The Cherokee Rose. Tiya Miles

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СКАЧАТЬ I hope it can be read to you, for when we last saw one another, neither of us could speak or read the English language. My mind turns to you on this tenth anniversary of the death of my godmother in Christ. I could not accept the loss of her then, as I could not, a lifetime ago, accept the loss of you.

      I do not blame you, Mother. Do not blame yourself. You had no means to feed me. The mission school at the fort took me in and placed me among their pupils. At the tender age of eleven years, I was one of the eldest. I learned the ways of civilization and tried my best to be good, but ghosts haunted me at the school; ghouls grasped at me. They pulled my gown in the dark, split my braids in two, unfolded my insides, and stole me from myself. I had a child. She did not survive. What was I to do?

      I set the place on fire and watched it burn. They would not let me return to you, would not let me see your face, even when you came to beg for my return, even when my uncle came dressed in white men’s clothing to strengthen your entreaties.

      And so I was exiled to the Cherokee Rose and given the gift of a second family. I have lately heard the news from my godfather that our lands in Alabama will soon be claimed by that same ravenous horde who settled our lands within the borders of Georgia, and that more of our people will go west. I cannot come to you, Mother, despite my affection, which forever abides. I must remain here always, to do the Lord’s work and tend the graves of my other mothers. Even as I write you, I sit in my godmother’s chair, reading the pages of her Bible, worn from the tread of her finger: “Whither thou goest I will go, and whither thou lodgest I will lodge. Thou people shall be my people and thy God my God. Whither thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”

      I seek only to do the bidding of the Lord. I pray that you and my uncle are safe, that my brothers and sisters care for you even as I would have done. I pray that the new land in the West is fertile and rich and that a future may be possible for our people.

      Yours forever in the wounds of Christ Jesus,

      MAB

      Jinx dragged her eyes from the page. MAB. Mary Ann Battis.

      Deb Tom was watching her with that same intense stare. “We’ve been waiting over two hundred years to learn what became of our Mary Ann. That’s damn sure long enough, even on Indian time. I think you’re the one who can find out. The question is, will you?”

      Deb was not the first person to ask Jinx for information in the five years since she had been back in Oklahoma. Right away, people had started coming to her with their research questions. “Your great-aunt Angie used to say you’d know this,” they’d begin as they put a question to her about a fifth cousin, once removed. “Your aunt Angie said to ask you, if she wasn’t here,” they’d explain when they inquired about a rift on the nineteenth-century Tribal Council. That was how Jinx came to know that she had inherited not only a house but a role as well: family historian. Because the Creek Nation was one big family of families, all interwoven through the cartilage of kinship and history, and because Jinx was not just Creek, but Cherokee, too, on her father’s side, the role of family historian could be the work of a lifetime. Aunt Angie had devoted herself to the study of history. Jinx had failed at it.

      Jinx replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Deb without speaking. She reached inside her pocket for a ten-dollar bill, placed it on the counter, and took one last long swig of Coke. Beneath the tinkling of the diner’s bell, she made her escape.

      c

      “Are you going to Deb’s tonight?” Jinx’s cousin Victor said on the telephone.

      Jinx had spent the afternoon on the back porch of the bungalow typing up her column. Now she was in the living room fiddling with Aunt Angie’s ceramic figurine collection.

      “I’m getting a little tired of Deb’s cooking. I thought I might go to Applebee’s or cook at home. Do you and Berta want to come over? I can make Indian tacos.”

      “Okay, spill it.” They had grown up like sister and brother, and Victor could still read her mind.

      “Long story or short?” Jinx fingered the fringe on her cutoff blue jeans.

      “Short,” Victor said.

      “I messed up my last column and might have told only part of the truth. Deb Tom is pissed off and wants to send me out on assignment.”

      “ ‘Early Christianity in the Creek Nation.’ I read that one. A little dry, maybe, but that’s no crime. Don’t let Deb Tom push you around, Jinx. I know you feel close to her, but there are limits. You don’t need to be all torn up about some column. I mean, you didn’t lie. You didn’t slander anybody.”

      “Libel. Slander is when the defamation of a person is spoken. Libel is when it’s written.”

      “Fine, you didn’t libel anybody. What does she want, anyway, some kind of retraction?”

      “She didn’t say that, not directly. She wants me to go to the Southeast and research this girl. She wants me to find out what really happened to her.”

      “A road trip? Now you’re talking. Does Deb Tom pay mileage?”

      “You don’t think I should go, do you?” Jinx said, freezing in front of the figurine shelf.

      “I think you want to go, or you wouldn’t be upset about it. And I think you could use a vacation. You need to get out of that house. It’s like a mausoleum in there. If you don’t watch out, twenty years will pass and you’ll be on Hoarding: Buried Alive with a wall of old newspapers blocking your door. So if Deb Tom is giving you a reason to get out of there for a while, I say you should take it.”

      “I’d have to get time off from the library,” Jinx said, walking into the bedroom to pace in front of her great-aunt’s dresser mirror.

      “If you give me a week to arrange things, I’ll come with you,” Victor said. “Where is it we’re going?”

      Jinx smiled at that. “Georgia.”

      “What? The Coca-Cola capital of the world, and Jinx Micco’s still sitting there? When do we leave?”

      “Victor, you’re a Hotshot. It’s fire season. You can’t just take off.”

      “But you can. The children’s library will make it without you for a week.”

      “The library’s not just for children, Vic. We have other programs.”

      “The Saturday ladies. Right.”

      “How is it that you always end up pissing me off?”

      “Because I know you too well, little sister. You’ve already got Monday off for the holiday, so it’s like the weekend hasn’t even started yet. Pack up your stuff and come over. We’ll chart your route on MapQuest.”

      c

      Jinx wheedled a week’s vacation out of Marjorie and spent the late afternoon making plans in Victor’s trailer. If she got as far as the Arkansas border tonight, then did just six hours a day, she would have two days each way for travel and four days in between for the research.

      Back at the bungalow, she packed a nylon duffle bag with T-shirts, cargo pants, underwear, and athletic socks. She stuffed her orange canvas messenger bag with the СКАЧАТЬ