Basic Training of the Heart

by Jaycie Morrison

  Her troubled contemplations led first to the memory of her mother’s one and only reference to her daughter’s possible future. She couldn’t have been more than six. In fact, it had been shortly before her mother’s death, which had left her White father grieving in a dozen different jobs in almost a dozen different places, each place farther and farther from the tribe and each year deeper and deeper into his bottle. But on that day, Rains had been out playing with the boys of her age as she typically did. Whether racing, wrestling, or shooting the bow and arrow, she usually beat them all, and no one thought anything about it. Her mother was proud and loving and she must have managed somehow to explain her daughter’s behavior to her father, because he never tried to prohibit her activities. She was accepted without question until that day when an older boy came around and warned her that no man would want a woman who was a better warrior than he was and suggested she learn to cook instead. The other boys had laughed and Rains left their games, her face burning with humiliation. After stopping along the way to give the matter some thought, she arrived at their house and announced to her mother that she intended to be a warrior, and if that meant no man would have her, so be it. Her mother listened carefully and then asked, “But who will cook the food you bring home and who will sew your clothes?” Rains had thought of this already and replied that she’d find another girl who was willing and live with her.

  Rains’s home was one in which their tribal language was still spoken, in spite of laws forbidding it and the threat of harsh penalties. So it was partly her mother’s switch to English that had made Rains take notice of this moment. “Daughter,” Last Moon said as she pulled her little girl onto her lap, “you are special to me because you are my own. And you know I had a powerful vision on the night you were born and so you have your special name.” Rains nodded. She knew her Lakota name tied her to the Thunder Beings and so she was always conscious of the weather. She loved hearing that story, but as her mother went on, she realized they were speaking of something else. “But you should know if you choose such a life, others will see you differently as well.”

  She’d learned to copy her mother’s quiet, thoughtful behavior when faced with something new or unclear. “How will I know what choice is right for me, Mother?”

  Last Moon was silent for a time. “Such people learn to make their own way in the world,” she said finally, giving Rains a comforting hug before setting her back on the ground. “When you are older, we will talk of this again.”

  Even now, there was always pain when she thought of how her mother was ripped from her by a death so sudden and so terrible that afterward, her childhood passed through many months in a void of internal emptiness. She had vague memories of drums and chants, of smoke and wailing sounds, of women crying and of small arms giving her a fierce hug, all of which were oddly comforting. But mainly she had sought a place where she wouldn’t have to see that her mother wasn’t there anymore. Within days of her mother’s passing, she could make it dark inside herself, even with her eyes open; she could muffle the sounds around her until there was almost nothing. Blind and deaf with grief, her life during that period was almost like a plant’s—growth without consciousness. At times she tried to find her way back to life, but those first years were a terrible dream from which she could only partially awaken.

  After her father had taken them from the reservation, she gradually became aware of the two worlds in which she now found herself. At school the other children teased her for her different skin and her strange clothes. She was confused by their antagonism. How had she already made enemies of these people? Walking home with her older brother, she asked what to do to make peace. “Don’t try to understand them,” he advised. “And don’t try to be like them. Doing either will only hurt your spirit. Stay strong in yourself and it will pass in time.” The first few times that Rains forgot and spoke Lakota, there were beatings to remind her that she had to speak only English, her father’s language. At some point she had become known by her father’s last name, Lowell, and a first name she’d been given by a man who was supposed to be a holy leader—Faith. Still, she said her Lakota name to herself every morning and every night.

  They’d kept moving as her father drifted from job to job. One evening she was startled into awareness by much yelling. She didn’t understand all the words, but her older brother was pointing at the empty cabinet where the food was kept while her father sat at the table with a bottle. Rains had spent much of her time turning her emotions into nothingness, but she allowed herself to feel her brother’s resentment at having to do so much of the work around the house and to know his worry that they had so little and were often hungry. Shamed, Rains understood that she had a duty to become more present and learn ways to help him. When the last moon appeared that evening, she crept out into the night, taking her brother’s knife with her. She found a place where no one was, a field that had been left fallow far outside of town. Baring her thigh, she slashed across it, asking the pain of the wound to clear her mind and to release her from the pain in her heart. Her limp was practically unnoticeable as she made breakfast the next morning and cleaned up afterward, and her brothers’ smiles soon made the ache disappear.

  Each year, when the seasons brought the last moon of September, Rains repeated her ritual with the knife in her mother’s memory. As she grew older, she added to her ceremony. She chanted remembered words and built a fire. She tried to recreate a dance that she had seen her mother do. The knife would come at the end of the night. Each new cut became a thin osnáze—a scar—and each brought her some new clarity. She learned to tell directions from the sun or the stars and understood how to keep time in her mind. Her hearing sharpened and her vision cleared. Whenever she wanted to evoke her mother’s presence, to feel connected to her people, or to remember that she was a part of something bigger than herself, she would rub the patch of raised flesh that striped her leg. A week after she had made her sixth cut, she had felt for the healing before going to sleep, judging if she would be able to turn on that side without discomfort. That night she heard her mother’s voice, although she could not see her face. The fire, the dancing, the chanting—all those are good. We are already connected by blood and scars. You have one cut for each year we had together in this world. Let there be an end to it now. Rains accepted her mother’s words without question. She had what she needed.

