Grandpère by Janet Romain

by learnings, some old people would be pretty young,” Grandpère observes. I agree with him. I can think of a few people who would still be in their infancy.

    The next week Grandpère turns one of his walking sticks that he’s carving into an arrow. He cuts off the loop at the top and says he is going to carve that one into a pistol. Sure enough, when you hold it up by the stem, it is shaped just like a pistol.
    The arrow that he’s making must be entirely ceremonial, for the amount of carving he puts onto the shaft would make it fly pretty badly. It is beautiful at one end, the one with the point, and the faces all point toward the tip. On the other end all the faces point toward the feathers, and they are ugly. One looks like the devil, complete with little horns. He asks me to saw a nock on the end so he can put in some feathers. I do it and ask what kind of feathers he wants. Rooster feathers, he tells me, tail feathers.
    I always save feathers — I have pretty ones sitting around in vases — and rooster feathers are easy to locate. Grandpère splits the feathers lengthwise and pushes them into the cross. Then he puts the arrow into a pillow case, wraps it up and starts carving on the twisted end that he’s cut off to make his pistol. He chants a little song as he works.
    Angel offers to tend the chickens. She still holds her nose every time she goes into the henhouse but she likes to get the eggs now. When she comes back into the house, she has a puzzled look on her face. “Grandma, I think the chickens have been smoking pot. I can smell it really strong in their house.”
    I look at her, and she is entirely serious. The thought of the chickens trying to roll a joint with their beaks sends me into gales of laughter. I think I know what she’s smelling; a pack rat must have moved into the chickens’ house. Every winter when the snow gets deep in the woods, some of these wood rats abandon their bush homes and try to move into warmer, dryer places. The chickens will kill any mice that move in, but the rats are too big for them. The dogs will kill them if they get the chance, though they never eat them. Instead they roll on them, getting the pungent smell on their hides. It is like dog perfume for them. I have been around country growers who pass off the smell of their cash crops by saying it must be rats. I explain the smell to Angel and tell her we’ll put a trap under the house to catch the rat.
    We go out into the shop and get down a number four wolf trap. I show her how to set the trap. These traps are illegal now for trappers. Meant for a leg hold, they’re cruel for a large animal. If its leg gets trapped in the steel jaws, it might die of starvation or chew off its captured limb if the trapper takes a long time before checking his traps. For pack rats the traps are ideal, though, for the trap usually catches the rat’s body and kills it quickly.
    We cover the bait trip with tinfoil before setting the trap. These rats like shiny things, which they save in their nests. I have found whole socket sets stored in their nests. They make nests with bark and grasses and bits of odd things in a great pile. The rats are as industrious as they are filthy, leaving a trail of turds wherever they go and peeing on everything they encounter. They reek with the same smell as skunkweed.
    The set trap we place in a short length of tin stovepipe, as the rats can’t resist running through tunnels. We slide the whole thing under the henhouse, anchoring the end of the chain attached to the trap to a nail sticking out of the wall. I tell Angel that tomorrow morning a fat rat should be in the trap. She looks dubious.

Chapter Six
    Faith calls me in the afternoon and asks if Angel would be willing to press charges against the man who raped her. She says it will be easier to get custody if it can be proven that she is at risk living with her mother. I say I will ask. She tells me Darcy and she are going to come on the