The Forest Lover by Susan Vreeland Page A

two men entered. Billy nosed his way in behind them as though he had already met them.
    â€œFrank,” Sophie said. “This is Em’ly.”
    Jimmy Frank and Sophie spoke softly in Squamish, his face without animation. The oily skin under his eyes drooped. He was stocky, with thick hair and muscular arms. He wore heavy work boots and a rumpled coat. She couldn’t tell what color it had once been.
    He turned to Emily. “Sophie talks about you all the days. The white lady that paints. In my house, you’re the same as family.”
    â€œThank you. I always like to be here.” She felt a seed of happiness drop in her lap which would nourish her at some more appropriate time. “I’m so sorry about Tommy.”
    Jimmy Frank nodded, and stroked Billy behind the ears. “This your dog?” His fingers lingered at Billy’s neck.
    â€œYes. His name’s Billy.”
    Jimmy crouched down, his big hands over Billy’s body steady and firm, calming him until they were friends. “You’re a good dog, Billy. My boy told me about you,” he said softly.
    He went into the bedroom and pried loose two bottom planksof the back exterior wall. “Old Indian way,” Sophie said, her eyes darting from Sarah to Emily, her lips pinched.
    â€œSo death will not come through the front door,” Sarah explained.
    Sophie turned away from Jimmy as he pushed the coffin through the opening to the other man standing outside. Was she turning away because it was the custom that the mother shouldn’t watch, or was Sophie embarrassed by the native custom in front of her white friend?
    Except for Annie Marie and Sarah, everyone went outside into the drizzle. The women lifted shawls and blankets over their heads and the men wore felt hats. Emily had nothing. When Sarah noticed her bare head from the doorway, she stepped outside and draped her purple shawl over Emily’s head. It smelled of smoke and wet wool.
    â€œThank you,” Emily said.
    Billy moved excitedly from person to person, sniffing. “No, Billy, stay down,” she said several times until finally she had to tie him to a bare bush. He whined a little. “I’m sorry, Billy, but you have to be good and stay here.”
    The priest arrived to start the procession. Jimmy Frank and the other man carried the coffin. Jimmy sang his hurt in hollow, hypnotic tones. “Aadidaa, aadidaa, aadidaa.”
    Sophie followed the coffin. Margaret Dan sidled in front of Emily to walk with Sophie. Emily fell into step with Mrs. Johnson, who stiffened at her approach. “Poor Sophie,” Emily whispered.
    â€œYou can’t be her friend in the way you think,” Mrs. Johnson said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWe’re different. You’re different. You shouldn’t expect so much. It will only hurt. I know.”
    They walked the rest of the way to the cemetery in silence.
    The procession passed the cross, streaked pearl gray in the dim light, to the newer area behind it. Emily’s shoes sank into mud, and rain drilled on her shoulders. The priest droned his “domini spiritu sanctu,” then spoke in Squamish or Chinook, she couldn’t tell which, then in English. From the back of the group, and under wheeling, crying gulls, she heard only bits of phrases riding on the wind: “The face of the Lord shining upon the little ones.” She couldn’t hear him explain why “His mercy cannot be measured,” but she had a clearline of vision to the little coffin resting near the small hole. Rain darkened the yellow wood to ochre and ran in rivulets around its base. She stared at the crack in its seam, and hoped this nipniit wouldn’t take much longer.
    Sophie had no tears at the grave. Weathered resignation lined the women’s faces, as though this were just life. She looked past the cross to the Ancestor, but couldn’t see beyond the fence where Tommy’s baby brother had been