“Jesus, Mom.”
She edged past yellowed stacks of the Peninsula Daily News and milk crates filled with old phonebooks. A narrow path snaked toward the bedrooms through mounds of debris tall enough to block the windows. His disquiet deepened.
He followed her, lifting his arms, trying not to touch anything. The piles brushed against his calves, his knees, his thighs, his hips.
She pushed open the door to his childhood bedroom. His jersey hung on the wall. The floor was clear but for cobwebs waving in the corners and balls of dust that spun in the wake of their arrival. Had she known he would come? Or just held out all these years?
His daybed squealed in complaint when he sat on its swayed back; he remembered his teenaged vigilance, oiling the bedsprings through a narrow red straw to mask dull nights of jacking off.
“How about that coffee?”
Peter stepped sideways through aisles wide enough for a woman. A wood stove warmed the room; this place was a firetrap. He gathered strips of cedar bark and bear grass from the coffee table, making his way down to a layer of graph paper covered with basketry patterns. Her notebook lay open to a series of dots forming the long curve of a whale and the arc of its tail. Behind, six figures leaned forward in a long canoe. All paddled but the man in front, harpoon at the ready.
Moving so slow it hurt to watch, she slid the tray onto the table and sank into the chair that was his dad’s favorite, despite its pattern of covered wagons. Cups and spoons clattered, coffee staining the creased packets of powdered creamer. Peter did not react, not wanting to embarrass her. He flicked a pack until one end was fat and tore it open, drowning the lumps, patch by patch.
“It’s good you’re here.”
He tossed the spoon on the tray. A cold film covered his palms. He rubbed them dry on his knees, overwhelmed by the desire to wash his hands. Two tabbies appeared, meowing and rubbing his shins. He stamped his feet.
They sat, sipping. The rain was tender at first, then violent. The trailer shook with its force.
His mother held her mug like an offering. Her swollen wrists distended sideways; the acute angle of attachment and disproportionate size of her joints made her hands seem welded onto the wrong body.
He jiggled his leg. “What’s with the stuff?”
“I’ve been saving it.”
“What for?”
“There are things you will need to know.”
Peter studied the path along the floor, trying not to take the measure of his absence by the height of the piles. He went away inside himself to fill his face with forced cheer. “Let’s go through it. While I’m here.”
“How long will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
She pressed on the cap of an orange vial. Her whole body shook. Failing twice, she extracted a round pill with a jagged nail.
“What’s that?”
“Methadone.”
“Wow.”
“My rheumatoid arthritis.”
“You could make good money with those on the street.” His joke came out like an invitation.
“The clinic counts our pills.”
Peter flinched, looking around for something to say.
“You make me wish I still smoked, son. And you’re late.”
What did she mean by “late”? She always claimed to know things. A lot of Indians claimed to expect shit that happened. “I saw a crow flying backwards, and then they called to tell me my cousin died, but I already knew.” If she knew so much, why hadn’t she done something?
She was it, the only one who knew what they’d done after he came upon her in the kitchen, her face purpled, forehead smeared with blood and oil, his dad’s head in her hands, broken.
He’d never told anyone about that night, which lived in him nonetheless as waking dreams. He would break his promise to guard their silence. He needed to talk to his mother before dementia took the memories he most wanted from her, the only things he needed from her, because he sure as fuck would not load this crap into his truck when he left. And he would leave. She would not snare him with need. He was older now.
“Peter.” She repeated his name.
He jerked as though he’d been kicked. It wasn’t usually this bad. Being here was making him worse.
“Sorry. You were saying?”
“I was asking if you’re with someone.”
“I’m not here to make brown babies, Mom.”
“Geez, you’re touchy, eh?” She pushed her mug from the edge of the table. “Why don’t you unpack? I’ll make lunch.”
“What are we having?”
“Canned smoked salmon and French fries—your favorite.” She touched his knee. “Help this old woman up?”
Putting his boots toe to toe with her slippers, he slid his hands along her forearms until his thumbs came to rest at the crooks of her elbows and rocked back, waiting for her thigh muscles to catch as she straightened, her smile showing a strong line of teeth grown crooked.
The top of her head reached his clavicle. “Put the cups in the sink.”
They zigzagged to the kitchen. “Mom, you can barely get around in here.”
“I manage.”
“The cats pissed on your newspapers.”
“Finally put to good use.”
He snorted. “We’ll get rid of some stuff, okay?”
The scanner squawked and burbled, gushing forth a domestic disturbance at 200 Line. Peter lowered the volume, fighting the old feel of a fist on his face. She heated oil in a cast iron pan. Stooping to pull a bag from the bottom drawer of the fridge, she untied the handles—potato peelings—and considered the garbage can in the corner. He did everything but whistle and stick his hands in his pockets. Blushing, she plunged a hand into the garbage and retrieved a saggy plastic bag, giving it a good shake to free wet coffee grounds from its folds.
From the kitchen, Peter studied the maze of mementos. The crates were trussed into a globe that tapered and curled up into a fan. A whale. He turned his back on it and scraped a chair from the breakfast table, sick with regret. Her madness pressed at him from all sides. He forced himself to get used to watching her stagger. “The oil is smoking.”
