Redwood and Wildfire

by Andrea Hairston

  Redwood laughed. “What you been telling her?”

  “Not much any more.” Iris pouted.

  “Write your true life, write what you fancy for stories or the moving picture, and show me or Aidan, all right?”

  “Can I show George too?”

  “He don’t have time for stories right now. Maybe Clarissa.”

  Iris shook her head.

  “Give her another try. I think sister-in-law can hear what you got to say.”

  “Sun’s coming.” Iris pointed to pink on the windowpanes. “I’m fine. You better hurry if you want to catch him.”

  Clarissa caught Redwood crawling back in the window. “I thought you were a cat burglar, sneaking in from the garden.” ’Stead of scolding Redwood, she offered a hand. The ledge was slippery. “Mr. Wildfire left already?”

  Redwood grunted and peeled off her dew-damp nightclothes.

  “You know he loves you like a fool.” Clarissa touched Doc’s drawings of him on the wall. “You’ve ruined him for other women.”

  “Well, we haven’t, we don’t…” Redwood gestured over her half-naked body.

  Embarrassed, Clarissa pulled her silky robe tight. “At least you’re not living in sin.”

  Redwood groaned and sponged the night sweat from her skin. “When Iris tell you a story, just listen to her, all right? Don’t try to set her straight or tell her it can’t be so.”

  Clarissa pursed her lips. “George says Iris is living in her own universe.”

  “You won’t change her, fussing at her.” Redwood combed the knots from her hair. “You’ll just make it harder for her.”

  “All right.” Clarissa nodded. “But you, what about a wedding? Colored marry who they want in Chicago. Indians too.”

  Redwood laughed. “You think that’ll take the trick off my body?” She wiggled into an undershirt.

  “Don’t smirk at the blessings of the Lord.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Wedding doesn’t have to be in a church, if you’re…pagan. And I’ll say a prayer.”

  “You’re the best friend I prayed for since I was little.” Redwood hugged Clarissa suddenly. “Ready to go before Lord Jesus and plead my case.”

  Clarissa was startled, but suffered the embrace. “I’ve been reading. Even pagans talk to God or a great spirit.” She headed for the door. “Cook’s going to be here any moment.” She paused. “I know you could get Mr. Wildfire to propose. That’s a simple conjuration.” Clarissa closed the door behind her.

  “Gotta get him to talk to me first.”

  Redwood dressed up in swamp colors. She tied a gurgling stream to her waist, dangled Indian beads from her neck, and went down to collect Aidan from the motion picture factory. They were shooting a sunrise scene to get the shadows just so. Nicolai was a crazy man with light. Over a year of Aidan working in the “movies,” and she hadn’t seen him in full Injun regalia ’til now. He never let her see his pictures. Aidan strutting in buckskin pants, beaded moccasins, breastplate of bones, and feather headdress made her smile, ’til she caught his expression. He and Walter Jumping Bear looked splendid of course, but Aidan was mad enough to take his spear and run someone through. He didn’t have to playact wild and ferocious for the camera.

  “Was biiiig fight,” Nicolai explained to Redwood while his crew set up. “Aidan say nyet to tomahawk. Say he got piece of this tribe, piece of that one. Walter say Buffalo Bill never do such a mix up, other directors neither. Mr. Payne say, Griffith already make The Redman’s View, The Indian Runner’s Romance. Mr. Payne, do The Last Drop of Blood for to sell tickets and don’t care which savage wield tomahawks.” Nicolai eyed her bosom and hips, not like a man who wanted to bed her, though. “You look beautiful. You should be in a picture today.”

  “Ha! Mr. Payne is scared of putting me on the screen.”

  “I would not be.” He filmed her with his eyes. “Wonderful picture.” Redwood wondered what story he imagined. “Come.”

  She followed behind Nicolai and his camera crew as Aidan played Chief Red Cloud, a drunken scout leading the cavalry to a secret hideout of his people. The white soldiers paid Red Cloud in bottles of cheap whiskey. As night drizzle turned to sunny day, Red Cloud guzzled a bottle and fell off his horse, breaking the rest of his stash for comic relief. Between the horse acting up, the darned costume blowing off in the wind from a giant fan, and clouds covering the sun, it took ten tries to satisfy the director.

  “We made this damn story already!” Aidan said. “What shitty drunkard would have such a war bonnet?”

