The Secret Letters (6 page)

I stared at the faces of my new relatives. They stared back at me. Their eyes seemed to really see me, somehow understanding what I had gone through in my short, pointless life, and to feel sorry for me. But now that we had found each other and I was part of their great tradition (though I admit I knew almost nothing about it, apart from what I'd grown up seeing on TV), everything was going to be okay.

A big map of the United States was dotted with places where the Bureau had offices, all out west. The names of tribes were written on the map, and the first place I checked was Arizona. I could see a big section near Flagstaff that said “Navajo,” and next to that, “Hopi.” One of these had to be my tribe.
My
tribe. I felt my heartbeat drumming in my chest. I had found what I was looking for, though I still wasn't sure exactly what it was.

Now I needed to find someone to tell me how to open a casino, but I didn't know who to ask. A guard at the opposite end of the hall didn't see me as I strolled back into the marble hallway to a bank of old-fashioned elevators with cursive numbers on the metal plates. I got in one, expecting someone to try to stop me, but no one did. I pushed all the buttons and peered out at each floor until, on the fourth floor, I saw a sign
that said “Public Affairs.” I'm the public, I thought, and went in.

“I need some information,” I said to a woman behind a counter.

“What would you like to know?” She had straight gray hair and pale eyes and did not look like one of us.

“Well—” I thought for a minute. What
did
I want to know? I wasn't sure. “I guess my first question is, how does someone prove they're Indian?”

Oops, I forgot to say “Native American.” I guessed it was all right, though, because she asked, “Is one of their parents an Indian?”

“Well—she thinks so.”

“But she isn't sure?”

“She's sure. But she has no proof.”

“Well, she would need to have some proof.”

“How would she get it?”

“She could get a letter of acknowledgment from the parent. That would be one way.”

“What if the parent didn't actually know about the kid?”

She looked at me kindly, like she got the whole picture. “She would have to tell the parent. The parent would then have to acknowledge the child.”

“Okay.” Disappointment shot through me like an arrow. “Then, let's say this person proves she's Indian, how does she go about joining a tribe?”

“Well, again, the tribe would have to accept her. She could apply, and then the tribe would decide whether to enroll her or not.”

“But what if there aren't any tribes where she lives?” I had noticed on the map that there were no tribes in Maryland.

“She would have to apply elsewhere. The best thing to do would be to write to the father's tribe and tell them the whole situation.” She glanced at a clock on the wall.
“Do you have any other questions?”

I took a deep breath. “Let's say this person is accepted by the father, and then she gets accepted by the tribe—how can she open a casino?”

She pursed her lips, like she was sick of this question. “An individual can't open a casino. This has to be done by the tribe. If there's already a gaming license in the state, the tribe can apply. What state are we talking about?”

“Maryland.”

“The tribe would have to apply. But there are—”

“No tribes in Maryland,” I finished for her. “So the individual can't do anything?”

“Not on her own.”

“No casino?”

“No, sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I felt like I needed help with something, but I wasn't sure what. I got back in the elevator and sank down to the ground floor. When I got off, I noticed a small gift shop at the end of the hall. Glass cases lined the front of the room, and in the back were colorful rugs and a wall of books. Inside the glass case was a row of tiny, carved stones. I asked the woman behind the counter if I could see them.

“These are fetishes,” she said.

I had always thought that was when someone had a thing for shoes, but I nodded like I knew.

“Which animal are you looking for?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. I was hoping to find something for good luck.” I felt silly saying that, but she seemed okay with it.

“How about a buffalo?” She reached into the case and took out a tiny piece of stone that looked vaguely like an animal. “This was carved from Picasso marble by a
Zuni.”

I had noticed the Zunis on the map near the Navajos and the Hopis, so they were okay with me. I nodded. She dropped the tiny buffalo into my palm. It was a smooth, shiny, brown and gray stone, with tiny flecks of blue that might have been turquoise. I closed my fist around it and waited for a surge of energy, or luck, or some other kind of sign, to come over me, but nothing happened. “I'll take it,” I said anyway. As I waited for her to ring up my purchase, I looked up at the wall at a big mural of a buffalo with some Indian guys chasing it like faded cartoon characters.