She scowled and snatched the pan off the burner. Oil sloshed onto the red-hot coils. Flames licked the cast iron’s inside edge, broadening into a circle of blue fire she stared into with a strange inquisitive smile, like that of a shy child.
“Don’t move!” Peter stepped in to lift the pan high and level, keeping the blaze away from the piles as he hurried to the front door and kicked it open, ripping the screen from its frame. Cold air blew the flames toward his face. Cursing, his arms hot and quivering, he lobbed the stream of fire into the grass. It leapt and fizzled.
“Burning down the house already?” On the porch next door, Dave tucked an empty bottle into a cardboard six-pack holder at his feet and withdrew another with the same gesture. “Thirsty?”
“No.”
“Sweet tea . . .”
“Next time.”
“Welcome home! Remember me?”
“Yep.” Dave, too, was whorled with years, his body bent in odd places, the strange stoop and slope of age.
“Maggie don’t have to have her place all tore up like that. We tried.”
“I’d better go.”
“Married? Kids?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll draw you a map of the best poon in town.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“What have you been up to?”
“I’m a commercial diver. Underwater welder.”
His mother shouted from inside. “Quit meddling!”
“Just talkin’, Maggie.” Dave jammed the bottle’s neck through the crook of his knee and twisted the cap. “Ahhh. There she goes.”
She beckoned Peter. “I’ll clean up and try again.”
Peter carried the pan back to the kitchen. “Hasn’t changed much.”
“Stopped boozing.”
“Huh. When?”
“Right after you left. About time, I guess. Chases tail less than he used to. So that’s something. I got tired of his advances. Ha! More like retreats.”
Peter tugged until he heard the doorknob click, wincing as his boots crushed kitty litter spilling from a tray wedged between the toilet and the wall. Rummaging through the drawers, his hand brushed against a folded Buck knife. His father’s.
He saw his dad whittling a stick for s’mores, smelled logs smoldering in rain, laughed again about genuine Indian smoked marshmallows. Heard the splatter of rain on their matching slickers, gusts blowing their hoods back and sending them stumbling across the Magdalene’s deck. Saw his dad cut two plugs from a still gaping salmon, its hooked jaw working, soundless, as he popped one in his mouth, grinning and chewing and offering the other, shouting above the wind, “Sushi! Japs love this shit! They’ll pay top dollar. Not like timber. Remember that.” Saw a pile of nets seeping blood around still feet. His dad went out right around this age, but at least he left something, had people who would remember him. Peter’s midlife hovered over him like an avenging angel, ready to exact its tribute in quiet desperation, and here he was, back at home, trying to deal with the only person who still gave a shit about him.
He needed something to calm down. He opened the medicine cabinet with a sense of reverence. Shelves and shelves of vials. Turning on the faucet to cover the rattle of pills, he rotated a few.
May cause nausea. May cause dizziness, drowsiness or brief hallucinations. Do not operate heavy machinery for 12 hours after taking. Call your doctor immediately if a rash appears. Cease taking immediately and call 9-1-1 if you begin vomiting.
Peter shut the cabinet. It didn’t matter where he went or what he took. Their shadow was always on him. His mother hadn’t asked why he came home, and he hadn’t given her a reason after decades of refusing to step foot on this reservation.
They were so goddamned alike. Biding their time.
Chapter Three
CLAUDIA STROLLED THE dry goods aisle, forcing herself to find the cheapest brand of coffee. A white-haired lady in a warm up jacket rolled by in an electric wheelchair with a wreath tied to its back, clipping a middle aged man, his wide face broadened by the center part of his long hair.
“Beep, beep, beep.” He backed up.
“Beep beep!” She toggled the switch on her armrest to charge at him.
They disappeared into the frozen foods aisle, laughing. Claudia wanted to follow, gladdened, but she never allowed herself near breakfast waffles and ice cream.
This Christmas was the latest in a long line of holidays she filled with work, goaded by her father’s derision of vacation. Even as he grew old, her father treated visiting family as though they weren’t there, locking himself in the study to make calls, coming down to dinner when the day was heavy upon him. She, too, was proud of her ability to insulate her focus against the presence of loved ones, saying “no” to people who cared about her and “yes” to those who didn’t. Perhaps she was sick, but she liked it that way. She would make it in this country.
Last Christmas, their father had prevailed upon dinner with lengthy discourses about world politics and the economy. Claudia relied on Maria to bring cheer, stockpiling energy for later, when she could think.
“Thanks for showing Andrew around today.” She raised her wine in salute. Two glasses, max, she’d vowed, but here she was at three. It wasn’t yet time for dessert. She had to work later. Maybe tomorrow.
Stop drinking, she thought, and took another sip.
“Please don’t thank me. It was fun!” Maria leafed through her salad. “You should get out more. It would be good for you.” Her sunglasses had left a pale stripe on either side of her wide eyes. “I make so much art after I’ve been in nature. I love cross country skiing. It’s so mellow. You can take in the scenery, you know?”
