by Jean Stone
It had, of course, happened when her grandmother died, long before she’d met Jason.
“Your mother was a white woman,” her younger cousin, Douglas, had said. “You are a half-breed, Sarah. A white Indian. You have no ties to our clan. You really never did.”
Sarah knew their traditions as well as Douglas did. The Cherokee society was a matriarchal one: The women owned the houses and the children belonged to them. If divorce occurred, the father left his children and his possessions and went back from where he came. It was the mother’s, not the father’s, side that determined the proper clan. Technically, Douglas had been right. The Paint Clan was the heritage of Sarah’s father. Sarah, therefore, did not belong.
Her father had always said his sister’s son was an imbecile: “Not born with the brains of a buffalo.” Sarah’s father had been her idol. But he died when Sarah was only sixteen, then Glisi when she was twenty-one. Douglas had a mother and a father. How could he have been so cruel?
Sarah had gone to Douglas’s mother, her aunt Mae (Weeping Dove). Aunt Mae said, “Oh, your father would be angry if he knew Douglas had told.”
Sarah had folded her arms. Her eyes darted around Aunt Mae’s shop, a dark-wood-walled herbal emporium that smelled of sweetgrass and sage. It was owned by the Cherokee, patronized by white women in search of miracles. The irony had not been lost on Sarah.
“Who was my mother, Aunt Mae?” twenty-one-year-old Sarah had asked.
Mae had shaken her head. “A white woman, that’s all your father said. But it doesn’t matter. The woman is dead.”
It had, however, mattered to Sarah. It mattered that she was not who she thought. It mattered that no one had told her the real reason she didn’t belong.
Sarah had been a senior at Winston College then, on the other side of the continent from California. Her tuition had been paid through graduation. When she returned to school after Glisi’s funeral, Sarah never went back. If anyone wondered what had happened to her, they didn’t try too hard to find out.
Until now.
Until Sutter Jones, son of Margaret, Little Tree.
Perhaps it was because Sutter had a son who was a white Indian too. A half-breed. Long ago, Sarah had thought that one day she might try to learn about her mother: where she was from, who her people were, if she had loved Sarah’s father. But as the years passed, it had become easier to forget. Easier to close herself off in the obscure hills of Massachusetts.
Until this man dropped by and said her mother sent him.
He was wrong, of course.
He was just a misguided Indian who was a long, long way from home.
The red light on the answering machine beckoned her attention when Sarah walked into the log cabin. She gave Elton a quick pat, then went over to the phone. She hoped the message wasn’t from the owner of the jewelry store in Boston looking for the silver bracelets she’d promised for February.
“Hi, Mom.” Burch’s not-quite-man voice plucked a heartstring that made Sarah smile. “It’s almost seven o’clock. Where the heck are you? Dad let me sit in with the band last night. It was so cool. Tell Elton I miss him. I love you, Mom.”
Click.
She sighed, took off her coat, and put the teakettle on the stove, moving with the weight of the Cherokee Nation on her shoulders. She fixed the dog’s dinner, then studied the contents of the refrigerator to see if anything interested her, since she’d abandoned her lunch.
Carrots.
Three eggs.
Some shriveled mushrooms.
Two McIntosh apples left from October, when she and Burch had gone picking right down the road.
An old hunk of Asiago cheese, Jason’s favorite.
She could make an omelet without milk. First, though, she would call Burch.
“He’s across the hall at his new friend Glen’s,” Jason said. “How was the wedding? How are you?” He’d said he didn’t want a separation from Sarah, only from the dullness of life in West Hope. His band had been playing more and more often in Manhattan. He’d wanted to feel part of the city, not just a visitor who only knew hotel rooms and doormen and which places had room service. Jason had worked hard for his success. He’d spent too many years in and out of unpleasant bars and lounges, he’d said; he worried about money all the time. Sarah had tried to tell him that money didn’t matter, but it did to him. He was a product of an affluent upbringing, after all. Those values and those measures of what constituted success were never far from him, any more than her values were far from her. Still, she could not, would not hold him back.