“Good luck,” she said as she handed me my change. She smiled at me, and I wondered if she somehow knew about my situation, but then I realized she was talking about the buffalo. I raised my fist to show I had the fetish in it, said goodbye, and walked back down the marble hall.

As I headed away from the building, it was starting to rain, but for some reason I wasn't getting wet. The lucky buffalo in my hand was already working and now rain couldn't touch me. I looked up at the sky, where streaks of blue and pink swirled like Picasso marble. Then there was a loud clap of thunder, and sheets of water poured down. All around me, people in work clothes dashed under awnings and hid in the entrances of office buildings, but I just kept walking.

I'd just finished painting the trim in my apartment and was tacking things on the walls when Pam called and said she wanted to borrow my vacuum cleaner. When she arrived, she seemed surprised at the color of my living room. “Peach?”

“Southwestern Sunset.”

“You chose this color?”

“I like it.” I tried not to sound defensive, a word my ex-husband had often used about me. Of course, he had used it while telling me he was leaving me for another woman, so I didn't know how seriously to take his accusation. But I tried to avoid defensiveness in case he had a point.

“This is okay with your landlord?”

“He doesn't give a shit.”

She looked around. “What's with all the Indian kitsch?”

“That store down the street was having a sale.”

“The fudge store?”

“It's not just fudge.” I was sounding defensive again.

She strolled around the room, eyeballing everything. “You've got kind of a buffalo theme going here.”

“I like buffalos.”

“Since when?”

“You know.”

She examined the buffalo T-shirt I was wearing with narrowed eyes. “This is getting to be a real obsession with you.”

“I just felt like redecorating.”

“The word ‘redecorate' implies you had decorated in the first place.”

“Here,” I said, getting my vacuum cleaner out of the closet. “What happened to yours?”

“I was vacuuming the sewing room and it just died.”

“What about Mom's old one?”

“That thing hasn't worked right in years. It just blows the dirt around. So what's with the trippy music?”

“It's Lakota.”

“Interesting.” She was probably about to make a smartass remark, but thought better of it and turned to study a poster I had just hung up.

“Chief Seattle,” I said in case she couldn't see his name there in big letters.

“Where's your shot glass collection?”

“In the closet.”

She ran her hand along the edge of my mantelpiece, where a Kachina doll now stood. Maybe she was checking for dust. “It's like one of those make-over shows. ‘Buffalo Your Crib.'”

“Buffalos symbolize abundance,” I blurted, though it was the kind of thing she would usually make fun of. It was the kind of thing
I
would usually make fun of.

“Excessiveness, even.” She picked up a book from the coffee table. “
Hopi Wisdom
—is this good?”

“I haven't read it yet. It's supposed to be.” To change the subject, I said, “Want something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“I ran out. How about some chai?”

“That's the wrong kind of Indian.”

“Do you want some or not?”

She did.

We sat in my kitchen, now a shade of blue-green called Desert Sky. A string of red chili peppers hung next to the table. They were plastic, but they looked real.

She stirred her chai. “Jools, what the fuck?”

“I needed a change.” I hadn't told her, or anyone, about my visit to the Bureau of Indian Affairs. I usually ended up telling her everything, even when I didn't want to, but for some reason I had kept my trap shut about my field trip.

After I found out I couldn't open a casino, I spent the next week lying on the couch, clutching my buffalo fetish and thinking. The casino seemed like the best damn idea I ever had, but like every other one of my ideas, it had turned to shit. In my living room, staring at the blank white walls, I kept seeing the people in the photographs from the museum staring at me, waiting for me to do something great. Sometimes Fallingwater, or my image of him, smiled at me in a patient, fatherly way, like he knew I had something to offer the world and we just had to figure out what it was.