  Her older brother, who had been named Thomas by the same holy man, kept their mother’s name: Moon. He was four years older than her, intelligent and quick, and Rains knew he would be a great warrior someday. She admired his strength and that he never used it on those weaker than himself. More than their father seemed able or willing to do, he ensured that they stayed together and survived.

  Her younger brother by two years was given the name Nicholas, and his constant good nature and willingness to laugh were a gift to them all. Nikki was probably the best adjusted to their new world. His slight build and short stature made Rains and Thomas call him by a different second name: Small. He was devoted to Rains, and she made sure he kept up with her on her wanderings. Rains and Thomas both made a point of teaching Nikki all they could remember of the old ways, the language and the stories. He showed great promise as an artist.

  Except for the time spent with her brothers, Rains kept entirely to herself. She had even managed to train each of her teachers not to call on her by giving them only apathetic silence in return, even in the face of punishment. Then, the year she turned thirteen, Jessie Olson walked into her school. She’d sat next to Rains and introduced herself, breaking into Rains’s solitary world with her kindness and winning her trust with her confident goodness. Soon they were inseparable, playing and talking, making up stories together and acting them out. The first time Jessie took her hand, Rains felt something inside her soften. Since her new friend wanted to be a teacher, Rains agreed to play school, unexpectedly gratified when Jessie complimented her intelligence. Soon her heart felt like the sun had finally come out
after a long, cold winter.

  Then Jessie invited her for a sleepover, where she’d found herself yearning to comfort her friend as she’d learned that Jessie’s life had its miseries, too. At bedtime, Jessie soothed her embarrassment about not having any sleepwear by getting into bed with her naked. A simple touch turned to a sweet caress. A first kiss became many more. With each new sensation, her body felt more and more alive. Through it all, Rains knew that she had finally found her place in the world and it was good. Good until the next morning when Jessie’s mother walked in and found two naked girls wrapped in each other’s arms. She’d let out a scream that Rains could still hear in her mind, a scream that would forever change her life and Jessie’s.

  Jessie’s family took her away when they moved the next day. The agony of loss and the heat of rage were Rains’s new companions as her itinerant life continued. When her mother had died, Rains had made the outside world disappear; after Jessie was gone, Rains learned to make herself almost invisible to everyone else. Whenever others in the Army told stories about their childhood, she had nothing to say.

  When Thomas had finished high school, he’d left them to return to the reservation. As much as she missed him, Rains understood. She thought she might do the same thing, possibly even without graduating, until a new teacher—Miss Warren—took an interest in her. Miss Warren was so beautiful that Rains almost couldn’t look at her, but it was her dedication to education and fairness with all her students that influenced Rains to stay after school for tutoring and catch up to her grade level. Steady doses of Miss Warren’s praise and frequent smiles gradually brought Rains into the world again, and she most valued the times when Miss Warren read aloud to them. When the teacher introduced Henry David Thoreau as her favorite, Rains listened carefully. If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. Rains decided that Thoreau had a true spirit, and that his words were good for her to hear.

  While she had no illusions about her relationship with Miss Warren, she came to recognize that what she’d felt for Jessie was coming to life again. On a rainy night when she’d walked Miss Warren home, she discovered that Miss Warren understood her better than any adult ever had. You are a good person, Faith, Miss Warren had told her. You deserve to be loved. That, and a copy of Thoreau’s writings with the inscription, To Faith Lowell, Being is the great explainer. With love, Miss Vivienne Warren, were the gifts Rains carried as she left school for the last time. She was fairly certain that she would never see Miss Warren again and that thought started a pain in her heart that she sometimes still felt.

  After spending the night with her past, Sergeant Rains slept through the first reveille. Webber banged on her door, yelling, “Are you sick, Rains? You never sleep this late.” Webber’s voice moved away, laughing. “Must be having some great dreams.”

  Rains realized she had brought the pillow down beside her and was cradling it in her arms. Bett was the name in her mouth. Rains had found the truth in her heart. It wasn’t Smythe who had been false about her feelings.

  *

  All the way back to the barracks that night, Bett debated what to do. Should she write an apology note to Sergeant Rains? If so, what should it say? Should she speak to her in person, try to get Rains somewhere alone again? Not bloody likely that would happen, not after she’d been such a bitch. Maybe she should find Rains’s room and just show up one evening, try to talk to her there? No, she’d already heard a story about one disturbed girl who’d appeared in Rains’s room uninvited, and the results of that had not been good. It didn’t help any to replay their last conversation and realize that Rains’s words about keeping her feelings to herself seemed to confirm what Bett had begun to suspect—that there was a mutual attraction between them.

