Even As We Breathe. Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle

hall across the lawn, eager to join my fellow workers, even if they had already abandoned me once; being among coveralls seemed far more comforting than uniforms. My adrenaline carried me there, but left me utterly depleted by the time I arrived.

      I was out of breath, and sweat beaded my forehead and matted my hair to the temples. The blue-gray of my coveralls (only Lee donned the khaki variety, another distinction of rank, I surmised) turned a deep blue-black down my chest and under my arms as if I were bleeding out. I must have looked like a disoriented jaybird smacking against an overly clean window. I had no idea where to go next and my stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I’d better figure it out soon. The intense smell of burning coffee and cigarette smoke further stunned my senses.

      “There ye are,” Lee called to me as I stepped through the doorway. “Almost missed lunch.”

      Sol looked over his shoulder without turning his body toward me. He shot a smart-ass grin at me and turned back to his meal.

      Asshole.

      “Grab it and growl, Sequoyah,” Lee called.

      “Yes, sir,” I agreed, finally locating a buffet-style cart in the back of the room.

      “Hurry up,” Lee continued. He and Sol stuffed the remainders of their sandwiches in their mouths and laughed, spewing bits of moist bread across the table. Sol, seated to my left, slid his empty plate toward me, motioning toward the kitchen. I clearly was not done cleaning up after him, and the day was not just about to get better. Sol’s laugh was a little too hearty for that.

      Sol stood, palms on the table, and leaned over so that his mayon naise-dripping lips rested inches from my ear. Lee stared at him, but instead of speaking, stood and took his own plate into the kitchen. He had left me with Sol hovering like a roadside buzzard. “You can take my plate now, son.” He breathed hot, wet spittle into my ear.

      Here’s what I wanted to say, what I should have said: I have an idea, son: shove that plate up your ass!

      But of course I didn’t. I closed my eyes just briefly enough to see Sol’s face melt into that of Bud’s. How similar their bone structures were; how easily one could transform into the other. I had nineteen years devoted to the practice of echoing; I could do it at least one more day so I wouldn’t lose my job. I tried to stand, but Sol ground his elbow into my shoulder until my knees buckled. The force was so great that I could not fully turn my neck to search his eyes for further instructions.

      “Let’s get one thing straight, boy. If the old man wants a new pet to play fetch with, that’s his business, but I don’t plan to share my scraps with any more mongrels than I have to. Do us both a favor and get on home ’fore your momma’s teats dry up.”

      “I’m not taking nothin’ from you.” I shook my head.

      “Takin’ my air every time you open that trap of yourn.”

      “Just here to work.”

      “We can handle it. All you do is cause ’em to water down the milk.”

      Sol eased back, alleviating the pressure just enough for me to collect my leg strength. I picked up the plates, almost head-butting Sol in the process.

      “And hurry your ass up,” Sol called after me. “We need to break you in right.” Sol laughed. He laughed as if the whole exchange had been a joke all along, though the bruise congealing just beneath my skin confirmed otherwise. I looked to Lee as he returned to the table. I can’t be certain, but I think he looked slightly remorseful either for what Sol had said or what Sol would say.

      Years later I would read about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I think these two may have been the prototypes for that character, both just too damn big to keep holed up in one measly body. When I returned to the table, I braced myself for what strange case the two were about to lay before me.

      Chapter Seven

      Several hours later, I found myself negotiating the hidden rules of the staff dining hall again. The wilting bodies warmed the room almost past the point of tolerable. The sun held strong, the evening breeze had yet to blow the dust and dank from the hall’s wooden floors. I was unsure if it was allowable for me to join Essie at her table, though she sat alone, though other tables of men had little space, though no one attempted to make eye contact with me when I walked in for supper. Of course, that included Essie as well. Was dinner more formal than lunch? There were not Colored or Whites Only signs I had heard tale of being in the city, but perhaps there were unspoken rules. Likely there were unspoken rules.

      I went straight to the serving line, filling a tall glass of sweet tea from a pitcher, guzzling until the glass was empty, and refilling it again before I moved on to the food. It was heartening to see—and better yet smell—the richness of the food being served for dinner. While lunch had been cold and sparse, the spread before me was rich with grease, butter, and sugar. I think those are the three real Cherokee Sisters. Corn, beans, and squash would be nothing without them.

      Golden-fried chicken overflowed from porcelain blue serving dishes. I could smell the rich tang of buttermilk batter. Mounds of white whipped potatoes, skins and all, were carved by melted butter rivers and piled high in a huge metal bowl. I scooped an oversized serving, barely balancing the glob on the spoon. Then I topped them off with a heap of bright green winter peas. I added candied carrots and sweet corn on the cob and completed my plate with a yeast roll.

      I’d be eating better than any American I knew. The country was experiencing noteworthy rationing of the rich ingredients I readily found on my dinner plate. While fresh vegetables were nothing new, most families in the area having productive gardens and at least a few farm animals, I had to wonder if ordinary citizens were conserving so that stateside soldiers and their prisoners did not go without.

      I sensed that Essie had noticed my arrival, even if she was careful to offer no physical evidence of it. She hadn’t hurried out the door, so I took that as a sign that she wouldn’t mind too terribly if I joined her at her seat. As uncomfortable as Sol had made me earlier, I was glad that I had more news to tell her than just the trite and boring recollection of a day’s work. I sat my plate on the table and slid down the bench, planting myself directly in front of her.

      “Hiya! How was your first day?” I forced a smile.

      The ridge of her brow pinched, but her eyes did not move from her plate. “Sure. You can sit here.”

      “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.”

      “My day was fine. And yours?” Essie focused on the potato sculpture she was making with her fork.

      “Pretty good. You know. Pretty much what you’d expect. Did hear some interesting stories, though.”

      “Oh, did you?” It was obvious that she didn’t believe me. She looked tired. Or annoyed. Probably both.

      “Yeah, guy stuff. You know.” I crunched down on the juicy chicken, grasping for a napkin to catch the grease before it dripped from my chin. “You jusff stay mmnnsfide?”

      “What? For Pete’s sake! Chew your food.”

      I blushed through my tea glass. “Sorry.” I dabbed my mouth with the napkin. “You stay inside all day?”

      “Yes, looks like I might get out to the porches some, but I’ll be mostly cleaning guest rooms.”

      “Oh. Are they … I mean, do you have to …”

      “Don’t worry. They’re never in there, far as I can tell. We have to make sure the sign is not on the door before we go in, and we have to knock, too.”

      “Oh, good.” I reached for the saltshaker.

      “How about you? You see the guests at all?”

      “No. Not really. Don’t have time to. We were outside all day pretty much. ’Cept for cutting through the lobby once … which I will never do again.” Essie looked up. “That private was