panic struck again. This was a very old vault and she didn't know if it even had an air vent. For a split second she wondered how long it would take her to die and how painful it would be when she ran out of oxygen.

  She searched her memory for the layout of the vault. Was there a phone? Was there a light switch somewhere? She couldn't remember.

  She began to inch backward, crawling on the floor. After several feet she reached her goal: the back wall of the vault. She pushed herself into a standing position, causing her kneecap to ache again. Ignoring the pain, she followed the wall, moving to her right until she came to the work station where she had left Tom's reports.

  She bumped her injured knee against the counter and cursed loudly. She bent over to hold her knee and, when she did, she struck her head against the wall and the stack of reports slid off the counter. The fear and frustration of her situation suddenly engulfed her. She yelled at herself, the bank, and the world in general before sinking down onto the floor.

  After a few minutes, determined to regroup, she stood up and began feeling the walls around the work area in a methodical manner. She moved her hands up the wall, then back down again. She repeated the procedure again, but to her dismay she found neither light switch nor phone. Unwilling to give up, she tried again, stretching as far as she could on her tiptoes, seeking with her fingertips. Finally she felt something. It was a wire.

  She held onto the wire with everything she had, following it down the wall and around a corner near the back of the work station. She came to the end of the wire and felt a small, rectangular box mounted on the wall. She couldn't figure out what it was, so she retraced her steps, following the wire as far as she could in the opposite direction.

  She could feel the reports on the floor beneath her feet. She kicked them out of the way and continued to follow the wire. When she found the light switch at the other end, she let out a cry of relief. She flipped the switch and a bright light glowed over the counter, nearly blinding her. “Wado, Unelanvhi,” she whispered. Thank you, God.

  She looked around. There was no phone but at least she had light. She scooped up the reports, piled them back on the counter, and searched for an air vent. Above the door she could see a cylinder that she believed was the device that would pump in fresh air. She looked around and found the step stool she had tripped over earlier, rolled it to the door, climbed on it, and flipped the old switch. Nothing happened. Then, to her relief, she felt a cool current of air rush in. She let out a sigh of thanks, “Wado, wado.” She climbed down, pushed the step stool into the corner, and examined the rest of the fixtures. Surprisingly enough, most of the inside of the vault had been redone. The only thing missing was a phone.

  That's okay, she thought to herself. She only had to wait until someone missed her, and hopefully that would be Lance Smith when she didn't show up for their prearranged meeting at a benefit gospel singing later that evening. If not, maybe her uncle and aunt would notice when she didn't come home. But that was unlikely. She had been keeping long and erratic hours since opening the café.

  Suddenly, she thought she could hear someone yelling. It sounded like a woman. Maybe Polly had come back and the assailant had assaulted her, too. “Polly!” she screamed. “The vault! I'm in the vault!”

  Nothing.

  “Polly!” she yelled again. “Go get help!”

  Nothing.

  It must have been her imagination. There was no one at all to help her. She looked at the reports and groaned.

  20

  Lance Smith drove the highway east of Tahlequah and turned onto a dirt road that would take him to a small church that the local people referred to simply as the Old Indian Church. He hadn't been to a Cherokee gospel singing in a long time and looked forward to an enjoyable evening. Good singing, good food. What else could anyone ask for? The ladies of the church always sold Indian Tacos to raise money, and just thinking about the homemade pies made his mouth water.

  Since he was off duty and far from the city limits of Liberty, he hoped this gathering would give him a chance to disappear into the crowd and relax. Nevertheless, he parked on a shoulder of the road away from the other cars, an unconscious habit he had of always allowing for a quick and easy getaway if the need arose.

  He stepped out of his truck and heard what sounded like the clank of clashing billiard balls. Following the sounds, he discovered a group of men standing on a dirt field aiming pool balls at holes etched neatly into the groun
d.

  The sight brought back memories of how his uncles had tried to teach him to play this traditional game of Cherokee marbles when he was a boy. He had tried to gain control over the golf ball–sized rocks they used, but he never did get the hang of it. Not to mention that the ground was so rocky and uneven where he grew up that they had to reinforce their holes with PVC pipe. He had to admit he hadn't seen that unique type of hole at any tournament play. Most resembled the perfectly round holes this group had made by pressing pool balls into the soft soil.

