Authors: Dani Haviland
Marty
looked to Number Two.
“You don’t, um, want her,” he asked
,
then gave a crude gesture with his right index finger entering his left, curled fist
,
indicating sexual intercourse, “that way, do you?”
Number Two’s head pulled back in shock, shaking it rapidly, his body language screaming, ‘No! T
hat’s my brother-in-law’s wife! W
hat, do you think I’m crazy?’
Marty looked
at
Red Shirt to see if he saw the reaction. “Hmph,” was his monosyllabic response. ‘Yes, I see now; just don’t ever do it again.’
“I think he was thanking you for the milk. I don’t think he’ll get that close to say ‘thanks’ again,” Marty said with a sigh then a
dded a
stern look to Number Two.
Big Sister stood up and ran to Rachel, squatted next to her
,
and touched her hand to the blouse covering her new aunt’s breast. “Thank you,” she said clearly
,
then ran back to her father and baby brother. She’d speak for her father if he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, use the white man’s words. Sometimes men were so stubborn.
“So we’re all cool here? I mean, it’s good, right?” Marty said, nodding his head to each one in the little discussion circle. Each person nodded in agreement so Marty changed the subject,
ready
to get back to the main program. He tipped his head to Red Shirt in introduction, “Everyone here ready to eat? Red Shirt here managed to get us a
lot
of food. He’s a great provider.”
Red Shirt grabbed the reins of his mare and walked her forward, patting the bags of food on her back then pointing to the two calico bags on the ground that Marty had dropped, totally ignoring the near fatal collision caused by his jealous rage at the apparent Lothario. He turned his back on the familial gathering
,
untied the cord
,
and turned back to present to them the best of the best: a ham.
Marty peered around Red Shirt and his horse. He could see that his friend kne
w what was going on behind him—
he wasn’t deaf. The thunk, thunk of the wooden staff was unmistakable: Old Woman had come to him and his outcasts for fo
od. She glared at her grandson—
he hadn’t stopped to pay his respects to her before coming to his other family.
Red Shirt took it in stride. She wouldn’t embarrass him ever again. Her vicious words still hurt even if they were many months old. She blamed him for the death of his father, wife, son
,
and everyone else, telling the others that he was the one who brought the red belly sickness to them. She knew it wasn’t true: he had already been gone for one month when the first one died. How could he have brought the disease if he hadn’t yet returned? Only the other old women believed her. He’d let them eat, too, but he’d feed his faithful family first.
Red Shirt carved into the widest portio
n of the ham, extracting a half-
inch steak
,
then
held
it
up for everyone to see. He raised the meat to the sky and proclaimed bold, strong words in his language. “Thanks, Lord,” Marty offered softly at the same time, loud enough to show God he wasn’t embarrassed
to
praise
Him,
but low enough to be respectful of Red Shirt and his words of thanksgiving to his Great Spirit. They were the same
,
he surmised, but he wasn’t the chief, Red Shirt was, and this was his ceremony.
Red Shirt cut the filet into small strips, handing one to each member of his tribe, the first one going to Number Two, the man who he was ready to kill just mo
ments earlier. All was forgiven—
you are still my second in command. The Young One got the next slice and then, Marty was shocked, he got the third piece. He noticed each one held on to his share of the sacrament, waiting for
the
chief
to
serve
everyone. Red Shirt gave Rachel her portion next
,
then Big Sister
,
and on down the line until last, and apparently least, Old Woman got hers.
Each person raised his share to the sky and joined in the ‘blah, blah’ to say thank you for the bounty. Red Shirt bit into his strip of ham and chewed slowly,
his
glow of satisfaction unmistakable. He wouldn’t have any more problems with his grandmother and the other old women. If anyone died this winter, it wouldn’t be his fault.
Red Shirt took the honor of unloading the bounty, passing the bags to his braves who ferried them to the empty dugout cache. The stone and timber shelter carved into the side of a hillock was for smoking meat but would be fine for keeping the food cool and safe from predators. Marty neared the trio pensively, not knowing if he would be out of line if he volunteered to help.
‘
Hmph, they n
ever seemed to resent me before,’
he said to himself. “Need a hand there?” he asked the men without reservation.
Red Shirt patted the coarse burlap bag, trying to figure out what the lumps were. They weren’t heavy enough to be rocks and didn’t feel hard like
a gourd. He looked at Marty, ‘W
hat are these?’ he asked with his scowl.
“Oh, these are potatoes,” Marty explained as he took the coarse sack
from him. He paused at the campf
ire before taking the spuds to the food locker. “You know how to fix these, don’t you?” he asked Rachel who had been watching the proceedings with a baby on each knee, not quite sure what she was supposed to be doing to help.
Rachel nodded and said, “I put them in stew,” then added in a whisper as he set the bag down next to her, “but I didn’t see any pots around here, just earthen bowls. I don’t know if they have any.”
“Well,” Marty said assertively, “then we’ll just have to have baked potatoes. We don’t need anything but fire for that
,
and since you already have one going, let’s just
rub the dirt off of these, hmm…
” He was telling her to rub off the dirt then stuff them under embers and more dirt. “Oh well, just scrub them up a bit, poke them a few times with a sharp stick then bury them under the coals for an hour or so. Pull one of them out when you start to smell them and see if it’s soft. If they are, just pop ‘em open with a knife and toss a bit of salt on them and
manga!
I mean, and then eat them when they’ve cooled off enough so as not to burn your fingers or tongue. They’d be even better with a big dollop of butter
,
but salt will be just fine for now.”
