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213 31 As Sadie drove toward Liberty in the early morning hours, she began to question how long she could keep it up. Driving back and forth to Liberty was beginning to take a toll on her. She never seemed to have extra time to spend with her aunt and uncle, not to mention Sonny and Joe. It was worse than the long hours she used to put in at the bank. She thought about Emma and how she had pitched in to help with the café and what a blessing it had turned out to be to have Rosalee to help, too. She thought maybe their mother-daughter relationship would improve the longer they worked together, and if it did maybe she could turn the café over to them to run. She hated to admit it, but trying to fulfill her childhood dream of owning a café may not have been one of her better ideas. When she got to Liberty, she pulled into Johnson’s garage, filled her car with gas, and bought a copy of the two-day-old weekly Liberty paper. By the time she got to the café, the regulars were already there, so she parked behind the café and entered through the kitchen. Emma had already arrived. “Good morning, Emma. What do you need me to do?” “I’ve got everything under control, honey. Get yourself some coffee and visit with the people. They like to talk to you.” Emma opened the oven and peeked inside. “You know, honey, I’ve been trying to clean out some of Goldie’s things, and she had a bunch of Indian baskets and some other stuff I have absolutely no use for. You want to take a look at it? There’s a beaded purse I thought you might want, you being Indian and all.” Sadie stared at Emma. She had made an extra effort to accept Emma just the way she was but she was growing tired of her racist innuendos. Emma’s attitude toward Indian people in general seemed to be so deeply embedded, Sadie doubted she even knew how offensive she sounded. “Sure, when’s a good time?” Sadie asked. 214 “I tell you what, after we close today, why don’t you give me a ride home? Then you can take a look at all of her junk and take what you want.” “Okay.” Sadie continued through the kitchen and entered the café with her newspaper under her arm just as one of the regulars returned the coffeepot back to its burner. He hurried to fetch a cup for her. She took the coffee and sat down at her favorite table near the kitchen door, thinking how unusual it was for her to be comfortable with other people helping themselves to her space. But it seemed to be working. She flattened out the paper and began to read as she stirred cream and sugar into the hot liquid. An article about halfway down on the right-hand side of the paper caught her attention: “MIA Soldier Laid to Rest.” She began to read: “The remains of an Oklahoma soldier killed in Cambodia thirty-six years ago finally came home last week and were buried at the Fort Gibson National Cemetery. U.S. Army Staff Sgt. McIntosh Yahola died when his unit’s Huey assault helicopter took enemy fire in the Cambodian jungle west of the South Vietnamese border. Three other soldiers were able to exit and escape. Although it is believed Yahola died instantly, he was declared missing in action. The Cambodian government allowed American search teams into the jungles to search for missing comrades in the 1990s, and they eventually found a mass grave containing Yahola’s helmet and some bone fragments. Recent DNA testing linked the bones to his only living relative, a brother, Eto Catuce Yahola. More than 1,800 Americans are still listed as missing in action from the Vietnam War, according to officials. Related story and picture on page 8. ” Sadie could feel someone reading over her shoulder. She put the paper down and quickly turned around. When she looked up, Lance Smith smiled at her. His left arm rested in a sling wrapped around his neck. “Oh, wow, Lance. You look terrible. How are you?” “Thanks a lot,” he said, eyes twinkling. Realizing how her comment must have sounded, she tried to elaborate. “It’s barely been a week. Are you sure you should be out and...
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