With little explanation and no preparation, most of us moved onto the Tonawanda Indian Reservation. The reservation was south of Albion, closer to Buffalo. The three oldest kids (Will, Anthony, and Lisa) were either sent back to Rochester to stay with friends, or took a train to stay with their father in Albany. In truth, I hardly noticed. So many people crowded around the edges of our murky family, it was hard to keep track of who was there or not.
As we drove onto reservation land, we looked for teepees and tomahawks, but were greeted only by long stretches of trees and, between them, small houses that leaned softly into the earth.
“There are no teepees,” my mother said as she steered the car down the winding roads into the heart of the reservation where faces browner than those of the Indians on TV peeked out from passing yards. “The Iroquois built long houses, not teepees.”
My newest sister was half-Indian. Rachel’s father was a Seneca and from the reservation. Billie was his sister and friendly with my mother, so we’d be staying at her place.
Billie’s hair hung long and black and flapped against her large behind as she walked through the one-bedroom home that on any given night held ten to fifteen people. Jolie, Lana, and Soupy were Billie’s children and thus the rightful inhabitants of the tiny house. Soupy was the youngest, a fat-faced boy of four whose real name had been discarded the day he was said to have fallen into a huge pot of soup—emerging from the pot baptized in venison broth, and with a new name.
Lana lied. I learned this within hours. She told everyone I’d wet the bed that very first night. Shy because my mother wasn’t around, I didn’t call Lana a liar, and just shook my head back and forth, staring at the dark spot on the thinly-sheeted sagging mattress that had held both our bellies the night before. I couldn’t believe how she lied. I wanted to cry, but didn’t let myself. Lana’s eyes were hot and mean; she used them like pokers.
“Forget Lana,” Jolie said, “that’s just how she is.”
Jolie was the oldest. At nine, she was one year older than me and so pretty it hurt. Grown-ups evaluated children’s beauty as though they weren’t in the room and Jolie, they said, was just gorgeous. Her hair had a bit of curl, a beauty mark hovered over her top lip, and her skin was the color of cream because her father was Italian. Italian, and in prison. Lana and Soupy’s skin, on the other hand, was as chocolate as Billie’s. Their father was not Italian but was in Attica just the same.
Jolie embraced me, was as friendly as Lana was mean. Right after Lana’s accusation, she took me to the reservation candy store—a locked shack in the woods near the home of the old man who owned it. I followed Jolie up his porch steps.
“He’s a chief,” she whispered as she set her hand to the door.
He answered her knocking with a clouded stare. Blue at the edges, his black eyes pushed past me. He asked Jolie where she got the paleface. Jolie shrugged. I whipped round to see what type of thing a pale-face was, and when I saw nothing, slowly understood that the old man with ponytailed white hair must mean me.
I was the paleface.
“We came for candy,” Jolie said.
He waited a minute, so that we were not sure if he’d even heard, then disappeared into the house. Except for the sound of cushioned feet on the floor, it was utterly quiet; I imagined moccasins touching down on moss-green carpet. He returned with a loop of keys, and I noticed that his lined face was the same maple syrup color as Jolie’s. I shifted my weight and stared at the sandals strapped to my feet.
“Not her,” he said, pointing to be sure we both understood. Still, I followed them over to the shack just beyond his house, pretended the words had somehow been a mistake, and pretended the old man’s voice had not sounded like an axe chopping wood. When we reached the door, I turned away and handed Jolie my quarter, sneaking peeks through the torn mesh of the screen as I waited. Rows and rows of Sweetarts and candy cigarettes and plastic fruit filled with flavored sugar lined the shelves. Jolie pointed at each candy option and looked out the door to see if that’s the kind I wanted, eventually emerging with hands full.
The walk back to Billie’s was quieter. Before, our words had tumbled into each other as we talked of strawberry lip gloss and KC and the Sunshine Band. On the way home, I noticed that crickets had begun to sound. I tried counting tiger lilies but couldn’t stand to look into their spotted interiors. The velvet insides, I couldn’t help thinking, robbed the trumpeted weeds of their beauty; their spots reminded me of snakes.