  The marble field contained five holes, about forty feet apart, spread out in the shape of a large L. One of the players stood near the first hole, shaking out his throwing arm in preparation for the game. The player pitched some practice balls as he explained the game to a group of young boys standing nearby.

  “The game of marbles is about twelve hundred years old,” the player explained. “They used to use marbles shaped from limestone, but we use pool balls now because they're easier to come by. Everyone is responsible for bringing your own ball. You can buy them at Wal-Mart if you don't have any at home.” The player pointed to a mound of balls near a group of women sitting in lawn chairs. “There are a few extras over there if someone needs one. Now, the object of the game is to prevent the other team members from making it into the holes while your team moves through each hole. The team that reaches the fifth hole and then returns to the first one, wins. The best team at this tournament gets to advance to one of the finals at the Cherokee National Holiday coming up on Labor Day. But be prepared, because that's where the experts play. Everybody ready?”

  The small crowd of youngsters clapped as the man started the game by throwing his cue ball underhanded at the first hole. “We have to put our marbles in the hole,” he continued to explain, “then we can take two turns knocking the opponents' marbles away from the other holes.”

  The teams lined up and began to play and Lance decided to move on. A crowd had already assembled near the small building that housed the kitchen. Three picnic tables sat under a large maple tree, each covered with homemade pies, cakes, and cookies clustered between gallon jugs of Kool-Aid and tea, and a pot of coffee. He stopped to see if by chance someone had brought his favorite dessert: raisin pie. Someone had.

  A large metal tub held bottles of water and cans of generic soda pop soaking in ice water. Two older Indian women stood behind the third table; one took money while the other served corn soup, fry bread, and Indian Tacos.

  This is going to be good.

  He walked past the food tables to the grassy area where people had already gathered to eat and visit, some sitting in lawn chairs, others clustered on blankets spread on the ground. Kids of every size and shape squealed and chased each other, running in and out of the crowd.

  The grassy area gave way to a steep incline where steps made from large smooth rocks created amphitheater seating. At the bottom of the hill rested a large wooden platform that served as a stage, complete with microphones and lights. Several men were busy setting up a drum set at the back of the stage and positioning speakers on each side. A group of women in traditional Cherokee tear dresses stood away from the stage, fanning their faces with handheld paper fans, waiting their turn to sing.

  Lance surveyed the crowd and then returned to the food line to fill up before they ran out of raisin pie. After paying for his food, he carried it to the corner of the top step, sat, and proceeded to eat. If Sadie showed up as she had promised, he would at least be through eating and wouldn't have to worry about his manners. He thought she ate like a bird anyway.

  Lance took his time and enjoyed the food. He loved fry bread and could never get enough of it. He decided he was going to ask Sadie why she didn't offer it at the café. After cleaning the last morsels of food off his paper plates, he carried them to a nearby trash barrel and dropped them in.

  As the singing began, Lance cruised the perimeter of the crowd searching for Sadie. When he couldn't find her, he selected a tree to lean against while he listened to Cherokee songs performed by some of the best singers around.

  He instinctively analyzed the crowd. It was predominately Cherokee, lots of family groups. Words and phrases of the Cherokee language drifted softly around him. Lance felt comfortable and secure among his people and imagined that this scene could easily have taken place a century ago, except for the soda pop and the Kool-Aid. And the marble players would have been throwing rocks instead of pool balls.

  The melodies of Cherokee hymns rang in the air. The language was still alive in this place and, although his ability to speak Cherokee was limited, hearing it rejuvenated his spirit and reminded him of his mother.

  She had sung Cherokee songs to Lance when he was a child, and he still held those melodies in his heart. But after his father injured himself in an industrial accident at the chicken plant in Jay, both parents had turned to drinking. His father never regained the use of his left hand and became so miserable and full of hatred that he had become impossible to live with. Not long after Lance left for the service, both his parents died in a horrific automobile accident. When Lance received the news in Vietnam, he vowed never to abuse alcohol like they had.

