It's Christmas Eve remember, and Bea is alone--not a night to be alone. Not only that, but she just got a tongue-lashing from her daughter. And now this little piece of homespun craft carefully sealed up beneath a layer of linoleum her parents had put there to prevent extra wear.
___________________________________
Bea pulled her gloves up above the wrists and took two steel wool pads from the box on the shelf, balled them together for heft, then scoured a two-inch circle down to bare wood to see which direction the grain ran.
But if her mother had wanted to put the medallion out of her mind forever, she could have walked any direction from her back door and simply buried it—no one would ever have found it. She wouldn't have to slide it into an envelope and hide it beneath the surface of the
table she used every day. She wanted it there, Bea thought. She needed it there for some reason. Maybe late at night, her husband out on camp ministry, her own children miles away at the mission school, after a dozen Indian children had eaten her cake and listened to Bible stories, she could shut the door, steal a few moments alone here at the table, stretching her fingers over something like a fetish, an outline so faint she was the only one who knew it existed. Her mother the heathen. Maybe the two of them were more alike than she'd ever thought.
She stripped off the gloves, picked up the star, and studied the knots at each of the points, remembering how easily the shuttle flitted between her mother's fingers as she turned out stitches so effortlessly that the whole action seemed instinct. Her shuttle was inlaid, she remembered, turquoise and something dark--maybe petrified wood. It might have been a gift, something from an Indian woman, almost certainly Indian-made.
She turned the star in her fingers. Maybe she never knew her mother at all.
She pulled a glove back on her hand and picked up the steel wool. Maybe if she were to find the tatting, she thought--that carpetbag her mother kept in the bottom drawer of the buffet--maybe there would be more. She looked up at the clock. She could still call Peter. It was early, and Myron would have lots more stops. She scoured the stripper she'd painted on the surface in firm scrapes, pushing it away from her and with the grain into globs thick with dirt and finish and scraps of the old adhesive, leaving bare wood beneath.
She found her brother's number penciled in the back of the book hanging by a shoestring from the phone. "Peter," she said when he finally picked up the receiver, "it's your sister. Listen, I know it's Christmas Eve, but I was wondering-" she stopped, trying to arrange a question she hadn't yet worded. "Mom used to do tatting."
"Bea," he said, "are you drunk?"
"No. Listen, she used to do tatting--remember?"
"Tatting," he repeated, not as a question.
"Fine little things, like doilies. She'd sit in the chair by the pole lamp-nights? You know those things she'd made to go on the arms of the sofa? Little handwork stuff, lace."
“Okay, okay,” he said.
"When you cleaned up her place, did you find that carpetbag, her sewing things--did you find a little shuttle? --she called it a shuttle. Silver inlaid, like Zuni stuff?"
"What's it look like?" he said.
"Thin, streamlined-like a lipstick tube, a little bigger--a spool in the middle. She'd wind the string around that spool--"
"I don't think I saw it," he said. "You want it?"
What could she say? When her father had died, Peter had asked whether there was anything of her parents she wanted, anything at all, and she had told him to give everything away, every last bit. "Dump what you can't sell," she'd told him.
"You okay, Sis? What's got into you?" he asked.
"I just wondered," she said.
"It must be worth something," he said.
"It is," she said.
"How much?"
“I just wondered if you saw it anywhere--tiny as a minnow, even shorter. Inlaid. She had it for years.”
He laughed. "How much is it worth, Bea?" he said.
"A lot."
'Tm down to one box, here--mostly little stuff. I gave away most of the sewing stuff. I could look, but if I'd have known that you wanted it--"
"Would you?" Bea asked him.
"Now?"
"Please?"
"It's Christmas Eve. How much is this gadget worth?"
"Trust me," she told him.
"Silver thing--inlaid. How big?"
"Thumb-size."
