Cory, attention diverted from the drum, swallowed a smile as Paula pounded Roxanne on the shoulder. Evidently mother-daughter exasperation was universal among cultures.
Roxanne handed her daughter the box she had guarded as a treasure. “You have time.”
“Right. Ten minutes.” Paula took the box and flipped a wave to her mother’s guests. “Glad you came, meet you later.” She pushed past a few people and disappeared into the crowd.
The persistent drumming was lulling, and Cory again focused on the rhythm. A different drum began its song, and she shifted her attention to it, away from Roxanne, who was introducing friends and relations to Margaret. All around her, there was talk of road conditions, the weather, jobs, tribal politics, and the winter’s new babies. Most of the talk spilled into a single, nonsensical stream of voices punctuated occasionally by the familiar sound of her mother’s laugh.
People were lining up between two of the drum circles. Cory guessed they were preparing for what Roxanne had called the grand entry. A microphone crackled, catching the attention of the crowd and sending a signal to the drum to stop. It crackled again, then cleared, and a deep voice boomed out a welcome. After several minutes of introductions and joking and applause, the speaker signaled and the drumming resumed. The line of people waiting between the drums began its slow procession.
The entry was headed by several Native American princesses and a color guard of military veterans. Behind the flags, the line of people was four across and appeared endless in length. Most of the dancers were wearing traditional dress and they danced with a series and pattern of movements as individual as the decorations on their clothing. Some high-stepped with arms raised, some kept feet low to the ground, some moved face forward, always tall and unbent, some turned and leaned in wide arcs.
The chain moved forward and began to circle around itself, snaking into a spiral. Cory supposed it all had meaning, some age-old significance, but of that she understood nothing, sensed nothing. Still, she thought that the stream of dancing color was perhaps the most stunning thing she had ever seen.
A flash of orange caught her eye, and she noticed a single dancing figure. She laughed, catching her mother’s attention and earning a frown.
“Be polite,” her mother said in a low voice.
“That boy,” Cory said, pointing. “It looks like he couldn’t wait to join the party.”
The dancer who attracted her attention was twirling and dipping at the edge of the chain. His arms were raised as if to take hold of some personal music, and he danced as if the drum played for him alone. No feathers, no fringe, no traditional dress at all. The boy wore a marine corps T-shirt, orange Zubaz pants, and sneakers. Every now and then his arm would drop from its dance position and he would push up his glasses.
“It’s all quite a spectacle,” Margaret said.
Cory nodded as she watched the orange Zubaz dance away. “It’s wonderful.”
Roxanne’s arm shot out and she pointed to an indeterminate spot across the dance floor. She turned to a friend behind her. “Look at Harvey MacNamara. He’s obviously adjusting to small-town life.”
“Yes,” answered the friend. “Living with Barb must be good for him.”
Roxanne leaned to Cory’s mother and whispered something in her ear. “You’re right,” Margaret said. “He is nice-looking.”
Cory tracked their collective gaze and settled on a handsome, middle-aged man standing behind the host drum. The older women were laughing, and Cory rolled her eyes. It always amused her and sometimes embarrassed her when her mother’s friends too obviously enjoyed scoping out men. Acting as if they were, well, Cory’s age.
The dance area was packed, and the people were now just moving in place. Orange Zubaz had disappeared, and Cory lost interest in the dance. She turned to the women’s conversation.
“Harvey,” Roxanne was explaining to those around her, “moved into Barb’s two weeks ago. Her kids just love him. He was living with his brother, but Tom checked into rehab. It’s tough on Harvey, of course. He’s been almost mother and father to Tom for years now.”
Cory rose and stretched. Adult gossip was no fun. She whispered to her mother, “I’m going to walk around.”
“Don’t be gone too long. I’m beat, and I might not make it much longer.”
“We could go now.”
“Take a look around, then come back.”
Cory squeezed her mother’s shoulder and slipped into the crowd.