When I got tired of staring at my walls, I ran to Home Depot and asked the guy at the paint counter to recommend some colors that looked like they were from Arizona or New Mexico. I started shopping at the Fudge Connection, a little store on Main Street that sold southwestern items on the side, and by the end of the week, I had remodeled my entire apartment. While I was doing that, I hatched a new plan, and now I was planning to remodel my life.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. She looked worried, so I added, “Something good.” I took a deep breath and told her I was going to open a restaurant on Main Street where the Chelsea Grill had been. I had already talked to the bank and they were willing to lend me money to buy the building, and I could use my share of our mother's life insurance policy as a down payment. The current owner was willing to sell.

“Shut the fuck up!”

I never knew how to respond when people said this.

“Julie, that's awesome!” A worried look crossed her face. “Is that enough money?”

I said I needed to use my share of the money from the house sale, too, but I knew that would take a few more months.

“Yeah, the house sale,” she said, chewing her fingertips.

“So what do you think, good idea?”

“
Great
idea.” I had thought she might laugh at me, but she sounded excited. “What kind of food?”

“Southwestern. Southwestern fusion, really.”

She gave me a thumbs-up.

“Yeah?” I let out my breath.

“Absolutely. You're a genius in the kitchen. It's going to be the best restaurant in town—in the whole state!”

Was she making fun of me? I looked at her. She seemed happy, even proud. “You think?”

“Of course. Seriously. It's amazing. I can't even tell you how amazing.”

“Thanks. That means a lot to me.” I felt my throat closing up, not in an asthma kind of way, but like I might cry.

“What are you going to call it?”

“Falling Water.”

“Fallingwater?” Her smile froze.

“No. Two words. Falling. Water.”

“Not Fallingwater?”

“That name is copyrighted,” I told her. “It's a house by the architect Frank Wright.”

“I think that's Frank
Lloyd
Wright.”

“Whatever. Anyway, it's his.”

“How do you know this?”

“Google.”

“I didn't know you googled.”

“I google,” I said, defensive again.

“Falling Water.” She said the name like she was tasting it, then clinked her cup against mine.

***

As she was leaving, she said, “Oh, hey, I decided to have the party from hell.”

“You're kidding.” Our mother always threw a party on the Fourth of July, stringing a bunch of tacky red-white-and-blue stuff all over the place and inviting a million neighbors to cram themselves into our backyard. When I was a kid, I thought Mom's holiday insanity was fun, but as I got older, I realized that she went all out because otherwise, holidays would depress the hell of out her. They depressed me, too, and I especially hated the Fourth of July, when my father—I mean Bill Barlow—always used to proclaim, “Summer's over!”

“It seems like the right thing to do.” Pam stood in the doorway, holding my vacuum cleaner. “She'd want us to.”

“I guess so. But won't the house be on the market by then?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

I decided not to ask questions.

She added, “By the way, I sent that letter for you.”

“You did?” For a second, this information made me feel like jumping for joy,
then suddenly I was scared shitless. What if J. Fallingwater didn't write back? What if he
did
write back? “Thanks,” was all I said.

“Anyway, the party's on. Invite anyone you want.”

“I can't think of anyone, but okay.”

“What about Milo?” she asked.

“Milo?”

“Sure. Invite him.”

“I think he always goes out on his boat. He watches the Annapolis fireworks from the Bay.”

“Just invite him, Julie. He can decide if he wants to come or not.”

“You're not, you know,
interested
in him, are you?”

“In Milo?” She laughed. “Hell no, I just think he's a nice guy. And he seems kind of lonely.”

“Oh, okay then.” I felt relieved that she wasn't going to mess around with my boss, though also offended on his behalf.

She opened my front door and I thought she was finally going, but she turned around. “Oh, guess who might come. Tim.”

“Tim who?”

“Our brother?”

“No way.”

“Way. He called the other night.”

“He called you?”

“He called Mom's. He wanted to see how things were going. I think he's in a hurry for us to sell—his business always takes a hit when the economy starts improving.”

“I guess that friend of his isn't such a great accountant.”

“I think the friend is coming, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” I didn't give a shit.

“Anyway, I better get moving. Thanks for the chai. And for this.” She pointed to the vacuum cleaner.

“How are you getting it to Mom's? Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, I have a car.” She lowered her eyes.

“Oh, no, please. Are you crazy?”

“I'm just keeping the battery charged.”

“You better not let her see you.”

“I know. I'm being careful.”

