CLAUDIA GLANCED AT the transcript in the passenger seat, trying to quiet her anxiety at presenting this truncated testimonial to its source. She would not be the first outsider to lie to a Makah. Elizabeth Colson, a Radcliffe-educated anthropologist who examined the extent to which Makahs had assimilated American culture in the early part of the last century, was frank in her admission of deceit. She claimed to be gathering stories about the past, all the while studying tribal members in real time.
It was Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle at work—the mere act of observation can change the observed. But Colson expressed no shame about misleading the very people she asked to reveal themselves. Perhaps sensing her duplicity—arriving, as she did, shortly after the attacks on Pearl Harbor—some Makahs called her “Spy Lady.” Quarrels broke out among those who learned of what she’d been told. It was said that no one still living could know enough to speak for the record, and those who did were frauds and braggarts trying to advantage their own kin.
Claudia really should have wrapped up the research last summer, but in retrospect, the data she had gathered felt like fragments. Rubble. She needed to do a deep dive into one family. Makahs would talk about anything as long as she didn’t ask too soon or too directly, but they felt safest sharing gossip, so that’s where she started. Anyone who wanted to hear the good stuff had to listen to the rest first. It was shocking what they revealed if she sat on couches or took someone to the clinic, small favors not meant to be repaid except by the continued tolerance of her presence.
Peter’s thick forearms popped into her mind, surprising her. She’d have to watch it around that one. The road began its ascent up Diaht Hill. Kept gardens and wild ones flashed past, lined with woodpiles, fronted by clean cars and their derelict cousins. A few bushes were strewn with ropes of lights and tinsel that wilted beneath new rain.
No one was outside, allowing her to ogle each trailer. Some of their occupants barely earned enough to get by. Others had millions riding on fishing equipment and licenses. Few reservations could claim such material wealth without the benefit of casinos, which too often generate more debt than cash, but geographic isolation helped the Makah Tribe, to some extent, as did a well-earned reputation for ferocity. The Spaniards first tried to take possession of Makah land in 1775. Driven away by constant skirmishes, they left little but the Ozette potato from Peru, whose knobby fingerlings sprouted throughout the reservation. Dark tales accompanied their departure—despoiled Makah women, dead men, an abandoned fort and a river said to be poisoned by glass bottles left by the failed conquerors. The story went that the bottles disgorged their contents when the rains came. Smallpox broke out. Or so Colson was told.
Sources gathered by the historian Joshua Reid show that white traders spread lies about diseased bottles that could be uncorked, if the natives didn’t turn over more furs. In the multinational race to claim the lush northwest, the English, French, Spanish and Russians bickered with each other and traded blue beads, wool blankets and bad weapons to the natives until there was nothing left of the sea otter rookeries but thick pelts in China. Enterprising as any trader they met, Makah chiefs grew so wealthy they burned oil until the rafters were black, funding legendary potlatches and with them, a great flourishing of carving, singing and dancing.
Travelling aboard ships that stopped wherever they could profit, smallpox slaughtered without regard to rank, rending centuries of cultural knowledge and leaving a bewildered grief. People scrubbed the scabs with salt water and sand. Corpses everywhere. Babies nursed on dead mothers, and after, few knew who the motherless children were.
Peter’s black truck, a Toyota Tacoma with fancy off-road tires, was parked in front of a trailer that looked tired, like the rest of them, a bleary door below a plywood porch. Something had burned a black moon into the lawn.
Makahs never showed up without gifts for their hosts. Claudia was tempted to turn around and come back when she had a present and maybe a plan. She slung her purse over her shoulder and got out, cradling the transcript and a digital recorder. The transcript acted as an oblique reminder that Maggie had long ago given permission to record their interviews, the way journalists imply interviews are on the record by asking subjects to spell their names. What if Peter refused? Claudia paused. The rain spat on her back. She would ask Peter for permission but hedge her bets. She switched on the recorder and dropped it into her purse just as he opened the screen door.
P: You’re earlier than I expected.
C: Hi, Peter! Sorry about that. Should I come back later?
P: No, no. That’s fine. Come on in. Coffee?
C: That would be wonderful!
P: Cream or sugar?
C: No. Thank you.
P: Nice to see some restraint in a woman. Mom just stepped into the shower. She’ll be out in a bit. Let’s go to the kitchen.
C: Okay. Great.
Steps, coughing, police scanner crackling . . .
P: Have a seat.
Chair scraping, coffee pouring.
P: So. You’ve been speaking to my mother.
C: Yes, I met her several years ago.
P: Have you ever been here before?
C: You mean, in Neah Bay?