“Everything’s fine,” she replied. “Quiet.” She twisted the phone cord. “How did New Year’s go?”
“Great. We did a gig in the Village, then went back last night.”
“Burch went to Times Square.”
Jason laughed. He had a wonderful, infectious laugh that sounded as if it should come from a fat, jolly man, not from someone who ate only vegan and worked out every day. “Yeah. He went with Glen and Glen’s mother. Don’t worry, she’s a normal parent. She’s a schoolteacher.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Sarah lied. She worried about Burch every day, worried for his safety, worried about his health. When he was nine he’d had appendicitis. What if something like that happened again? Would Jason know enough to take him to a hospital?
Worried? Of course she worried. She worried that Burch would become more acclimated to life in New York and would never want to come home.
She squared her shoulders, sucked in a small breath. “And then last night you took him to the club?” She tried not to sound angry or too protective or any of those things Jason might accuse her of.
“I brought him with me last night because I knew it wouldn’t be crowded. He had a good time. He’s turning into a great drummer.”
The teakettle whistled. Sarah went to it, poured the hot water into her mug. “Well, tell him I called. And that I’ll see him soon.” Jason had a short road trip to Cincinnati and Cleveland at the end of the month. They’d agreed that Burch would stay in West Hope while his father was away.
“Sarah?” Jason asked. “Are you doing okay?”
If only he hadn’t asked her that. If only he hadn’t asked her that, she might have been able to say good-bye and hang up and let the dog in and make her omelet and go to bed and sleep through the night. Instead, her eyes filled quickly and she tried to swallow but waited a beat too long. “Sure, I’m okay,” she answered, but she knew that Jason had sensed otherwise, because he paused too long too, then he simply said, “Well, good.” Then there was a silence so long and so heavy it couldn’t be penetrated even with one of Elaine’s new, professional-chef, never-needs-sharpening knives.
“I’m okay, Jason,” Sarah said again. “Lonely, though. I miss you both.”
“We miss you too.”
In the silence that lingered, she wondered why on earth she hadn’t gone with them. Was it really that important to stay inside herself, to be a lonely, long-suffering recluse?
Because she did not belong with the Cherokee.
Because she did not belong with anyone.
Except maybe with the mystery woman who was supposedly her mother.
Suddenly she laughed, because laughter was more acceptable than tears. “Give Burch a kiss for me.”
“Oh, right, I’m sure he’d let me.” Then Jason laughed and said good-bye, and Sarah hung up and took her tea to the empty fireplace. She knew she’d spend the night right there again, without a decent dinner, without any warmth, without her son or the only man she’d ever let herself love. With only her present and her past, which she didn’t really even know.
9
Does John know about this?” It was Frannie Cassidy, John Benson’s assistant at Buzz magazine.
Andrew looked out the kitchen window at his daughter, who was strutting gaily down the driveway toward the school bus stop. The air was quiet, the sky was pewter and foreboding; it was going to snow. He was surprised they hadn’t closed
the school, but, he reminded himself with a chuckle, New Englanders were heartier than New York City folks. He only hoped the white stuff would arrive early enough to be cleared out on Thursday and make traveling safe for the guests at the party Friday afternoon. “If you mean did I tell John it would be my last column, the answer’s no,” he said into his cell phone.
“Well, gosh,” Frannie said, “he’s in Rio, you know?” Her mousy voice went up and down like a seesaw in Central Park.
“Ah, yes. I know. But what I’ve written is for real, Frannie.”
“Can’t you hold off until John gets back? I hate to call and upset him—and Irene. Gosh, Andrew, it’s their second honeymoon.”
Andrew didn’t say that John and Irene had renewed their wedding vows only because Andrew saw it as an opportunity to help the women at Second Chances. It had not been a romantic urge on John’s part, but rather a business proposition as payback for Andrew’s “Real Women” column.