Tables of crafts were set up around the perimeter of the room. Cory moved from table to table, admiring the items but finding nothing of particular interest until she came to a jewelry display. She stopped when she spotted a pair of silver earrings designed in an intricate, webbed pattern. Cory smiled at the table attendant, picked up the earrings, and laid them on her palm. She turned over the price tag and tried not to gasp. Fifty-five dollars. She returned them to the table.
“Prices might go down Sunday afternoon,” a voice next to her whispered.
She turned and looked into the chest and then the brown eyes of Orange Zubaz.
“A few of the vendors jack them up on Saturday nights because of the white tourists from the ski areas who come to watch the powwow.”
“I’m not a tourist.”
“I know that. You’re Cory Knutson. We go to the same school.”
“We do?” She studied his face and felt certain she had never seen him before tonight. “I’m sorry, I just don’t recognize you.”
Other people edged them aside, and Orange Zubaz tugged on Cory’s sleeve. “Over here.” They stepped away from the table and sat down on chairs pushed up against the wall.
He waved to someone in the crowd, then turned to Cory. She wondered if he ever stopped smiling.
“Don’t apologize. I’m a senior and I just moved to Summer from Milwaukee. I’m a stranger, but apparently everyone knows Cory K.” He offered his hand. “Harvey MacNamara.”
“Harvey MacNamara?” she said, her voice squealing up an octave.
His smile disappeared and his hand dropped. “Yeah, Harvey MacNamara.”
Cory knew she needed to explain her surprise.
“Your name,” she began, then laughed a bit as she recalled the women’s conversation.
“What’s wrong with it—not Indian enough? Maybe you think it should be something cute, like Fast as a Dead Coyote?”
She looked at him evenly. “No. My mother’s friend was talking about this guy Harvey MacNamara who is living with her sister. I thought he’d be older.”
His good humor returned, and she relaxed. He wasn’t gorgeous or anything, but he certainly did have a make-you-melt smile.
“You must mean Roxanne. She talks a lot, but she’s one good person. And I’m not ‘living with’ Barb, okay? I’m just there. After all, she has a husband.”
“I don’t really know the family.”
“Barb is sort of a cousin of my mother’s, and I needed a place to live.” He clasped his hands together, and the action caused the muscles visible under the T-shirt to flex. Cory looked away; she now knew the meaning of the word
biceps.
She exhaled deeply and wondered how the room had suddenly filled with hot August air.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little woozy. Would you let me buy you something to eat and drink?”
“Food would be nice. I haven’t eaten since noon. But, Harvey, you don’t have to buy.”
“Please call me Mac. Harvey’s an old guy’s name, right? I’d like to buy because you’re a guest here. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be broke because you’re paying off that window? I heard it was a pretty good smashup.”
Cory groaned. “Everyone. Everyone.”
He guided her through the crowd to the food stands, and just as they stepped up to place their orders for wild rice with mushroom sauce, Cory felt a tug on her shirt. She turned and saw Roxanne.
“Found you!” Roxanne said. She nodded to Mac. “What’s up?”
“Your mother wants to go.” She held out Cory’s coat. “She was exhausted and the heat and stuffy air made it worse. She’s waiting outside the main door. I’ll go home with Paula. Margaret’s not well, Cory. I’m sorry I urged her to come.”
“She really wanted to, Roxanne. Mac, I’m sorry.”
“Another time. Glad we met.”
Roxanne watched them smile at each other. “Well, Harvey.” She laughed.
He frowned. “Mac, it’s Mac.”
She shrugged and turned to Cory. “Don’t keep her waiting. I’m sure
Mac
would love to show you out.” He walked Cory outside to where her mother was waiting, and Cory introduced them.
“See you in school,” he said as they separated. “Monday. Hey, Mac,” she said, pausing to let her mother get a few steps away. “I really liked your dancing.”
He was pleased. “You saw?”
“I was watching.”
