“What’s wrong is your mother hasn’t been taking her iron pills, she skips lunch daily, and today she worked an extra two hours cleaning up after the party.” She offered a steaming cup to her friend. “Soup. Not the soda you wanted.”
Margaret smiled at her daughter. “She doesn’t approve of my diet.”
Roxanne motioned to Cory to sit on one of the chairs. “I’m so glad you’re coming with us tonight.” Cory nodded slightly. She knew better than even to hint there had been no choice.
Roxanne lifted the cover off the box she had set on the table. “I present the world’s most beautiful jingle dress.” Almost before Cory could wonder what a jingle dress was, she had her answer.
The short-sleeved dress was a bright blue that made her think of indigo buntings flashing between branches in the trees around her house. There were hundreds of small metal cones sewn onto the fabric in tidy rows. Roxanne shook the dress slightly, and the cones chimed as they bounced against each other. A jingle dress.
“Perfect, isn’t it?” said Roxanne. “And your mother helped.”
“Helped make a dress?” Cory’s impolite disbelief amused the women.
“Helped with the jingles. They’re made of tobacco can lids. Before she made Mike quit chewing she saved all his can lids. Look closely and you can tell that’s what they are.”
Cory obediently fingered one of the thin cones. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“We Indians are resourceful.” Cory didn’t know if she should laugh; Roxanne joked a lot. She settled on a slight smile.
“It’s Paula’s first fancy dress,” said Roxanne. “If we don’t get going, we won’t make it to Twin Lakes in time for the grand entry, and then I will be one sorry mother.” She folded the dress, placed it in the box, and set down the cover. “Margaret, are you sure you’re up to this?”
“Your soup has worked a miracle, Rox. I could run a marathon. Anyway, Cory can drive—”
“Yes!” cheered Cory.
“Just tonight, dear.”
“My license, I don’t have my license. Some cruel people took it away.”
“I brought it. It’s in my purse and it stays there.”
“Mom, please.”
“Hey, Cory,” said Roxanne. “I saw that hole in Dawn’s store. Big hole, big probation.”
“Everyone saw the hole. Everyone for miles around.”
“Cory can drive,” Margaret continued, “and we can sit in the back, Rox, and you can tell me everything about powwows.”
Roxanne nodded. “The first thing you should know is that they start with a blood initiation involving select male virgins. Then—”
“Roxanne.”
Roxanne lifted two jackets from hooks on a wall and handed one to Margaret with a smile. “I’m just so glad you both agreed to come tonight.”
Cory followed the women out the door and into the hall. Spotting a clock on the wall, she zipped up her jacket with a defiant yank. All her friends would be leaving soon for the game in Rhinelander while she, Cory Knutson, the town’s most famous driver, was going to a powwow.
2
Eight hundred people lived year-round in Summer, Wisconsin, and most of them knew Cory Knutson. Or knew her family, or knew someone who worked with her mother or with Mike at the window factory, or had gone to high school with her brother, Rob, or was related somehow to Mike’s ex-wife. Most people knew the story of her father’s death in a hunting accident. Cory had been three when he died and seven when her mother married Mike. A year later Mike adopted Cory and she took his last name. But Rob, who was seven years older and could still remember and love his father, didn’t want that change. So, until last year when he married and moved to southern Wisconsin to work on the state road crews, there were two names on the mailbox—Kranz and Knutson.
That was the family history, and, just as the people of Summer knew it all, Cory knew theirs. She knew about the deaths, the romances, the church affiliations, the school problems, the babies, the new cars. She knew something about everyone.
Almost everyone, she admitted now. Eyeing Roxanne in the rearview mirror and listening to the women share an animated, girlish conversation, Cory realized she couldn’t say she knew very much about any of the American Indians who lived around town, or the few who were in school. She could count on two hands the Indian students in any of her classes and could picture them sitting at their own table in the lunchroom. The Reservation, some of the kids called it. Always the same table, right next to the one she always shared with Tony and Sasha and Karin and the others. Tables side by side, every noon. Throughout any day there were never more than a few words exchanged; however, at least there were never any bad ones.
