by Amy Harmon
“Where's Jimmy, Icas?” I questioned as his body trembled and he slumped to the dirt. He looked at me mournfully and closed his bleary eyes. He whined pathetically and then was silent. Several times throughout the day, I thought Icas was dead. He was so still I had to get close and check to see if he was breathing. I couldn't rouse him to eat or drink.
I waited for two more days. The water in the camper tank was almost gone. I still had food. Jimmy and I were frugal, and there were weeks at a time between trips to the store. But we were frequently on the move, and we had been in this spot for a week before Jimmy had disappeared. What finally forced me into going for help was Icas. He ate a little bit and drank a little more, but he was lethargic and whined softly when he was conscious, as if he knew something he was unable to communicate. On the morning of the third day, I picked up the dog and hoisted him into the truck. Then I climbed up behind the wheel, scooting the seat as far forward as it would go. I left Jimmy a note on the little table in the camper kitchen. If he came back, I didn't want him to think I'd run away and taken all his tools. I didn't dare leave them behind. If someone happened along our campsite, I knew the lock on the door wouldn't keep anyone out, and if the tools were taken, there would be no more carving. No more carving meant no more food.
There was a twenty dollar bill in the ashtray. It seemed like a lot of money to a kid. I knew how to drive the truck, but I struggled to see over the steering wheel. I grabbed the pillow from the bench that folded down into my narrow bed each night. Sitting on it gave me just enough height to see the road beyond the wheel. Once I was out of the quiet canyon we had been camped in, I narrowly missed colliding with several cars. My driving experience didn't extend to driving among other vehicles. I didn't know where I was going, but I figured if I stopped at any gas station and told them my dog was sick and my dad was missing, someone would help me.
I managed to keep the truck going in a straight line, but it wasn't long after I'd started seeing homes crop up in ever increasing patches that flashing blue and red lights pulled up behind me. I didn't know what to do. So I just kept driving. I tried pushing the gas pedal down harder, thinking maybe I could speed up and get away. That didn't work very well. Plus, the truck started to shake the way it always did when Jimmy tried to push it to go faster. I slowed down and thought maybe if I went really slow the police car would just pass me by. I slowed way down, and the police car came up beside me. The man behind the wheel looked angry and waved at me with his whole arm, as if telling me to scoot over. I scooted and came to a rumbling stop. Another car with flashing lights came speeding toward me from the other direction.
I screamed, now convinced that I had made a terrible mistake. Icas didn't even stir. I comforted him anyway. “It's okay, boy, it's okay. I'm just a kid. I don't think I will go to prison.” I wasn't entirely sure of that, but I said it all the same. No reason to make Icas worry.
My door was wrenched open, and the cop who had been waving wildly for me to pull over was standing there, his legs and arms spread, making him seem very big and very scary.
“Hi there.” I smiled nervously. Sweetness usually worked on Jimmy.
“I need you to get out of the truck, Miss.” The officer had muscles popping out from his sleeves and a handsome face framed in sandy hair, neatly parted and brushed off his face.
“I'd rather not leave my dog, Mister,” I replied and didn't move a muscle. “He bites strangers. And you are a stranger. I wouldn't want you to get chewed up.” Icas looked like a bean bag with a dog head, lolling on the seat. Nobody was going to get chewed, unfortunately. I poked at him in frustration. “Icas?”
The policeman looked at Icas and then back at me. “I think I'll be okay. Please step out of the truck, Miss.”
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, staring him down. “You haven't even asked me for my driver's license.” I knew that's what cops were supposed to do. Jimmy had been pulled over about a year ago because his truck had a broken headlight, and that police officer had asked him for his license first thing.
“How old are you, kid?” the officer sighed.
“Old enough to drive . . . most likely,” I said, trying to sound believable.
Another policeman joined the first just beyond the opened driver side door. He was tall and very thin, and his head was bald on top. The sun shone off it like glass, and I looked away wincing. I told myself that was why my eyes were wet and smarting.
