Celilo's Shadow Page 3

  Matthews shifted in his seat but didn’t respond. Undeterred, Tony continued, “I bet you’re thinking ’Why’s that?’” He brought the Cadillac to a stop at a viewpoint near the entrance to Sorosis Park and gestured in a broad sweeping arc toward the gorge. “We call this God’s country,” he said. “Just look down there. It doesn’t get any better than that, my friend.”

  A red-tailed hawk circled overhead, swooped low, then dive-bombed to the wide expanse of the river below. To the north were the dry mountains of Washington. The smooth, rounded topside of the Klickitat Hills was a watercolor wash of browns, golds, copper, and amber that came undone at the shoreline with the jarring violence of its jagged cliffs. Two tall, snow-capped peaks, Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams, overlooked the vast gorge like watchful sentries.

  “Tell me something, Sam. What line of work are you in?”

  “I’m with the Corps. Construction foreman.”

  By Corps, Tony assumed he meant the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers charged with building the dam on the Columbia River but he didn’t give Matthews time to elaborate. He slapped his hand on the steering wheel and said, “I knew it! When I spotted you on the street today, I said to myself, ‘Tony’, I said, ‘there goes a government man. A man of decision.’ And I was right. You’re not a man to pussyfoot around. You’re the kind of man who knows what he wants and goes after it.”

  Tony knew he’d laid it on a bit thick, but he never argued with success. In his experience, guys like Matthews ate flattery for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Satisfied that his spiel had hit the right note, Tony continued. “Being newcomers and all, you might not know this, but . . .” He leaned in closer to Matthews as if to share a secret. “Homes in The Dalles are selling like hotcakes.” He pointed to a nearby billboard advertising a housing development called Hillcrest Addition. “And Hillcrest is selling even faster.”

  The billboard pictured a beaming family in front of a house with a SOLD sign on the front door. As Matthews gazed at the billboard, Tony delivered the punch line. “You can have a dream home just like that family there. But time is of the essence.”

  They’d been in the convertible less than ten minutes. The sale, like the travelogue, was on the fast track. Pitch ended for now, Tony tossed his cigarette butt out the window and shifted into gear. Spitting gravel, the Caddy lurched forward and onto the main highway again. He drove a few hundred yards further and then turned left onto a dirt road, which had a single cherry tree growing in the center like a traffic divider. As they passed the tree, Tony assured them it would be cut down and the road paved soon. “This whole development used to be a big cherry orchard, but your wife’s gonna love this place. I’ve sold to lots of government families and the wives all say—”

  “It’s just me and my daughter.”

  Tony dared a glance at Ellie. “Divorced?”

  “No. My wife died ten years ago.”

  “Oh.” Tony bit his lower lip and frowned. “I’m truly sorry about that. Truly.”

  Matthews shrugged off the sentiment. “Ellie and I have done pretty well, considering.”

  Tony shut up for a couple of heartbeats before pulling the car to a stop in front of a white house with a large bay window. It was the only house on Cherry Blossom Lane that still had a bright red FOR SALE banner strung across the front window. “Well,” said Tony, rubbing his hands together. “What do you say we take a looksee at this house?”

  “Mr. Rossi, we—”

  “Please. Call me Tony.”

  “Right. Tony, we didn’t plan to buy a house today.”

  “I know. I know. I just thought we could look around a little bit. No harm in that, is there?”

  Matthews appeared to be thinking it over, but Tony was confident that the hook was set.

  Sam half-turned in his seat to face his daughter. “What do you think, Ellie? Would you like to go inside?”

  “That’d be great!” she said.

  “Tell you what,” said Tony, suppressing a grin as he handed Matthews a key on a small chain. “Why don’t you two go on ahead? Nick and I will join you in a minute.”

  Ellie hopped out of the car and darted up the sidewalk but her father took his time, easing his long legs out of the convertible and then stopping to survey the neighborhood in all directions—east . . . west . . . south . . .

  “Dad! Hurry up!”