  Lance spotted Red down near the wooden stage. He watched as Red mingled in and out of the crowd, stopping to visit with each and every group of people. Red seemed to know most everyone, yet he always seemed to be alone. As Lance contemplated the mysterious Creek Indian, Red stopped and looked straight up at Lance as if he could sense the lawman's intrusion into his being.

  Red nodded, excused himself from the group, and headed toward Lance. “Say, it is good to see you without a badge pinned to your chest. Did you try some of the pineapple upside-down cake?”

  “You never miss a thing, do you, old man?” Lance said.

  “Not when it comes to food. I like to eat.” Then he added, “I'm not as old as I look.”

  Lance grinned and returned his attention to the singers. The Indian Methodist Church Choir had just taken the stage, and Lance was impressed with their performance. One male singer stood in the back row, singing into his own microphone, a karaoke-type boombox that allowed him to project his bass voice into the crowd, adding a full-bodied harmony below the women's voices. When they got to the chorus, Lance recognized the old favorite called the “Sunday School Song.” He began to hum along as the singers sang: Di ka no wa dv sdi, Do dv ni te lv ni, A na la sga si sv, A ni lv gwo di ha.

  “Do you sing?” asked Red.

  Lance grinned. “Not in public.”

  An old woman, walking with a cane, limped toward the two men. When she stopped she used the end of the cane to point straight at Lance. “You the new man in Liberty?”

  Lance looked around and then back at the old woman. “Yes, ma'am.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Lance Smith.”

  “You can call me Annie.” She leaned on her cane and accepted his hand. “I went to get my bottle, and there's something wrong at the bank.”

  Lance frowned. She didn't smell like she was intoxicated. He was off duty and had no desire to deal with this kind of problem tonight. He looked at his watch. “What bank's that, ma'am? Most banks close around five o'clock, I guess, and it's after eight now. Did you need some money?” Lance dug in his pocket for his money clip.

  “Nah,” she said, obviously perturbed that he didn't understand her dilemma. “I don't need money. I'm trying to tell you. I keep my good stuff, a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch whiskey, in the safe deposit box in that bank in Liberty. You know, the new one. I only get it out for special occasions, that way no one can sneak in and drink it up. My niece brought it to me all the way from Kansas City. It's better than the liquor I can get around here.”

  “Okay.” Lance thought perhaps if he agreed with her, she would go away.

  Red spoke up. “Sadie is working at that bank in Liberty today. Remember?”

  “What?” Lance suddenly became interested in what he was hearing.

  “I told you she was at t
he bank when you were in the café today,” Red reminded him.

  “I thought you meant she'd gone to make a deposit. I didn't know you meant she was actually staying there all day.” Lance returned his attention to the old woman. “Annie, what did you mean when you said there's something wrong at the bank?”

  “It was right at closing time,” she said. “I was afraid I was too late. The door was still open, but the place was empty. Didn't seem right.”

  “Did you go in?”

  “Yes.” The old woman nodded her head to emphasize her affirmative answer.

  “Maybe she was in the restroom or something,” offered Red.

  “No, I called out and no one answered. I thought it was kind of strange. There was a car parked out front, but there was no one inside, and they went off and left the place unlocked like that. I just wanted one drink, that was all.”

  “What did the car look like?”

  “It was red.”

  Lance didn't even stop to thank Annie. He ran straight toward his truck, unaware that Red was right behind him. When Lance hit the keyless remote and jumped in, Red yelled, “Let me in!”

  “I don't have time for you now.”

  “Just open the door.” Red already had his hand on the door handle waiting for Lance to unlock it. “I won't get in the way.”

  Lance hit the remote again and Red jumped into the passenger's seat.

  “Then put on your seat belt,” barked Lance as he turned the key in the ignition and slammed the shifter into low gear. Together they tore into the night, back toward Liberty.

  21

  A male ruby-throated hummingbird perched on the railing to rest near a teardrop-shaped feeder. He stretched his fiery red throat, poked his bill in the air, and swiveled his iridescent green head first one way and then the other as if he had only one good eye. He puffed his feathers, causing his tiny body to appear larger, and expanded his silver-grey chest to its maximum, daring any other hummingbirds to dip into the red sugar-water. Sadie thought he looked like a miniature penguin.