A Hamptons Christmas by James Brady

their senior spy was beginning to get names confused? Hardly a son’s business to turn in his old man, I concluded.
    Rudy, the owner, was all smiles. He never got anyone’s name quite right and saw nothing amiss.
    And now as we resumed our stroll, along came Jesse Maine, chief of the Shinnecock tribe, window-shopping.
    â€œOn my way to pick up a few things from Ralph Lauren. One of them genuine northwest-woods logger’s shirts they got, all flannel
and such,” Jesse explained to my father, “like them pioneer days of yore we all claim to miss. If we Shinnecocks ever gonna be recognized as a genuine nation by the feds, we got a responsibility to start dressing the part. Ralph Lauren’s flannel shirts, that’s a dandy starter kit.”
    The Admiral nodded his agreement, but by now Jesse was in full flight:
    It seemed, he explained, that the Shinnecocks had recently come into something of a financial windfall. Punitive taxes had hiked the price of a pack of cigarettes to nearly five dollars, while here on the tribal reservation in Southampton, the Indians were permitted by law to sell an entire carton, tax-free, for about twenty.
    â€œIt’s a wonderful thing, democracy,” said Jesse. “God bless America and all here assembled.”
    â€œAmen,” murmured Susannah/Jane out of sheer good manners and convent teaching.
    â€œAnd Sir Walter Raleigh, too,” Jesse added, “the fella got white folks first hooked on Lucky Strikes and don’t you ever forget it, kiddo.”
    â€œI shant,” the child promised, though she’d not yet even been introduced. But Jesse didn’t pause.
    â€œA year ago we would have settled for Eddie Bauer flannel shirts. Maybe the Gap. Look at us now, patronizing Ralph Lauren.” He shook his head in wonderment.
    â€œYou just consider that Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell of the Northern Cheyenne down there in Washington sashaying about, casting vetoes, and going on Meet the Press, with society hairdressers competing to comb out his ponytail. That’s what we Shinnecocks need, a genuine Native American look. Trouble is, most of us Shinnecocks is half to three-quarters African-American, and with hair like mine, it’s hell doing ponytails.” Then, having justified his window-shopping, he addressed me. “I heard you was back in town, Beecher. And Your Ladyship, too? Well, I’ll be damned. This is a pleasure.”
    We all shook hands, with Jesse staring down from his great height at Susannah/Jane, as if to ask, “And just who might you be
giving out ‘amens’?” I made the introductions, giving Jesse his full due as far as titles and honorifics were concerned.
    â€œI never met a Native American war chief before,” the girl informed Chief Maine solemnly.
    â€œFew do, Miss,” said Jesse, “we are a reserved and careful bunch.”
    â€œBut in history we studied the French and Indian Wars. The nuns are very big on wars in the middle form.”
    â€œDoes them credit,” Alix put in. “Were our chaps in that one?”
    I assured her they were. “It was the French and Indians versus the Brits.”
    Jesse had his say, as well.
    â€œI have read up on that war myself, Miss. But don’t know many Frenchmen personally. Only Pascal the pastry chef at that joint in Water Mill.”
    â€œMiss le Blanc attends school in Switzerland,” I explained absentmindedly.
    â€œPendragon,” she corrected me in a hushed whisper that Jesse ignored.
    â€œThat’s a place I never been. Not being all that much for scaling nor falling off Alps.”
    â€œThere are flat places, too, Chief. And unlike what many believe, not all that much snow. In Geneva, for instance, there are palm trees growing along the lakeside.”
    Jesse shook his head. It wasn’t that he doubted the child; simply that a war chief and tribal sachem withheld judgment until he had time to ponder