Outside the cottage now, the big yellow bus lumbered to a stop, and the folding door screeched open. Cassie turned and waved; Andrew sent back the gesture. “John will handle it,” he said.
“But what about our revenues?” She laughed a frightened laugh, as if trying to convince him that without his column the magazine would go to hell. “Between you and me,” she added, her voice changing to hush-hush, “you’re the reason any of us here still have jobs.”
Frannie, of course, should be able to get a job most anywhere with her Masters in finance from Princeton and her ten years of dedication as John’s right hand and his left. Her appearance, however, did not enhance her résumé: She was small and twittery and always looked to be in pain.
“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”
“Please, Andrew.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, if you don’t want to keep doing research, can’t you just make it up?”
“I’m a journalist, Frannie. I write fact, not fiction.”
“But how will you earn a living?”
So far, he hadn’t let himself think too much about that, hadn’t, until now, needed to lose sleep over his finances. He had a small portfolio that his parents left to him, but he’d vowed to save it for Cassie. Despite a hefty salary in his years of television, he hadn’t accumulated very much—Patty’s lifestyle had seen to that. His greatest remaining asset was his brain, though he wondered if that would now disintegrate as quickly as his bank account. He shook his head and said, “Thanks for your concern, Frannie, but I’ll be fine. I won’t write another ‘Real Women’ column. That’s all I have to say.”
“But we’re having the editorial meeting this morning. I won’t know what to say.” He pictured her blinking quickly, leaning forward on her desk, tapping a nervous pencil.
It always amazed Andrew that such savvy, go-getting business people could so easily be rattled. “Tell them I am finished. That I fulfilled my verbal contract.” The editorial meeting would most likely be held in the large conference room, where, against the row of tinted, floor-to-ceiling-length windows, the Manhattan high-rise skyline was pasted like wallpaper. The meeting would not go well. Around the long glass table, the self-important crowd of those in charge (mostly young, mostly gym-sculptured bodies, mostly in unironed clothes that were gray or black and either too baggy or extremely tight) would sip from water bottles and ruminate about the options: They could continue publishing the magazine as if the column never existed; they could hire a ghostwriter with half the talent at half the salary; they could sue the bastard Andrew Kennedy, how dare he do this while John Benson was away.
The tap-tapping continued. “I thought you were supposed to write the column for a year.”
He was surprised Frannie knew that. The discussion, Andrew thought, had been between him and John, two old friends. “I counteroffered with six months. It’s been seven.” They’d shaken hands. Should he say that?
“But you’re giving him no warning.” Her tone took on more edge as the meeting time approached.
“Look, Frannie, the job is over. I can no longer be objective.” He didn’t need to elaborate; she’d read the column, so she knew about the new woman in his life.
For a moment Frannie said nothing. He wondered if they’d been disconnected or if his cell phone had run out of juice.
Then she said, “No, Andrew, you’re not being fair. Just because you’ve fallen in love, why should you take it out on us?” She said “fallen in love” as if he’d contracted bird flu.
“Frannie, look. I’m sorry. This is nothing personal.”
He heard what resembled a faint hiss over the line. Then Frannie said, “Andrew David, or Andrew Kennedy, or whatever your name is, I can only say that speaking on behalf of the entire editorial staff at Buzz magazine, I hope the woman dumps you.” She slammed down the receiver, leaving Andrew standing in the kitchen, his eardrum reverberating.
“I have a moral dilemma,” Andrew said to Jo. They were lying in her bed, naked flesh to naked flesh, bodies still getting to know each other. She was smiling, happy—glowing, she supposed. “John’s assistant is furious that I resigned. She said I’m the reason they all have jobs at Buzz. Am I being too unfair?”
It was, of course, amusing that Andrew was asking Jo about the niceties of something that had been the great deceit of their relationship. She scooted closer, stroked his shoulder. She was glad he’d come for a prework visit after Cassie had gone to school, that he’d dodged the early specks of frozen precipitation for a chance to be with her. There was something softly sensual about sex in the morning, even though after-sleep meant knotted hair and tangled sheets and natural body scents, and the morning light—though muted now by the low ceiling of clouds—could be so unforgiving. Yet it didn’t seem to matter, at least not to Andrew, the compassionate, passionate lover that Jo had once dreamed Brian would have been.
