The Buffalo Soldier (24 page)

VERONICA ROWE (FORMERLY POPPING TREES),

WPA INTERVIEW,

MARCH 1938

*

The Heberts

She watched Paul place the black phone back in the cradle and then sit down in the chair in their library on his side of their massive partners desk. She stood before him with her arms crossed because she'd been listening--standing still in the frame of the doorway, watching him pace in the room as he spoke--and she had the sense from the half of the conversation she could hear that something had happened that involved the boy.

So? she asked finally, when Paul didn't immediately tell her what the phone call had been about.

Without looking at her he said, So, I think Terry's been working too hard.

He did seem preoccupied on Christmas Eve.

He didn't seem preoccupied. He seemed angry. Edgy. Ticked off at the world.

I was being kind. That was Terry just now?

He nodded, his hands clasped behind his neck. He was wearing the heavy Irish fisherman's sweater their daughter had given him for Christmas--a bulky gray cardigan--and he looked surprisingly elegant to her: the college professor once more. She had assumed he would be wearing the sweatshirt he'd bought at a seaside lobster shack that summer when they were in Maine. It had a cartoon on the front of a lobster in a leotard in the midst of a somersault, and was captioned with the words
Lobster Roll.
She'd seen him take it out of his armoire earlier that morning when she was lying in bed.

It was.

It sounded like he was calling about the boy. Has something happened?

On their desk were frames with pictures of their children and grandchildren. He unfolded his arms and turned one so that it was at a better angle for him to see it, and then picked it up and held it in his hand. It was a photograph of their daughter on the day she graduated from college.

I don't know. But he thinks the boy might be planning to run away. Maybe use Mesa.

Well, that would make him harder to find. Little black kid on a big horse in Vermont? No one would ever notice that.

Terry thought the boy might believe he could cover more ground if he stole the horse. Go further.

Why does he think Alfred wants to leave in the first place? Did the boy say something? Did they have a fight?

He caught the boy getting ready to pack.

Getting ready to pack: What does that mean?

He said Alfred had been stealing things from them, and Terry walked in on him when he had the stuff laid out on his carpet.

What kind of stuff? Clothing? Money? Food?

I don't know. I guess.

That's awful. Laura must be crushed.

She doesn't know. And Terry doesn't want her to find out.

She probably should know...

Probably. But it's not our place to tell her. The main thing is--the reason he called--Terry doesn't want me to leave the boy alone with the horse. He doesn't want Alfred grooming her, for instance, when I'm not around.

Because he thinks they might take off...

Right.

That's too bad.

He returned the picture of their daughter to the desk, and she watched him rock back in his chair and stretch his legs before him. You know, he said, it would be if I took the idea seriously. But I don't. Really, I don't.

You don't think the boy's going anywhere.

Nope. Something else may be going on, but I don't think Alfred has any plans to run away. After lunch he's bringing some social worker over to see the horse, and I have absolutely no intention of baby-sitting the two of them. I trust him. I'm going to head up to Burlington and do some errands just like I'd planned.

You're not concerned.

If I'm concerned about anyone, I'm concerned about Terry.

Me, too.

But, no, I'm not worried about Alfred, he said, and then shrugged. I don't know, maybe I'll talk to him--Alfred. See if there's something he wants to bring up. But I doubt he will. There's no quicker way to make that lad grow quiet than to bring up Terry or Laura.

Behind her in the living room a log in the woodstove collapsed, and she looked around at the sound to make sure the fire was still under control. It was.

I assume he was calling from work.

He was. Abruptly he turned toward her, swiveling his whole body at the waist and sitting forward. You read about these foster kids--teenagers, really--who run away from their foster homes and get themselves into real trouble. You see their pictures in the newspaper, their faces on the TV news. They wind up as prostitutes in New York or Montreal. They wind up in jail for selling drugs. I imagine at one time that could have been Alfred in a couple more years, but we both know it won't be now. At least it won't be if Terry and Laura don't screw this up. The kid is too...

She stood there quietly, giving him a moment to frame his thought.

He's too smart and he's too responsible. Here's a ten-year-old kid who hasn't once in the last month--not one time--tried to get out of his chores with the horse or even shown up late. How many other children could you say that about?

She nodded. She took pride in her own family, but when she thought back on the reality of the work their horses had demanded when Nick and Catherine and Andy were young, she knew that often it had taken a sizable effort on her part to get even one of them out to the barn once a day.

If something's going on over there, he said, motioning with his head and his shoulders toward the Sheldons' house, I think it has a whole lot more to do with Terry than with Alfred. Really. I do.

"In that they are children, even the one called Popping Trees, they pose no threat either to the company's safety or to its morale. Perhaps I would think differently if the two smaller ones were boys who might grow into warriors, but the fact is they, too, are girls. It seems to me that if Colonel Grierson can bake Army bread for the Indians, we can perform this small act of kindness."