  Matthews waved a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. Hold your horses, I’m coming.” At the doorstep, he fumbled with the key while Ellie waited behind him.

  Tony climbed out of the car. When he slammed the door shut, Ellie spun around. The loud noise got her attention, but Tony was convinced he was what kept her attention. Never taking his eyes off hers, he casually leaned against the car, crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his arms loosely across his chest. Dare you to turn away from me this time, Missy.

  “There,” huffed Matthews. “I got the damn thing open.”

  As her father trudged into the house, Ellie turned around to follow him. But then, pausing mid-stride, she looked back at Tony. A dazzling dimpled grin lit up her face.

  Tony tipped his Stetson and laughed. “Hand me my briefcase, Nick. This house is a done deal.”

  Chapter Two

  The dam was visible from the highway but Danny Longstreet willed himself to ignore it. A mile and a half of concrete stretching across the Columbia from Oregon to Washington was like trying not to look at a train wreck. The dam’s massive size still stunned him even though he’d seen it hundreds of times before. The eighteen-year-old had watched the construction from the very beginning—when it was just a mound of dirt pushed around by bulldozers—to its imposing, yet still unfinished state. He shrugged off the despair he felt whenever he drove past the dam and pressed down hard on the gas pedal. Gunning the old truck past 72 mph was dicey, but speed was exactly what he needed right now. Predictably, the beater shimmied like a bar room floozy, rattling all the way to the Celilo exit.

  Once off the main highway, Danny had to slow down when he got stuck behind a lengthy line of vehicles heading toward the village. Hundreds of brethren from the foothills of Mt. Hood, Klickitat, and White Salmon to Rattlesnake Ridge on the slopes of Mt. Adams had been streaming into Celilo since early spring. Word that the salmon were running had swept up the river like the west wind and the comers had packed their belongings and headed out. They came every year, but the spring and summer of 1956 had brought more than usual, some from as far away as Canada. Everyone knew it would be the last time they’d gather by the falls and no one wanted to miss it. The whites had come, too. They took pictures, bought souvenir beads, baskets and salmon, but the big tourist draw was watching the Wy-ams and others fish.

  Danny followed the slow-moving procession until his three minutes of patience ran out. Pulling off the dirt road, he drove alongside it, dodging potholes and rocks. The other drivers were forced to slow down even further as great billows of dust churned and swirled as he passed by. Danny tuned the radio to a rock n’ roll station and cranked the volume as loud as it would go. Then he stuck his head out the window and hooted, “Shake, rattle, and roll, baby!” With his long dark hair whipping in the wind, he kept time with the music’s raucous beat by slapping his hand against the door panel. Some of the drivers pointed and laughed while others honked and shook their fists. If they were Indians, Danny gave them a friendly wave. If they were whites in wood-paneled station wagons or big Buicks, he yelled, “Get a horse!”

  When Danny arrived at the village, parking was in short supply. Cars and pickups were wedged together like buzzards around a carcass. Two little boys from the village darted between the parked vehicles as they played tag. Danny tooted his horn and waved at the kids before pulling into the first somewhat open space he could
find. When he turned off the ignition, the diesel engine continued to chug-a-lug, almost drowning out an angry shout that came from behind. “Hey, you’re blocking my car!”

  The fuss-budget was a white guy. Figured. Whites were always fussing about one thing or another. Danny waited a moment to see if the fellow would press the issue. Known around the village as a scrapper, Danny was ready and willing to take on anyone who looked at him crosswise. Despite a hair-trigger temper that often got him in trouble with the village elders and others in authority, Danny was well-liked at Celilo. It was a different matter with outsiders, especially white outsiders like the visitor he’d just encountered. Danny leaned out of the cab to get a better look at the jerk. He was more muscled than Danny would’ve liked but he had to be forty if he was a day. Easy take down.

  The boys stopped their game to watch Danny. He was all set to give them a good show but when he’d climbed halfway out of the cab, he noticed that the guy had a wife and kid in tow. The white man’s disapproving scowl was infuriating, but Danny unclenched his fists and let him pass without incident.