He smiled, saluted, then turned with a step and a dip. She laughed and watched as the boy in orange Zubaz danced into the building.
*
“Roxanne says he’s been in and out of six schools in six years while his brother moved them around, but he’s always kept up a good average. B’s, at least,” Cory’s mother said, leaning her head against the seat of the car and closing her eyes.
Snow was falling, obscuring the white lines of the deserted highway. Trying to keep the car centered in the proper lane, Cory focused on a distant, imaginary spot in the road. It would be a slow thirty miles home. “She also said other good things. He—”
“Mom, I don’t need to hear the secondhand details of his life, okay? We just met, that’s all.”
“Is it? Sometimes mothers can see these things with a different perspective.”
“Right: warped.”
“Change of subject, then. Did you enjoy the powwow? I mean, for reasons other than the obvious one.” She laughed, believing she had said something funny.
Cory reached to punch her playfully, but her mother raised a hand. “Watch your driving, girl.”
The snow was falling faster and attacking the windshield like silent white bullets. Cory switched the wipers to high. “I did enjoy it. The clothing was fantastic.”
“I’m sorry we had to leave early and miss the actual dance competition.”
“Another time.”
“What I loved seeing was the young and old together. All those mothers and daughters in matching fancy dresses. Roxanne plans to make her own jingle dress so she can dance with Paula.”
“Don’t get any ideas about us. Maybe like doubling at my prom.”
“I know better.” She folded her arms and laid them across her chest. “But what do we do together, Cory? What have I passed on to you?”
An oncoming car with high beams approached. Cory flicked her lights to signal the other driver to lower his. “You must be tired, Mom. You sound so melancholy.”
“It’s important to pass things on. What have I taught you?”
“To be nice to people and to wear beige bras under white shirts.”
“That’s all?”
“They’re both important lessons, especially the bra thing. I hate showing underwear lines through clothing.”
Margaret laughed and sat erect. She looked out the side window, finding something of interest beyond the curtain of falling snow. “Let’s go canoeing this summer. I used to do that when I was your age. We’ll go to Canada for a week, just the two of us.”
Cory wrinkled her brow. She hated canoe camping but didn’t want to press the issue now. “Sure, Mom.” Her mother eased back down into a comfortable position and soon fell asleep. Cory sang to herself and stared into the white abyss beyond the windshield. After a few mesmerizing minutes she thought she saw the shapes of dancers in colorful attire amidst the snowflakes. Once or twice she even saw the flash of orange. She blinked away the mirage, gripped the wheel, and willed herself to stay alert. Though she now saw only the swirling snow, nothing she could do or hum would shake loose the haunting sound of the drum. It sang to her all the way home.
3
Cory Looked for Mac at school on Monday. She asked everyone she knew about him, but none of her friends could tell her anything about a senior transfer from Milwaukee. By lunchtime she had almost convinced herself that meeting him had been simply the nicest of dreams. While sitting in the cafeteria with the usual crowd, she even contemplated crossing over to the next table to ask those students about Mac.
“Cory, cut it out,” Karin said. “You’ve been staring at the Reservation for fifteen minutes now. What’s up?”
“Don’t call it that, Karin.”
Karin stole one of Cory’s chips. “We always have. But, okay, how about ‘Indian Territory’?” She giggled at her wit.
“Racist, Karin. Don’t be racist.”
Karin grew serious. “Are you turning into one of those liberals who screams ‘racist!’ every time someone tries to breathe?”
“I’m with Cory,” said Sasha. “Any sort of name-calling is offensive.”
Karin ignored Sasha. “Does this new sensitivity have anything to do with a senior transfer from Milwaukee? The one you have been hunting down all morning?”
Cory picked up Karin’s sandwich. “Put that in your mouth and chew.” Karin took it and made a face. Cory stuffed the remains of her lunch into its paper bag, wadded that, then aimed and tossed it at the trash barrel near the end of their table. The bag hit the rim of the barrel and fell in.