way he said his life was: like steam from wet shoes. When Brother Clyde assured him that in Heaven even a boy could be a ship's captain, Butte smiled.
One night Butte lay in an awful silence, no strength left even to cough. Mama, Prairie, Sierra, Brother Clyde, the Gent, and I all sat around his bed. I prayed silently that he would make a sound, even choke or moan, so I would know he was still alive.
Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. "Lucy," he said. "Phlegm cutter."
"What?"
"Phlegm cutter. The forty-ninth word for liquor." He closed his eyes again. That was the last we ever heard him say.
The morning we buried Butte, Jimmy Whiskers came back with a peevish, glowering doctor tied to his mule. While Jimmy helped us dig a hole, that doctor got free and took off, running all the way to San Francisco, I'd guess.
Butte was buried upriver in a meadow with his whittling knife. As Bernard Freeman shoveled the dirt over Butte in his canvas blanket, I dropped a paper in beside him.
Tarantula juice,
it said. Number fifty. Took me a long time asking around town that morning to find it.
I sat afternoons holding on to Cora, crying until her fur was damp. It got harder and harder to stuff Cora back into her cage, but I needed more than ever to keep her.
Prairie and Sierra cried, too, but not Mama. Mama's mouth got harder and her eyes got sadder and she skinned her hair back even tighter, but she did not cry. I watched this woman who looked a little less like Mama every day and grew frightened. I would not let Mama go. What Mama did, I did. Where Mama sat, I sat. Where Mama went, I went, my hand tangled in her apron and my eyes on her face.
"California Morning Whipple, what do you think you are doing besides driving me crazy and keeping me from working?" Mama snapped finally. "Go and make yourself useful."
"I'm afraid, Mama," I told her, tears sliding down my face again. "The world is so dangerous and everybody dies—Gramma Whipple and Pa and Golden, Ocean, and now Butte. I got to hold on to you or I'll die. Or you will."
Mama's face suddenly grew gray and wrinkled, as if she had turned a hundred years old. "Have I done wrong, dragging you children to this wild place where there is not even a doctor? Oh God, would Butte be alive if..."
"Mama, don't. It's not your fault. Pa and Golden died in Massachusetts. People die everywhere. It's not your fault. People die."
Mama sniffed. "Listen to you, lecturing me for a change." She patted my cheek. "You and me are so different. Me always looking ahead, face to the west. And you looking behind, at what you had and loved. And lost." Mama looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"I just want us all to be safe."
"I guess there is no safety anywhere, except in God's abiding love and your own two feet. We just got to trust in both."
"Butte trusted and he's dead."
"And when you see God, you can ask Him why. Until then..." Mama sighed, and for a minute I could see the old Mama in her face. "Until then, I guess all we got is God and each other and our own selves no matter where we are. It's a hard world all right, but you got to stand on your feet and face it." She untangled my hand from her apron, sat me on her lap, and we both cried some. After, we felt better.
That night as I lay awake listening to Cora tearing at her cage, I thought about what Mama had said. I had pains in my stomach, and my head, and my heart. Finally, sighing, I got out of bed.
The night was warm as day, with the smell of pines and dust and cook fires that had become so familiar. I opened Cora's cage and let her out. The little raccoon tore off into the woods without one look back, never a glance to show she knew I had saved her and loved her and mourned her leaving.
Dear Gram and Grampop,
Butte is dead. He was eleven years old, could do his sums, and knew fifty words for liquor. I didn't know it but I loved him.
The next spring I saw a raccoon family drinking from Buck Creek near the butterfly
One night Butte lay in an awful silence, no strength left even to cough. Mama, Prairie, Sierra, Brother Clyde, the Gent, and I all sat around his bed. I prayed silently that he would make a sound, even choke or moan, so I would know he was still alive.
Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. "Lucy," he said. "Phlegm cutter."
"What?"
"Phlegm cutter. The forty-ninth word for liquor." He closed his eyes again. That was the last we ever heard him say.
The morning we buried Butte, Jimmy Whiskers came back with a peevish, glowering doctor tied to his mule. While Jimmy helped us dig a hole, that doctor got free and took off, running all the way to San Francisco, I'd guess.
Butte was buried upriver in a meadow with his whittling knife. As Bernard Freeman shoveled the dirt over Butte in his canvas blanket, I dropped a paper in beside him.
Tarantula juice,
it said. Number fifty. Took me a long time asking around town that morning to find it.
I sat afternoons holding on to Cora, crying until her fur was damp. It got harder and harder to stuff Cora back into her cage, but I needed more than ever to keep her.
Prairie and Sierra cried, too, but not Mama. Mama's mouth got harder and her eyes got sadder and she skinned her hair back even tighter, but she did not cry. I watched this woman who looked a little less like Mama every day and grew frightened. I would not let Mama go. What Mama did, I did. Where Mama sat, I sat. Where Mama went, I went, my hand tangled in her apron and my eyes on her face.
"California Morning Whipple, what do you think you are doing besides driving me crazy and keeping me from working?" Mama snapped finally. "Go and make yourself useful."
"I'm afraid, Mama," I told her, tears sliding down my face again. "The world is so dangerous and everybody dies—Gramma Whipple and Pa and Golden, Ocean, and now Butte. I got to hold on to you or I'll die. Or you will."
Mama's face suddenly grew gray and wrinkled, as if she had turned a hundred years old. "Have I done wrong, dragging you children to this wild place where there is not even a doctor? Oh God, would Butte be alive if..."
"Mama, don't. It's not your fault. Pa and Golden died in Massachusetts. People die everywhere. It's not your fault. People die."
Mama sniffed. "Listen to you, lecturing me for a change." She patted my cheek. "You and me are so different. Me always looking ahead, face to the west. And you looking behind, at what you had and loved. And lost." Mama looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"I just want us all to be safe."
"I guess there is no safety anywhere, except in God's abiding love and your own two feet. We just got to trust in both."
"Butte trusted and he's dead."
"And when you see God, you can ask Him why. Until then..." Mama sighed, and for a minute I could see the old Mama in her face. "Until then, I guess all we got is God and each other and our own selves no matter where we are. It's a hard world all right, but you got to stand on your feet and face it." She untangled my hand from her apron, sat me on her lap, and we both cried some. After, we felt better.
That night as I lay awake listening to Cora tearing at her cage, I thought about what Mama had said. I had pains in my stomach, and my head, and my heart. Finally, sighing, I got out of bed.
The night was warm as day, with the smell of pines and dust and cook fires that had become so familiar. I opened Cora's cage and let her out. The little raccoon tore off into the woods without one look back, never a glance to show she knew I had saved her and loved her and mourned her leaving.
Dear Gram and Grampop,
Butte is dead. He was eleven years old, could do his sums, and knew fifty words for liquor. I didn't know it but I loved him.
The next spring I saw a raccoon family drinking from Buck Creek near the butterfly
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