“There is much to speak before you leave,” Rose said to Eugene. “Even if you may not make sense of it full-on yet, you must listen hard just the same. And remember this day.”
Eugene’s expression was severe, his mouth tight, in both his determination to go and in guilt for not being able to stay. Rose knew him well enough to know he didn’t want to hurt them, but he did have to leave them. He had to leave them both.
“Promise me . . .” she started, but corrected herself. “No, no promises. Listen best you can, and then go on and live the life you’re meant to.”
“All right,” Eugene said, carefully.
There was too much to pass on. Where to begin? In the end, the twig had forced the trunk to bend, and Rose would play out her part.
“First, Mama Elizabeth has something for you,” Rose said.
Elizabeth rummaged in the pocket of her apron and pulled out a knotted lace handkerchief, yellowed with age. Her fingers trembled as she worked loose the knot. She took Eugene’s hands in her own, his big, hers smaller, both of theirs rough and calloused, and she opened one of his palms faceup. Elizabeth placed the old penny in the center.
Rose remembered her grandfather’s touch as he gave the payout penny, from his hand to hers so many years before. One for each child. They’d tussled over this, Rose and Elizabeth, briefly, whose family penny would pass to Eugene to send him on his way, and Rose conceded the rightness of her sister’s claim. They each had something powerful to share with their son.
“Never forget family,” said Elizabeth.
“You can’t give me your—” Eugene started in protest.
“Yes. I can,” said Elizabeth. “This is yours now, to remember by.”
“I’ll keep the penny safe till time for me to pass it on,” he promised.
Eugene reknotted the coin in the handkerchief and stuffed it deep in the pocket of his overalls. There was a softness to his face, and Rose worried once more about releasing him to a new life away from the ranch and her protection.
“You’re a man now, Eugene. But no matter where you go, how far you travel, we are your family,” said Rose. “We’re your true home, and you can always come back to us, anytime. No questions asked.”
“I have to leave here,” said Eugene.
“Hush,” Rose said, harsher than she intended. She might never have another chance. “We know, but there’s barely time enough. Just listen.”
Elizabeth gave a nod of agreement, slight but clear. Rose curled her hand around Eugene’s, where the penny had been. They had three hours yet. She drew a deep, slowing breath, and reached inside herself to release the prison of words for the long telling. This was her gift to her son. And to her sister. And to herself. First to them, and then to the other children, and to their children forevermore. A simple act really, once the gate unlocked.
Eugene’s hand was hot in hers.
“When Elizabeth and I were girls,” Rose began, “we were chased from our ranch by Confederate Indians set on murdering us.” She stole a sidelong glance at Elizabeth, who leaned forward to listen, her face as open and receptive as Eugene’s. “Took us days of walking to get to Fort Gibson, mostly in the deepest hours of dark, wading together through icy streams to cover our smell, and hiding in caves or woods or prairie once light broke. Grampa Cow Tom led us.”
The stories mattered, but only if shared. And Rose would choose what she told and what she withheld, without passing down unfair burdens to another generation. She wouldn’t wait till she was on her deathbed, or pick who might be worthy. Since Gramma Amy still lived, Rose wouldn’t reveal the darkest parts of her grandfather’s past.
“That’s the kind of man your great-grandfather Cow Tom was. A loyal, seven-fingered citizen of the Creek tribe. He only had a nub for a right ear, and a deep-pitted scar from a Confederate Indian’s knife that curled down one cheek like a pig’s tail. He told me most of his stories from his deathbed, and later, remembering those stories helped me do whatever needed. If he prospered against all odds, how could I not?
“He passed before my twenty-third birthday, yet still I conjure him, bleak days or bright. It took some time for me to understand my place, but once comprehended, I held firm, yielding to no one, man or woman, black, Indian, or white. For better or worse, I know who I am and where I belong. Know who we are, Eugene, your family, and you’ll come to know who you are.
“Your great-grandfather Cow Tom was the first African Creek Indian chief. His blood runs in you, so now I pass these stories for your safekeeping. Use them, as I did, to give you strength.
“I begin by saying to you what he said to me.
“You are braver than you know.
“You are special.
“You will make your way in this world.”
Afterword
The often unbelievable account of the first black Creek Indian chief and his descendants intrigued me from the first moment I accidently and serendipitously stumbled onto this amazing family. I was in between writing projects, captivated in general by the black towns of Oklahoma in the 1800s that sprang up after the Civil War, and waiting for inspiration for my next novel. Hearing about my Oklahoma interest, a friend of my husband’s, Steve Hicks, gave me an old, battered book about his family who had deep roots in Oklahoma, written by a well-respected journalist. I remember carefully leafing through Staking a Claim: Jake Simmons Jr. and the Making of an African-American Oil Dynasty, by Jonathan Greenberg, trying desperately to keep the pages from falling out as I read. The book centered on Jake Simmons Jr., who had an astonishing career as an oil broker and politician in the mid-1900s. But what captivated me more was the handful of pages devoted to Jake’s mother, Rose Simmons, and his great-grandfather Cow Tom.