  “Come on, Sara,” the man said, wrapping a protective arm around his wife’s waist. “Let’s buy some fish and get out of here.”

  Danny called after them, “No need to hurry! I’ll save you a 30 pounder!”

  “Hey, man, ain’t you gonna fight?” asked one of the boys.

  “Nah,” said Danny. “Fightin’ a chicken ain’t my style.” He tucked both hands under his armpits and flapped his arms up and down while dancing in a tight circle. “Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!”

  The boys giggled and squawked and flapped their arms along with him. After a minute Danny said, “Fun’s over, boys. Gotta go.” He reached into the truck and grabbed a grocery bag containing the Lucky Lager he’d bought earlier at Johnny’s Market.

  The sun—directly overhead, bright and bare chest hot—hit Danny full force. As he shaded his eyes from the glare, he remembered the old pair of sunglasses he’d found in the men’s room at the Pit Stop the night before. He hoisted himself back inside the cab, reached across to the door-less glove box and fumbled around until he found them. They were cracked in one lens, but workable. After he put on the glasses, he pulled a dirty painter’s hat out of his jeans’ pocket and slapped the hat against his pant leg. He creased the bill a couple of times, smoothed back his hair, and donned the hat. Ready to fish, he walked toward the falls.

  Fishing at Celilo was not easy. The nature of the falls made any convenient access nearly impossible. The sides of the knife-edged cliffs fell twenty feet into the fast-moving water. To get at the salmon, some fishermen fashioned wooden platforms on which they stood, suspended over the turbulence, and lowered their pole nets. Others hitched makeshift scaffolding to long ropes and hoisted themselves down the sides of the cliffs to get closer to the water. Called Tumwater or “great chute” by early explorers, the strong currents of the Columbia River merged upon this one small crack in the basalt cliffs—a crack only 150 feet wide—to churn and stir the water like a witch’s brew. The lip of the falls formed an almost perfect horseshoe divided by two large rocks. It was at this juncture that the waters surged forth and the river dropped eighty feet in the span of a few miles.

  Chief’s Island was in the middle of the Columbia and the hardest place of all to reach. In the old days, the Wy-ams had to row a boat through the swift currents to get to the island. But in the late 1930’s when the huge fishwheels were operating, a cableway had been installed across Downes Channel to Chief’s Island by the Seufert Cannery Company. Not that the company was doing the Indians any favors—the cableway just made it easier for the fishermen to get out to where the salmon could be caught and delivered more promptly to Seufert’s buying station.

  Although Seufert’s fishwheels had long since been abandoned, the cableway to Chief’s Island was still operational. Danny pulled on the retrieval line and hauled the large transport box affixed to the main cable back across the channel to the shore. As soon as the box was ashore, he heaved the grocery bag and himself inside. Pulling on the cable hand over hand, he passed above the raging waters to the island.

  As Danny came closer, he saw his grandfather sitting alone on his platform. Few such sites dotted the small island’s rocky landscape. Only chiefs or descendants of chiefs were allowed to fish there. Oscar Longstreet had inherited the station from his uncle who had once been a Wy-am chief. As Oscar’s only grandchild and heir, Danny would someday own the fishing spot. It was a false inheritance; when the dam was completed, there’d be nothing left to inherit.

  Although he’d been fishing since dawn, Oscar sat ramrod straight on an upturned apple crate, patiently awaiting a strike. Danny had seen his grandfather sit like that for hours at a time, ignoring the arthritis that plagued his lower back until he had his catch. Danny winced at the thought of his grandfather in pain. Oscar would never complain but Danny should’ve gotten here when he’d promised. He could’ve at least done that for him.

  Oscar’s voice rose above the roar of the falls, “Huk-toocht! Huk-toocht!” Give me luck. Give me luck.

  Danny shook his head. The old man didn’t get it. None of the elders did. Luck wasn’t what they needed. Only action would save them. It was an old argument. One that’d have to keep for another day. Danny swung his legs out of the carrier, grabbed his grocery bag, and headed to the site.

