Pigs in Heaven
Page 117
The old people and the nursing babies died first. Mothers would go on carrying dead children for days, out of delirium and loneliness, and because of the wolves following behind.”
Alice uncrosses and crosses her arms over her chest, understanding more than she wants to. She knows she is hearing the story Annawake has carried around her whole life long. A speedboat whines past, far away on the other side of the river. Long after the boat and its noise are gone, they are rocked by the gash it cut in the water.
“They figure about two thousand died in the detention camps,” Annawake says quietly. “And a lot more than that on the trail. Nobody knows.”
A bright yellow wasp hovers over the water near their feet and then touches down, delicately as a helicopter. It floats with its clear wings akimbo, like stiff little sails.
Annawake gives an odd, bitter laugh. “When I was a kid, I read every account ever written about the Trail of Tears. It was my permanent project. In high school Civics I read the class what President Van Buren said to Congress about the removal, and asked our teacher why he didn’t have us memorize that, instead of the Gettysburg Address. He said I was jaded and sarcastic.”
“Were you?”
“You bet.”
“Well. What did President Van Buren say?”
“He said: ‘It affords me sincere pleasure to be able to ap-prise you of the removal of the Cherokee Nation of Indians to their new homes west of the Mississippi. The measures have had the happiest effect, and they have emigrated without any apparent resistance.’ ”
Alice feels she could just slide down into the water without stopping herself. It’s monstrous, what one person will do to another.
Annawake and Alice sit without speaking, merely looking at the stretched-out body of Tenkiller Lake, drawing their own conclusions.
“Somebody must have made it,” Alice says at last. “You’re here. I saw the newspapers and all, that they had.”
“Well, on the good side, we had the run of the place for a while with no interference. By the late 1800s we had our act together again. If you’re really inclined to be Cherokee you should go down to the museum and have a look. We had the first free public school system in the world. For girls and boys both. In secondary school they taught physiology, music, history, algebra, Virgil.”
“Shoot, that’s more than they ever taught me.”
“In 1886 we got the first telephone line west of the Mississippi into Tahlequah. They didn’t want to have to look at ugly lines, so they ran it through the woods and strung it from trees.”
Alice laughs. “Sounds like some high-class people.”
“It’s no joke. We had the highest literacy rate in the whole country.”
“It’s pretty, that writing.” Alice can nearly taste the mysterious curled letters that kept their silence on the crumbling newspaper she saw. “Is it hard to read it?”
“They say it isn’t, but I never learned. Don’t tell anybody.
It pisses me off that Uncle Ledger never taught me.”
“You’re bringing down the literacy rate.”
“Yeah, I told him that. Although it’s kind of down around our ankles now.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking. I mean no offense, but Sugar showed me all the fancy old capitol buildings and stuff, and I was thinking it looked like a hurricane hit this place since then.”
Annawake snorts. “Hurricane Yonega.”
“You can’t blame every bad thing on white people,” Alice says softly.
“Nineteen-ought-two, the railroad came in,” Annawake replies, just as quietly. “Gee Dick and his band played for a stomp dance on the courthouse lawn, to celebrate the arrival of the first train. The first white folks stepped off the train and started poking around and probably couldn’t believe they’d given us such a beautiful piece of real estate. No ugly telephone lines. Within four years, our tribal government was dissolved by federal order. The U.S. government started the Indian boarding schools, dividing up families, selling off land. You tell me, who do we blame?”
“I don’t know. The times. Ignorance. The notion people always seem to get, that they know what’s best for somebody else. At least that part’s over, they’re not moving you out anymore.”
“No, now they just try to take our kids.”
Alice feels stabbed. “Turtle was practically left for dead,” she says. “My daughter saved her from starving in a parking lot, or worse. I’d think you might be grateful.”
Alice uncrosses and crosses her arms over her chest, understanding more than she wants to. She knows she is hearing the story Annawake has carried around her whole life long. A speedboat whines past, far away on the other side of the river. Long after the boat and its noise are gone, they are rocked by the gash it cut in the water.
“They figure about two thousand died in the detention camps,” Annawake says quietly. “And a lot more than that on the trail. Nobody knows.”
A bright yellow wasp hovers over the water near their feet and then touches down, delicately as a helicopter. It floats with its clear wings akimbo, like stiff little sails.
Annawake gives an odd, bitter laugh. “When I was a kid, I read every account ever written about the Trail of Tears. It was my permanent project. In high school Civics I read the class what President Van Buren said to Congress about the removal, and asked our teacher why he didn’t have us memorize that, instead of the Gettysburg Address. He said I was jaded and sarcastic.”
“Were you?”
“You bet.”
“Well. What did President Van Buren say?”
“He said: ‘It affords me sincere pleasure to be able to ap-prise you of the removal of the Cherokee Nation of Indians to their new homes west of the Mississippi. The measures have had the happiest effect, and they have emigrated without any apparent resistance.’ ”
Alice feels she could just slide down into the water without stopping herself. It’s monstrous, what one person will do to another.
Annawake and Alice sit without speaking, merely looking at the stretched-out body of Tenkiller Lake, drawing their own conclusions.
“Somebody must have made it,” Alice says at last. “You’re here. I saw the newspapers and all, that they had.”
“Well, on the good side, we had the run of the place for a while with no interference. By the late 1800s we had our act together again. If you’re really inclined to be Cherokee you should go down to the museum and have a look. We had the first free public school system in the world. For girls and boys both. In secondary school they taught physiology, music, history, algebra, Virgil.”
“Shoot, that’s more than they ever taught me.”
“In 1886 we got the first telephone line west of the Mississippi into Tahlequah. They didn’t want to have to look at ugly lines, so they ran it through the woods and strung it from trees.”
Alice laughs. “Sounds like some high-class people.”
“It’s no joke. We had the highest literacy rate in the whole country.”
“It’s pretty, that writing.” Alice can nearly taste the mysterious curled letters that kept their silence on the crumbling newspaper she saw. “Is it hard to read it?”
“They say it isn’t, but I never learned. Don’t tell anybody.
It pisses me off that Uncle Ledger never taught me.”
“You’re bringing down the literacy rate.”
“Yeah, I told him that. Although it’s kind of down around our ankles now.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking. I mean no offense, but Sugar showed me all the fancy old capitol buildings and stuff, and I was thinking it looked like a hurricane hit this place since then.”
Annawake snorts. “Hurricane Yonega.”
“You can’t blame every bad thing on white people,” Alice says softly.
“Nineteen-ought-two, the railroad came in,” Annawake replies, just as quietly. “Gee Dick and his band played for a stomp dance on the courthouse lawn, to celebrate the arrival of the first train. The first white folks stepped off the train and started poking around and probably couldn’t believe they’d given us such a beautiful piece of real estate. No ugly telephone lines. Within four years, our tribal government was dissolved by federal order. The U.S. government started the Indian boarding schools, dividing up families, selling off land. You tell me, who do we blame?”
“I don’t know. The times. Ignorance. The notion people always seem to get, that they know what’s best for somebody else. At least that part’s over, they’re not moving you out anymore.”
“No, now they just try to take our kids.”
Alice feels stabbed. “Turtle was practically left for dead,” she says. “My daughter saved her from starving in a parking lot, or worse. I’d think you might be grateful.”