“Plates and Vin say the vehicle belongs to a James Echohawk.”
At the mention of Jimmy's name, my heart lurched and the smarting in my eyes intensified. The moisture escaped and started sliding down my cheeks. I swiped at the water and tried to pretend it was the heat.
“Shoot! It sure is a hot day! Look at me, sweating all over the place.”
“What's your name, kid?” The skinny officer had a deep voice totally at odds with his appearance. He almost sounded like a frog.
“Blue,” I replied, my bluster fading fast.
“Blue?”
“Yes. Blue . . . Echohawk,” I mumbled. My lips trembled.
“All right, uh, Blue. Does your dad know you've got his truck?”
“I can't find him.”
The officers looked at each other and then back at me.
“What do you mean?”
“I can't find him,” I repeated angrily. “We were camping, and he said he would be back. Icas came home, but he didn't. He's been gone for a lot of days and Icas is acting all sick and the water is almost gone in the tank, and I'm scared he isn't coming back.”
“Icas is the dog, right?” The sandy-haired, muscley policeman pointed at Icas, who had yet to even open an eye.
“Yes,” I whispered, trying desperately not to cry. Saying the words out loud made them real and terrible. Jimmy was missing. He was gone. What in the world would happen to me? I was a kid. I couldn't help it if worry for myself was equally as terrifying as worry for Jimmy.
They coaxed me out of the truck, although at the last minute I remembered the duffel bag I had filled with tools. I ran back to the truck and dragged it out from behind the front seat. It was extremely heavy, and I ended up dragging it behind me. The muscle-bound police officer had lifted Icas from the passenger side, and was looking at him with a furrowed brow. He looked at me as if he wanted to speak, thought better of it, and laid the dog gently in the back of his cruiser.
“What in the world . . .” The skinny officer, whose name I learned was Izzard – like lizard without the L – tried to lift the duffel and didn't put enough heft into his effort. “What've you got in here?”
“Tools,” I clipped. “And I'm not leavin' 'em.”
“Okaaaaay,” he hedged, looking at the other officer.
“Come on Iz. Just put them back here with the killer dog.”
They both laughed, like it was a big funny game. I stopped and stared at them, glaring from one man to the other, thrusting my chin up and out, daring them to continue. Amazingly, their laughter died off, and Izzard lifted the tools in beside Icas.
I rode in the front of the car with Mr. Muscles, also known as Officer Bowles, and Officer Izzard followed behind us. Officer Bowles radioed a message to someone, telling them about the vehicle and saying some numbers I didn't understand. It was obviously a code for “what do I do with this crazy kid?”
I was able to show them where our camper was. It was just a straight shot back up into the hills. I hadn't turned right or left coming down from the canyon because I was afraid I wouldn't remember how to get back. But Jimmy had not miraculously returned in my absence. My note lay on the table where I had left it.
They ended up calling in some guys they called search and rescue. That sounded good to me – searching and rescuing – and I felt hopeful for the first time in days. They asked me for a description of my dad. I told them he wasn't as tall as Izzard but was probably a little taller than Officer Bowles, just not as “thick.” Officer Izzard thought it was funny that I called Officer
Bowles thick. Officer Bowles and I just ignored him. I told them he had black and grey hair that he always wore in two braids. When I reminded them that his name was Jimmy and asked them if they would please find him, I had to stop talking for fear that I would cry. Jimmy never cried, so I wouldn't either.
They did search. They searched for about a week. I stayed at a house where there were six other kids. The parents were nice, and I got to eat pizza for the first time. I went to church three Sundays in a row and sang songs about a guy named Jesus, which I rather enjoyed. I asked the lady who led us in singing if she knew any songs by Willie Nelson. She didn't. It was probably good that she didn't. Singing Willie songs might have made me miss Jimmy too much. The house where I stayed was a foster home, a house for kids who didn't have anywhere else to go. And that was me. I didn't have anywhere else to go. I'd been questioned by a social worker, trying to figure out who I was. I hadn't known Jimmy wasn't my father at that point. He had never explained it to me. Apparently, my identity was a mystery.
