Page 45 of The Harvey Girls

Thirty-Four

Charlotte greatly enjoyed her conversations with Ruth at the Hopi House.

Not only was the young woman knowledgeable and patient with Charlotte’s questions, but there was a certain elegance to her demeanor.

She had a sense of humor but didn’t engage in the kind of crass jokiness and silly giggling that many of the Harvey Girls were prone to.

Charlotte often thought that Fred Harvey should hire Ruth or one of the other Indians to be tour guides—they would have far better answers to the some of the questions that came up. But there were clear lines about who was allowed to do which jobs.

Every Harvey Girl she’d ever seen was white.

A few Mexican girls worked as maids or kitchen help, but they were not allowed in the dining room.

There were Indians who worked for the railroad or on construction projects around the village, but these were never public-facing jobs.

Apparently, the Fred Harvey Company wanted Indians to be seen only as artistic primitives, not people who might serve you a meal, take you on a tour, or be your neighbor.

Will said as much. “Most white folks only know about Indians from the movies—savages who’ll scalp you and take your women.

I suppose it’s better that the Harvey Company presents them as exotics who make pretty things, but it’s a long way from saying that they’re people like us, just trying to feed their families and live their lives in peace. ”

In the beginning, Charlotte’s conversations with Ruth focused mainly on the types of items for sale at the Hopi House that were also carried at the Cameron Trading Post. Charlotte wanted to know how the baskets and jewelry and the like were made, of course, but more than that, she wanted to understand the symbols and artwork and what it all meant. She wanted to know the history.

Ruth was happy to talk when there was no one else in the shop, but their discussions were often cut short by the needs of actual customers. And if Fred Spencer, the Hopi House manager, was in the vicinity, Ruth went silent, busying herself with whatever small task she could find.

“I cannot lose my job,” she murmured to Charlotte one day. “It is a very dry year. My father’s melons and peaches are not coming in well.”

This gave Charlotte an idea. “I shouldn’t bother you while you’re working.”

“It’s no bother. It’s just that…”

“You’re very kind, but I don’t want to jeopardize your career. And it’s unfair to ask you to provide me with an education out of the goodness of your heart. What I really need is a tutor, and tutors get paid.”

“A tutor? I don’t know if there is anyone like that around here.”

“You! You’re a wonderful teacher. And if we meet when you’re not working, you won’t have to worry about Mr. Spencer firing you for talking to some gabby Harvey Girl.”

They agreed that they would meet in the early morning before the Hopi House opened on the days when Charlotte had the dinner shift.

Ruth balked at being paid, but Charlotte said, “Information has value. You are in possession of a valuable commodity that I would like to have. It’s only right for me to compensate you. ”

During their first tutoring session a couple of days later, Charlotte said, “One of the things tourists often ask is where Indian children go to school.” She assumed they learned by following their parents around, an apprenticeship of sorts, but she wanted to be sure.

It seemed like a simple enough question, but Ruth gazed into middle space a moment before answering. “Many children go to boarding school.”

“My goodness, that must be expensive.”

“It’s free.”

“Free boarding school! Well, don’t let white families hear about it,” Charlotte joked. “They’ll all want to go.”

Some strong emotion flashed briefly across Ruth’s smooth features. Anger? Disgust? Sorrow? Charlotte wasn’t sure.

“No white family would ever send their children to these schools. Most Indian families don’t want their children to go, either.”

Charlotte blinked in confusion. “But then why do they… can’t they just keep them home?”

“No. We are given no choice. They send the military, and we are forced to go. These are not white schools. These are Indian schools, and their purpose is to teach us to be white.”

“Why on earth do they want you to be white?” It seemed like a lot of effort and expense spent on people who were happy as they were and doing no harm.

Ruth leveled her gaze at Charlotte. “It’s what all conquerors do. They take the land and make you speak their language, and use their customs, and worship their god. Then you don’t exist anymore, so you are no longer a problem.”

Charlotte thought about that a long time after the tutoring session was over. At the next one several days later, she asked, “How can they make you worship their god? Can’t you worship whoever you want in the privacy of your own heart?”

Ruth let out the tiniest breath of a sigh.

“Religion is not private in our culture.” She tapped her head.

“It’s not just in here. It is at the center of our community, a part of everything we do.

Our ceremonies have been outlawed by the Indian Religious Crimes Code.

We still do them, because they are necessary, they are who we are. But it is a risk every time.”

“Your ceremonies are illegal ?” said Charlotte.

“Yes.”

Charlotte was appalled. “Do they think that if they take away your religion, you’ll happily pick up Christianity as if it were a new pair of socks?”

“The government might think that, but the missionaries know it’s not that simple. So they offer things to make us go down the Jesus Road.”

“What do they give you?”

“It could be anything. Food or gifts—yes, including socks! Or it could be sewing lessons. They give you just enough cloth for part of a quilt, and they read the Bible as you sew. You have to come back again and again to finish the quilt, and they keep reading.”

“Does it work?”

“A few of the Hopi in my village have gone down off the mesa to live in the tiny Pahana houses by the church.” Ruth smiled. “But not many.”

“Pahana?”

“White people.”

Charlotte studied Ruth, trying to imagine how frightening it must be to have everything important to you—your very life—in jeopardy. It was like being trapped in a bad marriage, only on a much grander scale. She thought of the alias she’d taken to avoid her own tormentor.

“Your name isn’t really Ruth, is it?”

“My name is Ruth here in the white world. With my family, it is Yoki, which means ‘rain.’?”