Yes, this story is based on real people who lived in the 1800s and 1900s, their lives unfolding around cataclysmic and rapidly changing American events. Their futures were bound up in the shifting political landscapes of an explosively growing country, a country that made its peace with exploiting black labor through slavery and later sharecropping, and pitilessly pushed west with an unbounded appetite for land. Native Americans’ very existence stood in the way of expansion, and gave rise to an uneasy and often ruthless relationship with the U.S. government. And yet this particular family, beginning as slaves of Indian masters, continued to overcome every obstacle that stood in the way of their success. They not only prevailed, but Rose and Jake’s son Jake Simmons Jr. founded what became an oil dynasty in Oklahoma.
So many stories with black protagonists chronicle poor, defeated, powerless, dependent victims. But I found myself totally inspired by the spirit at the core of this family, a spirit preserved from generation to generation. While each of these characters carried their own flaws, as all humans do, they refused to be defeated. They were self-sufficient, strong, proud contributors to their family and to their community.
Within a week of being given that book, I knew I wanted to find out more about the unique position held by certain black men in nineteenth-century tribes as translators and intermediaries between the Five Civilized Tribes and the U.S. government. And I was equally interested in the women in their lives who made it possible for them to succeed—mothers, wives, daughters, and granddaughters. Seldom has a single family personified so many different aspects of this country’s history at once—the conjunction of slavery, the push west, and Native Americans. And in the course of research, I discovered that Cow Tom’s descendants are many.
Three years seems to be the magic number of how long it takes for me to write a historical novel, a very long and serious commitment involving years of research, finding a narrative arc, and telling a good story. The subject matter, the characters, and the setting have to be fascinating, complex, vibrant, and surprising to hold my interest for such a long period of time. The story of Cow Tom and his family did not disappoint.
Acknowledgments
So many people to
thank, so little time.
To my agents at Inkwell, Kim Witherspoon, who never gave up, and Allison Hunter, for the final sprint.
To my editor, Malaika Adero, and the rest of the gang at Atria and Simon & Schuster.
I owe a great debt to the village of readers of various iterations of the first fifteen drafts. Thanks to my writing group, the Finish Party, my mighty sisters of the word. Farai Chideya, Alyss Dixson, Jackie Luckett, ZZ Packer, Deborah Santana, Renee Swindle, and Nichelle Tramble, my first line of defense for multiple readings and unflagging enthusiasm.
And to my other writing group: Rosemary Graham, Nina Schyler, Elizabeth Stark, and Ellen Sussman. Also for the insights from Veronica Chambers, Caroline Leavitt, Vicky Mylniec, Meg Waite Clayton, Joan Lothery, and Barry Williams.
Thanks to Willard Johnson, professor of political science emeritus at MIT, whose deep knowledge of black Indians and Kansas/Oklahoma history proved invaluable. To John Oakley, whom I knew as a law professor and turned out to also be a maritime expert, historian, copy editor, and gun collector. To Damario Solomon, a descendant who pointed me toward Cow Tom’s gravesite in Cane Creek, Oklahoma. And thanks to the Okies who ardently helped me navigate the state of Oklahoma—Hans Helmerich in Tulsa; Judge Robert Henry, president of Oklahoma City University; Phil Kistler; and Bill Welge, director of the Research Division of the Oklahoma Historical Society, who allowed me to hold (with white-gloved hands) the original 1866 treaty Cow Tom signed as Micco Cow Tom.
I’m grateful for the gift of time and space at Ragdale, Hedgebrook, and UCross residencies. And for Susan Orr and Hilary Valentine who provided additional inspiring writing venues.
To Steve Hicks, who gave me the book about his family that piqued my interest to start this long journey, Staking a Claim: Jake Simmons Jr. and the Making of an African-American Oil Dynasty, by Jonathan Greenberg.
And finally, to Barry Lawson Williams, my amazing husband, who single-handedly kept me from giving up and shelving this manuscript so many years in the making.
About the Author
Photograph by Chris Hardy
Lalita Tademy is the author Cane River, a New York Times bestselling novel and the 2001 Oprah Book Club Summer Selection, and its critically acclaimed sequel Red River. She lives in Northern California.
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Also by Lalita Tademy
Cane River
Red River
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Lalita Tademy
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First Atria Books hardcover edition November 2014
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Text design by Paul Dippolito
Jacket design by Laywan Kwan
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tademy, Lalita.
Citizens creek / Lalita Tademy.—First Atria Books hardcover edition.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
1. Slaves—Alabama—Fiction. 2. African-American men—Alabama—Fiction.
3. Creek Indians—Alabama—History—Fiction. 4. Intercultural communication—Alabama—History—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3570.A248C58 2014
813'.54—dc23 2013041525
ISBN 978-1-4767-5303-4
ISBN 978-1-4767-5305-8 (ebook)
Lalita Tademy, Citizens Creek
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