Native Affairs by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

“So where does his grandfather live?” she asked brightly, changing the subject.
    “I don’t know. Don’t you?”
    “Not any more. When we were kids Drew’s family lived in the old shantytown near the river, but I heard he moved them all out once he began to make some money. His father’s dead now, but he still has some cousins and aunts in addition to the old man.”
    “And he supports all of them?” Cindy asked.
    “As far as I know. He helps out, anyway, even if he doesn’t keep them entirely. I know a couple of his younger cousins have jobs in town, and one of them is in college. He’s probably paying for that too.”
    “He’s very generous with them, isn’t he?” Cindy asked softly.
    “But not, I think, with many others,” Paula replied meaningfully, and Cindy was still considering that statement as she removed the bread from the keeper and started breakfast.
    * * * *
    When Drew returned he still looked tired, but his clothes were fresh and his hair was combed neatly, something she had rarely seen during the time she’d known him. Though cut in a fashionably layered style, his hair was so thick and soft that it flew into bangs and wings around his ears as soon as he moved his head.
    “Do I look all right?” Cindy asked nervously, gesturing to her denim skirt and short sleeved sweater.
    “Of course you look all right; you look lovely,” he answered, laughing. “Why do you ask?”
    “Well, I’m meeting your grandfather.”
    “It’s my grandfather, Cindy, not the Emir of Katmandu,” Drew responded dryly, shutting the door of Paula’s apartment behind them.
    “I want to make a nice impression,” Cindy said, smoothing her skirt.
    He stopped walking and turned her to face him. “How could you do anything else?” he asked quietly, and she dropped her eyes, touched beyond words.
    “Now come along and stop fussing,” he said briskly, bypassing the awkwardness of her reaction. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing the truck but it’s better on some of the roads than the car.”
    “Is it difficult to get there?” Cindy asked as they descended the steps to the outside door.
    “Not really, but it’s a dirt track for about the last two miles. My grandfather resisted moving to a new house for a long time, but when it became clear that the move was necessary he agreed only on the condition that it be built in the woods. It isn’t exactly the Glades, but I bought the property on a lake near my uncle’s spread and the climate is about the same.”
    “The reservations are in the south, aren’t they?”
    “Yes, but my people never lived on one,” he answered proudly.
    “Have you seen them?” Cindy asked, aware that she was venturing into dangerous territory, but so thirsty for his thoughts that she took the risk.
    “I’ve seen Big Cypress, not Dania or Brighton,” he answered, glancing at her as they walked toward his truck.
    “What is Big Cypress like?”
    “It’s a swamp,” he said bitterly. ‘You don’t think the government would give good land to a bunch of Indians, do you?”
    “But it’s reclaimed, and arable, isn’t it? I thought that was a provision of the treaty.”
    He paused next to the door on the passenger side of the cab and looked down at her.
    “I forgot for a moment that you’re an expert,” he said, smiling narrowly.
    “Hardly that,” Cindy responded. “But I know something about Seminole history. It goes hand in hand with studying the literature.”
    Fox took her hand to help her up into the cab. He didn’t reply to her statement, and she thought he had dropped the subject until he slid behind the wheel. “Tell me what you know,” he said flatly.
    Cindy thought for a moment before she spoke. “The Seminoles are Creeks who migrated from Georgia and Alabama to Florida. The word ‘Seminole’ means ‘runaway’ in Creek. They lived in the Everglades and surrounding areas peacefully until, in the 1800’s, they started harboring escaping