  “It was a great hit, so we do it again.” Walter shrugged. He was calm water. “Payne wants money to move his studio to California, so next week I am drunken Chief Storm Clown.” Walter smiled at Redwood coming toward them. “Good morning.”

  “You were watching?” Aidan dropped a spear in the dust and threw a blanket over his bare chest. “I didn’t know.”

  “The sun was in your eyes” Redwood said. “You couldn’t see me.” She strutted in front of him, offering a good view. Aidan hustled by with barely a glance. Why get done up for a man who didn’t want to look at you? If he didn’t trust her hips, thighs, or secret spots just a bit, how would they get anywhere?

  “We have to stow the costumes.” Walter cleared his throat. “Playacting with firewater demons puts him in a very bad humor.”

  “You’re his friend, and it is sweet of you to make excuses.”

  Finally a day off from the Wild West. Aidan soaked in Clarissa’s bathtub for an hour, ruminating on his foul mood. Nothing new occurred to him. Redwood opened the door, and steam hit her face. She looked so pretty fanning herself, it hurt.

  “A hot bath on a hot day?” she said.

  “Gotta do something.” He wanted to sweat and scrub the ornery Blues away.

  “You still stewing ’bout drunken Chief Red Cloud?” She came all the way into the tiny room. “You’ve seen me playacting all kind of mess, and I don’t like it either.” She did her best chicken mime, circling the tub, pecking at his head and scratching her feet in his clothes. She squawked and flapped her arms. He had to smile.

  “What are you all doing in there?” Clarissa called from down the hall.

  “Nothing.” Redwood laughed. Brightness was a habit with her, most of the time. Aidan felt sullen again. “You as bad as Brother George,” she said.

  Aidan sat up, face burning and nostrils flaring. “George is mad all the time. He don’t like nobody ’cept Clarissa, and he don’t have to ride ’round in a feather clown suit.”

  Redwood splashed water in his face. “You ain’t just what they got you doing for their picture shows.”

  “What am I?” he said.

  “Iris is cooking up a good character for you in our picture.” She backed out. “Hurry up, ’fore this day’s all gone and we ain’t done nothing good.”

  Aidan might have sat home, stewing all day, ’cept Redwood had planned a sightseeing tour and picnic. Iris was dying to attend the International Aviation Meet at Grant Park and see women pilots fly. She didn’t care a hoot for old monuments, for museums built way before she was born, or parkland squeezed between skyscrapers and stockyards. Aidan only agreed to come out if they went to the fly show too. Spoiling Iris was a habit for him.

  “We’ll have to hurry then,” Redwood said.

  They were almost out the door, but Iris went back for her mojo bag, so Aidan tried to convince Clarissa to let her kids come out with them, see the aviators or run through grass and trees. Clarissa didn’t care what Aidan had managed with Iris and the cousins in a Georgia swamp. Her children were bona fide demons, too much to handle in a big wild city.

  “We probably missed two trolleys messing ’round,” Redwood said as they got out at the 57th Street stop. Chicago had too many streets to name ’em all. “You can’t do nothing when Clarissa has her mind set.”

  “We’re here, ain’t we?” Aidan muttered. “You’re just as stubborn as her.”

  “Jackson Park�
��s where the Fair was ’fore it burned,” Redwood said.

  Aidan’s eyes snapped at this. “Really?” Walking on dirt ’stead of stumbling over broken pavement was a relief to his ankles. The path snaked between brambles, late bloomers, and nodding red rosehips. He peered closely at everything, looking for a sign of the time that burned. “Why didn’t you tell me where we were going?”

  “I like surprising you.”

  Iris ran ahead down a tree-lined path, over an arched bridge, and onto Wooded Island. The lagoon water was murky green. Geese chased gray clouds ’cross a white sky. Moldy leaves, drowned spider webs, and rotten wood added a swamp tang to the lake breeze. A cloud of mosquitoes avoided Redwood. He smacked two bloodsuckers on his arm.

  “Aidan, you goin’ stay mad at me all day?”

  “Why not?”

  “Me and Clarissa ain’t got nothing to tell you ’bout stubborn.” She stopped under an old tree. “This bur oak’s seen near two-hundred years.” The crown was at least six stories high, and its branches stretched to a ninety-foot span, big as a live oak from home. “Imagine a little acorn striking out in the dirt in 1700 and something,” she said.

