Daddy didn’t respond, but I could see him mulling it over.
A knock at the door interrupted the discussion. Mrs. Hernández was back to take us girls over to St. John’s to pray for Chich.
When we got up to the altar, I pushed a penny into the box next to the row of candles, picked up a stick, and lit a tiny candle. Peewee and I stood nearby as Mrs. Hernández knelt and said her prayer in Spanish.
After we got back, Keith stood outside our house. “So are you going back home? My mom said you are.”
I just stared at him, not sure what Miss Elsie and Mama had talked about while we were at church. “I am home,” I said. “Chich is gone. Even if we get to take her home, how could I ever stay there by myself?”
As soon as I said it, I knew it was true. 58th Place had to be home — at least for now.
I no longer dreamed of Spirit Mountain every day or playing with my cousins in Yamhill Field. No sense in dreaming of something that couldn’t come true. Now there was no one to continue teaching me how to be Umpqua.
I felt numb. And incredibly lost.
That feeling continued through the funeral Mass the next day and back at our house where everyone gathered to eat. Mama and Aunt Rosie cooked some of the food. We served venison stew, Portuguese bread with blackberry jam, and sausage. Miss Elsie brought over a baked ham and sweet potatoes. Mrs. Hernández brought arroz con pollo. And Peking’s Restaurant delivered a lot of food too.
The adults sat in the house, talking and eating. Us kids ended up taking our plates and sitting outside on the front porch. But I couldn’t eat anything.
By the time the sky grew dark, everyone headed home. We were all exhausted. I brushed my short hair and crawled into bed with Peewee. Aunt Rosie slept in Chich’s bed.
Sometime in the middle of the night, the front door lock jiggled. I lifted my head to listen. After a few minutes, the door opened. Footsteps staggered through the living room into the kitchen. Deep mumbling echoed. Something crashed in the kitchen. Some cursing.
Then the back door slammed.
Curious, I slid off my bed. I crept through the dark living room and into the kitchen. Quietly flipping the overturned chair upright, I scooted it over to the window. I knelt on the seat and pulled away the window curtain to peer outside.
The full moon shone down. Scattered toys and the garden hose sparkled under its light. The walnut tree glowed. Daddy, with his arms at his sides and head down, stood in the middle of the lawn. He was saying something.
Is he praying? I strained to listen.
A song traveled from the backyard. A familiar song.
“Aaaahhh . . . aiye . . . oooh . . .” Daddy sang and moved to the beat of the song. He stepped twice on each foot. His arms extended out. He twirled. He danced like they did back home. The old way.
“You should be in bed.”
I whirled around. Cousin Harlin stood behind me, the scent of beer faint on his funeral suit. I hadn’t heard him come inside.
I went back to watching Daddy from the kitchen window. “I didn’t know Daddy knew the honor song,” I said.
“’Course he knows the honor song,” Cousin Harlin said as he peered out over my head. “He’s Indian, after all. And we’ll always be Indian, no matter how hard some of us try not to be.”
“I want to stay Indian,” I said.
“You will.”
“But I don’t have the rez to go back to. I don’t have Chich. I don’t have my tribal number.”
“So?”
“So those things make you Indian.”
“Regina, you were born Indian. Our family is Umpqua. Nothing changes that. Not the government. Not these city people. Not even that ole waitress who wouldn’t serve you.” Daddy must have told him about that.
I glanced back at the backyard. Daddy was still singing and dancing.
“Think I’ll join him,” Cousin Harlin said, hanging his black jacket over one of the chairs and walking to the back door. “By the way, we’re all taking your chich home tomorrow. And . . . your ma is going to have a baby.”
Then he opened the door, winked at me, and left.
Wait . . . we’re really going to take Chich home?
And Mama’s going to have a baby?
I wondered if Chich had known.
I stared out the window. Cousin Harlin and Daddy moved to the beat of their song, wailing in unison. Hopefully we could still have the traditional giveaway and all the singing for Chich like we did for Chup.
And Chich was right. We came from survivors. Our ancestors survived being forced to leave our homelands and march to Grand Ronde in the winter. Her mother overcame the loneliness and abuse in boarding school to return home and grow her own family. We had left Grand Ronde with five family members. In the end, we’d still be five.
I stared out the window again. Daddy was Indian. He wasn’t hiding his heritage. He wasn’t pretending to be something else. He knew Chich needed to go home and decided to make it happen.
And I knew when we returned, Daddy would drive to work wearing his black pants and tie, believing he would be accepted someday.
But tonight . . .
I thought about all I had been through. What had Chich said once? All that you experienced, whether won or lost, was yours.
I was Indian even without my braids. I was Indian even if I didn’t own a headdress or a pony. I was Indian even if I was Indian no more.
Because I knew where I came from.
Because I knew my Umpqua ancestors.
And because I survived to tell their stories and mine.
Like this one.
DEFINITIONS
Note: It is well known that “Indians” is not the correct term for Native Nations indigenous to the Western Hemisphere. Yet since Columbus, the misnomer has persisted over centuries. This historical novel takes place in the 1950s when “Indian” was the prevailing English
