She made no answer.
"Who sends money to be spent on me every year?"
Still she made no answer.
"If I am not your son, whose son am I?"
In the silence I turned to Skenedonk.
"Isn't my name Lazarre Williams, Skenedonk?"
"You are called Lazarre Williams."
"A woman told me last night that it was not my name. Everyone denies me. No one owns me and tells whose child I am. Wasn't I born at St. Regis?"
"If you were, there is no record of your birth on the register. The chief's other children have their births recorded."
I turned to my father. The desolation of being cut off and left with nothing but the guesses of strangers overcame me. I sobbed so the hoarse choke echoed in the cabin. Skenedonk opened his arms, and my father and mother let me lean on the Oneida's shoulder.