“Hi, this is Jaycee Jones. Just checking to see if you're all right…Uh…I'll call you back later. Bye now.”
She pushed the rewind button and played the message back three times. It said the same thing all three times. After the third replay, she left the machine to automatically reset itself and, to her surprise and disgust, discovered a second message.
“Hey squaw, this is Mike. You know, your ex-con husband. Kind of rhymes, don't it? Uh, just thought you might want to know…I've been out since March and I'm keeping my nose clean…and we need to talk. I came by to see you and that damned dog of yours almost bit my leg off. Oh, hell, never mind.” Clunk.
Sadie stood frozen, breathlessly staring at the phone. The hair on the back of her neck involuntarily stood on end. She didn't know what on earth she had done to deserve to be dogged by this lowlife. She had made one mistake in her life. It was gigantic and it was Michael. And before it was over he had latched on to her and nearly sucked the very soul out of her body before she could rid herself of him.
“Why can't you go the hell away from me and stay there?” Sadie rolled her eyes and spoke at the answering machine as if expecting it to talk back. She opened the closet door, picked up a Browning double-barreled 12-gauge, and popped it open. Satisfied it was ready for action, she carried it into the bedroom and slipped it under the foot of her bed. She really had no desire to use the weapon on anything, human or not, but she knew how and would not hesitate if the time and the need arose. Michael was the need; she just hoped the time never came.
She retrieved a towel from the hall closet and wrapped it around her head. Then she climbed onto the bed, sat with her back against the wall, and pulled a quilt up around her to chase away the chill. The heavy weight of the covers gave her a secure feeling. She fingered the wedding ring design of the quilt her grandmother had given her when she got married. Her mind reeled from the events of the party, then faded back and forth to recollections of a past with Michael. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
She had been so young, so vulnerable, when she met Michael. And now some fifteen years later, she could honestly look back and see she wasn't ever in love with him. He was simply a way for her to get away from her mother.
Barely eighteen, Sadie had just graduated from high school when they got married. They had rented a small place in Eucha and Sadie started to work full time at the drugstore. Michael had been working at a horse ranch near the lake, but two weeks after they were married he quit or got fired. Sadie never really knew which.
He started drinking and meeting with a lot of out-of-town strangers. Then, every other weekend, Sadie and Michael would drive south through Texas and across the Mexican border. Michael would meet with a man and exchange briefcases. Then they would turn around and drive all the way back to northeastern Oklahoma while Sadie slept in the back seat. It was a business deal, he explained to Sadie. With his new plan he would never have to work for anyone else again, he told her, promising they would someday have their own ranch. Sadie blindly believed in her new husband and never questioned him.
Things began to get tight. The bills outnumbered her small paycheck at the end of every month. So, she took a second job, working nights at the local beer joint. Often when she came home after the bar closed at midnight, she would find strangers in the house. They would be sprawled on the couch or on the floor and the house would be littered with beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. Too tired to argue, she would wake them up, kick them out, and drag Michael to bed. The next morning, he would promise never to let it happen again, and she would come home a few nights later only to find the same mess.
They had been married barely six months when Sadie returned home to find Michael in bed with another woman. Anger turned into shouting, and shouting turned into shoves. For the first time in her life, Sadie began to realize her life was out of control. She prayed for mercy and cried until she had no more tears.
A week later, an early-morning argument turned into a brawl and Sadie became ill. The time for her monthly period had passed and Sadie faced the awful proposition that she might be pregnant. When she showed up late for work, limping and with a bruise on her right cheek, the owner of the drugstore called Sadie's mother.
Cathryn Walela came and picked up her daughter and took her to the Indian hospital in Sycamore Springs. While they drove, her mother talked and Sadie was silent.
“I don't know what you did to make him hit you like that, Sadie. But you've got to learn that you've got to take a lot when you get married. You're not a kid anymore. You can't just run home every time you get in a disagreement with your husband.” Cathryn looked at Sadie with a pretentious smile. “I don't suppose you know if you're pregnant, do you?”
