Read Online Written in Stone by Rosanne Parry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosanne Parry
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to us. No one even looked in our direction. We were dressed as well as all but the fanciest moviegoers. We had paid the same cash price for a ticket, but their silent indifference said you don’t belong here, as clear as shouting. Charlie Chaplin was as funny as ever, but this time I didn’t laugh.
I bet no one scorned those shopgirls. I bet they could sit wherever they chose in theaters, churches, and cafés. I was no darker than the black-haired girl. I did not look so foreign as a Chinaman, and I spoke better English than any off-the-boat immigrant working man. I was so angry I wanted to spit on that high-and-mighty woman. But what if she was the boardinghouse matron? What if she did the hiring at the department store? I would have to hide my Indian life if I wanted to live in town. I would have to make up a story about my circumstances. I would fashion myself a character like the young women in the penny dreadful novels the older girls passed around at school, a virtuous girl who hit hard times and had to make a living on nothing but her own determination.
I could do it if I wanted to. I could put on a white woman’s clothes and high voice and little steps. But then I would never be able to sing or dance in my own language, never be able to bring a visitor or a token from home to my boardinghouse in town. I weighed it against my life on the reservation with all its work and worry, and both seemed too heavy to bear.
Uncle Jeremiah and I paddled the small canoe home that evening since it was empty of clams. Daylight held until we reached the mouth of Grays Harbor, and after a break for a meal, the rising moon gave us light to travel by.
The little canoe held the lighter goods—cloth, needles,thread, soap, two pairs of spike-soled logger boots, and two pairs of long rubber cannery-worker gloves. I looked at them, and Uncle Jeremiah saw me look. We said nothing for more than a mile.
“We cannot always count on four dollars a pound for clams,” he said. “Next year, something else will be fashionable. Next year, the Hood Canal beaches will be clean and more shellfish will be on the market. We won’t have to go away to find work this winter, but next year …” Uncle Jeremiah went quiet, and we both watched the fall constellations rise from the horizon to point our way.
“Next year, we must be ready for anything,” he said.
“But it’s so far away,” I said. “We would only see each other every other month. Maybe less. What about Grandma and Grandpa? They couldn’t possibly go work in a factory. Ida’s too little. Would we leave her behind with nobody but Grandma and Grandpa to take care of her?”
I was glad Uncle Jeremiah sat behind me in the canoe where he couldn’t see my face. I hated sharing a room with Ida, but the idea of her sleeping all alone made my heart sink. It wasn’t natural for a child to sleep in a room alone.
“Maybe this museum man who comes next week will have carving work for us,” Uncle Jeremiah said. “We don’t have to go away yet, but we can’t stay on land that won’t support us either.”
Maybe he’ll be a bone hunter and dig up graves, I thought, but I didn’t say it because Uncle Jeremiah sounded so sad. He was right. I knew he was right, but I wanted to know what my mother would say. I reached for my pocket and the abalone shell I had always kept there. But I had nothing of my mother’s now, and I’d never felt more empty.
9
At the Loom
When we arrived home, I was ready to put all my energy into weaving, but Aunt Loula was making winter shirts and wanted me to do buttons and hems, and there were always people to feed. More frustrating than all the chores put together was Ida following me everywhere, demanding another round of the bone game or hounding me to read her a chapter in her tattered copy of
The Wizard of Oz
. Whenever I had a moment to spare, I was out the door gathering what I needed to make dye for my wool. I collected iron nails from the
I bet no one scorned those shopgirls. I bet they could sit wherever they chose in theaters, churches, and cafés. I was no darker than the black-haired girl. I did not look so foreign as a Chinaman, and I spoke better English than any off-the-boat immigrant working man. I was so angry I wanted to spit on that high-and-mighty woman. But what if she was the boardinghouse matron? What if she did the hiring at the department store? I would have to hide my Indian life if I wanted to live in town. I would have to make up a story about my circumstances. I would fashion myself a character like the young women in the penny dreadful novels the older girls passed around at school, a virtuous girl who hit hard times and had to make a living on nothing but her own determination.
I could do it if I wanted to. I could put on a white woman’s clothes and high voice and little steps. But then I would never be able to sing or dance in my own language, never be able to bring a visitor or a token from home to my boardinghouse in town. I weighed it against my life on the reservation with all its work and worry, and both seemed too heavy to bear.
Uncle Jeremiah and I paddled the small canoe home that evening since it was empty of clams. Daylight held until we reached the mouth of Grays Harbor, and after a break for a meal, the rising moon gave us light to travel by.
The little canoe held the lighter goods—cloth, needles,thread, soap, two pairs of spike-soled logger boots, and two pairs of long rubber cannery-worker gloves. I looked at them, and Uncle Jeremiah saw me look. We said nothing for more than a mile.
“We cannot always count on four dollars a pound for clams,” he said. “Next year, something else will be fashionable. Next year, the Hood Canal beaches will be clean and more shellfish will be on the market. We won’t have to go away to find work this winter, but next year …” Uncle Jeremiah went quiet, and we both watched the fall constellations rise from the horizon to point our way.
“Next year, we must be ready for anything,” he said.
“But it’s so far away,” I said. “We would only see each other every other month. Maybe less. What about Grandma and Grandpa? They couldn’t possibly go work in a factory. Ida’s too little. Would we leave her behind with nobody but Grandma and Grandpa to take care of her?”
I was glad Uncle Jeremiah sat behind me in the canoe where he couldn’t see my face. I hated sharing a room with Ida, but the idea of her sleeping all alone made my heart sink. It wasn’t natural for a child to sleep in a room alone.
“Maybe this museum man who comes next week will have carving work for us,” Uncle Jeremiah said. “We don’t have to go away yet, but we can’t stay on land that won’t support us either.”
Maybe he’ll be a bone hunter and dig up graves, I thought, but I didn’t say it because Uncle Jeremiah sounded so sad. He was right. I knew he was right, but I wanted to know what my mother would say. I reached for my pocket and the abalone shell I had always kept there. But I had nothing of my mother’s now, and I’d never felt more empty.
9
At the Loom
When we arrived home, I was ready to put all my energy into weaving, but Aunt Loula was making winter shirts and wanted me to do buttons and hems, and there were always people to feed. More frustrating than all the chores put together was Ida following me everywhere, demanding another round of the bone game or hounding me to read her a chapter in her tattered copy of
The Wizard of Oz
. Whenever I had a moment to spare, I was out the door gathering what I needed to make dye for my wool. I collected iron nails from the
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