Heritage Page 4

  “And you squander the arrows.”

  He sat at the desk with the computer and turned it on. “It’s not as easy as it looks, and I am improving. The last time out I shot a deer. That was ground venison in the sauce. Okay. I only wounded it, and Dancing Turtle had to take it the rest of the way down.”

  “Do all Native Americans have a—a Native American name?”

  “A lot do, but not all.”

  “What would mine be?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to know you better. A name isn’t given to you. It is who you are. Boys are often named after weather, stars, or animals, and girls after flowers, bodies of water, or times of day.” He turned back to the computer when it completed the boot cycle. “I put a program on here for Dancing Turtle to build his family tree. Let’s see if he ever used it.” He scrolled through file names. There weren’t many. “It looks like he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.” He sighed. “I guess we have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  “And what way is that?”

  He waved a hand toward a stack of boxes in the corner. “Hard copy. Hopefully he’d gotten around to gathering it all in one box to put into the computer. But if I know Dancing Turtle, he didn’t.”

  She gazed at the tower of boxes. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought.

  “I really have no business going through what are now your things. Do you want me to help you?”

  “I’m not ready to tackle all this tonight. Can you give me a brief overview of what you know about my grandfather’s family, so I’ll kind of know what to look for?”

  “I don’t know very many details, just general stuff.” He motioned toward the door. “Let’s go sit in the living room.”

  Rachel nestled into the chair and tucked one leg under her. “Anything you can tell me will be great.”

  Will sat on the couch. “From what I understand, your grandfather has been collecting information for years and stuffing it away in boxes. He wouldn’t talk much about his family but would tell me that he found more information on your grandmother’s family ancestors or another birth certificate or ship’s manifest. He was like a giddy child with a new bit of information.”

  “So whom do you know about?”

  “Dancing Turtle has a brother named Lewis Dubois, tribal name Twin Bear.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Either that he has two sides to him or that half of him is lost and he’s incomplete, but either way the bear is a sign of strength, and you don’t want to make him angry.”

  “You said that I would have relatives on his side. Did he have children?”

  “Two or three. He has a daughter named Emily. I don’t remember her married name. I met her once. She might live on the island. I’m not sure about the others.”

  “For being my grandfather’s friend you sure don’t know much.”

  He raised one shoulder and let it drop. “Dancing Turtle was a very private man about his family. He once alluded to there being a dispute over your mother being his daughter or not. He insisted she was, said he had proof.”

  That was an interesting bit of news. If she weren’t blood related to Charles Dubois, then Christopher’s family would have no problem with her. But if she wasn’t Dancing Turtle’s granddaughter, then whose was she?

  Five

  Late the next afternoon, Rachel stood and stretched from digging through one of her grandfather’s boxes in the office, and made herself a cup of tea. So much to sort through. She wanted to go through it all at once: the office, the master bedroom, and the spare room. So much to learn in so little time.

  She wandered into the living room and stopped in front of the wall of a dozen or so small, framed pictures, all of Native Americans, some in regular clothes, others in costume. Were they all Ojibwa? Were any of them related to her? Were any of them her grandfather? She longed to have known him, longed to have had the chance to ask him so many things.

  Her gaze settled on a three-by-five sepia-toned photo of a young woman about seventeen or eighteen, posed to look over her shoulder. It appeared to be a school photo, with no distinguishable background. She would guess from the hairstyle and age of the photo that it was taken in maybe the forties.

  She set her cup on the entry table and lifted the wood-framed photograph off the wall. What caught her most was the resemblance to herself, her oval face, the lift of her cheeks, the shape of her eyes. Were they hazel like her own? There may be a question as to whether or not she was related to Charles Dubois, but somehow, someway this woman’s blood flowed through her veins. Was this her grandmother? The slight smile on the young woman’s face seemed to say yes. A tear slipped down her cheek. I wish I had known you.

  A knock at the door pulled her out of her thoughts. She swiped the tear from her face with her fingers, then looked down at her grubby work clothes. No one who knew the Winstons would be here, knocking on her door. She saw no need to concern herself about her appearance. She opened the door. Her neighbor Lori stood on her porch with a handsome blond-haired man that must be her husband. He held a basket in his hands.

  She swung the door wider. “Come in.”

  Once inside, Lori introduced Garth. Lori pointed to the basket as Garth handed it to Rachel. “This is to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel set it on her coffee table. The basket held a couple of books, a candle, two apples, an orange, and a box of tea. That would come in handy. She was running low on her grandfather’s blends. She pulled out the tea. “Can I make you both a cup of tea?”

  After she had brought them their steaming mugs, they all sat in her living room.

  “Did you know my grandfather?”

  “Sadly, no,” Lori said. “We moved in the week after he passed away. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She was sorry, too. “I never met him either, but I wished I’d had the chance.”

  Later that evening, after an early dinner, Rachel stood at the front window with a mug of steaming blueberry tea cupped in her hands. She just loved her grandfather’s teas. The fruity scent filled her nose. She blew some steam away and took a small sip. Still too hot to drink.

