Chapter 11- A Decision Made
Well, my father was right on one score. Six o'clock came pretty fast during the three or four corn harvests. Also I had a few aches and pains the next day, but they were nothing compared to last night's when I had to beg Dad for some Tylenol.
I dressed in a black-and-white long-sleeved turtleneck and a pair of baggy blue jeans that I had just gotten from my oldest cousin, Jasmine. Jasmine was the only older girl cousin I got along with really well. She had just gotten married to a man in the tribe and she wasn't as annoying as Jane could be.
I went downstairs. Both sets of parents, my grandparents, and Alfred were already up. In an Indian tribe the women always wake up early. We're the ones who have to prepare breakfast for the men and children. Things like this haven't changed since the 1700s. It was just a little surprising to see my father, grandfather, Mr. Wayne, and Alfred up at this hour.
"Who died?" I asked stupidly. The last time my father or grandfather was up at six in the morning was when great-uncle Tall Pine died 4 years ago.
'Huh?" Dad asked with a confused look in his dark brown eyes.
"The last time you and Grandpa ever woke up this early was when a relative died 4 years ago," I said, sitting down in the only available seat at the table. Unfortunately it was right next to Mr. Wayne.
"I suppose we can't see you and your cousins off, can't we?" Grandpa said with his famous 'James Garner' grin. Grandpa reminds me so much of the actor James Garner in "The Notebook" that I often tease him and say that he has a 'James Garner' grin.
"You and every other man of the tribe are usually asleep at this hour. And no offense meant, Mr. Wayne, Alfred, but you're white and rich. Don't the idle rich and white men sleep in?" I asked.
Mr. Wayne shot me a look that was amused and annoyed. "Sometimes I sleep in. Can't always. I have to go to work and your mother usually has a case in court," Mr. Wayne said.
"Here's your breakfast, Rachel," Mom said, putting a bowl of cornpone soup in front of me. Now this is normally a bland dish, but Grandma left out salt for us to flavor as we liked it. Grandpa was really the only one who ate it without salt and for medical reasons. Dad had examined him five months ago and told him that he needed to watch his salt intake or, at his age, it'd kill him.
I sprinkled the salt in a huge amount. "Easy there, Rach. You know that too much salt is bad for you," Dad said warningly, covering my hand with his.
"I'm not as old as Grandpa, Dad. A little salt won't kill me," I said sarcastically.
"Would you like me to pull out all the research that says putting salt on your food is like putting poison on it?" Dad asked as Grandmother and Mom put out the soup to everyone else.
Mr. Wayne took a bite. Judging from the look on his face he didn't like it. "What is this, Roberta?" Mr. Wayne asked. Every time the man used the name "Roberta" it was like a time bomb going off. I think it was his way of saying that as much as I called Patrick Hamilton "Dad," he really wasn't.
"Cornpone soup. Or cornpone soaked in water. It's a Seneca recipe my grandmother likes to make. Put a little salt and pepper in it and it should be fine," I said, handing the shakers to Mr. Wayne.
"It took me awhile to get used to it, Wayne. It was about a year before I even liked it," Grandpa said, taking a huge bite of the corn cake in his bowl.
"How long did it take you, Miss Wayne?" Alfred asked. It took me a minute to remember that Alfred was talking to me.
"I don't know, Alfred. My memories are fragmented when it comes to this. I can barely even remember being kidnapped. I didn't even struggle. What kid doesn't struggle when she's being kidnapped?" I asked. It was a question that had plagued me since I discovered the milk carton. It was an awful lot like Janie's in the book.
"A three-year-old," Mom said flatly.
"But still, I should have known he was bad. Kids know if a person's bad," I said, feeling three again for one moment.
Mr. Wayne wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into his arms. "We never blamed you, Roberta. It wasn't your fault," Mr. Wayne whispered, kissing the top of my head.
"No. I guess you don't have to, Mr. Wayne. I'm doing a good job of blaming myself," I said, burying my face in Mr. Wayne's shoulder.
"You don't have to, Rachel. A three-year-old is innocent. You haven't done anything for which you should be ashamed," Dad said his voice as comforting as Mr. Wayne's arms around my shoulders.
"I should have done something. I should have screamed," I said.
"You probably would have, but knowing the man who took you screaming wouldn't have helped," Mr. Wayne said, stroking my hair gently.
My grandmother then spoke in the Seneca tongue. "Rachel, it's time to go to the fields. Your aunt and cousins are walking down the road," Grandmother said, her voice not as harsh as it would have been on any other day. I guess my tears and distress unnerved her.
"Yes, Grandmother," I said in Seneca, raising my face from Mr. Wayne's shoulder. I ate as fast as I could without choking and ran towards the burden-strap I hung up last night. Dad helped me slip it over me forehead and my arms.
"There! Now I'm going to be examining patients all day and your mom is going to be here with your grandmother if you need us," Dad said, his hands like a weight on my shoulders.
"Okay. I should be back for lunch," I said, walking out into the chill that was early morning.
