Freedom's Child (19 page)

“What’s Alesh, or whatever her name is, mean?” I ask.

“She who plays.”

Deseronto says something in Shoshone and Chuck translates. “My father wants to tell this story”:

“It wasn’t far from here, during the Snake War of 1864, when the white man came and invaded our tribes. They killed our children, they raped our wives. This was a war forgotten over time, though it killed more than the ill-famed and superior Battle of the Little Bighorn. Nearly two thousand Shoshones were murdered by the white devil. Soon after, the Europeans settled on the land they stole from us. But there lived a man named Freedom, once the strongest warrior around, but he acquired blindness from an outbreak of influenza. When his family died at the hands of the Europeans, he spent his days brokenhearted and alone
.

“Years before the white man took his home and murdered his wife and children, Freedom was famous in the village for this tree behind his home. This was a tree of knots, a tree that stood for thousands of years before him. It was big and beautiful and unlike any other tree of its kind. People would pass it and say, ‘I’ve never seen such a strong and beautiful tree in all my life.’ They would say, ‘This tree knows the hearts of men and has witnessed generations before us.’

“When the homes of the village were demolished, Freedom was left with nothing, the only survivor of his tribe. He retreated to the woods where his wife and children were buried while big houses were built where he once lived, fences, and roads. And believing the woods were haunted, no white man ventured their establishments past Freedom’s old tree
.

“Freedom, in all his years, loved that tree. As a child, he’d tell this tree all his thoughts and dreams and worries. He cared for it more than any other tree or crop. But after he moved to the woods, the tree belonged to a white man named Colonel Woolworth, who built his home so that the
tree was in the center of his backyard. Colonel Woolworth hated that tree and more than once did he try to chop it down; he found it ugly and it obstructed his view. But the tree was too big, too strong for the likes of Woolworth’s strength and ax. He hated how it still seemed to grow even in the cold season; the branches grew out, nearly touching his house. And so every morning, Woolworth went out there with his axes and saws and would cut the branches off. He would try to dig it out, but the roots were too deep. By night, in fear of the forest and tired from trying to destroy this tree, Woolworth would retire
.

“This would break Freedom’s heart. Though blind, Freedom could hear Woolworth’s actions and feel the branches being chopped down. By night, when the whites had retired and he couldn’t be seen, Freedom would sneak from the forest with a bucket of water for the tree. He would water it and sing to it and pray with it. And while he was never able to see this tree, he loved it and cared for it, despite Woolworth’s attempts to take over the tree and destroy it
.”

My name is Freedom
and I follow this story very closely. Chanteyukan finishes his mending. Aleshanee rests her head on my lap and looks for more venison steak. I take this story as something symbolic, my children and I, I being the blind Freedom who cares for something while not being able to see it, while the world tries to destroy it.

“What happens to Freedom and the tree and Colonel Woolworth?” I ask.

Chanteyukan translates once more: “The dance between Freedom and Woolworth lasted for many years, until both were old men. The colonel’s defeat against the tree made him even more bitter than before. But the tree that Freedom cared for with all he had gave Freedom a reason to live, something to love.

“Because he didn’t cease in his love, no matter all he had already lost, Freedom won the war he never knew he was fighting. But do we say that Freedom won because the man gave up and turned bitter? The answer is no.”

“So then what made Freedom win the battle?”

“Because Freedom, with a good heart and good intentions, kept the tree growing and strong. And because of this, the roots of the tree grew under Woolworth’s home, right where Freedom and his family lived first. The roots lifted the house from underneath and destroyed it. Woolworth was forced to uproot and move elsewhere. Not only was Woolworth driven away, but the roots grew under the entire town and forced everyone to leave the homes they built on the raped land of the Shoshones.

“This, in your language, might be called karma. But where we are from, it’s all part of the circle of life. And Freedom completed that circle, as everything in life happens in a circle.” The old man draws a circle in the sky with his finger. The rocking chair continues to creak under him. “And to this day, that very tree continues to grow.”

I wash up and get dressed
in the bathroom. The rain is dying, the pain is easing. I wrap my money back in rubber bands and splash my face with cold water to get rid of the fuzzy edges of this high before I’m on my way. On the windowsill are magazines: a Native American newspaper, a
Reader’s Digest
, a
TV Guide
. Sticking out of the newspaper, probably hiding, next to a Shoshone crossword puzzle, is the corner of an envelope addressed to Deseronto. My nosy ass opens it and reads it. Inside is a letter from the county: a final notice from Margefield Properties that because of the 2011 border shift, his property is no longer part of a federal Indian reservation. He owes back taxes of nearly twenty thousand dollars to the state or he will be forced to vacate the premises. I get the feeling that his son doesn’t know.