When they arrived at the hospital, they had to wait for over three hours before she could even catch a glimpse of a doctor. After the examination, Sadie stared out the window while the doctor and her mother talked. She could hear the doctor talking in the distance as if she was either not present or too young to understand.
“Nothing's broken. She's just bruised,” he said. “The pregnancy test is negative…probably just stress induced…living in…” The doctor's voice faded from Sadie's ears as tears of relief rolled down her face.
Convinced Sadie would be all right, her mother drove her home where they found a note on the kitchen table next to a pile of dirty dishes. It read: Be back in the morning. Clean the house. Mike.
“Sadie, this place is a pigpen. You can't stay here.” Her mother's voice was laced with I-told-you-so, entangled with a pinch of genuine concern as she looked at the messy apartment. “Why don't you come home for a few days? Just until Michael gets back and you two can get things worked out.”
Sadie reluctantly agreed to stay with her parents. Mostly she agreed to let her grandmother, Rosa, fuss over her. Michael never called and neither Sadie nor her parents ever mentioned his name. It was as if he never existed. The sadness and confusion left Sadie overwhelmed.
Five days later, Sheriff Henry Sapp rolled up the lane in his old, creaky truck.
“‘Siyo.” Sadie's father greeted his old friend with a wave and walked out to meet him. The two men shook hands.
“Bird, I don't know exactly how to tell you this.” Henry put his boot on the back bumper of the truck and spit at the nearby row of weeds tangled in the bottom of the fence. “Looks like the girl's husband, there…uh, have you seen him lately?”
Henry Sapp and Bird Walela had gone to a one-room school together when they were youngsters. Henry was a mixed-blood with fair skin and brown, curly hair. Bird was a fullblood with brown skin and black, straight hair. But as kids growing up in Eucha, they were all just Indians.
“No.” Bird removed his ball cap with a local feed store logo on it and scratched his head. “She's been kind of sickly and her mother and granny have been taking care of her since last Friday, I guess it was.” He placed the cap back on his head, leaving the bill at a slight upward tilt.
“Well, he's missing, and we found an old boy dead over at his place this morning. He'd been there all night…looks like.” Henry shook his head and spit again. “Shot in the back…looks like,” he added. “One of my boys, he went in the house and found a bunch of drugs in there.” Henry gazed off into the distance, spit a third time, and returned his attention to Sadie's dad. “I'm sorry, Bird, we need to talk to the girl and see if she knows anything.”
Bird invited Henry inside and everyone gathered around the kitchen table. Sadie sat next to her grandmother and listened to Henry Sapp relate the story of drugs, death, and missing husband.
“Is there anything you can tell us, Sadie, that might shed some light on all this?” asked Henry.
“I don't know,” said Sadie. “He changed. He changed really fast. He's not the same person I married. There's this man named Juan…”
For the next few hours, Sadie revealed the story of her life for the last six months, including the trips to Mexico, the business dealings with Juan, the pro
mises of a horse ranch of their own. She explained her absence from the house, her two jobs, and the strangers she would periodically find on her living-room floor.
“Do you know where he might be, Sadie?” asked Henry.
“No, not really,” said Sadie. “The last time I saw him, we fought, then I got sick…” Tears began to fill her eyes.
“That's okay, Sadie. Would you call me if you hear from him?”
“I suppose he went back to Mexico,” offered Sadie. “I just don't know. And I don't really care.”
After Henry Sapp left, Rosa took Sadie's hand and said, “I think we need some fresh air.” The old woman led Sadie out past the barn and toward the creek. The two women sat on the hillside overlooking the stream for a long time. Sadie listened with great reverence when her grandmother finally talked.
“Sadie, everybody makes mistakes. Sometimes we just don't know about people. But, that's okay, we go on. We are a strong people. Your ancestors came a long way on the Trail of Tears. Many people died. But they never gave up. My grandfather—your great-great-grandfather—he was a warrior in the Civil War. Fought with Stand Watie and the Cherokee Volunteers. Right or wrong, we have always stood up for what we believed was right. You will get over this thing and move on with your life. You are a Walela.”