  Aidan traced his fingers along the black corky bark and picked up a fat, shaggy acorn bigger than his fist. “Little?”

  “I don’t mean to torment you.” She threw another acorn at him.

  He caught it. “Trees are built more patient than people.”

  They wandered over a moon bridge through the Osaka Garden. Muddy green turtles sunned on a tiny island. Red lanterns hung in the trees, and colorful birds darted through raspy leaves, squabbling and singing. The wooden path zigzagged right over lagoons and streams. Oriental statues stood guard in tall grass and behind bushes. Aidan stopped at a waterfall of gurgling scum. Muddy water every direction he looked — sky even looked muddy.

  “With a path twisting and turning this way —” Redwood headed over a stone bridge — “the bad spirits dogging our heels get worn out and fall into the water. Japanese folk say, evil need a straight line, but good find its way in the curves.”

  “That’s why the water’s so dirty.” He followed her. “Full of bad spirits.”

  Redwood stopped in his face. “It’s torment for me too.”

  “I know.” Aidan wanted to avoid her eyes, but he couldn’t.

  “Hurry up,” Iris yelled from ’cross the water. “We don’t want to miss the lady pilots.” She dashed off, long legs lending her speed.

  Redwood pulled Aidan along. “Look where I brought you — the Palace of Fine Arts from the World’s Fair. It’s the Field Columbian Museum now.”

  “This is here and now, huh?” Aidan picked up speed.

  The Palace resembled the Parthenon or some other Greek temple. Gods, goddesses, and fat granite scrolls of long-forgotten stories were perched atop tall white columns. The lagoon in front was smooth as green glass, reflecting the hazy day back to itself. Throngs of people tumbled up and down the sprawling marble stairs.

  “I thought it all burned down,” he said.

  “Cairo Street’s gone.” Iris darted up the steps. “But the Osaka Garden and this Palace is still here, and they’ll be here in a hundred years too.” She danced between columns, moving her hips like an Egyptian belly dancer charming snakes and tourists. She got mostly grins and full-blown smiles from the flock of museum patrons. Even the frowners were impressed. Aidan applauded. Redwood stopped his hands.

  “Clarissa blame us for Iris not knowing how to act in public,” she said.

  “Gal just showing some spirit,” Aidan said.

  “Where’s that goin’ get her?” Bitterness caught in Redwood’s throat.

  “Swallowing down who you are is no good either.” Aidan held out his hand.

  Redwood curled her fingers between his, and they climbed the steps to Iris.

  Passes from Clarissa’s Club got them through the entrance free. Inside the majestic foyer, the temperature dropped. The air was dry; footsteps echoed off high ceilings and marble floors. Aidan pulled off his hat. The rowdy crowd metamorphosed to devout supplicants, in awe of what God had wrought, of the wonders of the world, of times and people that Aidan could barely imagine. Musky smells and winking masks hinted at ancient treasures down the halls and up the stairs.

  “Can’t you hear Doc explaining everything in here to us?” Iris gawked at an ancient Etruscan tomb with fresco paintings on the walls, bronze statuettes, gold jewelry, and everyday objects a dead person would need in the afterlife.

  A young white woman smiled warmly at Aidan. Her wavy hair hung below her buttocks. Intricate lace looked scratchy at her neck. Dragonfly earrings dangled to her shoulders, and she smelled of spring wildflowers. Redwood frowned, but Aidan, in a decent mood at last, returned the smile.

  “Sir, I know you, don’t I?” she said.

  Aidan shook his head. “Well Miz —”

  “Fredericks,” she offered.

  “Miz Fredericks, I’ve never had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to be so bold. I saw you in a motion picture, sir.”

  “Miz Fredericks, you seem no stranger to boldness.” The hint of jealousy in Redwood’s voice tickled Aidan.

  “He’s a star,” Iris said. “I’ve seen all his pictures three, four times. And my sister’s the toast of Chicago vaudeville.” Redwood snorted at Iris’s praise.

  “You were a wild Injun on a painted pony.” Miz Fredericks’ eyes darted uneasily between Redwood and Iris. “Glorious.”

  Aidan wanted to hush her up before she spoiled everything. “Good day to you.”

  “It took the whole cavalry to chase you down!” Miz Fredericks said, and a couple strangers nodded too. “You put up a marvelous fight, so fearsome and daring.”