When he put down the phone, she heard the low pitch of adults laughing softly, interrupted by busy voices of children. A shuttle, it was second nature to her mother to use it. It would slip between her fingers almost as if it were alive, even while she was reading or talking. She cradled the receiver in her neck and held the star up before her eyes.
"I looked through everything I got here--you know, there's some stuff you might like, Bea. I know how you feel--"
"You don't have it?"
"There's really not much here anymore, you know. It's been three months since the funeral."
"You never saw it?"
"What're you getting for it anyway? Must be worth a mint."
"It's not that," Bea told him.
"Then what is it?"
Tell him, she thought, go on and tell him. "I want it myself, Peter," she said. "It's something of mother's, and I guess I just want it."
He was stunned, then chuckled a little. "Is that right? Christmas spirit or something?--you're sure you're not drinking?"
"I wondered if you had it," she said. "She used to work at nights sometimes, and that shuttle slipped through her fingers as if it were alive. When we were little-"
"I don't have it, sis," he said. "I wish I did, for your sake--and hers too."
''I know, I know," she said. 'Tm sorry."
"You are--really?"
'Tm sorry for not asking--"
"Oh," he said. "You wouldn't believe how much stuff I left there." There was laughter behind him. "I only wished you'd asked."
“I figured your daughter might like the table--it's an antique, you know?"
“I know—it’s here.”
"You’ll refinish it for her?"
She waited. "It's a lot of work," she told him. "I don't think I got the time."
She heard her brother breathe heavily over the phone. "Bea, you should have seen them at the funeral--all the people. They came from miles around. Seriously, hundreds of people. Remember how the folks used to spend years without seeing one new face in that little church?--years, Bea. Not one. If it was a business, they would have shut it down. But you should have seen the people. They came from all over the reservation--"
"Merry Christmas, Peter," she said.
He stopped, waited. "Same to you, sis," he told her.
She hung up the phone and looked at the star as if there were more to the mystery, more to her mother than she'd ever thought. Then she brought it up to her eyes in a fist.
But if her mother had wanted to put the medallion out of her mind forever, she could have walked any direction from her back door and simply buried it—no one would ever have found it. She wouldn't have to slide it into an envelope and hide it beneath the surface of the
table she used every day. She wanted it there, Bea thought. She needed it there for some reason. Maybe late at night, her husband out on camp ministry, her own children miles away at the mission school, after a dozen Indian children had eaten her cake and listened to Bible stories, she could shut the door, steal a few moments alone here at the table, stretching her fingers over something like a fetish, an outline so faint she was the only one who knew it existed. Her mother the heathen. Maybe the two of them were more alike than she'd ever thought.
She stripped off the gloves, picked up the star, and studied the knots at each of the points, remembering how easily the shuttle flitted between her mother's fingers as she turned out stitches so effortlessly that the whole action seemed instinct. Her shuttle was inlaid, she remembered, turquoise and something dark--maybe petrified wood. It might have been a gift, something from an Indian woman, almost certainly Indian-made.
She turned the star in her fingers. Maybe she never knew her mother at all.
She pulled a glove back on her hand and picked up the steel wool. Maybe if she were to find the tatting, she thought--that carpetbag her mother kept in the bottom drawer of the buffet--maybe there would be more. She looked up at the clock. She could still call Peter. It was early, and Myron would have lots more stops. She scoured the stripper she'd painted on the surface in firm scrapes, pushing it away from her and with the grain into globs thick with dirt and finish and scraps of the old adhesive, leaving bare wood beneath.
She found her brother's number penciled in the back of the book hanging by a shoestring from the phone. "Peter," she said when he finally picked up the receiver, "it's your sister. Listen, I know it's Christmas Eve, but I was wondering-" she stopped, trying to arrange a question she hadn't yet worded. "Mom used to do tatting."
"Bea," he said, "are you drunk?"
"No. Listen, she used to do tatting--remember?"
"Tatting," he repeated, not as a question.
