a letter of the
alphabet. A key to a cipher .
He set it down in his lap and opened the larger book.
The binder far more
weathered than the cipher. A deep layer of dust coated the wrinkled
leather. A nylon strap wrapped the book’s width and ran through a
brass concho, securing the contents. He slid the stainless steel
pocket knife from his jean pocket, and sliced through the nylon.
Written on the inside
cover: “To the lovely Angeni on her 24th birthday. A place for the
brilliant thoughts to rest”. At the bottom of the inscription, the
writer signed in violent loops. Roger
Graisley.
Elias took the book
down the steps. He set it down on the small pub table in the kitchen.
The bottle of Maker’s Mark sat on the windowsill over the sink, and
glimmered enticingly. He grabbed a glass, poured himself four
fingers, and twisted up a cigarette. Squinting to avoid getting smoke
in his eyes, he opened to the first page of Angeni Kingbird’s
journal.
Chapter 13:
Journal of Angeni Kingbird
October 30, 1904
Today I received a
journal from Roger. “For your birthday Angeni,” he said.
“Recollection can be a slippery thing. And it never hurts to
practice pen in proper English. Even a gifted mind requires a bit of
practical exercise from time to time”
I’ve been writing in
English since I was a little girl but took no offense from his
presumption. The Seneca people do not celebrate birthdays on a yearly
basis, so the gift surprised me. I appreciated it all the same.
“Won’t you come
visit with me in Lily Dale,” He asked again, while displaying an
address neatly written on the book’s inside jacket.
“I’m sorry, but I
cannot leave my family now. “I didn’t mention my recent union to
Aart. Or that he recently moved into my family’s house. All of
these things on my mind, wanting to break out, but I was afraid that
Roger would stop his visits to the reservation if I told him.
I left him in the marketplace, and
returned home to my old and new family.
Aart’s family was
one of the few left on the reservation who still made their living
hunting wild game. His sisters took the hide and constructed it into
traditional Seneca clothing. The men smoked and dehydrated the meat.
Their wares usually sold quickly at their booth by the train station.
It was a happy day for Father, indeed, when he was approached with
the proposition of the union.
When I returned home, a
doe skin dress decorated in turquoise beads lay strewn across our
bed. Then heavy arms wrapped me up from behind.
“A gift for you. Try
it on.” Aart’s bristled chin dug into my neckline. His breath
reeked of whiskey.
“Right now?” I went
towards the bed and broke his embrace.
He took the journal
from my hands. “What’s this?”
“Just a book for
notes and lists.”
He rubbed the leather
binding. “Looks expensive. How much was it?”
I saw his expression
harden, that easy grin turned into tight, white lips. “A gift for
my talents.”
“Talking to ghosts
again . . . All right.” He flung the book on the bed and walked out
of the room. Aart claimed to believe in the Great Spirit, in Great
Creation, but he laughed when I had told him of my capabilities.
I felt badly for
angering him. He simply wanted to see me happily try on the dress.
And it was beautiful. I put it on, and the beads bounced off each
other, sounding like rain. Then I took my hair out the braid and
brushed it straight. When I came out the room, Mother sat by herself
in the kitchen.
“Where’s Aart,” I
asked her.
She turned around from
chopping a variety of vegetables. “He went out hunting. And took
your father with him.” Aart had reinvigorated Father’s interest
in hunting. The trip to the south, in the Allegheny wilderness, had
good intentions. Aart wanted to discuss plans for the future and seek
Father’s wisdom.
I returned to my room
and shut the door. Alone. I sat in the chair by the window, and let
the silence in.
I heard my heartbeat,
heard my
alphabet. A key to a cipher .
He set it down in his lap and opened the larger book.
The binder far more
weathered than the cipher. A deep layer of dust coated the wrinkled
leather. A nylon strap wrapped the book’s width and ran through a
brass concho, securing the contents. He slid the stainless steel
pocket knife from his jean pocket, and sliced through the nylon.
Written on the inside
cover: “To the lovely Angeni on her 24th birthday. A place for the
brilliant thoughts to rest”. At the bottom of the inscription, the
writer signed in violent loops. Roger
Graisley.
Elias took the book
down the steps. He set it down on the small pub table in the kitchen.
The bottle of Maker’s Mark sat on the windowsill over the sink, and
glimmered enticingly. He grabbed a glass, poured himself four
fingers, and twisted up a cigarette. Squinting to avoid getting smoke
in his eyes, he opened to the first page of Angeni Kingbird’s
journal.
Chapter 13:
Journal of Angeni Kingbird
October 30, 1904
Today I received a
journal from Roger. “For your birthday Angeni,” he said.
“Recollection can be a slippery thing. And it never hurts to
practice pen in proper English. Even a gifted mind requires a bit of
practical exercise from time to time”
I’ve been writing in
English since I was a little girl but took no offense from his
presumption. The Seneca people do not celebrate birthdays on a yearly
basis, so the gift surprised me. I appreciated it all the same.
“Won’t you come
visit with me in Lily Dale,” He asked again, while displaying an
address neatly written on the book’s inside jacket.
“I’m sorry, but I
cannot leave my family now. “I didn’t mention my recent union to
Aart. Or that he recently moved into my family’s house. All of
these things on my mind, wanting to break out, but I was afraid that
Roger would stop his visits to the reservation if I told him.
I left him in the marketplace, and
returned home to my old and new family.
Aart’s family was
one of the few left on the reservation who still made their living
hunting wild game. His sisters took the hide and constructed it into
traditional Seneca clothing. The men smoked and dehydrated the meat.
Their wares usually sold quickly at their booth by the train station.
It was a happy day for Father, indeed, when he was approached with
the proposition of the union.
When I returned home, a
doe skin dress decorated in turquoise beads lay strewn across our
bed. Then heavy arms wrapped me up from behind.
“A gift for you. Try
it on.” Aart’s bristled chin dug into my neckline. His breath
reeked of whiskey.
“Right now?” I went
towards the bed and broke his embrace.
He took the journal
from my hands. “What’s this?”
“Just a book for
notes and lists.”
He rubbed the leather
binding. “Looks expensive. How much was it?”
I saw his expression
harden, that easy grin turned into tight, white lips. “A gift for
my talents.”
“Talking to ghosts
again . . . All right.” He flung the book on the bed and walked out
of the room. Aart claimed to believe in the Great Spirit, in Great
Creation, but he laughed when I had told him of my capabilities.
I felt badly for
angering him. He simply wanted to see me happily try on the dress.
And it was beautiful. I put it on, and the beads bounced off each
other, sounding like rain. Then I took my hair out the braid and
brushed it straight. When I came out the room, Mother sat by herself
in the kitchen.
“Where’s Aart,” I
asked her.
She turned around from
chopping a variety of vegetables. “He went out hunting. And took
your father with him.” Aart had reinvigorated Father’s interest
in hunting. The trip to the south, in the Allegheny wilderness, had
good intentions. Aart wanted to discuss plans for the future and seek
Father’s wisdom.
I returned to my room
and shut the door. Alone. I sat in the chair by the window, and let
the silence in.
I heard my heartbeat,
heard my
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