  “That was Warrior Blood,” Iris said.

  Aidan shot Iris a deadly glance. “No Ma’am, that wasn’t me.”

  “It wasn’t?” Redwood said.

  Miz Fredericks frowned at Redwood’s hand on Aidan’s sleeve. “I don’t think I could forget your eyes, sir.”

  “I was the drunken skunk who fell off his horse in The Battle of Deadman’s Gulch. They captured me, and I turned traitor scout for whiskey.” He staggered like a drunk.

  “You were wonderful all the same.” Miz Fredericks was charmed by his rough manner. “So handsome and dashing. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

  Sweat sprouted from Aidan’s temples; his breath was a wheeze, and he was shaking, as if the delirium tremens were coming back. More people gathered near them, bright faces splotched red with excitement. A few scowled as Aidan clutched Redwood’s hand. He was fixing to give ’em a lick with the rough side of his tongue, when —

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” Iris said. “We got to go.” She and Redwood pulled Aidan away from this eager fan and the fool strangers who were pushing too close. “Why you want to lie to that lady?” Iris asked.

  Aidan cussed under his breath. He balled up his shaking hands. Swallowing, his throat felt parched, but water wouldn’t do no good. He punched a fat marble pillar. Pain didn’t help. Making it up to Chicago sober was easy compared to —

  “Who are you playing? Crazy Coop?” Redwood said. “You s’posed to left him back in Georgia.” Her hand on his forehead cleared his mind a bit. He wanted a jug even so.

  “Ain’t so many folks going this way.” Iris tugged at them.

  As they continued on, Tlingit masks glared from dark alcoves. Totem poles loomed in the corners: giant-beak creatures, with eyes in their stiff wings, squatted on men whose tears were bright flames; the men crouched on grinning foxes who held fish in their paws. Aidan doubled over and shook his head.

  “I hear ’em talking,” Iris said by the fox. “Just don’t understand the language.”

  Aidan walked away. Even magic Iris was making him sad today. The next hall was a Hopi exhibit — jewelry, kachina dolls, tools, and clothing — ancient Arizona history and just yesterday too. Aidan balked in the doorway. The room was jam
med with well-dressed Chicago folk admiring old Indian ways.

  “I don’t need to see any more,” he said.

  “I thought this might lift your spirits.” Redwood pointed at turquoise necklaces and beads. “Fallen skystone —”

  “My stomach’s feeling sour. I can’t abide the air inside here.”

  They skirted the other Indian exhibits and left without viewing anything from Asia or Africa, without seeing butterflies, ancient animal bones, or meteor rocks. As they tromped down hard marble steps, Iris took Aidan’s hand.

  “I didn’t want to stay neither,” she said.

  “You should come back,” he muttered. “Take a good look-see without me.”

  In the Museum Redwood had tried not to worry, but Aidan was no better at the Aviation Meet in Grant Park. A squad of buzzing aeroplanes zipped through the clouds, chasing red balloons for a six-hundred-dollar prize. Seventy thousand people filled the grandstands, hollering and carrying on. Too many were swilling whiskey or wine. ’Stead of watching the air polo, Aidan threw up in a bush where Iris wouldn’t see and tapped Miz Subie’s tin on his lips.

  “You all right?” Redwood whispered. “Don’t pay those people no mind.” She wanted to say, in their moving picture, he wouldn’t do nothing to turn his stomach. He’d play an upstanding Seminole farmer, brave and wise, ancestor of generations yet unborn.

  “I’m fine.”

  Iris poked her. “Miz Harriet Quimby of California flew this morning and won a prize. Mademoiselle Helene Dutrieu of Provence can’t fly yet ’cause her machine isn’t ready.” Iris dragged her feet, kicked at rocks, and sighed dramatically, as if Mlle. Dutrieu’s broken aeroplane was Redwood’s fault.

  “Can’t tell who the pilot is, when they’re high in the sky,” Aidan said.

  “Mlle. Dutrieu is goin’ take up women passengers day after tomorrow,” Iris said. “She fancies that soon, women as well as men will be flying from city to city, even coast to coast. Can’t I come back? Why I have to be at school, learning stuff I been knowing.”

  “Your grammar doesn’t sound like it.” Redwood laid out cold chicken, biscuits, and peach pie for a picnic. “You don’t want folks to think less of you, shut a door of opportunity in your face.”