  A lone headlight came up the street. It wasn’t a motorcycle because it didn’t make any noise and was too slow. Soon she saw Will, bundled and chugging in the dark on his bike. He must have worked late. She left the window and went back to the kitchen. She slipped off her engagement ring and laid it on the counter before washing up the few dishes she’d dirtied for dinner. She set the last dish on the towel to dry when a knock sounded on her door. Grabbing another towel, she dried her hands on her way to the door.

  “Will, I wasn’t expecting you. Come in out of the cold.”

  He stepped inside. “I thought you might need some help going through those boxes. Maybe a name will jump out at me, or I’ll remember something I didn’t know I knew.”

  “That would be great.” Anything that would help her discover her heritage. She closed the door. “I saw you coming up the street earlier. You looked cold out there.”

  He took off his coat. “I wish it would hurry up and snow.”

  “Wouldn’t that make it harder and colder?”

  He shook his head. “Much easier. Then I can pull out my snowmobile and cruise back and forth to work. This time of year is hard when it’s cold but hasn’t snowed yet. Even worse is spring when the snow is all slush and neither snowmobile nor bicycle are any good.”

  “There are no cars on the island, but you can drive snow-mobiles? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of having a no-motorized-vehicle rule?”

  “When cars were first being brought to the island, the carriage drivers petitioned to ban cars because they scared the horses. When snowmobiles came out, residents pressured the park commission to allow their use on the island. Finally, they bowed to the local pressure and granted snowmobile use on one road leading from Harrisonville to the ice bridge. Since then, a few more roads have been opened up to snowmobile travel, bu
t most of the island is still off-limits to snowmobiles.”

  “Interesting. By the way, your friends, Lori and Garth, came by earlier. They brought me a welcome basket.” She pointed to the basket on her coffee table.

  “They’re great people.”

  “Lori invited me over for tea tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know her well, mostly through my friendship with Garth. The way he talks, she is an angel. You should get to know her.”

  Was that hope in his voice? Why should it matter whom she became friends with? Or if she became friends with anyone?

  Will held out his hands from his sides. “So what can I do to help?”

  She tossed the towel on the kitchen counter and led him to the office where they sat on the floor across a box from each other and began digging. “I started pulling things out of boxes and making piles.” She had spent most of her day riffling through box after box searching for her mother’s birth certificate or something else, anything else that might have Charles Dubois’s name associated with her mother’s. Nothing.

  “What have you found so far?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I don’t know what any of it means.”

  He surveyed the mess she’d made across the floor. “What’s in all the piles?”

  She shrugged. “Just stuff I pulled out. I was looking for my mom’s birth certificate or something else that told who my parents were. You said that there was a debate as to whether or not Charles Dubois was indeed my grandfather.”

  “Well, I can tell you that you are definitely related to Dancing Turtle. Besides that, it is obvious you are Ojibwa.”

  That brought a smile to her face, but it shouldn’t have. She could lose everything she had worked for because of it. She wanted to be someone’s granddaughter, but what about Christopher? If she was indeed Charles Dubois’s granddaughter, she could lose Christopher, but if she wasn’t related to Charles, then she would be back to having no family of her own.

  “Why don’t we start with you sorting one box, and I’ll sort another.”

  After sorting for an hour, mostly reading, she stretched her back. “I’m running out of space.” She looked around her. “Each piece of paper seems to need a separate pile.”

  Will looked over. “What are they all?”

  “I think these have to do with my grandfather’s family. . . maybe. Those belong to my grandmother—I think. And the rest—most of them—I haven’t a clue.”

  “Why don’t you gather up all the ones for your grandma in one pile and put them aside? And do the same for the undetermined. That will make more room for the others.”

  She hated to do that. She wanted to see all the information at once. But it did make sense. She pictured her grandmother’s face as she began stacking her piles and an ache filled her. I won’t forget you.

  Six

  Will took a deep breath before knocking on Rachel’s door two nights later. He hoped she would be as inviting as the last time. He just wasn’t sure what to think of her. He was getting mixed signals. He sensed she wanted him as a friend, but there was something more. He was sure there was. There was for him. He was completely taken by her. It was Friday, and he could stay a little later. Hopefully.

  The door opened and Rachel smiled. “Will. I’m so glad you are here.”

  His heart melted again at the sight of her, and he could feel his mouth spread into a wide lazy smile as he stepped inside. Her excitement warmed him. He could feel them drawing emotionally closer. He held up a plastic grocery bag. “I brought steaks, rice, and fresh broccoli.”

  “That was sweet of you, but I don’t usually eat beef.”

  That was disappointing. His smile sank. “It’s not beef. It’s venison.” Maybe that would make a difference.

  “From the deer you wounded?”

  Don’t remind me. He nodded.

  “Well, your venison was good in the spaghetti, so I guess I can give the steak a try, but first let me show you what I’ve been doing. I had this revelation last night, and I want to know what you think.”