CAPTAIN ANDREW HITCHENS,

TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,

REPORT TO THE POST ADJUTANT,

JUNE 19, 1876

*

Alfred

He saw that Louise was careful to keep her distance from the horse, especially after he'd suggested that she not stand behind the animal. He wondered if he had grown a bit in the seven weeks since he last saw her, because this woman--merely short in early November--now seemed tiny to him. Not slight, but squat. She wasn't more than a couple of inches taller than he was, and he had never had the sense that he was tall for his age. She was a little plump and so her face was round and full, and this--along with her height--reinforced the idea in his mind that she was almost too young to have the job of a grown-up.

Still, he respected her. She was smart and nice, and clearly very hip. Her hair was brown, but she did something to it to give it a reddish tint, and she even let it get a little spiky at the front. She claimed to listen to the same music that he did, and she dressed like one of the teenagers who hung out on the streets back in Burlington. A lot of leather and fake leather, and nice lines of silver in both ears.

And you can get up there all by yourself? she was asking, motioning at the top of Mesa's back.

Yup. Sometimes Paul helps and sometimes I use a block. But when I have to or want to, I can. The hardest part is getting the saddle on her and tightening the girth.

Why is that?

With the hand in which he was holding the curry comb, he pointed at the saddle on the wall. Lift it, he said.

She did, and he could see that she was surprised by how heavy it was. She dropped it back on the two slender rods that extended from the wall like the front of a forklift. Okay, I'm impressed, she said.

He nodded and considered asking her if she wanted to try brushing Mesa with him, but it was clear she was nervous around the horse and he thought she might make the animal skittish. Maybe in a little while, he decided. He wished he could take the mare out for a short ride so she could see how well he handled her, but he wasn't allowed to ride without Paul.

Laura said you were going to start taking lessons. When's that?

January, I guess. They'll be after school.

Are you looking forward to them?

He shrugged. I think I ride okay. But I guess a few lessons wouldn't hurt.

You can always get better.

Maybe.

Laura showed me your report card. Nice. I mean there's still plenty of room for improvement, but I saw a lot of B's on there. Keep it up. Don't let the lessons keep you from your homework.

They won't.

Seriously, why do you think your grades improved? Is it the school? Your teacher? Or are you just working more?

It isn't my teacher, that's for sure.

No?

No.

Why's that?

Maybe I'm working more, he said, not exactly answering Louise's question. I don't know. It's not like there's a lot to do out here. Until Paul got the horse, most days I just went straight from the bus to Terry and Laura's house.

Home.

He looked at her, understanding that the word, in her mind, was both a clarification and a desire. She had wished he'd called that house home. Without giving it serious thought, he figured he could oblige. Home, he said, repeating the word for her.

It seemed to work: She smiled. Do you like your new friends? Laura tells me you've made some.

I guess. But the kids here have known each other forever. They've been hanging around together since they were, like, two.

Is that why you'd just go straight home after school?

Mostly.

You still think you stand out like a sore thumb?

He scooted under the line that linked the horse to the post, returned the comb to the toolbox, and got out one of the dish towels that Paul had him use to polish the animal. Because it was cold outside he hadn't moistened the towel the way he normally did, but he did scrunch it into a ball as if he had, and then he started wiping it gently along Mesa's sides.

Yup. This was something they'd discussed when she came by in November, and they'd gone into Durham for doughnuts and hot apple cider.

You're a smart kid--and handsome. That's a rare combination. Trust me, I know.

I know what I am.

I understand. But sometimes I think you think about being different more than other people do.

Yeah, right.

The horse like that? she asked, watching him as he rubbed her down.

Yup.

Can I try?

Briefly he considered the request, still concerned that her nervousness around the animal might get her in trouble, but in the end he handed her the dish towel. She was, after all, an adult. Just don't be jumpy around her, he said. She's big, but she's a kitten. She won't hurt you.

Okay, she said as she mimicked his motions. I hear you're celebrating Kwanzaa this year.

Just one more way I can be different.

Laura said you're having a good time.

Sure I am. But I probably like Christmas more.

Of course you do. You get presents.

I've gotten some stuff for Kwanzaa. I get a present a day from Laura.

Laura and Terry, you mean?

Uh-huh.

Good stuff?

Good enough. So far I've gotten a book that explains what Kwanzaa is, and a shirt with a lot of black and red in it. Those are the Kwanzaa colors. It's only been two days. I'll get something else at dinner tonight.

Doesn't sound shabby to me.

No. It's just a weird holiday.

Why is that?

Well, he said, it doesn't make sense for me. Yeah, I'm black, but that's about all I have in common with the values Laura and that book talk about. I've never been to Africa, and I probably never will get there.

Maybe you will. And even I know there's more to Kwanzaa than that.

Right: Family. Community. Getting all the people together. What's that got to do with me? What people do I have? What family? He realized he was talking too much and quickly quieted down.

Don't you view Laura and Terry as family?

I don't know.

When Louise didn't say anything for a few moments, he realized that inadvertently he had brought them to the
serious
part of her visit. There was always a serious part to these get-togethers, and over the years he'd come to recognize when the caseworker--Louise now, and Cliff and Sarah before her--wanted to shift gears and discuss what Cliff had always called
the heavy stuff.
What he thought of his current home, his foster parents. Whether he was listening to their words, and they, in turn, were doing right by him. Whether he was happy.