Not like in Ashland or Hayward, larger towns near the reservations. Cory knew that in those places bad feelings often boiled and spilled over into real nastiness. She had heard from Mike’s youngest child who lived in Ashland with her mother that there were plenty of fights in and out of school and plenty of tire-slashing and name-calling.
But in Summer it had always been calm just living side by side. A different world, Tony had said. A parallel dimension, Cory added to herself as she recalled a science fiction movie she had recently watched. And apart from visits exchanged with Roxanne, or Peter Rosebear, who worked with Mike and sometimes came by on Fridays for an end-of-the-week beer, her family, like others, didn’t mix. There was distance, but anyone would have to believe it was caused by habit, not hate.
Cory parked the car at the edge of the crowded armory lot. Roxanne opened the door, and Cory could hear drums. People streamed into the cavernous building’s open doors, as though drawn by the relentless pounding. A parallel dimension, and she suspected she had just crossed over.
“This is a competition powwow,” said Roxanne as she led them to the armory. “There’s some good prize money, and there will be dancers and drum groups from all over.”
Roxanne seemed to know everyone, but after stopping a few times to introduce her guests, she gave up. “This is no good,” she said. “We’ll never get in at this rate, and Paula is probably already frantic. Do you mind if we meet people later?”
Margaret laughed and pushed her friend forward. “Your rudeness is just barely forgivable.”
Once inside, their progress was slowed by a seemingly impenetrable mass of people. Looking around, Cory twice came face-to-face with young men in full regalia: feathers, beads, face paint.
Not war paint. She willed herself not to think of it as war paint. And the drum—she didn’t know if it was actually called a tom-tom. The drum song had intensified in volume and rhythm, and she could feel her heartbeat adjust its pace. She saw several dancers in traditional dress: a man wearing a huge feathered bustle, two girls in fringed buckskin and beaded ribbons, women with elaborate and colorful shawls. Then, stepping at last into the main hall and seeing a sea of men and women and boys and girls in fantastic, puzzling, beautiful dress, Cory knew she would be content to be quiet and watch.
Roxanne dropped her nylon bowling jacket on a folding chair. “Let’s take these seats. I told Paula to find me by the host drum, and that’s these boys here.” She waved at a group of men sitting around a large kettle drum. Several of them raised drumsticks in response. Cory dropped her own coat on a chair and looked around the room. Rows of chairs had been set up on two sides of the hall. At each of the open ends there were two drum groups. One of the circles at the far end was drumming and singing. Cory watched the rhythmic action of the rising and falling arms and she was mesmerized by the white-tipped sticks, which caught the glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights as they streaked up and down.
“Mother, where the hell have you been?”
Cory, attention diverted from the drum, swallowed a smile as Paula pounded Roxanne on the shoulder. Evidently mother-daughter exasperation was universal among cultures.
Roxanne handed her daughter the box she had guarded as a treasure. “You have time.”
“Right. Ten minutes.” Paula
took the box and flipped a wave to her mother’s guests. “Glad you came, meet you later.” She pushed past a few people and disappeared into the crowd.
The persistent drumming was lulling, and Cory again focused on the rhythm. A different drum began its song, and she shifted her attention to it, away from Roxanne, who was introducing friends and relations to Margaret. All around her, there was talk of road conditions, the weather, jobs, tribal politics, and the winter’s new babies. Most of the talk spilled into a single, nonsensical stream of voices punctuated occasionally by the familiar sound of her mother’s laugh.
People were lining up between two of the drum circles. Cory guessed they were preparing for what Roxanne had called the grand entry. A microphone crackled, catching the attention of the crowd and sending a signal to the drum to stop. It crackled again, then cleared, and a deep voice boomed out a welcome. After several minutes of introductions and joking and applause, the speaker signaled and the drumming resumed. The line of people waiting between the drums began its slow procession.