  “It looks like all those boxes exploded.” Paper lay on every available horizontal surface.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I just couldn’t stand to have it all stacked up. When I came across a name I had read before, I couldn’t find it again. So now they are more or less alphabetical. The As start in that corner. But what I want to show you is in here.” She headed for the office room.

  He quickly put the bag of food on the kitchen counter and followed the narrow path of uncluttered floor. Once inside the room, she motioned toward a mostly bare wall.

  He stared at it for a moment. The art was gone. He wasn’t sure what to think. “You are taping white paper over a white wall? It really doesn’t change the look of the room much. And I’m not seeing it as the next hot decorating trend.”

  “It’s not decoration. I’m going to cover the whole wall with paper. Then I’m going to pin these at the top of the wall.” She handed him three small beanbag animals, one a turtle, the other two were small brown bears. “I’m going to build my grandfather’s family tree under the turtle and his brother’s under the bears. I found them in the spare bedroom. I wonder if my grandfather had them because of his and his brother’s Native American names?” She walked up closer to the wall and spread her hands above her head as though she were smoothing the paper. “I’m going to pin up birth certificates, marriage certificates, newspaper clippings, anything he collected on the family. I’m going to build the family piece by piece.”

  “That sounds like. . .an interesting way to organize it. Then we can put it into a database on the computer.” He had always been curious about Dancing Turtle’s finds, but the old man wouldn’t share. He would find a new bit of information and hold onto it like a child with a piece of candy, saying when he got everything and put it in order, he would let Will have access to the information.

  Will was somewhat of an expert on the Native American history of the island but hadn’t traced any specific family. His ancestors, way back when, used to come to Mackinac generation after generation, but when the British and French and new Americans took over the island, his ancestors didn’t return with the other tribes. They mixed and mingled with the people on the mainland. Why couldn’t his family have returned like the others? Then maybe his blood wouldn’t be so blemished with undesirable sorts.

  “I’m not great with computers. Can you show me how to put the information into the computer?”

  “I can do that part for you.” If he showed her, then she wouldn’t need him as much. But if she insisted, she would still need him to help her. “That way you can focus on organizing all the information.” His feeling’s for her grew stronger each time he was with her. He sensed she felt it, too. He wanted to reach out and just touch her.

  “Okay.” She turned away from his gaze. “Shall we get dinner going? I’m starved.”

  Was she a little shy? He followed her to the kitchen and soon had the white rice cooking and the seasoned meat on a broiling pan in the oven.

  She cut up the broccoli and put it in the top of the steamer pan. “A man who can cook. That’s impressive.”

  “Well, don’t be too impressed. I can only cook about three things and just substitute a different meat for variety. I like my meat well done. How do you like yours?”

  “Well done.”

  “Something in common.” He liked that. He opened the oven door and surveyed his masterpieces inside. “I use premixed herbs and spices on everything.” He handed her a bottle of garlic and herb mix. “The only thing I have in my spices collection. It’s on the steaks, and I put some in the rice. We can put some on the broccoli, if you want.”

  She smiled at his gusto for his little mixture, but it really went with everything and made cooking at least semidoable. “Let’s try the broccoli plain. It will add variety to the already seasoned food.”

  He nodded and leaned one hip against the counter and watched her graceful mov
ements as she continued to chop the broccoli. “So, you don’t eat beef, and I assume you don’t eat bread because you didn’t have any the other night when I brought dinner. You also don’t seem to eat spaghetti, because I know it wasn’t the spaghetti because it was perfect.” He usually burned the noodles to the bottom of the pan, and the sauce came from a jar. “You hardly took any. So what do you eat?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. The spaghetti was great. I just don’t indulge in too many carbs.”

  That explained it. He would have to remember that. “Do you eat rice? Or will I be eating all that myself?”

  “I usually only eat wild rice, but I want to try some of your seasoned rice.”

  That sounded like a diplomatic answer. “What do you indulge in?”

  “Chicken, fish, and vegetables, steamed, stir-fried, fresh. There is a lot you can do with vegetables and such a wide variety. I’ll have to cook for you sometime.” She put the steamer of broccoli on the top of the pan of boiling water.

  His mouth pulled up on one side. “I accept.” She must feel their connection, too, and wanted to spend more time with him as he did her.

  While they waited for the food to finish cooking, she took two plates from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer and set them on the counter. “My head is swimming with all the information I have gone through so far. I can’t keep any of it straight. That is why I came up with the idea of pinning it all to the wall, but some of the people I have come across, I have no clue where they will fit on the tree. Honestly, I have no idea how I’m related to most of these people.”

  “I know Dancing Turtle has been collecting information for years, so finding and organizing everything might take you awhile. Maybe if you just started out making piles, like all the birth certificates or all the things that mention Dancing Turtle and a pile for the people you have no idea how they connect, then you can pin up the people you do know and hopefully start filling in the unknown people.”

  “It sounds like a great big jigsaw puzzle of a picture that is shades of all one color, and I don’t even have all the pieces.”