It was always a pretty complex dance because you didn't want to say something that might somehow get back to your foster parents and cause them to make things even harder, or get you moved someplace really awful. And, he knew, there was always someplace worse than where you were. It was inevitable. He knew what some foster parents were like, and what they would do. And he certainly hadn't been happy inside the group home.

But sometimes it was also just time to move on, and either you or your foster parents or the caseworker figured it out.

Of course, it wasn't as if he himself had any real control. Not really. He could watch his words and try to act as if he had some say in what was going to happen, but in reality he didn't. He knew that. The grown-ups would do whatever they wanted, anyway; when they no longer had any need for you, or they just got tired out, they moved you on. It didn't matter whether you liked a place. All that mattered was whether they liked you or they needed the money they got from the state.

Here was a perfect example. He wanted to stay in Cornish, but it was pretty obvious that Terry didn't like him and eventually he'd be gone. He'd pissed Terry off too much in the fall, and now the guy had gotten the idea into his head that he was stealing and planned to run away. It probably wouldn't matter that Laura liked him or the Heberts liked him or this big old horse liked him. It didn't matter that he liked all of them.

An odd idea crossed his mind: Maybe he should tell Louise what had happened that morning, and the way Terry had misunderstood what he was doing. Maybe she could fix things. Quickly he pushed the notion aside: Terry had told him he didn't want Laura to know anything about it, so Louise couldn't talk to her. And if she tried to discuss it with Terry directly, the trooper would be furious because he would know that Alfred had snitched. Still...

Family is complicated, Louise was saying. These days, there are lots of different kinds. It doesn't have to be Mom and Dad and the two-point-four babies they had. You know that.

I guess.

You like Laura? I like her very much.

I do, too.

Good, good. Because she certainly seems to like you.

When she had finished rubbing Mesa down, the horse turned her long head toward her--her nose almost in the woman's face--and snorted, and he could see Louise flinch. She handed him the dish towel and he draped it over a wooden brace by the toolbox to let it air out. Later he'd fold it and put it away.

She's been through a lot, Louise went on, referring to Laura. You understand that, right?

Yup.

What about Terry?

What about him?

How are you two getting on? she asked, and he watched the lashlike, gray-blue fog of her exhalation rise up toward the loft in the barn and then disappear.

Okay.

He seems like a nice guy. Sometimes state troopers--all cops, actually--give me the creeps. All that paramilitary stuff. The uniform, the strut. The handcuffs and the baton. But he seems pretty down to earth. Is that true?

He decided once and for all that he couldn't tell Louise about Terry--not what Terry thought of him or, likewise, what he thought of the trooper. He wanted to stay in Cornish at least a little longer, if he could--with Laura and Paul and the horse--and that meant keeping quiet. Keeping his opinions, and what had occurred that morning, to himself. Besides, why should he tell her, anyway? She was just a social worker who understood
family
so well because she probably had one. A real one. She was just another adult who was paid to appear in his life every once in a while.

Alfred?

Yeah, he's a nice guy, he said finally.

You don't sound convinced.

He's busy, he works a lot. We get along fine.

Okay.

Now you think something's going on, but nothing is.

She nodded and pulled the bridle and reins off the broad circle peg on the wall.

Be careful that doesn't get tangled, he said.

These are the reins, I gather?

And that's the martingale.

I've never heard of such a thing.

It's a strap that goes around the horse's neck. It gives a beginner something else to hang on to.

How have you learned all this?

Paul. He's a good teacher. He used to be a teacher.

So I hear, she said as she looped the leather lines back on the wall.

He used to have horses. When he was a kid, and when he had kids of his own.

She smiled and leaned over, resting her gloved hands on the stored saddle. What exactly is the deal with you two?

No deal.

You like him?

Sometimes he cracks me up. You should see him on Mesa. Goes about a mile an hour. Babies crawl faster than he rides that horse.

Well, he is pretty old.

Not that old. I heard him say the other day he's only sixty-five.

So you do like him...

I like him fine.

I understand he's paying you to help care for the horse.

Four dollars a day. I've already made almost a hundred dollars!

You've got almost a hundred dollars?

Not anymore, because I spent some on Christmas presents for Laura and Terry, and I even got little gifts for the Heberts: I got Paul some saddle soap and Emily some blueberry jam. But I still have over forty-five dollars, he said, and excited by the size of his savings, he went on without thinking, See, that was the dumbest thing about what Terry said this morning! I don't have to steal any money. I got plenty. I--

Instantly he stopped talking when he realized what he'd just told her. Louise's face was impassive, a mask he couldn't read, but he knew now he would have to tell her everything that had happened that day--everything, in fact, that was probably wrong with his relationship with Terry Sheldon.

"At first, it was two Negro brothers named Edmonds who taught me English. They had not been with the soldiers who chased down my husband, and that made it easier. They were from Mississippi, a word that always sounded like the wind in my ear."