  Before joining Oscar, Danny located an extra safety rope, tied a couple of knots in it, wrapped one end around his waist and secured the other end to the platform. Weather-worn and rickety, the platform’s gray boards still had traces of blood and slime from yesterday’s salmon catch. His grandfather was getting forgetful. Danny picked up a sand-filled coffee can that was stowed nearby and grabbed a handful of granules. As he scattered the sand over the slippery boards, he could see the churning waters through several wide spots in the platform planks.

  When he was a little kid Danny was afraid of these cracks and he still remembered the terror he felt. No, Grandpa, please. Peering between the boards at the boiling cauldron, he was sure the river gods wanted his young bones. He could see them reaching out for him, spitting and hissing. Da-an-ny. Da-an-ny. Their icy wet tongues licked his face and body, freezing him to the boards. Fingers plucked at his hair, his ears, his mouth. Unable to resist, the gods pulled him closer and closer. And then, just before they wrestled him through the cracks, he was in the air, flying like an eagle. Oscar’s strong arms carried his bones up and away from the watery grave.

  Stepping confidently over the cracks now, Danny picked up a dipnet pole and thought not of river gods, but of white men and what they wanted. He cast his pole into the water and sat down on his own upturned apple crate. The roar from the raging falls usually made conversation difficult, but the location of their fishing site was positioned on a small basalt outcropping that was acoustically unique. As a result, Danny and his grandfather could communicate without resorting to shouting or hand signals like so many of their brethren were forced to do.

  “Who caught the first fish?” Danny asked by way of greeting.

  “Wauna Joe.”

  “Figures.” Wauna Joe’s people had the best fishing spots on both sides of the Columbia. Wauna Joe had crossed the river between Oregon and Washington so many times that he was given the name Wauna which meant great river.

  “Wauna Joe’s doin’ all right today,” Oscar said. “The rest of us, we’s still waiting.”

  Danny looked out over the falls at the fishermen. The closest were Willie Two Bears and Frank Yallum on Standing Island. Across Downes Channel and along the shore were Wauna Joe and his family, then Johnny George and Red Shirt, and finally, Walking Tall. They were all Wy-ams but the Yakamas, Umatillas, Warm Springs and Nez Perce tribes were also fishing Celilo Falls.

  “Did you see the mud swallows?�
�� asked Danny. The birds were a sure sign that a good catch was imminent.

  “Yep. They’s been here and gone. Still nothin’.”

  Danny retrieved two Lucky Lager bottles from his bag. He popped the caps with a church key and offered a bottle to his grandfather. The two men drank together for a while, the muted rumbling of the falls the only sound between them. The sun’s fierce rays blasted down on them despite their protective hats. Oscar’s was a black, wide-brimmed affair with a blue beaded band and a single white feather at the back. Danny couldn’t remember him ever wearing anything different. Doffing his painter’s hat, Danny wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his bare arm.

  As he replaced the hat, he looked at Oscar and decided that his grandfather was getting old. He was sixty-three and had aged rapidly in the last few years. His braids were streaked with gray and his broad hat couldn’t hide the deep lines on his face or the weary sadness in his dark eyes. There was no mistaking their genetic relationship. They both had tall, sinewy builds, deep-set brown eyes, and angular facial features. For Danny, it was how they differed that was most significant. Oscar was old, he was young; Oscar was passive, he was active; Oscar was reserved, he was bold. As much as he loved his grandfather, Danny would never be like him.

  Gulping down the last of his beer, he reached for another bottle and said, “Sorry I was late. Had some business to take care of in town.” It was best not to say much more than that. Neither man wanted to talk about Danny’s activities away from Celilo; too many harsh words had already been exchanged.

  Danny searched for a neutral topic. “You should’ve seen all the cars headed into the village today. Lots of whites, too.”

  “Did they have their cameras?”

  “I guess so. Why?”

  “Whites, they like to take pictures. One summer, when I was about your age, me and some of the guys was picking cherries for the Seufert’s and this skinny white man came up and hired us right out of the orchard for picture taking.”