“Can you tell me anything about your mother?” The social worker had asked me. The question was gentle, but I wasn't fooled into thinking I didn't have to answer it.
“She's dead.” I knew that much.
“Do you remember her name?”
I had asked Jimmy once what my mother's name was. He had said he didn't know. He said I had called her Mama, like most two-year-olds do. It sounds unbelievable. But I was just a kid, accepting and unsuspicious. Jimmy had a little black and white TV with rabbit ears that I watched in the trailer. It picked up whatever the local PBS station was, and that was about it. That was my exposure to the outside world. Sesame Street, Arthur, and the Antiques Roadshow. I didn't understand the nature of relations between men and women. I knew nothing of babies. Babies were hatched, delivered by storks, purchased at the hospitals. I had no concept that my father not knowing my mother's name was beyond odd.
“I called her Mama.”
The lady's eyes squinted, and she got a meanish look on her face. “You know that's not what I meant. Surely your father knew her name and would have told you.”
“No. He didn't. He didn't know her very well. She just left me with him one day and split. Then she died.”
“So they were never married?”
“Nope.”
“Why do you call him Jimmy and not Dad?”
“I don't know. I guess he just wasn't that kinda dad. Sometimes I called him Dad. But mostly he was just Jimmy.”
“Do you know your aunt?”
“I have an aunt?”
“Cheryl Sheevers. It's her address listed on your father's information. She's your father's half-sister.”
“Cheryl?” Memories rose up. An apartment. We'd been there a couple of times. Never stayed long. I usually waited in the truck. The one time I'd seen Cheryl, I had been sick. Jimmy had been worried and brought me to her apartment. She got me some medicine . . . antibiotics, she had called them.
“I don't know her very well,” I offered.
The lady sighed and laid down her pen. She ran her fingers through her hair. She needed to stop doing that. Her hair was all fuzzy and starting to stand on end. I almost offered to braid it for her. I was a good braider. But I didn't think she would let me, so I was quiet.
“No birth certificate, no immunization record . . . no school records . . . what am I supposed to do with this? It's like freakin' baby Moses, I swear.” The lady was mumbling to herself, the way Jimmy did sometimes when he was making a list for the store.
I told the social worker that Jimmy had some family on a reservation in Oklahoma but that they didn't know me. It turned out I was right. Social services tracked them down. They didn't know anything about me and didn't want anything to do with me. That was okay with me. Oklahoma was very far away, and I needed to be close by when they found Jimmy. The cops interviewed Cheryl. She told me later that they “grilled her.” Cheryl lived in Boulder City, not far from where I was staying in the foster home. And amazingly enough, Cheryl said she would take me in.
Her name wasn't Echohawk. It was Sheevers, but I guess that didn't matter. She didn't really look like Jimmy, either. Her skin wasn't as brown and her hair was dyed in various shades of blonde. She wore so much makeup it was hard to tell what she really looked like beneath the layers. The first time I met her, I squinted at her, trying to see the “real her,” the way Jimmy had taught me to do with wood, picturing something beautiful beneath the crusty exterior. It was easier to do with the wood, I'm sorry to say. The officers let me keep Jimmy's tools, but they took Icas to an animal shelter. They said he would be able to see a doctor, but I was very afraid that Icas couldn't be fixed. He was broken for good. I felt broken too, but nobody could tell.
Chapter Five
“When the ancient Romans would conquer a new place or a new people, they would leave the language and the customs in tact – they would even let the conquered people rule themselves in most cases, appointing a governor to maintain a foothold in the region.” Wilson leaned against the whiteboard as he spoke, his posture relaxed, his hands clasped loosely.
“This was part of what made Rome so successful. They didn't try to make everyone Romans in the process of conquering them. When I went to Africa with the Peace Corp, a woman who worked with the Corp said something to me that I have often thought about since. She told me 'Africa is not going to adapt to you. You are going to have to adapt to Africa.' That is true of wherever you go, whether it's school or whether it's in the broader world.
