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1 1 On July 23, 2003, a few days after celebrating her thirty-sixth birthday , Sadie Walela began a new chapter in her life. It had been one year to the day since she sat in a country cemetery mourning the loss of a little girl named Soda Pop and lamenting the course of her own life. When she later received an unexpected windfall from a life insurance policy, she used most of the money to fund a foundation for kids like Soda Pop who couldn’t afford health care and set aside the rest to finance her new adventure. She had always wanted to own a café, a desire instilled in her as a child from the stories of the café her great-aunt had owned during World War II. Sadie pulled a photo out of her pocket and gazed at the image of her great-aunt Vera in a white apron standing on the sidewalk in front of a large plate-glass window, the name “The American Café” painted in ornate , red-and-white letters behind her. Both Vera and the café had passed on by the time Sadie was born, but everyone said Sadie resembled Vera in appearance and personality, so she kept the worn recipe books and her great-aunt’s handwritten instructions for all of her culinary delights in hopes of following in her great-aunt’s footsteps. That day had finally arrived. Sadie had decided to carry on her aunt’s legacy of the American Café and hoped the painter would be able to reproduce the red-and-white letters on the front window. She slid the photo back into her pocket. Now she had to figure out what to do with the permanent menu fixed high on the wall. She walked to the middle of the empty café, placed her hands on her hips, and stared at the menu. “Let’s see,” she mumbled. “Liver and onions, meatloaf, fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, and catfish.” She rubbed her chin and continued talking to herself. “What would we do without southern comfort food? I think we can do without liver and onions, but meatloaf 2 might be okay since I’ve got Vera’s meatloaf recipe. We should have ham and beans.” She tapped her foot on the floor, weighing her options. Then on the other hand, she thought, why not start out with a variety of custom-made burgers served with a choice of onion rings, regular fries, or her favorite: sweet potato fries. Everybody loves hamburgers. Standing on her tiptoes, she pried at the bottom corner of the menu, trying to loosen its ancient grip on the old brick wall. A man’s voice came from the corner of the room. “You must be the new owner.” Startled, she jerked her hand away from the menu and stumbled backward. Her heart raced when she looked toward the stranger, his face obscured in the early morning shadows. A ray of light filtered through the plate-glass window behind him. “Geez, you about gave me a heart attack,” she said. “Are you the painter my uncle called?” The man calmly removed his hat and placed it on the stool next to him. His face remained hidden in the shadows. “You’re not going to change the menu, are you?” Sadie slowly exhaled. Her eyes had finally adjusted to the glare of the window, and she could tell her visitor appeared to be an Indian man in his early sixties. He had a slight build, gray hair, and an infectious smile. He looked like someone the neighborhood kids would gather around to tug at his pant legs until he gave them each a piece of candy or lucky coin. As she walked toward him, she smoothed a wisp of shiny black hair from her face and offered her hand. “I’m Sadie Walela,” she said. “Eto-Catuce.” He took her hand. “But you can call me Red.” His clear eyes reminded Sadie of the sky on a moonless night. “Say it again,” she requested. “That’s not Cherokee, is it?” “Edo Chah-doo-chee.” He emphasized the pronunciation for her and then added, “Muscogee Creek.” The wrinkles deepened in his weathered face and his eyes flashed as he grinned. “You’re taking over the place? What are you going to paint?” “Yes, I need the new name painted on the front window.” Sadie fished for the photo in her pocket. “What’s the new name...
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