R
achel pulled eleven of the fair-
sized spuds out of the bag and began rubbing off the caked mud. Big Sister saw what the task entailed and hurried over to her new aunt’s side, eager to be of assistance in preparing food. She’d
never eaten anything like this
but was willing to try. She had
only
eaten dried fish and cornmeal for months. The smoked meat, ham Rachel called it, was good
,
but made her thirsty. That was okay. Water would take care of that. At least she was drinking water for thirst
,
not to fill her belly.
Marty looked around and noticed that something was different. The old women had decided that they would stay
and
make sure they got more food beyond the sliver of ham. Either that or they were too weak to return to their little hovel. Nah, they wanted the food. Old Woman was still at it, clamoring away in her choppy tongue, by the rhythm of the chatter, complaining about something. Marty looked over at the three braves. Yup, by the glower on all three of their faces, she was carping about how long it was taking for the meal to be readied. Well, she’d just have to wait like everyone else.
After about an hour
,
Marty noticed the men’s noses wrinkling up
,
and then he noticed it, too: the potatoes were done. Rachel was right on top of it and used a stick to pull out one of the spuds, using her skirt as a makeshift plate. “Let it cool a couple of minutes,” he advised. “It’s still cooking on the inside and will give you a steam burn if you cut it open too soon.” He walked over to her impromptu dinner table and lightly tapped the potato. It was soft enough but not too mushy. “Go
ahead and pull the others out—
they should be done, too.”
Rachel lifted her skirt to keep the first of the spuds contained then neared the fire and used her stick to pull out the others. “Just set them out on the ground next to each other. We don’t want you catching your skirt on fire,” Marty said.
H
e was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen,
but
didn’t want her to be chance it. She’d have to start wearing clothing more appropriate to her new status as wife of the chief.
After ten minutes
,
Marty remembered the seasoning. “Did you happen to keep out some salt?” he asked. Rachel seemed to have become the woman in charge
,
even if she was white. By the look of relief on Big Sister’s face, she was glad to have someone
else
take over the role.
“I got a bowl of it right here,” Rachel replied as she held up a brown earthen bowl. “Um, how much longer do we have to wait?”
Red Shirt looked to Marty for the answer, too. Marty touched the top of a potato and left his finger there f
or a moment then pulled it back:
it wasn’t too hot. He picked it up and tossed it from one hand to the other, smiling as he remembered playing ‘hot potato’ with James when he was about Big Sister’s age. He started to toss it to her then remembered his place in this society. Handing out the food was Red Shirt’s responsibility and right. He replaced the spud and stepped back. “They’re ready, sir,” he said reverently to Red Shirt then bowed to him respectfully.
Red Shirt picked up all of the potatoes and cradled them in his arms. Marty’s eyes popped wide: they were still plenty hot. He was probably getting second-degree burns on his arms from the load, but there wasn’t a show of pain in Red Shirt’s face, only pride.
Yes, these tubers were hot, hotter than he had expected
,
but he would not drop them or rush in giving one to each member of his tribe. The faithful would
be
served first and receive the largest ones, the fussy old women would have to wait for theirs. Suddenly, the food wasn’t so hot anymore. He’d move just a little slower so they had to wait longer. But
,
he would still feed them. Maybe next time they’d li
sten to him, not ‘her
.
’
Marty took out his little boot knife and cut into the potato, pushing in on the end
s
and sides to open up the steaming pulp inside. He saw that he was the demonstrator on how to eat this new food. Even Rachel wasn’t used to eating baked potatoes. “Salt, please,” he asked her. Whether or not he was being correct in the Cherokee mealtime etiquette, they were still looking to him for instruction.
Rachel passed the salt then reached for the knife used for cooking, copying Marty’s slash, slash, push, push technique to prep the potato. He passed the salt back to her then decided he’d use the knife as a fork…at least until he got to the end when he’d chew the insides like watermelon off a rind, saving the best until last, the skin. Marty looked around and saw that everyone was copying him. Apparently, even the old women had knives and were employing them, deftly cutting into then sniffing the white, fluffy insides. They weren’t too sure about the new food
,
but the white man seemed to enjoy it. At least it shouldn’t make them sick if he was eating it, too.
“Hey, this is good,” commented Rachel with mouth full as she fed a bit to Junior. “They’re easy to fix, too.” She swallowed and asked sincerely, “Do these grow on trees?”
Marty choked back a laugh, pretending that it was from food that had gone down the wrong pipe, patting his chest in both physical and emotional recovery. “No, no, these grow underground. That’s why there was dirt on them.” Marty saw Rachel cringe in embarrassment. He hadn’t intended to make her feel ignorant. “But they do look like they’d
grow on a tree and just fall on
to the ground when they were ripe…that’s why they’d be dirty.” Rachel gave a weak smile. She knew he was covering up for embarrassing her.
“Now, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. I think your husband,” Marty said and watched her glow with the designation, “will be taking me, um, home,
in a few days or weeks or, ahem.
”
H
e cleared his throat that was starting to tighten with hope at the me
ntion of being back with Bibb and
tried again, “What I’m trying to say is that I won’t be here in the spring. I want you to make sure you hold back a dozen or so, at least, of the potatoes to plant when the ground warms up but before the rains. Those little dimples that were in the spuds, potatoes, are called eyes.” Rachel pulled her head back and Marty saw that Red Shirt was listening to him, too, and
was also
shocked at the word.