Читать книгу Even As We Breathe - Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle - Страница 13

Chapter Five

I eased the Model T up the private driveway, feeling as much a newcomer as Essie probably did. Essie’s fidgeting in the passenger’s seat seemed to feed my own unrest as we wound our way up the driveway to the inn. Iron gates and alabaster homes lined the path, each in competition with the Grove Park’s opulence. As we edged the top of the hill, newly erected barbed-wire fencing, completely at odds with the serenity of the property, unsettled me. The only barbed wire I had seen at home was used to keep cattle and horses corralled. I had ripped more than one pair of good jeans on those fences.

Aside from the temporary military structures dotting its grounds, the Grove Park Inn looked as if it had been forcefully extracted from the rocky earth by some red-gloved god. The base of the main structure mimicked the stone-formed mountain landscape. Succeeding generations of stonemasons must have labored to jigsaw the fragments together. It splayed across the hillside, dipping down and rising with the ridgeline. With its bright red terracotta tile cottage sag, the roofline was anything but natural. Nothing camouflaged this edifice among the blue-gray mountains; it set the Smokies ablaze. Even though I knew the buildings were older than me, I reminded myself that they were not older than the land on which they amassed. I felt as if I was arriving at some sort of sacred site. Not sacred to my people, but to the people of Asheville—or, more accurately, to the wealthy whites of Asheville. I approached with a sense of reverence and fear of the inn’s inherent power. I was a caretaker of a phenomenon. I wondered if Essie would feel the same impulse to say a prayer. Dear Father, dear Lord, dear God!

To the south, the grandiose Biltmore House pierced the horizon. To the west, Thomas Wolfe lay in rest at Riverside Cemetery, home again at last. To the east, Black Mountain College’s artist community woke the dead. To the north, Governor Vance’s old homeplace held fast to the landscape of stagnant time. There seemed to be many secrets in this town, far more than I considered the Boundary to have. But, of course, Asheville townies likely felt quite the same about Cherokee. So, during our time in Asheville, we would pass one another with both curiosity and secret-keeper confidence in our eyes.

“We have to check in at the gate first,” I explained to Essie, pretending that I knew what I was doing. She nodded. I slowed the car to stop at the makeshift gatehouse, a small white box of a structure much more recent than the rest of the property, and cranked the window down. “We’re here to work. I’m Cowney Sequoyah and this is Essie Stamper.”

The M.P. scanned his clipboard. “Yes. You’re right here. I was wondering how you pronounced your name. See-coy-ya. Good to know. Just a moment.” He walked behind my vehicle and wrote down my license plate number. “Take this pass and put it inside your windshield so it can be seen from the outside.” He seemed nice enough, even smiled as he waved us through the gate.

That was the last smile I saw for the remainder of the day.

Two other M.P.s waved us into a parking lot situated just above the resort’s main hall. I slid the sheet of paper onto the dashboard. Essie looked at me, silently, but still communicating, Well, here we go.

“Not too shabby, is it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she confirmed.

“Yeah, me neither. But I don’t think most folks have. Probably even a lot of people from Asheville have never been here.”

“Wonder why they thought to put prisoners here?” Essie asked as she opened her car door. I had intended to open it for her, but my left foot was knotted into a tight cramp from working the clutch, and I could only manage to get myself halfway out the door by the time she was stepping out.

“Guests,” I reminded her. “You mean to say guests.”

“Yes. Of course.” She nodded, straightening her back and lifting her chin.

I moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk, setting all three suitcases on the ground. “Not sure. I guess they figure they’ll keep them pacified in a resort and, well, we are in the middle of nowhere.”

“And I thought Cherokee was the middle of nowhere.”

“Apparently they save reservations for real prisoners. Let’s go. We can check in with the manager together.”

Essie nodded and picked up her bags with no indication that she was accustomed to anyone else ever carrying them for her. I was relieved, certain I couldn’t have carried so many down the hill without tumbling into the front lobby.

“Alright. Keep up, will you!” She was almost cheerful as she started down the slope ahead of me.

That is, until we reached the large oak doors. She stood motionless in front of them, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

“You okay?” I asked, catching up to her.

“Yes. It’s just … Well, what you said about the children …”

“Oh, no! No, no, no. Just ignore me. Heck, everybody else does. It’s fine. Come on. You’ll see.”

I moved in front of her and pushed the right door open. I imagined how just a matter of months ago there would have been someone who looked a lot like me to open the door for us. And then there would be someone else who would sweep in and take our suitcases. They would have assumed we were on our honeymoon, perhaps. And though we weren’t exactly on some sort of upper-crust holiday together, my chest swelled to think that I was about to lead Essie anywhere. In truth, I can’t say for certain that I had ever led anyone anywhere.

I stepped back against the open door so Essie could walk through without shifting her bags. I watched as she cautiously surveyed the enormous lobby.

Stone-bolstered walls fortified the space, an impenetrable holding cell for the haves and the pretend-they-haves. I felt as if I was exploring a cavern, finding the only entrance through a tiny door compared to the enormity of open space inside. We were tumbling down Lewis Carroll’s rabbit hole.

“I wonder where we go,” she whispered.

“This way,” I motioned with my elbow, hands still holding my bag. “The main office is over here.”

She continued to follow me over to a small glassed-in office. A uniformed guard stood out front, but no weapon was visible.

“Can I help you?”

“We’re here to work,” I said.

“Well, I figured you weren’t checking in for holiday.” His eyes drooped in line with his tone.

Essie leaned forward past me. “I’m Essie Stamper and this is Cowney Sequoyah.”

