Free Charity by Paulette Callen Page B

Quite a beautiful horse.”
    “Jordis.”
    Gustie observed the old woman squinting hard at her from behind her coffee cup and said, “What?”
    “Nothing.” Dorcas took another sip of the sugared coffee and wiped her mouth with her hand. “Missionaries name her.”
    The fat had melted down golden and hot. Gustie tore off pieces of the dough, flattened each one a little between her palms and slipped them into the fat. The hot grease sizzled on contact and the dough puffed out and browned. Just when the outsides were crisp and the insides fluffy and steaming, Gustie lifted them out with a pair of iron tongs and piled them on a tin platter. Then she rolled the fish in flour left from the bread making and dropped them into the fat. More sizzling and popping and the aroma of frying fish filled the cabin. The fish cooked quickly and Gustie piled them on the platter next to the frybread.
    Dorcas nodded her approval. She flourished an unusually happy mood all of a sudden. “You cook like a good Indian. Next I teach you how to do it over the fire.” Dorcas cocked her chin in the direction of the tripod outside. “No stove. Tastes better that way.”
    The first time Gustie had tried to make frybread, she had burned herself on spattering fat; some of the pieces had cooked to little brown bricks, and the rest remained doughy and sticky inside. She had to throw the whole batch out feeling utterly miserable as she wasted Dorcas’s precious flour. Dorcas had her small share of annuities. Like everyone else on the reservation, when it ran out, she had to buy what she needed until the next allotment, and money was very scarce on the Red Sand.
    The evening settled upon them gently. Gustie realized they were sitting in near-darkness. She took down the lamp from its hook on a ceiling beam and lit it.
    Quick steps sounded on the porch and the cabin door was pushed open. Gustie started and nearly burned herself on the match before she could shake it out. Jordis entered. She wore the same clothes she had on that afternoon—a full skirt in a dark blue-gray fabric, and a long-sleeved blue shirt rolled up to just below her elbows—clothes very similar to those worn by Dorcas. Gustie wondered if these clothes, too, were government issue. She greeted Gustie with an almost imperceptible nod. Then she murmured a greeting to the old woman who reached up with both hands and patted the younger woman’s cheeks tenderly.
    “Granddaughter, you have been away a long time.”
    “Little Bull keeps me busy.”
    “It is good. You stay out of trouble that way. Thanks for the chickens.”
    Gustie felt invisible watching this exchange between the two women.
    Before she could offer her own chair, Jordis pulled up the wood crate that rested against the inside wall by the door and sat down at the table. She tore apart a piece of frybread and laid a fish on each half. The food disappeared quickly. Gustie poured her a cup of coffee and sat down.
    She could not take her eyes off Jordis who proceeded to devour the remaining fish and frybread. The Indian woman’s hands were strong and large with long tapering fingers. Everything about her was strong, rock solid. Her every movement had about it a wholeness. Though it was only her hand that moved grasping her coffee cup, or her arm that reached out for another piece of bread, it was her whole body that was involved, not tensely, for she was perfectly relaxed, but with total awareness of what each part of itself was doing. Gustie had never seen a human body so collected . She had only observed that in horses and barn cats. And still the woman had not spoken one word to her since walking through the door. Clearly she had no meaningless pleasantries in her, no chit chat. Gustie had been around Dorcas long enough to not take offense at the lack of spoken words. Besides, something inside herself felt very communicated with. She felt like she was encountering a new language. Gustie was patient and determined to learn