Fellowship & Fairydust

~ by M. C. Pehrson

Emma Winberry had always loved the very first day of a new school year, so fresh, so full of promise. While her father adjusted his bowtie at the living room mirror, she stood near him, checking out her own appearance. Her hair was as dark as Papa’s neatly cropped fringe, and over the summer of 1958, it had grown almost to her shoulders. Soon it would be long enough to wear in pretty braids, like her new friend, Susan Kester.

She was putting on her beanie, wondering why the brimless school cap had such a silly name, when Susan knocked at the door. Quickly, Emma hugged Papa. In the crook of her left arm, she balanced a new folder, a pencil case, and her lunch bag. Then she rushed out.

Arbor Street had come alive with teenagers on bicycles and on foot, teenagers revving cars and riding motorcycles as they converged on the public high school where Papa taught science. A couple of them recognized Emma and waved as she walked beside Susan in matching blue uniforms. She could still hardly believe that Papa was paying for Susan’s tuition — that he wanted his Honeybee and his Sue Bee together at St. Germaine’s. And soon they would be more than friends and classmates. In late December, Papa would marry Susan’s widowed mother, Christina Norquist Kester, and their two families would become one. Then they would all live together at the Kester farm around the corner — an unspoiled piece of country right here in the San Fernando Valley.

Emma and Susan crossed over the road to St. Germaine Church and went inside. Attending Mass was Emma’s idea, a special way of thanking God. Last June, she had prayed for a summer friend, and now she was going to get a sister, a brother, and a mom.

After Mass, Emma joined up with her longtime pal, Franny Brocado, and introduced Susan as “almost my sister.” Franny was wearing new glasses. She had bobbed her brown hair just when Emma was growing hers long, but Franny’s winning smile had not changed a bit. All together, they entered the main schoolhouse and found their fifth-grade classroom upstairs. The windows sparkled, and the floors gleamed with a fresh layer of wax. A tall nun stood by the teacher’s desk, her watchful eyes welcoming them. Sister Veronica’s name was spelled out on the blackboard in beautiful handwriting. Each desk held a neat stack of workbooks that still smelled of ink. Eager to peek at the new pages, Emma found her assigned seat and stood quietly beside it while Sister led the Pledge of Allegiance and a morning prayer. And so, the new school year began.

At recess, girls clustered around the freckled redhead at Emma’s side and enthused over Susan’s bright green eyes.

“My mom has them, too,” revealed Susan, “and so does my little brother. But I think Emma’s blue eyes are a lot prettier.”

News of the upcoming wedding caused a sensation among the girls. Emma was not used to receiving so much attention from her classmates. Thanks to Susan’s outgoing nature, she soon had many new schoolyard friends.

***

Ten years old, at last! It had been a long time coming, and Emma stretched out in bed, savoring the glorious Saturday morning. Birds twittered in the graceful elm tree outside her open window. Down the hall, she heard dishes clattering and the sizzle of bacon hitting a skillet. Throwing back the covers, she ran barefoot into the kitchen, where Papa was heating the waffle iron. He looked funny wearing one of Mama’s old aprons.

Hugging her tightly, he said, “Happy birthday, Honeybee!”

Later that day, Mrs. Kester hosted the biggest party of Emma’s life. Knowing how Emma disliked dresses, Mrs. Kester had written, “Please come wearing pants” on each invitation. At noon, the guests gathered at the nearby farmhouse — Emma and Susan’s immediate family, Susan’s Uncle Lars, and most every fifth-grade girl from St. Germaine’s. There were horseback rides and party games, barbecued hot dogs, chocolate birthday cake, and vanilla ice cream.

Except for Susan’s little brother, the party might have been perfect. All afternoon Tommy darted among the girls, doing whatever he could to capture their attention. The guests seemed to think he was cute, but Emma felt differently. Having been raised as an only child, she was not accustomed to energetic little boys tagging along and getting into everything.

When she complained to Papa, he said, “What’s the harm, Honeybee? He’s only having a little fun, and the girls like him.”

It seemed as if Papa was taking Tommy’s side. At home that evening, Emma went into her room and pouted a little. Curling up in bed, she paged through her gift from Uncle Lars — a thick, colorfully illustrated book about the Indian tribes of America. She studied the wonderful pictures and their captions until she forgot her wounded feelings, and Papa made her turn off the light. All night, she dreamed of the proud native people who had lived so simply and nobly on the land.

In the morning, she asked Papa if she had any Indian blood. He tipped his balding head back, thought for a moment, and then said, “I believe one of the Dolans on your mother’s side did marry a woman who was part Cherokee.”

Even a smattering of Indian blood made Emma’s heart swell with pride. How she would have liked to talk with Mama about it. From that moment, all her play began to center around this new fascination. As usual, Susan followed along, calling herself a Mohawk, an Arapaho, or some other type of Indian, according to her mood. But now and forever, Emma was a Cherokee named Eagle Eye.

As summer slipped into autumn, the fine weather held on. Emma began to braid her hair in a way that befitted a warrior. Together with Susan, she fashioned a crude wigwam in the Kester’s orchard, using deadwood that Uncle Lars had trimmed from the trees. To their delight, a trailer selling Indian crafts took up residence in the parking lot of a nearby store. The girls spent many a happy hour browsing over fragrant leather goods, feathers and beads, furs, and drums. All their allowance quickly disappeared, but the beadwork and other Indian gear they accumulated seemed well worth it. Now they really looked the part when they went out on horseback, leading war parties and hunting buffalo.

One weekend when Uncle Lars visited the orchard camp, he said, “How would you braves like a real, honest-to-goodness tipi?”

Emma could hardly wait. In the Kester barn, Lars gathered a stack of old burlap feed sacks and piled them on the back of the patient horse, Brownie. After taking the sacks to the orchard, he cut long bamboo poles from an overgrown corner of the property. All three children helped Lars drag them to the Indian camp where — with the help of a ladder and strong brown twine — he fashioned the promised tipi, complete with a door flap.

Forgetting her Indian dignity, Emma threw her arms around him and said, “I’m so glad you’re going to be my real uncle!”

Solemnly Lars replied, “I am glad Eagle Eye is pleased.”

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