The entry was headed by several Native American princesses and a color guard of military veterans. Behind the flags, the line of people was four across and appeared endless in length. Most of the dancers were wearing traditional dress and they danced with a series and pattern of movements as individual as the decorations on their clothing. Some high-stepped with arms raised, some kept feet low to the ground, some moved face forward, always tall and unbent, some turned and leaned in wide arcs.
The chain moved forward and began to circle around itself, snaking into a spiral. Cory supposed it all had meaning, some age-old significance, but of that she understood nothing, sensed nothing. Still, she thought that the stream of dancing color was perhaps the most stunning thing she had ever seen.
A flash of orange caught her eye, and she noticed a single dancing figure. She laughed, catching her mother’s attention and earning a frown.
“Be polite,” her mother said in a low voice.
“That boy,” Cory said, pointing. “It looks like he couldn’t wait to join the party.”
The dancer who attracted her attention was twirling and dipping at the edge of the chain. His arms were raised as if to take hold of some personal music, and he danced as if the drum played for him alone. No feathers, no fringe, no traditional dress at all. The boy wore a marine corps T-shirt, orange Zubaz pants, and sneakers. Every now and then his arm would drop from its dance position and he would push up his glasses.
“It’s all quite a spectacle,” Margaret said.
Cory nodded as she watched the orange Zubaz dance away. “It’s wonderful.”
Roxanne’s arm shot out and she pointed to an indeterminate spot across the dance floor. She turned to a friend behind her. “Look at Harvey MacNamara. He’s obviously adjusting to small-town life.”
“Yes,” answered the friend. “Living with Barb must be good for him.”
Roxanne leaned to Cory’s mother and whispered something in her ear. “You’re right,” Margaret said. “He is nice-looking.”
Cory tracked their collective gaze and settled on a handsome, middle-aged man standing behind the host drum. The older women were laughing, and Cory rolled her eyes. It always amused her and sometimes embarrassed her when her mother’s friends too obviously enjoyed scoping out men. Acting as if they were, well, Cory’s age.
The dance area was packed, and the people were now just moving in place. Orange Zubaz had disappeared, and Cory lost interest in the dance. She turned to the women’s conversation.
“Harvey,” Roxanne was explaining to those around her, “moved into Barb’s two weeks ago. Her kids just love him. He was living with his brother, but Tom checked into rehab. It’s tough on Harvey, of course. He’s been almost mother and father to Tom for years now.”
Cory rose and stretched. Adult gossip was no fun. She whispered to her mother, “I’m going to walk around.”
“Don’t be gone too long. I’m beat, and I might not make it much longer.”
“We could go now.”
“Take a look around, then come back.”
Cory squeezed her mother’s shoulder and slipped into the crowd.
Tables of crafts were set up around the perimeter of the room. Cory moved from table to table, admiring the items but finding nothing of particular interest until she came to a jewelry display. She stopped when she spotted a pair of silver earrings designed in an intricate, webbed pattern. Cory smiled at the table attendant, picked up the earrings, and laid them on her palm. She turned over the price tag and tried not to gasp. Fifty-five dollars. She returned them to the table.
“Prices might go down Sunday afternoon,” a voice next to her whispered.
She turned and looked into the chest and then the brown eyes of Orange Zubaz.
“A few of the vendors jack them up on Saturday nights because of the white tourists from the ski areas who come to watch the powwow.”
“I’m not a tourist.”
“I know that. You’re Cory Knutson. We go to the same school.”
“We do?” She studied his face and felt certain she had never seen him before tonight. “I’m sorry, I just don’t recognize you.”
Other people edged them aside, and Orange Zubaz tugged on Cory’s sleeve. “Over here.” They stepped away from the table and sat down on chairs pushed up against the wall.
He waved to someone in the crowd, then turned to Cory. She wondered if he ever stopped smiling.