P: No, in this trailer. Our home.
C: Maggie and I conducted our interviews at the museum.
P: When was the last time you saw her?
C: Last summer.
P: Did you notice anything different about her?
C: Well, she’s getting older. That’s clear. It lends urgency to our work.
P: I mean, did you notice anything wrong with her?
C: No? I don’t know how to respond.
P: How was her memory?
C: She . . . you know, she meandered a little, but I always thought her non sequiturs were charming, and they seemed culturally appropriate.
P: What?
C: Non sequiturs are when someone says something that doesn’t logically follow from the prior statement.
P: I know what non sequiturs are. It’s funny, though, that you found them, what was it, “culturally appropriate.” Why’s that?
C: I . . . well, I’ve noticed that Makahs have a habit of answering the question they want to hear, rather than the question I ask. That’s all.
P: Like politicians.
C: Like anyone, I guess. Maybe they find my questions inappropriate. Maybe they think I need to know what they’re telling me before I know the answers to my actual questions. Maybe they’d rather talk about something else. I can’t be certain. It’s part of my job to be somewhat intrusive, but I’m aware of how awkward it is to be interviewed.
P: Give me an example.
C: Are you okay with me being here?
P: I’ll tell you to leave if it comes to that. Give me an example.
(5:00)
Claudia paused and replayed the recording, surprised by her own sincerity, laughing at his completely inappropriate “compliment.” Nice to see some restraint in a woman! Please. How did he think any men were still alive? Still, she liked Peter; he intrigued her. For some reason, she was capable of being more honest in the field than she was with her own family; in the end, she could leave the reservation and would too, which everyone knew.
Many of her colleagues delegated the act of transcribing fieldnotes, pressed for time or perhaps horrified by hearing themselves fumble toward enlightenment. Excruciating as that was, this was her favorite part. She dwelled on her mistakes—the interruptions, saying the wrong thing, slipping sideways into unwise silence or worse, unsolicited explanations of purpose—when an insightful question or a direct answer was warranted.
C: Okay, an example. So, maybe I would ask someone what it means that Makah dancers always enter the dance floor in a counterclockwise circle. And maybe they would wait a while and say, “Did you see my granddaughter at Makah Days? She was the best dancer, and she looked so pretty. She’s going to be Makah Princess next year.”
P: Well, that’s easy. I can tell you why they’re not answering. It’s stuff you have no business knowing.
C: That could be it. They may also be afraid of contradicting what someone else told me. And, by the way, I’m not in it for business.
P: You’ll sell your book, won’t you?
C: Ha! Maybe. But I won’t make any money.
P: Wouldn’t you be selling our knowledge?
C: I contextualize what’s been shared with me. Anyway, your participation is voluntary. And I make sure to thank my informants in the acknowledgments.
P: Your what?
C: Oh, informants? That’s an old word for people who work with me. Participants, that’s what I meant. That’s the term we use now.
P: Informants. Sounds like spies.
C: I know, it’s strange. Archaic, really. That’s not how I think of you. I just . . . you know, you’re not like most of them.
P: Who? Your spies?
C: No, most of the Makahs I’ve met.
P: You’re saying I’m not Makah?
C: Maybe it’s your years away, but you act a little different.
P: How so?
C: They’re less, um, sharp, by which I mean, direct. Or . . . ah . . . argumentative? They’re a bit more welcoming. Of me, I guess. More hospitable.
P: What, you don’t like the coffee?
(10:00)
C: No, the coffee’s good. Thank you. I didn’t mean that.
P: You don’t like being questioned.
C: No, that’s fine, too. My research is collaborative in nature.
P: I’ll tell you what I don’t like.
P: I don’t like you telling me what’s Makah and what’s not.
C: I’m sorry.
P: No, you’re backpedaling.
C: You’re on fire this morning!
P: You’re pretty hot yourself.
Laughter.
Claudia blushed. She should have shut him down. Peter was handsome, but there was something more, an edge that had been lacking in Andrew, who was so solicitous of her moods, right up until he wasn’t.
Peter called her bullshit. She couldn’t believe she had the nerve to tell him about his own people. In reminding him he’d been gone, she’d implied he wasn’t as “Makah” as someone who had stayed. Historically, Makahs cultivated passivity as a social weapon. If someone insulted Peter, his lack of response would symbolize his relative strength.
In the world of bondage, that was called topping from below.
P: Truce?
C: Can I ask a few questions?
P: Sure.
C: What’s in those garbage bags?
P: Oh, she wants to know what’s in the bags.
C: I’m right here in front of you.
P: I’ll answer that in a second. Did my mother tell you what’s going on?
