He sat down across from her without a word, depositing his belongings on the bench beside him. She realized suddenly that Pick had disappeared.
“Why are you looking at me?” he said. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. He didn’t sound or look angry, but his face and voice were hard to read. “Cat got your tongue?” he pressed. She cleared her throat and swallowed. “I was wondering if you were an Indian.”
He stared at her without expression. “You mean Native American, don’t you?”
She bit her lower lip and blushed. “Sorry. Native American.” He smiled, a tight, thin compression of his lips. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call me. Native American. Indian. Redskin. The words of themselves do not define me. No more so than your histories do my people.” The dark eyes squinted at her. “Who are you?” “Nest Freemark,” she told him.
“Huh, little bird’s Nest, crafted of twigs and bits of string. Do you live nearby?”
She nodded, then glanced over her shoulder. “At the edge of the park. Why did you call me ‘bird’s Nest’ like that?”
The dark eyes bore into her. “Isn’t that what you were called when you were little?”
“By my grandmother, a long time ago. Then by some of the kids in school, when they wanted to tease me.” She held his gaze. “How did you know?” “I do magic,” he told her in a whisper. “Don’t you?” She stared at him, not knowing what to say. “Sometimes.” He nodded. “A girl named Nest is bound to be called ‘bird’s Nest’ by someone. Doesn’t take much to figure that out. But ‘Nest’-that is a name that has power. It has a history in the world, a presence.”
Nest nodded. “It is Welsh. The woman who bore it first was the wife and mother of Welsh and English kings.” She was surprised at how freely she was talking with the man, almost as if she knew him already.
“You have a good name, Nest. My name is Two Bears. I was given my name by my father, who on seeing me, newly born and quite large, declared, ‘He is as big as two bears!’ So I was called afterward, although that is not my Indian name. In the language of my people, my name is O’olish Amaneh.”
“O’olish Amaneh,” Nest repeated carefully. “Where do you come from, Two Bears?”
“First we must shake hands to mark the beginning of our friendship, little bird’s Nest,” he declared. “Then we can speak freely.”
He motioned for Nest to extend her hand, and then he clasped it firmly in his own. His hand was as hard and coarse as rusted iron.
“Good. Because of your age, we will skip the part that involves smoking a peace pipe.” He did not smile or change expression. “You ask me where I come from. I come from everywhere. I have lived a lot of places. But this”-he gestured about him-“is my real home.”
“You’re from Hopewell?” Nest said dubiously.
“No. But my people are of this land, of the Rock River Valley, from before Hopewell. They have all been dead a long time, my people, but sometimes I come back to visit them. They are buried just over there.” He pointed toward the Indian mounds. “I was born in Springfield. That was a long time ago, too. How old do you think I am?”
He waited, but she could only shake her head. “I don’t know.”
“Fifty-two,” he said softly. “My life slips rapidly away. I fought in Vietnam. I walked and slept with death; I knew her as I would a lover. I was young before, but afterward I was very old. I died in the Nam so many times, I lost count. But I killed a lot of men, too. I was a LURP. Do you know what that means?”
Nest shook her head once more.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, brushing at the air with his big hand. “I was there for six years, and when it was over, I was no longer young. I came home, and I no longer knew myself or my people or my country. I was an Indian, a Native American, and a Redskin all rolled into one, and I was none of these. I was dead, but I was still walking around.”