I look into the mirror and make a decision.

Outside, I start my recently repaired bike and get ready to leave. I dry-swallow another antibiotic and put the bottle back in my coat. Deseronto and Chanteyukan see me off. On the side of the house is an old, abandoned motorcycle with Utah plates.

“How much to switch plates?” I ask. No doubt there’s an all-points bulletin out on this bike. The father and son look at each other.

Chanteyukan walks to the old motorcycle and uses his hands to unscrew the plates and hands them to me. “Whatever’s chasing you, I hope you make it.” I smile to him, and with no response I head for the road.

I drive eighteen hours straight, with five-minute breaks every hour to fuel up on nicotine, Red Bull, and the occasional glazed donut to keep my sugars up against the alcohol withdrawals. It makes the ride long; seems I’ve been riding for weeks. I can’t tell where the tremors end and the shakes of the bike begin. The wind doesn’t stop the sweat. And even I’m surprised I don’t end up pulling over to vomit on the sides of the interstates. My tendons feel like lead and my skin of glass. But I have to get Rebekah. I have to find her. Because like the story of Freedom, what the fuck else do I have to live for?

I wonder how long it will take Deseronto and Chanteyukan to find the money I left for them, dried and neatly wrapped in rolls, under their bathroom sink. Deseronto needs it more than I do, so I gave him all of it, minus just enough to get me where I have to be. You’re welcome, Reds.

I am now entering Louisville, Kentucky.

“I don’t want to see that at the dinner table, you understand?”

“Yes, Mama.” Magdalene takes her cat’s-cradle string and puts it under her.

Carol Paul’s leg shakes. A bowl of baked chicken sits in the center of the table. She sees a piece of skin and pulls it off before Virgil comes home and sees it. A bird springs from the hole of the cuckoo clock and sings nine times, for 9:00 p.m. Magdalene rests her head on her arm across the table. “But I’m so hungry and tired,” she whines.

“You know the rules. We don’t eat until your father arrives to the table.”

“But it’s so late.”

“I know, dear.” Carol wraps her own hair around her finger, a nervous habit she’s acquired over the years. Magdalene mimics her. Carol offers her a little smile to boost her spirits.

“Where’s Michelle and Baby Theresa?”

“Well,” Carol says as she folds her hands and tucks them between her thighs. “Theresa is asleep upstairs. And Michelle is resting back at her house. She’ll be asleep for a while.”

The two of them sit straight when Virgil comes through the
front door. The chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, and sugar snap peas are cold enough that they look like wax artifacts on the dining room table for display. Carol wipes the sweat from the pitchers of hand-squeezed lemonade to look like she’s doing something when Virgil arrives.

“Yay, Daddy. You’re home,” Magdalene squeals with delight, her stomach growling like a monster. And while this is the part where Virgil usually pats her on the head or kisses her cheek, he brushes her off. And even the five-year-old knows when a room becomes heavy.

He sits down without washing up. His knuckles cracked and bleeding, his palms calloused to stiffness. Magdalene recognizes that look on her mother, the one that says it’s best not to say a word or even point an eye in Virgil’s direction. She can feel her father’s hands tremble when he reaches out to hold the girls’ hands to say grace.

They try not to seem too eager to eat. The one time Magdalene did that, he denied her strawberry ice cream, and she wouldn’t want that, now, would she?

“I suppose my punishment for being late is cold dinner,” he says as he shoots Carol a cold stare, a ball of anger in his throat he subdues to hide from their daughter.

“I can reheat it if you’d like, dear,” Carol gushes.

He puts his hand up. “No, no. I’m far too hungry to wait another second longer.”

Carol avoids eye contact with Virgil, always looking off to the side, hiding her half-smiles like they warrant punishment. And for supper being cold, she knows she’ll suffer. Over the years the punishments got worse, but who is she to second-guess her husband, who was appointed by Christ himself to be a leader? She entertains the thought of pointing out to him that he could have called to let her know he’d be four hours late so she could have prepared the meal a little better, but it will make things worse for her. After all,
he’s usually never later than five for dinner. And for this, what will their God deem deserving? Sleeping in the closet? In the backyard on this cold night without a blanket? Kneeling on rice with buckets of water? A whipping with the belt would be easy, but she knows Virgil wouldn’t be so gracious, not this time. The more God speaks to him and uses him as a soldier for God’s army, the more heavy-handed he’s become.