“When I moved to the States at sixteen, I had my eyes opened to the differences in our language, and I had to adapt to America. I couldn't expect people to understand me or make allowances for the differences in our language and culture. Americans may speak English, but there are regional accents and phrases, different spellings, different terminology for almost everything. I remember the first time I asked someone on campus if they had a fag. It's a good thing I didn't get pounded. In Blighty, a fag is a cigarette, and I was going through a stage where I fancied smoking. I thought it made me look older and sophisticated, see.”
“What's Blighty?” someone asked amid the snickers that had erupted when Wilson said fag.
“Blighty is a nickname for Britain. We have nicknames and phrases that would make absolutely no sense at all to any of you. In fact you might need a translater for a while if you lived in London for any length of time, just like I did when I came here. Luckily, I had a couple mates that looked out for me at Uni. I've had years to become Americanized, but I find that old habits die hard, so I thought you might like to hear some British slang. That way if I slip and say something wonky, you'll have an idea of what I'm referring to.
“For instance, in Britain we call an attractive girl a fit bird. It works for blokes as well. You might say that's a dishy bloke or a dishy bird. We would also say scrummy – which I suppose comes from the word scrumptious. Food is scrummy, naps are scrummy, books are scrummy. You get the idea. And if we like something we say we fancy it. If you fancy a scrummy bird you see at a do or a party, you might try to chat her up or flirt with her. If I were to call you a twit or a tosser I would be calling you an idiot or a jerk. If I were to say you looked smart, I would be referring to your clothing, not your intelligence. If you're daft or nutters or barmy it means you're crazy. And if someone is brassed off or cheesed off in England, it means they're fed up or angry. Not pissed, mind you, that means drunk. We don't say trash or garbage, we say rubbish. And, of course, we swear differently, although we have adopted many of the curse words your mother would object to.”
“You say bloody and bugger and blast, right?” someone volunteered from the back of the room.
“Among other things.” Wilson tried to keep a straight face as he continued.
“We don't 'call' our chums on the phone, we give them a ring or a bell. We also don't have hoods and trunks on our cars, we have bonnets and boots. We don't have bars, we have pubs. We don't have vacumns, we have hoovers, and
an umbrella is a brolly. Which, by the way, you must have in England. It's cold, and it's wet. After spending two years in Africa, the thought of going back to Manchester was not appealing. I discovered I loved the sun in large doses. So, although I will always consider myself an Englishman, I don't think I'll ever live in England again.”
“Tell us some more!” Chrissy giggled.
“Well, if something is ace or brill it means it is cool or awesome,” Wilson added. “If I were in London, I might greet you by saying 'All right?' And you would respond with 'All right?' It basically means 'What's up?' or 'Hello, how are you?' and it doesn't demand a response.”
Immediately, the whole class started asking each other 'All right?' with terrible British accents, and Mr. Wilson continued over the top of the chaos, raising his voice a little to rein the class back in.
“If something is wonky or dodgy, it means it's not right, or it feels suspicious. Your latest score on your test may strike me as a bit dodgy if you have failed all of your previous exams.
“In Yorkshire, if someone says you don't get owt for nowt, they would mean, you don't get anything for nothing . . . or you get what you pay for. If I tell you to chivvy along, it means I want you to hurry, and if I tell you to clear off, it means I want you to get lost. If someone is dim they're stupid, if something is dull it's boring. A knife isn't dull, mind you. It's blunt, so get it right.” Wilson smiled out at the rapt faces of thirty students, rapidly taking notes on British slang. It was as if the Beatles had invaded America once more. I knew I was going to be hearing “chivvy along”, and “she's a fit bird”, in the hallways for the rest of the year.
Wilson was just warming up. “If you diddle someone, it means you ripped them off. If something is a doddle it means it's a cinch, or it's really easy. If you drop a clanger, it means you've stuck your foot in your mouth. Like asking a woman if she's up the duff, which means pregnant, to find out she's just a bit fat.”
