decades was born on the thirteenth of December in 1869. She was named Namid, which means Star Dancer in the Cheyenne language. Namid favored her father, as she had inherited his blond hair and fair skin.”
As Namid grew older, her appearance became the source of ridicule from the other children in the community. They called her ghost-face and pale-face and refused to play with her.
It broke Monahseetah’s heart to have her daughter be ostracized by her own people. So, when Namid turned eight, Monahseetah took her off the reservation and left her with an order of nuns who ran an orphanage.
“She was such a beautiful white child, I knew someone would adopt her,” Monahseetah told Farmer.
When Farmer asked, “Did you ever see her again?” Monahseetah’s eyes welled with tears and her lips trembled. “Yes, every night in my dreams I see her and she is still just eight years old and very lovely to look at.”
Cole had written the letter to Farmer hoping that he could reveal the exact location of the reservation, as he wanted to visit it himself and perhaps speak to Monahseetah. But Farmer never responded and Cole had not sent a second inquiry. Now here was this woman, claiming to be the granddaughter.
“So you are the child of Namid?”
Again, Charlotte bobbed her head. “My mother was adopted and raised by a family in Louisiana. When she was sixteen, she married a man named Jean Batiste. He is my father.” She paused. “Was my father. He died from cancer to his brain in 1926. My mother followed him to heaven last year.”
“Batiste? But you said your surname is Custer.”
Charlotte folded her delicate hands in her lap. “Yes, I had it legally changed to Custer.”
“Why?’
“To honor the memory of my grandfather.”
“Your father must not have been very happy with that.”
“I did so after his death.” Her eyes turned sad. “Although, I will admit that he and I did not have the best relationship.”
Cole leaned forward. “And your grandmother, Monahseetah?”
“Dead as well.”
Cole leaned back. His face shadowed with disappointment. He raised his right hand and wrapped his fingers around his chin. “But how did you get the letter?”
“My mother told me everything about her life before she was sent to the orphanage. When the book was published, she bought a copy and we read it together. I sent a letter of introduction to the author, and a week later he came to Oklahoma to visit me and my mother. He was a very kind man.”
Charlotte reached down and ran her finger along the rim of the glass.
“He said he wanted to write a story about my mother and me. We of course agreed. He went back to New York and we never heard from him again. I learned later that he had contracted pneumonia and died.”
She moved her hand back into her lap.
“When the publisher received your letter, he sent it to me. It was my intention to write to you. For the life of me I don’t know why I didn’t.” She laughed. “I’ve carried your letter with me for almost a year.”
Cole smiled.
“Since I was here in Mississippi visiting friends, I thought I would call on you personally, to tell you how much your words meant to me.” Charlotte rose again. “I’ve taken up too much of your time—”
“No, no. Please don’t go. Would you like to stay for dinner?”
Charlotte grinned. “I would love to.”
To further express her disdain for Charlotte, Hemmingway prepared a dinner of overcooked chicken, underboiled potatoes, and freshly sliced tomatoes blanketed in salt. After dinner, they returned to the drawing room where Hemmingway served them bitter coffee.
At the end of the evening, Cole walked Charlotte to her waiting carriage. “May I call on you in Greenwood?”
“Yes, I would like that.”
Hemmingway stood in the doorway glaring at them, and when Cole stepped up onto the veranda, she chirped maliciously, “Seems to me she say yes to everything.”
“What?”
“Careful now,” Hemmingway mumbled as she walked off, “I’ve only known whores to be that agreeable.”
The next day the stock market crashed. Hemmingway didn’t quite understand what it all meant, but from the way the white people in town were running around like chickens without heads, she took it as an omen.
“You see what kind of bad luck that woman done brought on this town?”
Cole was sitting in his office with his ear hovering near the radio. The broadcast came from WJDX, located on the top floor of the Lamar Life Insurance building in Jackson, Mississippi. “Shush!” he warned.
The announcer said: “Lines as long as the Mississippi River have formed outside of banks all around the country, as people scramble to withdraw their money.”
“Shouldn’t you be in Greenwood trying to get your coins?”
“Hemmingway, please!” Cole snapped.
He wasn’t very worried. He had some money in the bank, but not much. Lucky for him, last year he’d had a nightmare that ripped him from his sleep. In the dream, he’d gone to the bank to withdraw money, and was advised by the teller that all of his money had combusted. She reached down, opened a drawer, and removed a handful of ash, which she slid across the counter. “This is all that remains.”
Cole was so disturbed by the dream that he went to the bank and withdrew all but eighty-five dollars. He brought the money home, stuffed it into jars, and buried them. As for stock, he owned none.
“She evil, I tell ya!” Hemmingway roared.
Evil or not, Cole Payne was smitten, and he began courting the granddaughter of General Custer.
Within weeks, the scab covering his heart curled, withered, and dropped away. Once again, his heart drummed free and wild, and love responded like an animal in heat.
He proposed to Charlotte Custer on Christmas day.
Hemmingway was tightlipped when Cole brought her the news.
“Well, aren’t you happy for me? For us?”
Hemmingway shrugged her shoulders.
“Why don’t you like her?”
“Don’t matter if I do or if I don’t. You the one gotta lay down with her, not me.”
“You