"Fine little things, like doilies. She'd sit in the chair by the pole lamp-nights? You know those things she'd made to go on the arms of the sofa? Little handwork stuff, lace."
“Okay, okay,” he said.
"When you cleaned up her place, did you find that carpetbag, her sewing things--did you find a little shuttle? --she called it a shuttle. Silver inlaid, like Zuni stuff?"
"What's it look like?" he said.
"Thin, streamlined-like a lipstick tube, a little bigger--a spool in the middle. She'd wind the string around that spool--"
"I don't think I saw it," he said. "You want it?"
What could she say? When her father had died, Peter had asked whether there was anything of her parents she wanted, anything at all, and she had told him to give everything away, every last bit. "Dump what you can't sell," she'd told him.
"You okay, Sis? What's got into you?" he asked.
"I just wondered," she said.
"It must be worth something," he said.
"It is," she said.
"How much?"
“I just wondered if you saw it anywhere--tiny as a minnow, even shorter. Inlaid. She had it for years.”
He laughed. "How much is it worth, Bea?" he said.
"A lot."
'Tm down to one box, here--mostly little stuff. I gave away most of the sewing stuff. I could look, but if I'd have known that you wanted it--"
"Would you?" Bea asked him.
"Now?"
"Please?"
"It's Christmas Eve. How much is this gadget worth?"
"Trust me," she told him.
"Silver thing--inlaid. How big?"
"Thumb-size."
When he put down the phone, she heard the low pitch of adults laughing softly, interrupted by busy voices of children. A shuttle, it was second nature to her mother to use it. It would slip between her fingers almost as if it were alive, even while she was reading or talking. She cradled the receiver in her neck and held the star up before her eyes.
"I looked through everything I got here--you know, there's some stuff you might like, Bea. I know how you feel--"
"You don't have it?"
"There's really not much here anymore, you know. It's been three months since the funeral."
"You never saw it?"
"What're you getting for it anyway? Must be worth a mint."
"It's not that," Bea told him.
"Then what is it?"
Tell him, she thought, go on and tell him. "I want it myself, Peter," she said. "It's something of mother's, and I guess I just want it."
He was stunned, then chuckled a little. "Is that right? Christmas spirit or something?--you're sure you're not drinking?"
"I wondered if you had it," she said. "She used to work at nights sometimes, and that shuttle slipped through her fingers as if it were alive. When we were little-"
"I don't have it, sis," he said. "I wish I did, for your sake--and hers too."
''I know, I know," she said. 'Tm sorry."
"You are--really?"
'Tm sorry for not asking--"
"Oh," he said. "You wouldn't believe how much stuff I left there." There was laughter behind him. "I only wished you'd asked."
“I figured your daughter might like the table--it's an antique, you know?"
“I know—it’s here.”
"You’ll refinish it for her?"
She waited. "It's a lot of work," she told him. "I don't think I got the time."
She heard her brother breathe heavily over the phone. "Bea, you should have seen them at the funeral--all the people. They came from miles around. Seriously, hundreds of people. Remember how the folks used to spend years without seeing one new face in that little church?--years, Bea. Not one. If it was a business, they would have shut it down. But you should have seen the people. They came from all over the reservation--"
"Merry Christmas, Peter," she said.
He stopped, waited. "Same to you, sis," he told her.
She hung up the phone and looked at the star as if there were more to the mystery, more to her mother than she'd ever thought. Then she brought it up to her eyes in a fist.
_____________________
So this friend of mine, who was reared on the reservation, an MK (missionary kid) told me he was all of 35 before he could forgive his parents. And he knew the exact moment he could forgive them--it was at his father's funeral when literally hundreds of people showed up. He had had no idea. They were there for Rev. Van. All those people--all those Native folks--he couldn't believe it. Made him see so much of his life in a different, wider setting.
And now I have to write my way out of this story. There's already a new interest and sympathy, but there's the matter of that little embroidered thing she found buried beneath the linoleum and the hardwood beneath.
One more day.
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