  Bett was not the least bit worried that Sergeant Rains would report her for what she’d disclosed about herself. If she didn’t turn in Lieutenant Boudreaux, who had apparently assaulted one of her soldiers, Rains certainly wouldn’t have a recruit discharged just for confessing to a particular sexual nature in a private conversation. Clearly, Sergeant Rains believed in the WAC and supported the women who were there with genuine committment. Rains’s accusation that Bett was only playing at being a soldier was probably one of the worst insults she could give and was surely made to increase the distance between them…at least in Rains’s mind.

  As she’d feared, Sergeant Rains ignored her even more pointedly now than she had before. To make matters worse, at breakfast the next day, she saw Rains offer the auburn-haired captain a seat across from her at the officers’ table. Not only did Bett have no view of her sergeant during the meal, but based on the animated movements of the captain’s head, they must have been carrying on a lively conversation. The captain sat there again at dinner. Bett regretted ever mentioning the woman.

  Bett wrote a note and folded it, decorating the outside of it like a bookmark. She had thought very hard about what to say. Not too much and not too little, she told herself. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for not being able to control my dullest weapon, which is my mouth. I only hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me. I sincerely appreciate all that you are doing to help me be a good soldier and a better person.

  She put the note inside the Sartre book and waited. It was Monday before Rains came to do an evening walk through the barracks. The sergeant moved so quickly that she was three bunks past before Bett could even look up. Knowing that Rains would have to pass her again to leave, Bett sat cross-legged on her bed and held the book on her lap like a gift. Sergeant Rains visited for a while with several of the other girls, including Helen and Tee, who were the best of friends now and seemed content to study together. They no longer asked for Bett’s help, except on rare occasions. Phyllis wanted to know what other classes were coming up, so Rains went through some of the options. Listening to Rains’s low murmur rising and falling in quiet conversation, Bett was lulled to sleep sitting up, her chin dropping onto her chest.

  Then Rains’s voice was very close. “You can’t be comfortable like that, Private Smythe.”

  “No…please wait. I wanted—I’m so sorry—I wanted to give you this.” Bett struggled to awaken and held out the book, trying to remember what she’d meant to say. “Please keep it, if you’d like. I want you to have it.”

  “All right.” Rains took the book from her hands and gestured for Bett to get under the covers. “Thank you, Private. Get your rest now.” Her voice was so soothing that it made Bett fall back asleep almost immediately. She had the impression that Rains’s hand might have brushed very briefly across her shoulder as she moved past. Her eyes closing, Bett barely had time to think, How can she be so nice to me when I’m such a stupid little shit?

  *

  Sergeant Rains had begun watching Private Smythe circumspectly as she interacted with the other girls. She was friendly and pleasant to all of her squad members, but never more than that. She seemed to be closest with Jo Archer and they often laughed together, but there was no flirtation or even casual physical affection between them. Other than the times that she had been in a large-group instructional setting, Rains had never seen Smythe with individuals from the other squads, either. There was no indication that she was romantically involved with anyone, and given Smythe’s looks, Sergeant Rains was sure she must have had plenty of opportunities.

  Rains briefly considered that she might have misunderstood what Smythe had said to her in the grove. But there was no mistaking Bett’s smile or times that she had met Rains’s eyes with enticement; no misinterpreting the feel of Bett’s hands on her shoulders, the alluring weight of her breasts pressing gently against Rains’s back, the soft whisper, This is exactly how I would choose to be with someone. More importantly, there was no misinterpreting the way her own body had responded, betraying her at every sight of Smythe with a racing in her heart and a yearning that came from a place that Rains had clos
ed off years ago. The sergeant almost wished that there had been evidence of Smythe having multiple affairs on the base or even a significant relationship with someone; that would have made it possible for her to put away those thoughts and dismiss the emotions Bett stirred in her. But that idea brought a different, almost worse kind of turmoil, one that made her feel tense and antagonized.

  That night she dreamed of a time after they had been dismissed from morning drills. Smythe was walking quickly across the grounds, looking at her watch, and Rains was instantly consumed with the idea that she was meeting someone. In the way that it sometimes was in her dreams, Rains was aware that she couldn’t be seen, so she followed Bett. Bett went into the PX and Rains slipped in quietly a few seconds later. In the PX of her dream there was only a post office, a soda fountain, and a large general store, which she recognized but did not think of as belonging on the base. She tried to sort out its rightful place as Bett rushed over to the post office counter. Standing near some shelves, Rains heard her ask, “Have I missed the last mail out?”

  “No, you just made it,” came the reply.

  There were a few other WACs along the margins of the scene, but they were distant and faceless. Rains moved away, feeling very foolish. Thinking about this woman is taking entirely too much of your time, she admonished herself. Suddenly aware that her invisibility was wearing off, she turned her back to the exit route that she expected Smythe would take, thinking that she would be just another anonymous uniform. But a few seconds later, a warm caress on her back spread over her entire body and her pulse raced as she turned to meet Smythe’s eyes and her smile.