“Which should I call you?”

The young woman considered this a moment. “I think it’s best if you call me Ruth. It’s less confusing for me if I keep my worlds separate.”

On the tours, Charlotte now found herself expounding on the virtues of tribal cultures and how important it was to protect them from eradication. Some tourists were interested; most, however, were more focused on getting the best prices on Indian crafts.

“I agree with your argument, and I admire your persistence,” Will murmured to her one day as they watched tourists wander through the trading post like ants at a picnic, “but it does no good to bash them over the head with it.”

“I am not bashing ,” she hissed back.

“You are, a little.”

He was right. And if tourists felt they were being lectured, they would complain, she would lose her job, and what good would that do?

She railed to Billie about it one night. “No one seems to care that the US government is trying to erase Indian culture and make them all Jesus worshippers!”

She was caught off guard by the girl’s response, though if she’d thought about it for even a moment, she wouldn’t have been.

“What’s wrong with that? I’m a Jesus worshipper.”

“Yes, but that’s by choice, Billie. No one tried to take away everything that makes your family Scottish and ram a new religion down your throat.”

A ping of memory flashed in Charlotte’s mind: her British history class back at Wellesley College.

“Actually, that’s exactly what happened,” she said.

“Since the First War of Scottish Independence around 1300, the English had been trying to take Scotland, and in the 1700s they finished the job with the Battle of Culloden. The Highlanders’ way of life was decimated, their lands taken, their clans abolished, and their Catholic faith persecuted.

It’s likely the reason your ancestors immigrated to the United States. ”

Billie’s gaze clouded for a moment as she measured what she knew about her family history against this new information about the Indians.

“Oh,” she said.

“Right.”

“But Jesus isn’t a bad thing.”

“No, he’s not, if you choose him of your own free will. Your people left the only home they’d known for a thousand years and came all the way to America—which purports to have freedom of religion—so they could practice their faith and live their lives in peace. But where can the Indians go?”

Charlotte toned down her message about what the US government and the missionaries were doing to the tribes—but she didn’t like it.

She hoped that if Mr. Patrillo was given the green light to start the Detours, people might be able to see Indian cultures for themselves, and their appreciation would grow.

She was proud to be first in line as a guide who would see that to fruition.

In the meantime, she had to be content with sneaking her message in subtly as she described the artistry of Indian crafts or tribal reverence for the Southwest’s harsh beauty.

It was frustrating to have to spoon-feed the truth in tiny sips, but her growing friendship with Will—someone who knew this truth and admired her for trying to impart it—was a comfort at least.

If she were completely honest, it was also a bit of a thrill.

You’re lonely , she tried to tell herself. It’s just an infatuation.

But she knew it was more than that, and she suspected he knew it, too.

Billie had settled into a sort of tentative contentment, now that panic over her da no longer simmered constantly in her veins (though she was now painfully aware that, at any given point, one of her family members could be injured or ill, and she’d never know unless Peigi decided to tell her).

Spending time with Robert was fun. He took her for walks and told her interesting things about the canyon or funny stories from home.

On Sundays they said the Rosary together.

They held hands sometimes, and that was nice, especially because he never pressed for anything more. It felt uncomplicated and safe.

Occasionally he made some mention of the difference in their ages, and this worried Billie.

If he knew the truth, would he be angry?

Would he tell Mr. Patrillo? But it was not just anxiety she felt; it was guilt.

Robert had never come right out and asked her age, as Leif had.

He just knew she was younger than him and assumed she was eighteen or nineteen—he’d referred to her as a teenager on occasion.

It was true, she was a teenager! And she’d never outright lied. She’d never had to. Nevertheless, it made her feel a little sick inside. She told herself it would be easier once she turned sixteen and wasn’t quite as far off from his guess.

But as her birthday approached, she knew that her anticipation was not only for the relief of being closer to the age she purported to be, nor for whatever little celebration her friends might cook up. It was the hope of a letter from Leif.

“Have you heard from him?” Charlotte asked out of the blue one day when Billie was reading a letter from home. Charlotte herself never received any mail.

“Heard from who?” asked Billie.

“You know who.”

“No. I guess he’s not much of a letter writer. A lot of boys aren’t.” She’d never known her brothers to so much as leave a message on the kitchen table as to where they were going. “He said he’d send one for my birthday, though.”

“I’m sure he will then.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He seemed like a man of his word. Not the type to make promises he wouldn’t keep.”

Billie had told Charlotte what had happened that day in Topeka when Simeon tried to take her back to St. Louis: how Billie had put Leif on notice that there might be trouble, and he’d stepped in just as he said he would.

He’d been the one to hold off Simeon so Charlotte could escape, and he’d gotten cracked in the face for his trouble.

Billie knew that Charlotte would never forget such a selfless deed on her behalf.

She certainly didn’t seem to have the same regard for Robert.

But Charlotte had proved she wasn’t always such a good judge of character when it came to men, Billie reminded herself.

Robert was kind and hardworking, just as her mother had said a man should be.

And secretly she had to admit he was quite handsome in his Park Service uniform.

They still hadn’t gone into the actual canyon, but Billie had dropped a hint or two and was hoping he’d take her soon.

Possibly on her birthday, which was coming up in just a couple of weeks.

She tried to keep her thoughts from straying to what might happen that day. “The world is full of the unexpected,” her mother would say. “It’s a fool’s errand trying to imagine every possibility.”

But with this, there were only two possibilities: Either Leif’s letter would come. Or it wouldn’t.