work around this falling-down place. He’s a lazy bones, driving all over the island, getting in everybody’s business like an old woman. I warn him, but he don’t listen.”
“But,” she said, shifting back to an excited tone. “The good stuff’s in the house. We got totems and scrimshaw, paintings, special baskets. Drums. Masks. Button robes and Chilikat blankets. Some things are very old. We’ll only show them, not give them away. Poland will bring out his copper shield. It’s very old, from his father and his grandfather and before that way back. You break off small pieces and give em to the big guys, the ones with lots of sons. That’s Poland’s job.”
Walking around, looking at the stacks of boxes, Abaya seemed almost girlish. “This gathering is to honor my sons,” she said, sounding fragile. “I had four sons. Now they’re all gone. Dead or lost.”
Lizette kept quiet about Raven, honored her promise again not to say she’d seen him or tell anyone that he’d gone to Wounded Knee and not mention the trouble he and Dennis Banks and the rest of the American Indian Movement were having with the FBI. She watched Raven’s tiny mother, her big earrings bobbing, wipe her hands on her apron, pace and embrace the depth of her loss. Lizette could barely stand to watch her.
“The spirits have taken all of them and this potlatch will honor that,” Abaya said, walking softly, her feet barely disturbing the floor’s fine dust. “Sometimes in the night, I hear them laughing outside my bedroom window, like when they were kids. Then I hear a thud and know they’re fighting. Then they laugh again and I go back to sleep.” She turned and walked out of the barn. Lizette waited behind, gave Abaya space in her rarely expressed grief, pulled the heavy door shut and walked to the house.
While they prepared breakfast, Abaya pointed to the things she wanted Lizette to do. Lizette, understood the gestures, grabbed plates and glasses, pulled spoons and knives from a battered drawer. Sliced potatoes, salted the water. Turning on the burner—whiff of propane. Splash of oil, dash of garlic powder. Abaya waved her meat fork here and there, like a symphony conductor with a baton. Fat salmon steaks sizzled in the skillet, potatoes fried on the back burner. When it was ready, Poland appeared like magic. Lizette ate everything on her plate, got up to clean the last of the potatoes from the skillet, going into the refrigerator for ketchup, which she guessed the old people didn’t use much judging from the crust around the lid. She reached into her bag and took a pill from the bottle Dr. Finch had given her, washed it down with a big bite of fried potato.
“Whose pajamas you wearing?” Abaya asked as they washed dishes together, Lizette drying as fast as she could, but not keeping up. “You look like a bum.”
“Marian’s father’s. My stuff was all dirty. I’d been on the streets for a while, hanging out.”
“Where do you sleep on the streets?”
“Wherever. On pallets, if I can find them. It keeps you off the ground when it rains. I put plastic down and then newspapers, layer them on, roll up. I take the papers from the free boxes on street corners when nobody’s looking. It works pretty good, especially if you find a guy with a dog.” Abaya rolled her eyes and Lizette laughed. “Dogs are always warm, the guys not so much.”
Abaya snorted and scrubbed the skillet. Lizette wrapped the dishtowel around her slender fingers to dry inside a glass, noticing orange paint on the heel of her hand from last night.
“You stay here tonight. In Raven’s room. Help me pick and sell at the market tomorrow. We can buy you some clothes, Scarecrow,” she said, throwing Lizette a disapproving sideways glance.
In the dark, the next morning, Lizette helped the couple load boxes of winter vegetables—carrots, chard, potatoes, broccoli—for the farmer’s market. They fussed at each other, elbowed over the tailgate, one
“But,” she said, shifting back to an excited tone. “The good stuff’s in the house. We got totems and scrimshaw, paintings, special baskets. Drums. Masks. Button robes and Chilikat blankets. Some things are very old. We’ll only show them, not give them away. Poland will bring out his copper shield. It’s very old, from his father and his grandfather and before that way back. You break off small pieces and give em to the big guys, the ones with lots of sons. That’s Poland’s job.”
Walking around, looking at the stacks of boxes, Abaya seemed almost girlish. “This gathering is to honor my sons,” she said, sounding fragile. “I had four sons. Now they’re all gone. Dead or lost.”
Lizette kept quiet about Raven, honored her promise again not to say she’d seen him or tell anyone that he’d gone to Wounded Knee and not mention the trouble he and Dennis Banks and the rest of the American Indian Movement were having with the FBI. She watched Raven’s tiny mother, her big earrings bobbing, wipe her hands on her apron, pace and embrace the depth of her loss. Lizette could barely stand to watch her.
“The spirits have taken all of them and this potlatch will honor that,” Abaya said, walking softly, her feet barely disturbing the floor’s fine dust. “Sometimes in the night, I hear them laughing outside my bedroom window, like when they were kids. Then I hear a thud and know they’re fighting. Then they laugh again and I go back to sleep.” She turned and walked out of the barn. Lizette waited behind, gave Abaya space in her rarely expressed grief, pulled the heavy door shut and walked to the house.
While they prepared breakfast, Abaya pointed to the things she wanted Lizette to do. Lizette, understood the gestures, grabbed plates and glasses, pulled spoons and knives from a battered drawer. Sliced potatoes, salted the water. Turning on the burner—whiff of propane. Splash of oil, dash of garlic powder. Abaya waved her meat fork here and there, like a symphony conductor with a baton. Fat salmon steaks sizzled in the skillet, potatoes fried on the back burner. When it was ready, Poland appeared like magic. Lizette ate everything on her plate, got up to clean the last of the potatoes from the skillet, going into the refrigerator for ketchup, which she guessed the old people didn’t use much judging from the crust around the lid. She reached into her bag and took a pill from the bottle Dr. Finch had given her, washed it down with a big bite of fried potato.
“Whose pajamas you wearing?” Abaya asked as they washed dishes together, Lizette drying as fast as she could, but not keeping up. “You look like a bum.”
“Marian’s father’s. My stuff was all dirty. I’d been on the streets for a while, hanging out.”
“Where do you sleep on the streets?”
“Wherever. On pallets, if I can find them. It keeps you off the ground when it rains. I put plastic down and then newspapers, layer them on, roll up. I take the papers from the free boxes on street corners when nobody’s looking. It works pretty good, especially if you find a guy with a dog.” Abaya rolled her eyes and Lizette laughed. “Dogs are always warm, the guys not so much.”
Abaya snorted and scrubbed the skillet. Lizette wrapped the dishtowel around her slender fingers to dry inside a glass, noticing orange paint on the heel of her hand from last night.
“You stay here tonight. In Raven’s room. Help me pick and sell at the market tomorrow. We can buy you some clothes, Scarecrow,” she said, throwing Lizette a disapproving sideways glance.
In the dark, the next morning, Lizette helped the couple load boxes of winter vegetables—carrots, chard, potatoes, broccoli—for the farmer’s market. They fussed at each other, elbowed over the tailgate, one
Similar Books
