CHAPTER 7

The Indian Building

It felt like much longer, like days, but we had only been on the train for twenty-four hours when we pulled into Albuquerque, New Mexico.

“We’re here for about an hour,” Mr. Frederick told us. “If the family would like to take a little walk, stretch your legs, possibly acquire some souvenirs, you have plenty of time to do so. Just come back when you hear the conductor shouting All aboard!’”

We hopped off the train. The first couple of steps on firm ground felt funny—but good, familiar. There were train guys scurrying, doing things, and bunches of passengers milling around. Some people who had been missing exercise were striding up and down the platform, pumping their legs and waving their arms. There were genuine Indian people selling stuff spread out on cloths on a lawn, and behind them was a neatlooking building—the Indian Building. We walked along a little path and went in.

There was all kinds of great stuff inside! The ceiling was high, and there was a tall fireplace with the remains of a fire in it. There was the smell of wood smoke and sweetgrass in the air. Fastened to the stone chimney above the smoldering fire was a chief’s headdress made of eagle feathers. There were pots, and dolls, and cloth, and ornaments spread out on tables. At one end of the room there was a loom set up, and two women were weaving something.

My mother and father and Eloise took a fast look around, and then you could tell they were done. The Indian stuff didn’t interest them.

“Let’s look at the station now,” my father said.

“I want to stay here,” I said.

“Don’t wander away, and be sure to listen for the conductor,” my mother said.

“Yes, don’t miss the train,” Eloise said.

“The station is supposed to have very good architecture,” my father said. “Sure you don’t want to come see it?”

“I want to stay here,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

I didn’t know exactly why I wanted to stay in the Indian Building. It was extremely quiet. When you’ve been on the train for a long time, you forget that it is constantly making noise. You sort of tune out the rattles and rumbles and thumps and vibrations. There weren’t many people in the Indian Building, and no one was talking. The only sounds were the sounds of the loom, whisks and muffled thumps.

I couldn’t quite work out what the Indian Building was supposed to be. It was a little like a store, but it wasn’t clear to me if the things in it were for sale. It was a little like a museum, but it wasn’t set up like a museum—nothing was behind glass, and you could pick up and handle things. It reminded me, in a way, of the reading room in the Belmont Avenue branch of the Chicago Public Library. Same kind of quiet. Only instead of books, there were things.

I got interested in a figure carved out of bone, or maybe it was an antler off an elk or some animal like that. It was a crazy little dancing guy playing a flute. He was dancing, really dancing—he wasn’t moving, of course, but he almost looked as though he could. I picked him up and ran my fingers over the smooth bone. I put him down, faced him this way and that way. He looked good, and different, from every angle.

Whisk. Thump. Whisk. Thump. The ladies at the other end of the room were working the loom. The little flute-playing guy was dancing. I could almost hear the music, in between the whisk—thump. I could almost hear drumming, fast and light. I imagined the little guy moving to the music with quick little steps, playing his flute. Whisk-thump-thump-thump, whisk.

The pots were shaped to fit the hollow of somebody’s hand; they had designs on them in fine black lines. Whisk-thump-thump-thump. Whisk. Wood smoke. Sweetgrass. When the little guy danced, there would be guys gathered around a big drum, tapping it light and quick, and singing, their breaths fitting in between the drum thumps.

Well, I was getting what the Indian Building was. It was all one thing: the fire, the headdress, the flute guy, the loom, the stuff on the tables. You could look at everything a piece at a time, think about it, pick what you liked, or you could just be there and take it all in at once—and if you did that, it sort of all came alive, and you knew something.

That is what I was thinking when this guy said something. It was an Indian guy, not tall, not short, not young, not old, not handsome, not ugly—just this guy standing there. What he said was “Exactly right, kid.”

“What’s exactly right?” I asked him.

“You are. The way you’re doing it. Exactly right.”

“Feels right,” I said. “How does it work?”

“Who knows?” he said. “But I’ll tell you this—hundreds of people come in and out of here, and not many catch on. Here. Take this.”

He took something out of his pocket and put it in my hand. It was a little turtle carved out of stone.

“What’s this?”

“Little turtle carved out of stone. Take care of it at all times.”

“Will it bring me good luck or something?” I asked.

“Possibly. I don’t know. Just hang on to it.”

“Is your name Melvin?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you a shaman?”

“In my spare time.”

“It’s a neat turtle,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let anybody get it away from you,” Melvin said. Then he said, “Train is leaving.”

“All aboard!” the conductor was shouting.

I ran for the train.