She pictured his happy, leathery face. He was a kind, well-meaning man. And an honest-to-goodness blood relation. “What time?”
“Five thirty?”
She cringed. “In the morning?”
“You bet. Just about daybreak. The best time to feel the spirits of our tribe.”
Maddie knew she liked knowing what was what and when. She liked being grounded by day-to-day routines. Unlike her son, she wasn’t much for adventures. Crossing the channel on the bike ferry had been an exception. And look where that had landed her. But now, she thought about Rafe. He would love this. He would love knowing about their heritage. He was the adventurer in the family. So she would do this. For him.
“Shall I meet you at the bike ferry?”
“I’ll come and get you. No sense wearing yourself out gimping down to the harbor on those crutches.”
* * *
Before tackling the rest of the boxes, Maddie went into the bathroom. While washing her hands, she studied her face in the mirror. She’d always thought it was an ordinary face. Not beautiful, but not terribly ugly. And though she moisturized daily, her only makeup was eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of blush. Ever since high school, female friends her age had remarked on her skin: it was smooth and unblemished, clear yet creamy, its light coppery shade making her look as if she had a year-round, early-summer tan. More than one friend claimed to be envious. But to Maddie, it was just her face, where a couple of thin lines now appeared at the corners of her blue eyes. Blue eyes, not black like Joe’s. And Joe’s skin was a little darker, probably because both his parents, not just one, had been Wampanoag.
Oddly for Maddie, not once had she considered that her ancestors were different from those of her friends, especially since she’d thought her mother’s side had emigrated from Europe. She had a feeling that her old pals would be even more envious if they learned that she was half Native American.
Turning off the water, she hobbled back to the bedroom. Then she sliced through the sealing tape on a carton marked “Baskets”; maybe it held samples of Grandma’s work. Instead of baskets, she found handwritten notes. Instructions. And diagrams. Lots of diagrams.
Ash or Hickory, one sheet read. Following that were apparently locations. One read:Menemsha Hills. Grove by the ancient pathway, halfway toward the water on left. Left at roadside ditches of fiddleheads. Walk in fifty feet. Harvest thick, wide splints, one and a half to two inches by a few feet long. (This will provide strength and room to make dots with a knife tip and create shapes of shells, rabbits, butterflies, etc.)
Behind the papers, Maddie found black-and-white photos of different patterns and designs, as well as notebooks with records of the quantities and types of baskets she’d made, where she’d sold them, when, and for how much. The earliest entries were dated “Fall 1949.” Nancy would have been fourteen years old.
As she kept sorting, Maddie also came across a number of recipes and instructions for other things like embroidery and beading—all of which Maddie suspected were from Wampanoag traditions.
Hours passed quickly. Finally, she finished examining the contents of two entire boxes. She stood up and stretched, then made her way into the living room and over to the fireplace, where she lifted the small pottery bowl. It was somewhat unsteady—one of Winnie Lathrop’s “seconds”—but, to Maddie, it now was beautiful. She wished she remembered painting the daisy. She wished she remembered Evelyn teaching her, when her own mother was elsewhere on the island, being a real artist. Maddie decided she’d take the little bowl home to Green Hills, a keepsake of her time on the Vineyard then—and now.
Setting it back on the mantel, she moved to the front door. As she looked down the hill, through the tall beach grass, she saw Lisa hanging sheets on an outdoor clothesline. She wondered if her neighbor knew about Nancy’s collection of basket notes and other things, and if she might be interested in having them. It seemed better than tossing them out. Besides, after meeting Francine and Rex, Maddie had decided that making friends wasn’t so bad.
She cupped her hands and shouted: “Hey, neighbor!”
But Lisa kept working.
So Maddie yelled: “Lisa!”
The clothes hanging stopped. Lisa looked up toward the cottage and waved. And in less than a minute she stood next to the notorious granite steps.
“You need something? How’s the foot?”
“The foot’s fine, thanks. But I have two questions.”
She asked if she’d like Nancy’s old basket instructions.
“I’d love to see them!” Lisa chirped.
They went into the bedroom, where Maddie spread the instructions and photos on the bed.
“The diagrams don’t look like the one you gave me,” Maddie said. “Maybe she made more than one kind.”
Lisa examined every page. “I’ve never seen this type, with the wide splints of wood. I think they’re really old. I wonder . . . ,” she continued, then stopped. “I bet someone at the Aquinnah Cultural Center will know. They might be the type the Wampanoags made before anyone could order parts through the mail or online. Back when they gathered the ‘ingredients’ for lots of things right here on the island and nearly everything was made by hand.” She’d stopped chirping, her tone having grown serious. “Most likely, they’re the first ones Nancy made. And thank you, Maddie, but I shouldn’t take these. If you don’t want them, they should go to the tribe.”
To the tribe.Once again, Maddie wondered if everyone but her had known that Nancy Clieg had been Wampanoag, if everyone but her had known that 50 percent of her carried Indigenous genes.
“Of course they should have them,” Maddie said quietly. “They should probably have these entire boxes. There are other crafts and photos. Lots of recipes, most of which use corn, squash, and beans.”
Lisa nodded again. “Corn, squash, beans. They’re called the Three Sisters. Staples for the tribe for as long as anyone remembers, and probably before then.” She was a nice person, after all. Someone who seemed to care about people and traditions.