“Don’t apologize. I’m a senior and I just moved to Summer from Milwaukee. I’m a stranger, but apparently everyone knows Cory K.” He offered his hand. “Harvey MacNamara.”
“Harvey MacNamara?” she said, her voice squealing up an octave.
His smile disappeared and his hand dropped. “Yeah, Harvey MacNamara.”
Cory knew she needed to explain her surprise.
“Your name,” she began, then laughed a bit as she recalled the women’s conversation.
“What’s wrong with it—not Indian enough? Maybe you think it should be something cute, like Fast as a Dead Coyote?”
She looked at him evenly. “No. My mother’s friend was talking about this guy Harvey MacNamara who is living with her sister. I thought he’d be older.”
His good humor returned, and she relaxed. He wasn’t gorgeous or anything, but he certainly did have a make-you-melt smile.
“You must mean Roxanne. She talks a lot, but she’s one good person. And I’m not ‘living with’ Barb, okay? I’m just there. After all, she has a husband.”
“I don’t really know the family.”
“Barb is sort of a cousin of my mother’s, and I needed a place to live.” He clasped his hands together, and the action caused the muscles visible under the T-shirt to flex. Cory looked away; she now knew the meaning of the word biceps. She exhaled deeply and wondered how the room had suddenly filled with hot August air.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little woozy. Would you let me buy you something to eat and drink?”
“Food would be nice. I haven’t eaten since noon. But, Harvey, you don’t have to buy.”
“Please call me Mac. Harvey’s an old guy’s name, right? I’d like to buy because you’re a guest here. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be broke because you’re paying off that window? I heard it was a pretty good smashup.”
Cory groaned. “Everyone. Everyone.”
He guided her through the crowd to the food stands, and just as they stepped up to place their orders for wild rice with mushroom sauce, Cory felt a tug on her shirt. She turned and saw Roxanne.
“Found you!” Roxanne said. She nodded to Mac. “What’s up?”
“Your mother wants to go.” She held out Cory’s coat. “She was exhausted and the heat and stuffy air made it worse. She’s waiting outside the main door. I’ll go home with Paula. Margaret’s not well, Cory. I’m sorry I urged her to come.”
“She really wanted to, Roxanne.
Mac, I’m sorry.”
“Another time. Glad we met.”
Roxanne watched them smile at each other. “Well, Harvey.” She laughed.
He frowned. “Mac, it’s Mac.”
She shrugged and turned to Cory. “Don’t keep her waiting. I’m sure Mac would love to show you out.” He walked Cory outside to where her mother was waiting, and Cory introduced them.
“See you in school,” he said as they separated. “Monday. Hey, Mac,” she said, pausing to let her mother get a few steps away. “I really liked your dancing.”
He was pleased. “You saw?”
“I was watching.”
He smiled, saluted, then turned with a step and a dip. She laughed and watched as the boy in orange Zubaz danced into the building.
*
“Roxanne says he’s been in and out of six schools in six years while his brother moved them around, but he’s always kept up a good average. B’s, at least,” Cory’s mother said, leaning her head against the seat of the car and closing her eyes.
Snow was falling, obscuring the white lines of the deserted highway. Trying to keep the car centered in the proper lane, Cory focused on a distant, imaginary spot in the road. It would be a slow thirty miles home. “She also said other good things. He—”
“Mom, I don’t need to hear the secondhand details of his life, okay? We just met, that’s all.”
“Is it? Sometimes mothers can see these things with a different perspective.”
“Right: warped.”
“Change of subject, then. Did you enjoy the powwow? I mean, for reasons other than the obvious one.” She laughed, believing she had said something funny.
Cory reached to punch her playfully, but her mother raised a hand. “Watch your driving, girl.”
The snow was falling faster and attacking the windshield like silent white bullets. Cory switched the wipers to high. “I did enjoy it. The clothing was fantastic.”
Revolutions of the Heart Page 2