“Do you still feel you have something to contribute?” she asked. “About real women?”
He slung one leg across her hip and gently cupped her breasts. “I’m more confused than ever. The world hardly needs to hear that.”
Jo laughed. She realized she had laughed more in the past few days than she had in years. Years! She had felt more content, more at peace, than she ever had imagined she was capable of feeling. Love, she supposed it was. The real thing. At last. “Well, I don’t care what you do. As long as your readers don’t think you’re for sale. As long as you don’t tell them”—she reached down and took his penis in her hand—“about this,” she said, then kissed his throat, “…or this,” she said, then wriggled her way below his waist and took him in her mouth, “…or this.”
He let her bring him back to hardness. Then he pulled her up to him and wrapped himself around her. “She said she hopes you’ll dump me.”
Jo closed her eyes and laughed again. “Why? So she can have you?”
He kissed her. “No chance,” he said, then entered her again.
And Jo thought about the weightless joy of true love and how this was definitely it.
When she’d finally gone to bed the night before, Sarah forgot to set the alarm clock. She awoke to the phone ringing at ten o’clock: It was Lily, telling her not to bother to come in if she had thought she might, that Andrew called to say the roads were already slippery and that they should all stay home.
Sarah peeked out the window at a nasty clash of snow and ice and wind, which Lily said had been building for the past hour or so. It was the kind of day meant for staying home bundled in wool blankets, reading books, and drinking steamy mugs of hot chocolate.
Sarah, however, might lose her mind if she had to stay inside today.
She quickly showered and dressed in leggings and a thick sweater and her lined boots from L.L. Bean. She donned her storm coat with the hood, piled her hair up under a knit hat, grabbed her big leather purse, and headed out the door. Elton had the sense to want to stay inside. Then again, Sarah mused as she shielded her face from the spitting, freezing-needle glaze and
trundled through a quickly accumulating crust, Elton did not need to distract himself from Cherokees who lived or mothers who were dead, from men who were happier without her or sons who were as well. Elton did not need to try to keep his mind off his entire life.
She yanked open the nearly frozen driver’s door, flung her purse across the seat, then climbed into the truck. She sat a moment, shivering, then turned over the ignition and cranked up the defrost; it would be easier to sit there than to sweep and scrape the windshield. She drummed her glove-covered fingers on the steering wheel, waited for warmth, and tried to focus on the weddings that were imminent. Which would require the most work? The most preplanning? And what if Valentine’s Day turned out like this day? What would they need to prepare for the couple on the mountaintop? What special needs would the wheelchair bride—Julie Pearl—have?
Sarah turned on the windshield wipers, but they groaned under the frozen layer. She flicked off the switch and thought about what it might be like to be in a wheelchair, trapped in a world dependent on motion, where it was expected for everyone to move swiftly and with purpose and to stand up for oneself.
Sarah realized it would not be fair to Julie to have the groom standing at the altar while she was seated next to him. Not the groom, nor the wedding party, nor even, good grief, the priest himself should be standing up, looking down upon the bride.
She should make a note of that. She reached across the seat where the corner of a piece of paper stuck out from beneath her purse. Without another thought, she pulled out the paper, which turned out to be a brochure. The brochure from the Hilltop Bed and Breakfast, where Sutter Jones was staying.
She stared at it a moment, then said, “Damn,” and threw it on the floor.
She pushed out a puff of frosty breath, turned on the wipers once again. Slowly, they arced across the windshield, moving melting snow and ice as if it were a wide-shouldered mountain in the Sierra Nevada range.
Sarah thought about the burnished skin, the sharp-angled nose, the square, straight shoulders of Sutter Jones. They were the features of her father too, and her male cousins, even unpleasant Douglas, and of Red Elk.