“Only half,” she whispered. The words came out with a long sigh as if that were a reason for her failures thus far in life.
“You are a Walela,” her grandmother repeated. “In the old days, you were either Cherokee or not. Identified by your clan. None of this half or quarter stuff.”
“I don't have a clan.” Sadie's words sounded bitter. She knew the story well. Cherokees were identified by their mother's clan. Her mother was white. Therefore, she had no clan.
Rosa ignored Sadie's comment about her clan. “Who do you think one of our finest leaders was?”
Sadie was silent.
Her grandmother continued, “John Ross, that's who. Of course him and Stand Watie, and probably Grandpap if the truth were known, were at odds most of the time. But that's okay. They lived the way they believed was right. John Ross was a great chief. But, he was no fullblood. More like an eighth or some such thing.” Rosa looked toward the sky and used her hands as she spoke. “He brought us together during a time when the white people were trying to pull us apart, pushing us from our homelands back east, dumping all us Indians together in Indian Territory. And then that wasn't good enough. They took the land and cut it up into little pieces and assigned everyone their own plot so they could take what was left over and give it to the white settlers. Indians didn't create blood quantum, Sadie, aniyonegas did. It's the white people's way of controlling us.” Then she looked back at Sadie. “Hi tsalagi. You are Cherokee. You are a Walela.”
Just then, a hummingbird came and frantically fluttered his wings right in front of Sadie's face. It flew backward, circled above, and returned. Sadie sat still as it appeared once again in front of her as if suspended on a thin string. The tiny bird flew close to her face, nearer and nearer to her bruised cheek. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the hummingbird vanished. Sadie's pain was gone, withdrawn by the hummingbird, along with the heavy weight from her heart.
The two women sat in silence, Sadie in awe, until finally her grandmother spoke again. “Fly like a hummingbird, Sadie,” she said. “Fly like a hummingbird.” And with that the old woman got up and headed back to the house, leaving Sadie where she sat.
“Thank you, Gramma,” Sadie whispered. Looking into the clear blue sky she added, “Thank you, walela.” Then she rose and followed her grandmother's footsteps back to the house.
The next day, Sadie went to a judge and had her marriage annulled. Then she drove to Tahlequah and enrolled in Northeastern State University. She easily qualified for grants and scholarships through both the University and the Cherokee Nation. When she graduated with honors and a degree in business three years later, Mercury Savings Bank hired her immediately as a management trainee.
A lawman eventually picked up Michael in south Texas on an outstanding warrant. He was brought back to Delaware County and charged with murder. Sadie did not appear at the trial except for the afternoon when she had to testify. From a distance, Michael sneered and threatened to kill her as soon as he got out. She refused to look at him. When the jury found him guilty and sentenced him to prison, Sadie slammed the door on that awful page of her life. And now, against her wishes, the demon had reared its ugly head.
A flash of lightning flickered through the bedroom window and Sadie instinctively counted until the rumble of thunder ended—a childhood game used to determine the distance of the lightning. She got up and tiptoed into the dark kitchen. Quickly, she double-checked the locks on every door and window in the house. Sonny, curled up by the back door, raised his head and questioningly wrinkled his forehead.
“Come on, boy. I need some company tonight.”
When Sadie patted the top of the quilt, Sonny reluctantly jumped on the corner of the bed. She stuck her feet under the covers and wiggled her toes under his heavy body.
“And by the way, Sonny, you have my permission to attack first and ask questions later.”
Sonny laid his head on his front forelegs and closed his eyes. Exhaustion, mental and physical, overtook Sadie and before long she was dreaming. She dreamed she was dancing with a handsome man in the rain.