She remembered my name again.

“We just got here and need some direction. So please excuse us. We need to find the person in charge.” Essie’s cool demeanor fully returned. I think she may have scared me more than the guard.

“Letcha off the rez, did they? In there.” He pointed.

As we continued through the door, I leaned over to her. “How’d you know he wasn’t in charge?”

“His rank.”

“How’d you know his rank?”

“My brother’s in the army. My brother orders flunkies like him around.”

I felt strongly that she was about to order flunkies like me around, too.

“Wait there.” A thin man in a tan linen suit sat at the desk in front of us. He held the black phone receiver to his ear and pointed us both to a couch with his other hand. As he talked into the device, he kept his eyes on us.

The glassed room gave us a view to the sheer massiveness of the inn’s lobby. Great pillars formed an exoskeleton of dark wood, flecked with stone joints. Scaffolding lined the colossal windows, most likely to replace original ornate draperies with canvas tarps and to reach the delicate chandeliers so that they could be wrapped in protective sheets during the army’s tenure. In their desperate attempt to shield the resort from the economic laceration of the Depression by contracting with the US government, the inn’s owners would still go to great lengths to protect their architectural treasure from the scars of the war. I wondered just how much light, natural and otherwise, had been stripped from the palatial space when the military arrived. It was now hard to imagine the light ever being here.

“Alright, what may I do for you?” the thin man asked briskly.

“Yes, sir.” I wanted to speak first, before Essie had a chance. “I’m Cowney Sequoyah and this is Essie Stamper. We’re new employees.”

“Sure. Sure. Well, come on. I will show you where you’re staying and introduce you to the shift managers. They’ll take it from there. Show you where to eat. Go over the rules. All that.” He opened a file in his hands. “You’re Indians from over in Cherokee. That right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. We’ll make sure you get a proper orientation then. Things are probably quite different.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“It’s late to start the day. Keep in mind you won’t be getting a full day’s pay today, starting so late and all.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered and then immediately regretted it as I could feel Essie’s stare beating down on me.

“But we have been traveling for hours!” she interrupted.

The manager stopped shuffling papers and looked at Essie inquisitively. And then, as if it all made sense, he nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, I see what you’re saying. Of course. The shift managers will give you your uniforms, so don’t worry about those wrinkled clothes. You can wash and iron them out later.”

“Excuse m—” Essie began to push.

I placed my hand around Essie’s elbow to calm her. She jerked her arm away, but let the comment drop nonetheless.

“They’re prisoners, you know, but it’s our job to run this place just like they’re any other guests,” he continued. “Leave the politics to the military, I say. It’s much easier for everyone that way.” He returned to his papers, readjusting his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Any other questions before we head off?”

“Yes,” Essie answered. “The soldiers. Are we to treat them as guests as well?”

“Of course. You are to accommodate their needs, but … word of warning, miss.” The thin man rose from behind the desk and walked around to the front, taking a seat on its edge. He removed his glasses and stared hard at Essie. “Don’t let them get too used to your accommodations. They do have a tendency to take advantage of the services here. And other things.” He paused as he turned to face me. “Well, let’s just say this crew should count themselves lucky that they’re spending the war at a resort. Most boys their age are out serving our country in foreign lands.”

I rose, picked up my suitcase, and exaggerated my limp as we walked toward the door. Essie followed closely behind. Have you ever felt like everyone was staring at you, like every single pair of eyes in a twenty-mile radius was on you, but when you glanced to check your suspicion, you realized absolutely no one was looking? That’s how walking through the Grove Park Inn’s lobby felt—probably still feels. It was as if my bones were crumbling under the weight of an imperceptible gaze.

After brief tours of our respective dormitories (spartan, dank, and lifeless), the thin man led us back to the main entrance of the inn. Waiting, arms folded, were a short, stout woman in an ill-fitting navy suit and a large burly man in khaki coveralls. Jet black wires sprouted from her pale chin. Her lips naturally curved downward in direct opposition to her eyebrows, which seemed frozen in constant disbelief or surprise. She held a clipboard in front of her rounded stomach and only glanced up from it when the thin man spoke. The burly man, in contrast, eyed us both from the moment we came into sight. He also withheld any hint of a smile, but his eyes rested on us in such a way to convince me that he was never surprised. Not ever.

“This is Miss Ulana Parks and Mr. Iliam Jenkins.”

“Call me Lee,” the burly man interrupted, thrusting out his hand to shake mine. I was relieved that Lee seemed welcoming, humble even. I worried that Essie was not likely to be greeted with the same kindness by her new shift manager. Ulana Parks’s demeanor was distinctly unwelcoming.

“Pleased to meet you, Lee. Thanks for taking me on.”

“Your good work will be thanks enough. Let’s go ahead and I’ll show you around and introduce you to the rest of the crew.”

Essie nodded to me with reassurance that she was perfectly fine on her own and then turned to Ulana Parks with surprising readiness. As Lee and I walked off, I could hear only pieces of their introductions.

“Pleased to meet … Miss Parks …”

“Mrs…. Are we clear?”

I looked back to read Essie’s face and watched as the confidence I had seen earlier fell away. I tried to share a smile with her, but her eyes were locked on Mrs. Parks. She didn’t appear scared or intimidated, exactly. It was as if she was newly poised, her core countenance bared. We were both starting a new life, one that demanded we forfeit certainty for opportunity. We had a chance to do everything new and fresh and start our lives away from the suffocating safety of the familiar. I saw in her what I hoped was in me—the courage to step into one’s true self, whoever that might be.