“Driving the Grand Dame up and down Main Street is not careful.”

“She never comes down here. She's always taking the boys to soccer practice or karate or whatever.”

“You've been warned.”

She waved goodbye and ran down the stairs with the vacuum cleaner hose trailing behind her.

***

Once I made the decision to open Falling Water, everything started coming together. It happened so fast: the Chelsea Grill closing, then the owner agreeing to sell me the building. Nothing in my life had ever gone so smoothly, but this seemed like it was meant to be, and the bank seemed to think so, too. Since my apartment was upstairs from the restaurant, the building was obviously a great investment for me and, according to the bank manager, would have tax advantages. He was much nicer to me than he had been when I was trying to scrape together a loan to buy a used car, and even told me to call him by his first name.

There were a lot of advantages to taking over a restaurant that had gone under. I
was able to use most of the stuff from the Grill, so I didn't need to buy much. I didn't want their plain white dishes or their stiff tablecloths, but I bought their kitchen equipment, tables and chairs, pots and pans, and flatware. I even bought their little blue candleholders. The sale of the building itself would take a while, but I knew it would go through, since my new BFF the bank manager had assured me everything was in order.

This meant it was time to do the thing I was dreading.

There was still an hour to go before my shift began when I went into the Wild Hare. Hector seemed surprised to see me, not just on time but early. I asked him where Milo was. He took one look at me and must have figured out that I had something unpleasant to discuss. He told me to check upstairs, then bolted into the kitchen.

I found Milo sitting alone at the minibar up on the deck with a bottle of Pellegrino. He didn't drink alcohol during the day, he always said, because there was too much temptation to get hammered all the time when you owned a restaurant. I made a mental note to remember that. “Julie, this is a nice surprise,” he said when he saw me. He sounded like he meant it, maybe because he was glad to have some company, or else he was just surprised I wasn't late for my shift.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, everything's fine. At least, I hope it will be fine with you. Here's the thing.” I sat on a barstool next to him. The bartender started over to me, but I waved him away. “I've decided to go into business for myself.”

“Business?” Maybe he thought I was going to sell shoes or something.

“I'm going to open my own restaurant.”

“Julie, that's great! I'm really happy for you.” He really did look happy, with a big smile across his tan face.

“You are?”

“Of course. I'll be sorry to lose you, but I think it's a great move for you. What you do in the kitchen is really something special, and I'm only sorry I haven't been able to give you more room.” He lowered his voice. “You know how Hector is.”

“Yeah.” I sure did.

“This is terrific news. Where is it going to be? Do you know yet?” Before I could answer, he said, “You know, now that the Chelsea Grill is gone that would be a perfect location.”

“I know. In fact, I've already talked to them about it. I'm buying the building.”

I had thought Milo might be upset to have me opening up right across the street from him, but he looked even more excited. “That's fantastic! Congratulations! It's a perfect spot. They just never had the right menu.”

That's a nice way of putting it, I thought.

“Come on,” he said, waving for me to follow him. He led me downstairs, where he went behind the bar and came back with a bottle of champagne. He popped it open and poured us each a glass, and we drank to my new restaurant. When I finally went into the kitchen to start my shift, I reflected kind of drunkenly that this had not been the reaction I was expecting. Maybe he was just glad to get rid of me, I thought, but he seemed to be genuinely happy for my good fortune and to truly wish me well. People are weird, I concluded, smiling a little as I whipped up some bland Crabcakes Hector for the umpteenth time. I was going to have only interesting food at my restaurant, food that made people feel lucky to be eating, happy to be alive. That was what I was going for—nothing less would satisfy me. I owed it to my people, and to my father, J. Fallingwater.

***

Now every morning when I woke up, I thought about my restaurant. I pictured myself in the kitchen—no sign of Hector, only me, in charge of everything. If I wanted to put
cilantro in something, I could put it there. Or white pepper. Or Madeira. Or kale. Or cumin seeds. (These were fights Hector and I had all the time.) There was no one to tell me I was doing everything wrong. I would be responsible to myself, and no one else. Nobody was going to run my life but me. I happened to mention this to Pam.