The GI Bride by Iris Jones Simantel Read Free Book Online Page B

thousands for the white man’s
greed, but that is another story.
    The next day, as we wandered around town, I
recognized one of the Indians from the previous night’s show; he had been the
narrator. He was now in ordinary clothes but accompanied by an older man in full Indian
garb. We watched the first man get into what looked like a brand new Cadillac.
    ‘Do you think it’s his?’ I
asked Bob.
    ‘I can’t think why not,’
he replied.
    ‘Where do you think he keeps it? I
didn’t see anywhere to park cars at their camp last night.’
    Bob laughed. ‘You don’t
seriously think they live in those tents, do you? They all live in suburban houses now.
They make tons of money entertaining people like us.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought
it was real.’
    The older man in his regalia, with an
enormous feathered headdress, now stood alone close to where we had parked our car.
    ‘Do you think he’d let me have
my picture taken with him?’ I asked Bob.
    ‘Well, there’s no harm in
asking,’ he replied, and I surprised myself by going up to the man and asking his
permission. The man nodded but said nothing. I stood as close to him as I dared and
smiled, while Bob focused and took the picture. As I stepped away and started to thankhim, he stuck out his hand for payment. My jaw dropped but Bob
took a dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the Indian ‘chief’.
‘It was worth the dollar just to see your face,’ he said to me.
    ‘I’m such a gullible
idiot,’ I said, and we laughed as my flushed red face began to fade back to
normal.
    Initially disappointed that I had not
visited a real Indian encampment, I was still happy to have seen the show. At last I had
seen a little of the America of the Technicolor movies, and I loved it.
    After our few days alone, it was time to
return to our own reality. I wasn’t looking forward to going back, but now, with
renewed strength, I was ready to try again.
    Once we were home, Bob and I began looking
for an affordable apartment and what a nightmare that turned out to be. The only
inexpensive places we found were in the run-down and slum areas of the city. I certainly
didn’t fancy living like that. We finally settled on a two-room, third-floor
walk-up apartment on Division Street on Chicago’s west side. It wasn’t the
best neighbourhood in the world, but it wasn’t the worst either. The apartment was
like something out of a B movie. It had a bed-sitting room complete with a pull-down
Murphy bed concealed behind mirrored double doors, a small kitchen and a bathroom. When
I wrote home, I told my parents that, besides the kitchen and bathroom, the apartment
had a living room, dining room and library but unfortunately they were all in one room.
They found that very funny, especially the Murphy bed, which they’d never heard
of. I had to send them pictures of it both behind the door and pulled down, ready for
business. That crazy bed turned out to be a source ofgreat fun for my
usually sensible husband: he was always folding me up in it to wake me in the
mornings.
    ‘You bugger!’ I’d shout at
him, and he’d laugh his head off. I tried to do the same to him, but he was too
heavy for me to lift, worse luck. ‘If I ever get you up in that bloody bed,’
I told him, ‘I’m going to close the doors on you and leave you there until
you beg for mercy.’
    The apartment was on a busy main road, above
shops that included a Jewish restaurant and a Polish delicatessen; the smells that
drifted up from below made me feel more nauseous than ever. Next to those shops was the
Adelphi Cinema, which added an even more B-movie atmosphere, with its marquee lights
flashing on and off outside our window all night. I’d lie in bed, trying to get to
sleep, but even though we pulled the window shades down, those flashing lights still
crept in around the edges. Yes, I thought, I’m living in an American film now, but
it was not the Technicolor one of my dreams. The good news was that