Celia's Song (11 page)

After
1954
, Momma cooked. She cleaned. She fed her children, but she never played with them like the moms across the river. Like her mother before her, work became her life. Water had to be hauled from the well; wood had to be hauled off the mountain, bucked up into fire logs, shakes, and kindling; water had to be heated in gigantic tubs every day for all sorts of washing.

Tuberculosis dogged the villagers then. It seemed like every week they were headed to some relative's to bring the children of the sick home to be tended while their mothers tried to rest and recover. When they did not recover, the children were divided up among relatives. Momma's mother raised two of Momma's cousins.

Momma and her mother had always done things together: sewing, weaving, knitting, berry picking, fishing, canning, feasting, laughing, sharing stories of caring, of fighting, of sharing; but not playing. From the cradle to the grave, Momma was handy underfoot and completely understandable to her mother. Stacey and Jim showed Momma the work they did at school. Gramma, Momma, Stacey, and Jim had become a unit. Even though Gramma brought Celia over to Momma's almost daily, Celia never became part of that family unit. Momma remembers that she had been a little jealous that her children had the privilege of learning about these people and their chicken tracks that lit up memories. She had wondered how they managed to carve their little tracks onto paper that was so smooth you could barely feel the letters. Her childhood had been filled with the same old same old that had still consumed her life up to then. Maybe when Stacey taught her to read it closed the gap for them. Jim had helped Stacey with that summer reading business, but Celia had been too young to help.

Celia went to school, like her brothers and sisters, but she didn't live with Momma after Stacey left. She stayed with Gramma until she died.

Momma chuckles at the pettiness that jammed a wedge between herself and Celia; she decides she ought to grow up. Maybe then Celia will share her life more freely. It doesn't dawn on Momma that Celia didn't want to be sent away, that she might harbour resentment over it.

Momma jumps up, lights a candle, and rummages around in the
top right-hand drawer of the dresser she reserves for important papers. There, carefully wrapped in see-through sticky shelf paper, is the picture.

“Ooh,” Celia sighs, as though she is looking at someone's fine art. It is beautiful. The picture's colours are carefully shadowed. Even the window is three-dimensional. Momma still has her youthful shape. The shaded colours give her face and body definition and depth. The jar has a pale yellow halo around it that bleeds into the ordinary sunlight of the room. Each peach slice stands alone in its colour and character. Celia has more of her pictures at home in an old box with a carved lid.

“I have more,” she says.

“Yeah?” Momma is surprised at the secret life this child has maintained.

“At home. Old ones. No recent ones.” Celia grins sheepishly. “Not many.”

“Let's look at them on Monday. At your house.”

Celia stares at her mother for a second before answering, “Okay.” She is surprised at her mother's sudden curiosity about her paintings. And it is the first time Momma has asked to come over to her house.

“You sure you don't want to add some work to that, maybe do some of my dishes while you're there?” They chuckle.

“C'mon. I got to grow up,” Momma says, and they head for the living room.

When they enter, Momma puts her hands on her hips, scans the room, and then spots Rena. “Rena, why the hell didn't someone
tell me to grow up years ago?”

“You obviously don't know yourself well. No one who cares about themselves dares to tell you anything quite that stern, Momma.”

“I swear you're both sides of that sea serpent,” Stacey offers with a wink.

“I don't remember you handing out this kind of an invitation before now, but if you are I would be happy to rasp a little on your skin occasionally,” Ned offers, taking advantage of his wife's magnanimity.

“I am almost sixty years old and I still want to be rocked by my mom.” She urges it out into the amber-tinted room. The jagged edges in the room smooth themselves out. The candles flicker less violently; no one speaks for a moment.

“Do you girls ever want that?” she asks. No one answers.

“Whose momma are you talking about — not mine for sure,” Rena says. “No use trying to get blood from a stone. The only rocking my momma did was rocking the logs she was hauling. They would sometimes get stuck up in the trees after they were cut.
Widowmakers. She would grit her teeth, then she would tie a rope to them and we would all be at the other end rocking the upright trees until that cut log fell between the trees holding them captive.”

Rena lets this go with a rich dose of cynicism. The information falls with a thud. It lands on the shoulders of the women and makes them bend their shoulders toward the floor. Jacob tosses his cedar sprig in an abalone shell. He lights the cedar and the crackles of its pitch send its aroma twisting through the room as if it was the sweet side of that old snake.

“Maybe we have had too many reasons to need rocking. Maybe there is too much death and not enough reasons to go on living.”

