The Hundred Years Woman

Michael’s head came up out of the book he had started that morning. “What?” he asked the old Indian woman. “Did you say pourquoi?”

“Poor-qua,” she nodded. “The story of the people, and when God made us. You know the poor-qua?”

“No.” Mike shook his head and closed his book, a finger marking the page. He didn’t know any such story, but he did know the French word for “Why”. Its use by Mary Smart surprised him. His interest piqued, Mike decided to listen. He’d go back to his reading if she didn’t have a compeling Why Story.

Called the Hundred Years Woman, Mary Smart travelled five hundred miles, from Oklahoma to East Texas, to meet Atmar Johnston at the MacKay farm. She came with Atmar’s brother and uncle, and a dozen more Indians in two cab-over pickup campers leading a Ford station-wagon overloaded with children. The car sat low to the ground and drug bottom in the MacKays’ rutted access road. Atmar’s brother had brought all the relatives he could muster — those that could get away from their ranches and their jobs for a few days — to benefit Atmar, a dying man.

Two weeks ago, Larry and Mike had stopped whitewashing for a minute, Larry stretching backward to unkink his back and Mike repeatedly dipping his brush and wiping the excess on the bucket’s edge. Both were tired.

They turned their attention toward the house to watch a pickup pull into the yard and stop by the back porch. Two men got out — one an adult, the other elderly — both in plaid shirts, work-faded jeans, and battered straw cowboy hats. Both men likewse stretched and twisted to loosen up their ride-weary bones.

The tri-colored Lacys rose to attention from their shady watch nearby. Farmers, Larry thought, working men. He said “It’s okay,” quietly, to the dogs, and they relaxed.

A hundred yards away, Willy and Howie had been culling the garden for any usable remaining produce. They left their basket and ran toward Larry.

Larry saw his Momma come out on the porch, her greetings silent at that distance. After a mannerly hats off, the men exchanged words with Momma. The older man’s white hair clearly ended with a ponytail.

“You know who?” Larry asked his little brother.

“Oklahoma license plate,” Willy said, out of breath.

The boys heard Momma on the porch call into the house for Atmar Johnston. Her smile and cordial invitation beckoned the strangers up the porch steps and inside the kitchen.

“Relatives,” Larry guessed.

“Indians?” Mike asked.

Larry said “I expect so. It runs in the family, you know.”

“But they’re dressed like us.”

Willy said “Maybe they ain’t on the warpath, thimble-wit.”

“They’re ranchers,” Larry said. “Mr. Johnston’s people run cattle.”

With little fanfare, Atmar’s brother Edgar and his Uncle Cutter joined the boys and Momma at suppertime for nothing any better than vegetable soup and cornbread. As thick and hearty as a stew, the boys called it stoup, among other things — mulligan and burgoo being the politest. A rummage sale of leftovers, Momma’s soup made satisfying fare and cleared out the refrigerator. This night Momma put a bow on the package when she followed supper with sweet potato pie and gobs of whipped cream. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, Momma often said. No one left the table hungry, so that’s proof enough.

Edgar and Uncle Cutter slept in bedrolls in their truck, frustrating Momma’s natural inclination toward hospitality. They did join the MacKay tribe at the Methodist church service Sunday, which perked Momma up. Then, on Monday, the men left promising to return soon for a longer visit with Atmar.

Now, from the shade of the barn, the MacKay boys watched the Ford station-wagon unload kids like a clown car at the circus, kid after kid.

“Gypsies,” Howie whispered, truly terrified. His mother’s fault. She’d told Howie tales of wandering Gypsy bands that stole naughty little boys. Howie — sweet, obedient little Howie — had grown into a well-mannered thirteen year old with a phobic fear of Gypsies. He sheltered himself behind Larry, grabbing a handfull of the tall boy’s sweaty workshirt. Larry felt the boy trembling.

“Howie, they’re not Gypsies. They’re Indians.”

“They are too. I saw pictures.”

“They are not. It’s George’s kinfolk… from Oklahoma. Help me out here, George.”

“Kinfolk,” he said, squatting down on his haunches.

“Thatta boy, George.” Larry turned enough to get an arm around Howie. “See, no one’s going to take you away. You’re ours.”

In the yard, a lanky teen scrambled under the station-wagon’s rear axle and came back out slapping dust off his jeans. He got a grownup and together they knelt and peered under the car.

“Dragging bottom. Suspension’s shot,” Larry said. “‘55 Squire. Ouch,” he muttered, steeling himself against the sound of a rattling, coughing engine that dieseled on, refusing to quit.

“What’s that,” Mike asked.

“Run-on. Engine keeps on firing… one or two cylenders. It’s too hot.”

“You can fix it?”

Larry shrugged. “Might just need Ethyl. Might need valves.” He sighed and said “Rude to butt in. I’ll help if it comes up.”

People put a Coke-crate at the back steps of one camper, and a pretty girl came out leading an old lady. Folks gathered, reaching out with helping hands to steady the aging lady.

“Witch doctor,” George said. “A hunnert years old, my dad says.”