Part 12 (1/2)
”My dad took a job out here in the canneries, but then ran off with some woman and we never saw him again. He never wrote. Nothing. My mom, she brought me out to Seattle and we went looking for him. But we ran out of money and no one would take us in, so we had to sleep in the street. She got an infection in her hip from living out-of-doors and couldn't take care of me and had to say goodbye. She said I should forgive him for running away and that I'd understand these things when I got older, but I hated him-I still hate him. I hate his name too-so much that I refuse to say it, even to this day. Growing up on the reservation, I always wished I had a name like Sunny Goes Ahead or Sunny Not Afraid. So when the sisters came for me, I gave up on him and chose a tougher name, Sixkiller, hoping the other kids wouldn't mess with me. I read the name in a book one time. It's Cherokee, but I'm from the Crow res. I'm not from anywhere, anymore. No one around here knows the difference anyway. I'm just another prairie n.i.g.g.e.r.”
William paused to take it all in.
”I'm sorry, Sunny.”
”It's okay, Will. You know how it is now. And Charlotte, she probably knows this better than anyone. I mean, her dad went to jail and all, but I heard he was worse than that. I heard he used to do things-kiss her while she was sleeping. How creepy is that?”
William felt sick to his stomach.
”We don't get to choose our parents,” Sunny said. ”If we did, some of us might choose never to be born at all.”
Charlotte's Eyes.
(1934).
William woke to another gloomy, drizzly morning, the sun hidden beyond an overcast sky, pale and cadaverous. He s.h.i.+vered as he peered through the October mists of Puget Sound. The horizon was a wet blanket of gray, without any real definition. Just fog and haze. The inverted weather system was perpetually coiled up, ready to sneeze.
When William arrived in his main cla.s.sroom, someone handed him a note. He recognized Sister Briganti's handwriting immediately. The note was actually an exhaustive list of cleaning duties to fulfill before he could return to cla.s.s. Evidently he would learn the broom and the coal shovel, and study the was.h.i.+ng board and the scrub brush, long before he'd be reconsidered as a suitable candidate for book learning.
Is this to keep me away from the other kids, or to keep me away from Charlotte? William wondered as he found himself mopping the second floor of the main school building, slos.h.i.+ng soapy water about the wooden surface. He thought about his estranged father as he worked on an old, stubborn shoe-polish stain, and he remembered the startled, stricken, distant expression on his mother's face when she'd first seen him. He debated whether she was an actress who occasionally played the role of a mother, or a mother who was given to acting. In his memories she was a lioness, but in reality, she was meek, tamed, caged.
He was wringing dirty water from the mop when he heard excited whispers and the squeaking, rasping sounds of metal chairs on a wooden floor. He peeked into a half-empty history cla.s.sroom where students had been working on extra-credit projects. They had all left their books open and their papers on their desks and rushed to the windows, crowding in closer for a better look.
”What is it?” William asked anyone who might be listening.
”Get in here and check it out for yourself,” Dante answered without turning around. ”That must be him down there-the joker's a day early.”
”Who?” William asked as he walked toward the window.
Dante looked over his shoulder and said, ”Charlotte's papa.”
”I heard he's an ex-con that got let out after Prohibition,” another boy said. ”He just got out of prison, Walla Walla or Sing Sing ...”
”He doesn't look that scary,” a girl added.
William looked down into the courtyard, where he saw a slender man standing next to a DeSoto coupe with white-rimmed tires. The man was chatting pleasantly with Sister Briganti. William thought that he didn't look like a felon or a monster either; he wore a suit and tie but didn't have a hat. In general, he looked like an average father.
William ran downstairs and lingered near the front door with a dozen other onlookers-boys mostly, who'd been fascinated by the thought of a hardened criminal paying a visit to Sacred Heart.
”Don't look him in the eye,” one of the boys said.
”He doesn't look that tough,” someone retorted.
”Is that him, is that really Charlotte's dad?” William asked, but he didn't need to hear an answer. As the man walked toward the wide double doors, it was clear by his nose, his cheekbones, his hair, even his smile-he was the spitting image of Charlotte, which was comforting and yet disturbing. William had expected a bald, tattooed ogre of a man, with visible scars, wearing a blue, sweat-stained work s.h.i.+rt. He had pictured Mr. Rigg with a five-day beard and chewing the unlit stump of an old cigar. Instead, this man was rail-thin and looked quite pleasant. His shoes were old but had new laces. And he carried a plush brown teddy bear beneath his arm.