Jacob might as well have thrown a hot poker into the middle of the room and made a bunch of logs stand up next to it. The words shoot through the room; they stun the women, making them sit up straight.

“There is plenty to live for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You better not be thinking …”

“Jacob! You have family.”

“You have …”

“Shut up. Shut up.” Momma cracks it out like a whip.

“Momma, is that you talking?” Ned asks, feigning innocence.

“Yes it is. I am sick of hearing people say, ‘You got family.' Where is my family? Auntie Nora was up there in the bush hauling logs. When she wasn't sawing logs she was sawing at your insides, and now she's gone. Instead of rocking her children, she was rocking trees. That was my great gramma's first daughter. Where
is her brother's son? Dead. Where is my family? Brother Ben hauled his crazy ass ten thousand miles across the ocean to kill people he didn't know for a thing called ‘freedom' that we didn't have. Where are his children? The old snake terrorized Madeline and her children. Nora's husband was my only uncle. He died before I was eight years old. Only two of Rena's sister's daughters survived and no one here has any idea where the one who left to marry whoever she married is. We don't even know if she did get married. My sister Anne's daughter was beat to death by someone who called himself a man and a husband. He was less than an old snake. Where is my family? My grandson killed himself last fall. What the hell is going on?”

Celia knows what has happened; but, unlike with Stacey, her mother has never taught her anything. Celia wants to say something, but dares not; she twirls her fingers, prays for escape into her dream world.

But I block her entry. Not now, Celia, you cannot escape now. The escape won't come. It is the first time her dream world has
failed her.

“We're here. Dis is all dere is left. We need to begin all over again, jist like after da epidemics, but we're scared.” Madeline's hands drop into her lap with a plop sound. The last faint boom of thunder had ended the storm just as Momma had opened the door to a whirlwind of rage. They were all of afraid of its size; it was so big, so justified, and so terrible that they stared in paralyzed silence, except for Madeline who had looked at it, faced it, and pointed out the obvious. They were scared. But the whirlwind
would have its way. It channelled itself into a force unto itself, and pulled them all to its hungry edges; one at a time they were drawn into the tunnel. They barrelled down through its confusion, fatigue, and loneliness. Madeline meant for them to face their fear. She had given them something to look at, some terrible side of this jewel called family, this crazy ball of wax that they all thought so perfect, and forced them to face its dark underbelly, its wrinkles, its sharp edges. Maybe Momma meant them to face it too, but no one wished to face anything that required that they face themselves. Facing the world had fatigued them. Facing the world had thrown mountains of water on their fire and there was hardly an ember of courage left for them to face themselves. They intended to stand silent for a moment, and then change the subject once Momma had calmed down. Madeline robbed them of this privilege by jumping into the maw of Momma's tornado.

“That's it,” Momma says.

“What's it?” Ned nearly growls. Neither he nor Jacob know how
to be around women whose emotional bearings have been uprooted and whose threads to the ordinary have been severed.

“We didn't begin again.”

IX

MAYBE IT IS A
full moon, maybe it is not. Maybe it is a moment of craziness, maybe it is not. Maybe the stars are peopled by strange beings, maybe they are not. None of it matters. What matters is this moment, this burning candle silhouetting this young man in front me who is feeling this sadness and wondering about the wasted life
of his cousin. I am resting at the edge of Celia's yard, lying in the line of poplars, wondering where all this is going to end up. What matters to Celia? This moment, this candle, and this young man. I feel it in her feet. Her feet want to follow her gramma's life, and the life before her gramma.

Celia wants to know what happened to her village, so she may tell this young man, his cheeks appearing burnished gold in the flicker of light, his hair purple, his hands twisting a different cedar branch.

He looks at her in hope she might be able to solve his riddle for him. Jacob feels as though he knows something; he remembers his grandpa saying that everything begins with knowing something. But he only has a feeling; the knowledge seems to elude him.

I shape-shift into owl so I can call Celia. She failed to notice me
squatting in the line of cottonwoods at the entrance to the village. I hoot, but she ignores me. She does not wish to engage me in any kind of conversation. This is disappointing. Not all messages are about death, I sigh. I am a messenger, but not all messages are
disastrous. Sometimes they are no more dangerous than a phone
call.

IN THIS VILLAGE, SATURDAYS
are full of the mundane acts of living. Grass is cut; in the old houses, wood is chopped; in the newer ones, gardens are weeded; everyone is busy with laundry and going to town to shop. The air is filled with the sort of chatter that accompanies the business of readying oneself for another week's go at life. Everyone's guard is down on Saturday.