And yet he’s never so much as raised a voice near or at Magdalene; she’s the apple of his eye, the joy of the household, the innocent. God told Virgil in a dream that Magdalene was divine like he, but it’s to remain a secret until the Lord approves that the divinity be exposed.

Magdalene shovels mashed potatoes into her mouth. She gazes at her father’s pink button-down shirt with blood on it. Carol clears her throat and gets her attention, glancing at Magdalene’s plate so she stops staring.

But Virgil catches her. “I hit a deer on the way home tonight,” he says as he gulps his first glass of lemonade, Carol quick to refill it before the glass hits the table.

“Oh, no. Did the deer die, Daddy?”

“Unfortunately, yes. So I had to bury him in the woods, that’s why the blood on my shirt. But I said a prayer over him. He’s in heaven with all the other deer that’ve died.”

Virgil eats the meat off the bone of a thigh with bloodied knuckles and a dirty face, making him look primitive, masculine. Carol sees this. And she also knows the story of the deer is a lie. But it’s a white lie, a righteous one. After all, who could expose such a cruel truth to a five-year-old who cannot understand?

In her eyes, Virgil did what he had to do.

The mosquitoes seem attracted to Mattley’s body odor. And while he’d love nothing more than a hot shower after the fifteen-hour train ride from Oregon, he can’t sit still in his skin knowing that Freedom might be in trouble. Between the Delaney brothers and the authorities back in Painter, Mattley hopes to get to her before anybody else does. What he’ll do when he
does
finally get to her, he doesn’t know.

On his night shifts, when he’d practically carry Freedom up the stairs to her apartment, all the drunken ramblings about her children, the constant reminders of the letters to her children that she’d show him…Mattley knew who Mason was and it only took a little asking around to find out where he lives, since Freedom’s letters were addressed to some church in Goshen.

The yellow light of the porch hums when he rings the doorbell. His stomach growls, his lower back aching from sitting in both the train and the hired car. He swears he’s lost ten pounds just between Painter and Louisville. The sun sets beyond the trees behind him, just enough so his shadow grows on the front steps of the house. A woman answers the door.

“I’m sorry to be bothering you, ma’am,” Mattley says, keeping
his mouth as closed as possible, as he hasn’t brushed his teeth in more than a day. “Is Mason Paul around?”

“No, I’m sorry,” says the woman. “Can I help you?”

“My name is James Mattley. You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve come a long way.” He reaches in the duffel bag that hangs on his shoulder. He pulls out a photo, a mug shot. “I was wondering if you could tell me whether you’ve seen this woman?”

Violet inspects the photo of Freedom, puzzled by the unexpected visit. “I’m sorry, I haven’t.” She hands the picture back him.

Mattley sighs, frustrated after a long trip and no answers waiting for him at the other end. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, miss.” He turns to leave.

She calls after him, “Is this about Rebekah’s disappearance?”

He stops dead in his tracks. “Disappearance?” It’s news to Mattley, and he figures that it would soon be news to Gumm and Howe as well.

“Well, sure.” She crosses her arms and leans against the frame of the front door. “Mason’s sister. He’s all torn up about it.”

“In Louisville?”

“Goshen.” Violet turns off the lights and steps out to the porch, activating the alarm system and locking the door behind her. “Don’t y’all talk to one another? You’re the third cop here in the past couple of hours.”

“Sure,” he lies. “In fact, I’m on my way back to Goshen now.”
But if I don’t get something in my belly soon, I’m going to faint
, he thinks to himself.

“Please let us know if you hear anything,” she says as she walks toward her car. “I’m on my way to meet my friends at Metro Police to see if they’ve got anything yet.”

“Here, let me walk you.” He stares off at a dying sun, thinking of how he’d like to leave there as soon as possible to see what he could find out, in reference to the discovery of Rebekah’s disappearance.
But play it cool. Don’t alarm the woman. Keep the urge to kick a lawn ornament to yourself
.

This couldn’t have been Freedom. Could it? The Delaneys? The same men who are after Freedom?
The thoughts run rampant in his head.

“Shit, I forgot my phone,” Violet says as she hurries back to the house.

Mattley waves as he rushes to the rental car. “Have a good evening.”