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Bruce's POV:
"I had no idea that it bothered her so much, Wayne," Hamilton said as they watched Roberta walk down the road and join the little girl who visited last night and an older girl.
"Roberta is just like me. If she can't figure it out now, she will later," Bruce said wearily. He had tossed and turned all night, debating what he should do about Roberta and these people. He had been all prepared to tell her that she couldn't refer to these people as her parents or hug or kiss them again. But her distress over what had happened 12 years ago totally wiped out that lecture. Especially after she had let Bruce be her father and comfort her like she was three instead of fourteen.
"I am also the same way. Being a lawyer I have to search for facts," Rachel said.
"She is persistent at that. I remember when she first tried to learn the language of the Seneca. It irritated her to no end when she accidentally said 'window' when she meant 'wood' or 'dog' instead of 'cat,' " Michael Hamilton said with a smile.
"Funny, I remember Mother saying the same thing when I was ten about you," Hamilton said with an even wider grin.
"I don't deny it, but Rachel and myself are living proof that a white person can learn the language. Even though Seneca wasn't our first language we learned it and we speak it here so well that people forget that we are white," Michael said.
"How long did it take for Roberta to learn it?" Bruce wanted to know.
"A long time. I had my mother talk to her in the Seneca language. She would repeat words and phrases over and over until she learned. It wasn't until almost a year after her adoption that we started to realize that she knew the language. She spoke about corn and beans to Running Elk Mason outside and it wasn't English she was talking in," Hamilton said.
"Who?" Alfred asked.
"Running Elk. His white name is Jonathan and we all call him Jack. He was adopted at the same time as Rachel. He's about two or three years older than Rachel and his father is one of the chiefs. He's always protected Rachel as if she was his kid sister," Hamilton said.
"I don't know how long Jack will think of her as a cute little girl," Ellen muttered.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Rachel asked.
"Rachel has gotten very beautiful. And Jack has gotten very handsome. The girls in the tribe speak very well of him. She hasn't discovered boys actually exist yet," Hamilton said wearily.
Bruce had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. His daughter thinking boys were cute was just laughable! To him she was still his baby girl! He wasn't ready for her to be interested in boys! He had just gotten her back! Roberta then came in, her face flushed and her dark hair messy.
"You look as if you've been running," Hamilton said with a smile.
"Yep. My burden-strap broke. Aunt Lisa said I needed to get another one," Roberta said quickly, going over to the wall pegs and grabbing another one.
"How did it break?" Ellen asked.
"I don't know. I just felt it give way when I started putting corn in it. I'll be back for lunch," Roberta said, opening the door and running outside.
Bruce watched as she ran back to the cornfields. She looked happier here. Bruce wondered if he would be able to talk with her about the Hamiltons.' It seemed as if she rarely had time outside of helping the women pick the harvest.
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Bruce and Alfred watched as Hamilton, his father, and his brother showed them around the reservation. "The reservation has actually grown some in years. A lot of intermarriage between other branches of the Iroquois and some of the white people has helped it expand. We also adopt a lot too. At least we don't do what we used to do to adopt people into our tribe," Peter Hamilton said as they stopped in front of a smokehouse.
"What did you use to do, Sir?" Alfred asked.
"Used to be that when an Indian died of something that was caused by white men we'd raid a farm and kidnap people. We'd force them to be Indians. But when the French and Indian War came we were told that if we allied ourselves with the British that had to end and we had to return any captive we had taken back to his or her family. We did have a few captives who decided to stay no matter what, but a lot did go back to their families. Now we adopt in the legal ways," Patrick Hamilton explained calmly.
"Is it harder for Indians to adopt?" Bruce wanted to know.
"A little. A lot of the white men try to punish me and Peter because we are half-white and look like Indians. They say things like our father betrayed his kind when he married an Indian woman. It happened again when me and Peter married white women. They just think that a white woman or man can't find love with an Indian. I guess that's why I thought Henri Ducard was a good man. He didn't look at me as an Indian and he said that he knew of a baby that's mother and father had died. I thought he was a legitimate lawyer that wanted to help a childless couple," Patrick said
"I know that now. You wouldn't have called me when Roberta ran away if you had intentionally kidnapped my daughter," Bruce said. What Bruce said was true. If Patrick had known he never would have taken Roberta either.
"Thank you. Wayne, me and Ellen still want to be part of Rachel's life. We would like to if you'd allow it," Patrick said.
"I've been thinking about it all night. I was all ready to tell all of you to stay away from my daughter and for Roberta to chop all ties with you, but you were right. She needs her parents; all four of us. I'm willing to share her if you are," Bruce said, watching as all the women came back into the village with their baskets of corn on their backs.
The Indian language they all spoke flowed freely as each one dumped her load in a bin; the older women of the tribe, followed by the teenagers and girls. Bruce watched as Roberta dumped her load with a laugh and pushed a strand of hair out of her green eyes. She looked happy. Her face absolutely lit up like a Christmas tree when she was happy. Bruce knew that Roberta would be even happier when she found out that he would let the Hamiltons' be a part of her life. He just wondered how he was going to tell her.