Celia hears the crackle of Stacey's car on her gravel drive and slips into her jacket before the car stops. On her way out the door, she takes a look around; it strikes her that a year ago she would have been hollering at a half-sleeping Jimmy as she ran out the door: “Breakfast is in the fridge. Don't forget to mow the lawn. I'll be back around noon.” Today, she slips into her jacket and out the door in silence.

Celia flumps into her seat and asks Stacey to stop, so she can tell Jacob to mow her lawn once he's done with Stacey's. Stacey raises her brow. Celia's smile looks mischievous and her voice has changed. There is a determined sound in it. Even her body seems to move with more deliberation.

“Where are you getting this piss and vinegar, girl? I want me some.” Momma turns to admire her second daughter. “Let's go, Stacey. Kmart awaits.” They open their windows as soon as they leave the gravel road of the reservation and cross the bridge to
white town.

“Got to pave this damn road sometime,” Momma mumbles. “I can't stand the fucking feel or sound of it anymore.”

Stacey raises her eyebrows again; this is the second time in a week her mother has cursed, and the curse word was deeper in the gutter, where Momma had always cautioned her children not to go.

“That's what white folks collect taxes for, Momma,” Celia scolds. “Want a road, got to pay taxes.”

“That's why we should be charging those people from across the bridge some kind of rent,” Momma says. “So we can tax each other.”

Stacey stifles a laugh.

Under the bridge the serpent coils, stretches, lolls, and sets to waking himself up for a good crawl through the village.

Bones emptied of their living flesh are stones. They hold sound. They carry the dreams, the joy, the rage of their forebears. Some bones carry sweet old songs, others songs of torment and agony. The old bones feel responsible for stopping the serpent that is encouraged by the young bones. The young bones argue back.
The old bones realize the argument is driven by anger and grief, no amount of reason will persuade. And so they sing a low, grieving song to the new bones.

The restless head of the serpent hears the old bones and ignores them. He crawls toward a bedraggled section of town, wanting repair and a good cleaning, looking for another victim. A group of boys hangs on the edges of life, despairing and needing excitement, something to help them feel alive. The serpent surrounds them, steals their breath, squeezes their hearts, empties their bodies of empathy, until only war will fulfill them. Some of the boys begin organizing themselves into gangs; others join their nation's army and go halfway across the earth to kill people they do not know.

Momma is antsy and nervous. Something is wrong and she can not put her finger on it. She wants so much to rage at something or someone, but has no idea what in the world is making her so angry.

Kmart is in the middle of white town, and going to white town is a challenge for Momma. As a young woman, the people in white town assumed she was stupid because she was Indian. Now they assume she's stupid because she's old. Loyal breathes courage into Momma, hoping this will ease her anxiety and mediate her growing rage.

“I would just for one time like to walk around the world as though everyone thought I was a smart human being. No race, no
age; just smart. Have someone take my money without any questions and give me my change.”

“PARDON ME?” the cashier says, speaking slowly and so loudly that she is nearly yelling at Momma.

“Never mind. You have a nice day, dear.” Momma leans toward the girl and feigns an old woman's voice. As soon as she is out of earshot she repeats the exchange to her daughters, only she tells Stacey and Celia what she could not say to the cashier:

“‘THAT WILL BE FORTY-TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTYFOUR CENTS. THAT IS A LOT OF MONEY. ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN AFFORD THIS?' the cashier hollered at me. Yeah, bitch, and I plan to rob another bank as soon as I've blown this wad, so just give me my goddamned change.” Momma's outburst produces a warm feeling; it feels good to imagine saying this to a shocked young cashier.

“Momma,” Stacey manages to say before both girls squeal with laughter.

“Stinky witch,” Momma grumbles as she heads for the car. “Don't you just want to give it to them sometimes?”

Her daughters are laughing too hard to answer, but they know exactly what she means. Somehow just saying these words out loud relieves Momma of some of her fatigue, and the laughter relieves the two girls of some unnameable melancholy. Momma likes the
fact that they are laughing together, and that she has set it in motion. She is laughing at something completely different than the girls, but does not intend to share her joke. Her devilishness enlivens her
.

Nice. I like that
.

Momma stands a little straighter and her walk is a little peppier. Celia and Stacey recognize that they have not laughed together like this for a long time. They find it difficult to stop.

This is not exactly the reaction Loyal wanted. Humans are so variable about righteousness, he sighs. Restless laughs; he knows righteousness is so much more complex and difficult than his aims.