As we headed away from the station, Peewee and I craned our necks to see out of the front and side windows.
“What’s that?!” I asked as what looked like a large metal box slid to a stop ahead of us.
“That’s a streetcar. It’s like a little train in the city that moves people around,” Mr. Parsons replied.
Wow, a streetcar, so many buildings, so many people. Everywhere I looked was filled with something or someone.
Soon we moved out of taller buildings to an area with diners, shops, and little houses.
“Hey, how about we stop at that Chinese restaurant I see up there on the right? Grab some dinner to go. You girls have to try it. I haven’t had any since I was in the navy,” said Daddy.
We waited in the car while Daddy and Mr. Parsons went in and ordered our dinner. I didn’t know what kind of food came from a Chinese restaurant, but really nothing I had seen here yet looked familiar.
I crinkled up my nose when they returned. Chinese food didn’t smell like venison stew.
When we pulled up in front of the house on 58th Place, no one said anything. Mr. Parsons helped Daddy with our suitcases as we scooted out of the backseat.
Our old wooden farmhouse had plenty of land to live, play, and explore. But this little stucco box? Well, it rested on six feet of front yard, eight feet of backyard, and a yardstick of dirt between the houses.
“These houses are so close together, you can taste your neighbor’s pot roast from your window,” Mama said as she walked up the porch steps to the front door.
I stared at the surroundings. Busy asphalt streets replaced isolated dirt roads. Concrete replaced grass. In fact, there was a concrete path that stretched from our concrete porch to the concrete sidewalk.
“Not many plants to speak of,” Chich said.
Mr. Parsons didn’t offer to show us around. He just gave Daddy the keys and then had him sign some papers on the car hood. He handed Daddy a catalog with some classes Daddy would need to enroll in for next month. Then Mr. Parsons wished us luck and drove off.
Inside, the house was furnished, courtesy of the government, and it wasn’t much better. Peewee sat on the faded couch. I walked into the kitchen with Mama to inspect a greasy gas stove and a refrigerator that smelled like sour milk. Chich sat down in one of the rusty mint-green chairs that matched the metal kitchen table.
“Hey, there’s a washing machine in here,” Daddy said as he glanced in the small room just past the kitchen. He put our suitcases in our rooms and Peewee and I explored the rest of the house. There were two twin beds in one bedroom and one bigger bed in the other with a bathroom in between.
Daddy plopped down the sacks full of white paper cartons from the Chinese restaurant. Sweet-and-sour shrimp, chow mein, egg rolls, fried and white rice, and five cans of pop covered the table.
“Not crazy about chow mein tonight, girls?” Daddy asked as Peewee and I looked at the food we’d never seen before. We decided to try some white rice and a piece of shrimp without the sauce. “Come on, Cate, isn’t this great? Look. We have a gas stove now instead of an old wood stove.”
Mama wouldn’t respond. Daddy tried again to be positive.
“Trust me,” he said, taking her hand. “It will all work out. Next month, I’ll be in electronics school. I’ll have a great job by December.”
Mama jumped out of her chair. “You think this is great? We left our home to live in this dump!” Her lips quivered. Tears formed in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Mama,” Peewee said, patting her hand. “It’s not that bad.”
Mama sat back down and touched Peewee’s hair.
Daddy stood up, folding his arms across his puffed-up chest and then stretching them out wide, smiling. “Coming . . . here . . . makes . . . us . . . Americans,” he said, imitating Burt Lancaster in that Apache movie he and Cousin Harlin had seen when they worked up at that mill near Portland. “Soon . . . we be white people. Living in good house. Working good job. Getting good life.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Indian no more.”
He pulled Mama to him. “Come, woman. Give me a smooch.”
Mama struggled hard not to smile. “John, stop it. The girls are here,” she said.
Peewee and I laughed and immediately came to her rescue, tugging her away from Daddy’s grip.
Chich kept quiet as she cleared the table, cleaned off the dishes, and put them away in the cupboard. “I’m going to bed now,” she said. “Good night.”
That night, sharing one of the twin beds with Peewee, I listened to the sounds in our new home. I heard every car that drove by, every breath from Mama and Daddy in the next room. But Chich’s muffled sobs from the other twin bed made my eyes wet.
I prayed to sax̣ali-tayi that Daddy would take us home. That he would come to his senses, as Chich said, and see we didn’t belong here.
But that did not happen.
7 Meeting the Neighbors
Even though that tiny stucco house wasn’t anything like our rez home, it did have one
feature I loved. From the living room, I could race through our bedroom into the bathroom, over to Mama’s and Daddy’s bedroom, then through the kitchen and back out into the living room — one giant circle. Trust me, I couldn’t do that in the old farmhouse. Peewee and I kept chasing each other around and around until Chich stretched her arm out.
“You two sound like a pair of wild raccoons,” she said, propping the broom against our bedroom wall. “Go play outside. It’s beautiful this morning.” She grabbed two cattail dolls she had made before leaving Grand Ronde and held them out to us.
Peewee and I took the dolls and ran out into the front yard. There we scavenged for sticks and leaves to make tiny lean-tos, the summer homes some Indians make