Chapter 11
The stormy night gave way to a morning filled with skies the color of robins' eggs. As she drove north toward Eucha, Sadie lowered the car window, taking in the fresh smell of damp soil. Growing up in rural Oklahoma had given her an appreciation for the simple things in life—clean air and land around her. She drove through Eucha's lonely three-way stop sign and turned toward the highway that would take her east to the Burgess place.
Hank Burgess had been a good friend to her father and she hated to see his things sold to the highest bidder. But she guessed that's what happens when you die and there's no one left to take care of it for you.
Her mind wandered to her own situation. At thirty-four, the tick of her biological clock had become deafening at times, then, after long conversations with herself, it would just fade into the distance. She had been unlucky in love so far in her life, and somehow she felt that her short stint with Michael had jinxed her chances of living the life of her childhood fantasy—a husband, two kids, and the proverbial house with a white picket fence. She never dreamed her dad would already be dead and she would be living alone on the farm. For now, she had resigned herself to the pursuit of career instead of family.
By the time Sadie arrived at the auction, parked cars clung to both shoulders of the road in front of the Burgess house. Lance Smith stood in the middle of the highway directing traffic. He smiled and nodded to her as he guided her to a spot behind a rental car. She set the parking brake and checked her watch: 9:23, right on time. Her car door opened magically and she realized Lance had left the traffic to move on its own while he helped her out of her car.
“Aren't you out of your jurisdiction?” she teased.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I knew they were going to need some help out here so I volunteered my services.” He walked with her across the highway to the entrance to the farm.
Sadie shaded her eyes with her hand and tried to look inconspicuous as she searched the crowd for Jaycee.
“By the way, are you going to the hog fry tonight?” asked Lance. “It's at the Sixkiller place between here and Sycamore.”
“Didn't know about it.”
“It's being held in honor of Wanda Sixkiller. It's been a year since she passed on, you know. All the kids are getting together for it, probably already cooking the pig. Gospel singing, all night long.”
Sadie returned her attention to Lance. He had a twinkle in his eyes that looked like he had just gotten away with a juvenile prank of some sort and his sheepish grin softened the rugged features of his face. “I'll think about it,” she said. But before she could finish her
sentence, the sound of screeching tires and blaring horns sent Lance running back to the middle of the road, waving his arms and taking control of a near mishap. Not wanting to be late for her rendezvous with Jaycee, she dismissed Lance and his hog fry from her mind and walked up the lane toward the farm.
People milled in and out of the buildings looking for potential bargains, waiting for the sale to begin. Sadie could see Jaycee from a distance talking to Bud Carter, the auctioneer. Jaycee, neatly dressed in an open-collared shirt, slacks, and dress shoes, looked out of place among the crowd of old men in bibbed overalls and ball caps. Looks like a banker to me, she thought. She looked down at her own attire—tight jeans and cowboy boots topped with a plain white shirt. She hadn't dressed to impress, had just worn her usual Saturday duds.
Since Jaycee was busy, she decided to walk through the house. The furniture, antique by some people's standards, was just old to Sadie. She wandered into the dining room where a china cabinet caught her eye. To Sadie's delight, she discovered a water pitcher on the top shelf, the same pattern as her grandmother's plate. It was out of her reach, so she visually searched for the identifying tag, hoping when the number was called she could make a successful bid. Suddenly, she felt someone's presence and smelled a familiar fragrance.
“It's about time,” he said and handed her a Hershey's chocolate kiss. “I've been lost for hours.”
“Oh, you have not.” Sadie unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth. “I saw you out there talking to Bud.” Then returning her attention to the china cabinet she asked, “Can you reach the tag on that pitcher?”
Jaycee stood on his tiptoes and flipped over the paper tag attached to the handle. “Sold,” he said.
“How can they do that?” she whined.
“I don't know. I guess they have privileged buyers who get to pick out things ahead of time.”
They walked through the rest of the house for a few moments and then found a place next to the front porch to wait. Finally, the auctioneer pounded his gavel on a wooden block to get the sale under way, then projected his voice into a jabber of excited words and numbers.
Deception on All Accounts Page 10