C: I don’t know what you mean.
P: My mom has dementia. So maybe she forgot to tell you she’s a hoarder.
C: Um . . . she said she was saving stuff.
P: Did she tell you why?
C: I think it made her feel better, like things weren’t being lost.
C: Well, I was going to show you this transcript when she came out. She said she was waiting for you to come back. I think she wanted you to see it. I think she may have been saving it specifically for you, to tell the truth.
P: Why would she tell you that? She barely knows you.
C: I offered to help her.
(15:00)
P: Help her do what?
C: Go through the stuff.
P: Why?
C: I like her. And she seemed . . . lonely.
M: Who’s lonely?
C: Oh! Hi, Maggie!
P: Mom, you remember Claudia.
M: I said, who’s lonely?
C: Well, we all are, I guess. It’s part of being alive.
P: Tells us to be grateful for company.
Her hands jumped off the keyboard. She had been so fixated on Maggie that she completely ignored this loveliness from Peter. He was telling her he wanted her to be there. His voice had thickened—with anger, she’d thought, but maybe it was emotion, or even desire. He diverted Maggie’s attention from Claudia’s stupid accusation—he’d stranded his mother—and commanded her to be nice to their guest.
Peter tricked Claudia by speaking from the heart. Most of the people she knew didn’t do that. It was easier to be ironic. Less vulnerable, more defensible. What did he want from her? She reminded herself of an early life lesson. Men want one thing. It helped to remember that people are more alike than they are different, even if they don’t seem that way. It took until adulthood for Claudia to realize that most social awkwardness manifested a shared intent to forge connections. Why else would anyone put up with the painful pauses and missed signals of new relationships?
By the time she swallowed that epiphany, she had already decided she didn’t need anyone and would go it alone. That’s why Andrew had been a goddamned miracle, now gone the way of miracles.
M: Did you save any coffee?
P: Wouldn’t be a good son if I didn’t. There’s a fresh pot on.
M: I’ll help myself.
P: Already did most of the work for ya.
M: He’s feisty today!
C: I was just noticing that.
. . . pouring . . .
M: Let’s move this party to the living room.
. . . crackling . . .
P: Here, Mom. Take the chair. We’ll sit on the couch.
M: So, ahem, ah . . .
P: Claudia.
M: Yes, yes. Claudia. What brings you to our village?
C: Thank you for asking! I’m here to continue the research we created together last summer.
M: What was that?
C: Here, this should refresh your memory . . .
Fuck! What a terrible thing to say to a demented old woman.
. . . this is the transcript I was telling you about at Washburn’s. It’s a written record of an interview you gave me at the museum.
M: . . .
C: We can go over it together, if you like.
M: Let’s not fool with it now. Let’s visit. Peter will look at it later.
C: You talked about your mother’s beautiful voice.
C: I wish I could have heard her!
M: They didn’t ask white people to dances, back then. It’s all mixed up now.
C: Did they let Mexicans in? [laughs]
(20:00)
M: Those Mexicans are going to run us all over. They already took Indian jobs. My parents picked berries and hops. Nobody does that anymore. It’s a disgrace. Might as well let the blacks in while we’re at it.
P: Mom! You can’t say stuff like that.
M: What? It’s what everyone’s thinking.
C: I was joking, of course.
P: Not so good at that, are you?
C: I don’t belong in the field, apparently.
P: If you’re going to be here, get used to it. This is how she is.
C: Is that an invitation?
P: What do you think, Mom?
M: About what?
P: Should we ask Claudia to come back another time?
M: Is she leaving? Good, I have some things to get done around here.
P: I mean, should we pick up where you left off last summer?
M: What?
P: I could use some help going through those bags.
M: I thought we were going to do that together.
P: We will! Claudia can help us.
M: I don’t . . .
P: Why don’t you say goodbye now? She’s about to head out.
Claudia stopped the recording. Peter hustled her from the couch before his mother could voice the “no” inscribed on her face. Peter would work as a go-around, but he would not betray his mother’s wishes, once spoken. Claudia was drawn to him in spite of herself, in spite of everything. And now she needed him. Maggie had a diagnosis. His consent might be required to work with a senile woman.
A series of tasks awaited Claudia—conduct and transcribe interviews, provide them with copies, since co-ownership of data was a hard-won tribal right—wind up and repeat until a pattern swirled below the surface like cream poured in coffee. Transfixed, she would stare into the testimony, mapping the billows of information until a new theory emerged. She had a lot of work to do.
Her laptop’s white screen darkened and went black, reflecting her face. She traced the crescents waning beside her mouth, putting all she said into parentheses.