”You must be William,” the man said as he walked up the steps and extended his hand.
William shook it absently. The man's grip was soft and warm and damp.
”Sister here was just telling me all about you-how you're Charlotte's comrade in arms. Like two blind mice-see how they run.”
William wasn't sure if that was a joke or an accusation, until the man smiled. William noticed that one of his front teeth was chipped. Aside from that slight imperfection, he was a handsome fellow, with a gentle, likable carriage.
”Boys and girls,” Sister Briganti announced with fanfare, ”this is Mr. Rigg-he's come to visit our good Charlotte. And next week, saints be willing, she'll be going home. Let's keep them in your prayers.”
I'll be praying that something heavy falls on this man. William thought Sister Briganti looked self-satisfied, as though this news was the fulfillment of her mission-solving familial puzzles, no matter how poorly the pieces fit back together. What about me? William thought as he stared at the stranger with freckled cheeks and a short, ruddy beard. What about my family?
The rest of the orphans looked upon the curious man with the s.h.i.+ny car as though he were Saint Christopher, the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus all rolled into one. They reached out and touched the mohair bear, petting it as the man pa.s.sed smiling through the crowded hallway.
But Charlotte wasn't among the happy children who were so easily impressed.
”William,” Sister Briganti said, ”why don't you run along and tell Mr. Rigg's daughter that her father is here and that he'll be over to visit her shortly?”
Thanks for making me the messenger of misery. William watched as she led Charlotte's father down the hall toward her office. Mr. Rigg looked back and frowned.
William knew that parents had to be interviewed before reclaiming their children. He'd seen quite a few moms and dads fail that part of the process, much to their children's disappointment. Too often parents would show up twitching, lice-ridden, or reeking of booze-demanding their sons or daughters, then leaving emptier than when they'd arrived. And sometimes a home inspection was required as well. But the whole routine seemed ridiculously unfair when compared to fresh adoptive parents, who merely had to show up and sign a few papers before taking their new children to some unknown home where they'd be living with strangers. They were unfamiliar, William mused, but they'd never given up one of their own. That obviously counted for something.
As William walked down the hall and out the door, he realized that word of Mr. Rigg's arrival had spread faster than William could travel. He overheard dozens of girls gossiping. They all seemed bitter, probably because they were jealous. Mr. Rigg's visit and Charlotte's pending departure were reminders of how much everyone else had lost and how badly they longed to have their loving parents back-their homes, their siblings-to be part of the outside world. Family reunions were fleeting, like suns.h.i.+ne on the horizon, seen from beneath perpetual clouds of cold mist and rain.
As William walked up the hill to Charlotte's cottage, the boys outside seemed giddy. But William didn't smile. He couldn't even fake it. He felt more like a postman delivering the death notice of a loved one. He heard her voice before he knocked.
”The door's open,” she said. ”Please tell me that's you, William?”
As he walked in he realized that Charlotte's cottage didn't have any lights-no lamps or curtains. She remained in shadow. Her worldview never changed.
”He's here, isn't he,” she stated. She'd been standing near the open window counting the beads on her rosary. ”It's been years, but I recognized his voice.”
William didn't know what to say. ”He has a car.”
”He shows up in a car and we all get taken for a ride.”
William shook his head. Sister Briganti had once shared that unwed mothers received a government stipend each month. William wasn't sure if such a thing applied to fathers-probably not, but perhaps because Charlotte was sightless he would somehow be compensated in her mother's absence.
”He looks nice enough,” William said, hoping to ease the tension.
”You don't know him like I do. He's not an honorable person,” Charlotte said. ”How would you feel if your uncle Leo showed up and wanted you back-wanted to suddenly have a son and be a father and play house after all these years?”
Would it be much worse than this? William didn't have an answer for such a d.a.m.ning question. He'd shared his mother's story about Uncle Leo with Charlotte, but he never considered the possibility of his showing up. He supposed he'd run away again-William planned to anyway, regardless of the hazards. He desperately wanted to reconnect with his ah-ma; even if she didn't want him, he would speak to her, face-to-face. He needed answers. But he didn't want to leave Charlotte either, not now. ”Maybe when you leave ...”
”I told you, William, I'm not leaving.”
He corrected himself. ”If you leave.” He paused, waiting for her to argue. ”And if you're on the outside, I can come visit you. I'm leaving anyway. I have to see Willow again. If she takes me back, maybe I can help you ...”
William heard a knock on the door and saw Charlotte's body stiffen.