Pigs in Heaven - Barbara Kingsolver [118]
People have begun to arrive now in a serious way, parking their trucks in a ring facing the fire, reminding Alice of a crew of friendly horses all tied nose in. She sneaks looks at the old women nested nearby in sag-seated lawn chairs. They all have on sprigged cotton dresses, dark stockings, dark shoes, and black or red sweaters. Their long white hair is pent up in the back with beaded clasps, and their arms are folded over their bosoms. Alice hopes she hasn’t done anything wrong by wearing pants, or having short hair. But that’s silly; no one has been anything but kind to her so far, or for that matter, looked at her twice. She listens in on the old women’s conversation and it’s the same over there, except that the hard, shiny words are “permapress” and “gallbladder” and “Crisco.”
Roving bands of teenagers move through the woods from here to there: long-haired girls in jeans and Keds, and long-haired boys in jeans and complicated athletic shoes. Some of the boys are tough-looking, with black bandanas pushed high on their shiny foreheads and knotted in the back. They hail each other through the woods in English, but when they address the older people, their greetings are Cherokee. Even toddlers, when they run up to slap dark skirts with grubby hands, open their small mouths and let out strange little bitten-off Cherokee songs. Alice is fascinated. She thinks of the holy-roller churches in Mississippi, where people spoke in tongues, though of course in that case it was more or less every man for himself, whereas here they understand one another. She had no idea there was so much actual foreign language thriving right here under the red, white, and blue. The idea thrills her. She has always wished she had the nerve to travel to foreign lands. Whenever she suggested this to Harland, he reminded her that anything at all you could see in person you could see better on TV, because they let the cameras get right up close. She knew he was right, but always felt misunderstood, even so.
Suddenly there is a sense of quiet, although everyone is still talking. The men are moving toward their trucks. Cash leans over to Alice as he gets up. “Ledger’s just got here,” he explains.
“Who?”
“Ledger Fourkiller. Our medicine chief. He’s over by that standpipe.”
Alice spots him: a small man in jeans and a hat and plaid flannel shirt, hardly one to stand out in the crowd. She doesn’t know what she expected, surely not war paint, but still. “Where you going?” she asks Cash.
“Nowhere. Just to get my eagle feather.”
The other men are doing the same: each producing a large brown feather from a glove compartment to tuck into a hatband. Alice would like to see Boma Mellowbug, but she doesn’t. Instead, a woman with a walk like a she-bear is waddling over to Alice with two cups of coffee. She says something like “Siyo” to Cash. Cash introduces his sister Letty to Alice.
“Pleased to meet you,” Alice says, though she actually feels just about every other known emotion besides “pleased.” But she takes the coffee gratefully. The night has grown clear and chilly against her bare arms.
“You all looked cold. I thought you needed some hot coffee.” She gives Cash some sort of look, but Alice has no idea what it means. Another woman, even shorter and broader than Letty, comes up behind them and reaches up high to clap Cash on the shoulder.
“This here’s Alice,” Letty tells the woman. “She’s staying over at Hornbuckles’.”
“My daddy’s sister married a Hornbuckle,” the woman tells Alice. “Did you know that?” she asks Letty.
“Well, now, sure I did. Leona Hornbuckle.”
“No, not Leona. She was a Pigeon, before she married. I’m talking about Cordelia.”
“Well, sure, Cordelia was your aunt. I knew that.”
“She was a Grass. Cordelia Grass.”
“Honey, I know it. I’ve got Grasses