Maria still spoke like a Mexican, which meant she said “love” like “lowve.”
“I had a great time.” Andrew smiled at Maria and reached for Claudia’s hand. “We should go up there tomorrow, Claudia.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She gave him a rueful squeeze. “My proposal is due.”
Thomas chuckled. “I thought you’d written the keynote by now.” With a stiff cough and the wet clatter of ice, her father regarded his crystal tumbler with displaced contempt. She knew the reason. In his cosmology, she was too clumsy to make it on her own. She eroded his dynasty. Before him was the errant branch of a family that roared westward, chewing up trees and men and sky, and never retreated. A wasted generation, which future historians would skip.
Claudia let go of Andrew’s hand and took another sip. “It’s complicated.”
Andrew sawed his steak with unnecessary vigor. “No problem.” Blood oozed into his mashed potatoes. “I’ll go up to the hill, get a few turns in.”
“Great.” Claudia speared a green bean. “I’ll finish by dinnertime. We’ll have a nice evening together.”
The next afternoon, when she came down to the kitchen for a snack, she heard Maria speaking Spanish with the maids in the other kitchen, refusing as always to comply with their father’s edict to “maintain the proper distance.” Claudia couldn’t make out the words from the lilt of female voices. A rumble of laughter. She knit her brow and checked her watch. Had Andrew come back? Still on deadline, she went upstairs and closed the door.
At her prodding, when she began her PhD, he launched a boutique architecture firm. Life was busy for them both. She taught classes and worked on her dissertation, analyzing gendered notions of love in Mexican border songs, thrilled to see her name in journals. Ethnomusicology, American Anthropologist, Ethnography. He saved copies for display on their coffee table.
But when he began delegating to employees, she was just getting started on her true task. Tenure. She was in the very infancy of her career. Between committees and conferences, she sought solitude whenever possible, excluding herself from vacations and weekends only to be tormented by procrastination, the sound of her keyboard a fickle companion, dipping into and out of a smoking habit that made her a liar a thousand times.
She kept at it, her writing disrupted by distant bellows as Thomas argued points on a call. They worshipped success together. Mostly, the halls held nothing but shadows and silence, blessed silence, and the words flowed. Work felt holy.
And so it would seem she had missed the glances unfurling between Andrew and Maria.
Claudia wheeled over to the produce aisle, trying not to ruin her makeup with tears. Right. Something for breakfast. Onward.
A young couple—pimples and hoodies, flip flops peeking below wet jeans—herded a small child past Claudia. The boy spun in circles between them, arms outstretched. The father’s sweatshirt was printed with AMERICA: LOVE IT OR GIVE IT BACK. The mother put down her basket—milk, apples, Cheerios, cans of alphabet soup—and stooped to pick up the boy.
Claudia scanned the bananas—too green, too ripe, well, this splotchy bunch could do—and eavesdropped on a conversation in the deli corner.
“Oh, that must be nice for you.” A girl wiped down the metal counter in front of an old woman and fiddled with rows of fried chicken wings. “How long is he staying?”
“He just got here. You two should meet.”
That voice, like beach stones tumbling under surf. Claudia peered around a shelving unit stacked with shrink-wrapped bell peppers. A grizzled halo, pants ending two inches above the socks. It must be. Pull youself together and get to work, Claudia thought. Now’s your chance.
“Maggie?”
Maggie turned and waved, albeit vaguely. Claudia put the bananas in the child seat and pushed her cart over.
“It’s Claudia! Good to see you again!”
“You, too.”
She remembers me! Claudia stepped from behind her cart, making it official—we are going to chat. But why was Maggie staring like that? She seemed perturbed, anxious, her eyes clouding and refocusing.
Claudia was recalc
ulating her approach when Maggie looked up at a man coming out of the cleaning supplies aisle, a bucket of bleach dangling from his hand, forearm tensed against the weight. Dressed in jeans and a hooded jacket with pushed up sleeves, he moved rangily, like he spent his life outdoors. He slowed—in spite of himself, it seemed—approaching with a once over that was not as subtle as Claudia would have liked. His hair was long enough to tuck behind his ears. His eyes turned down at the corners. A mouth so full it was womanish. His skin stretched over the angles of his face, hollowing at the cheeks, shining along his wide brow. She couldn’t place him.
But now, she’d been caught. His eyes were big and black and looking more and more amused. She was naked, exposed. Her ears popped with a muffled ringing almost like silence.
“Hi.” He offered his free hand. “Peter.”
Claudia took his palm, her wrist torqued so their fingers could slip around each other. His skin was warm; hers, chilled.
“Claudia.” She turned to Maggie. “How have you been?”
“Fine.”
Claudia tried to emit genuine feeling, to offer Maggie the sweet comfort of shared memory—our friendship is real—but her cheerful expression was deflating. Maggie was acting like she hardly knew her. Claudia spent hours, days, weeks talking to this woman, recording her thoughts and reviewing cultural tidbits culled from prior data gathering interviews that masqueraded as conversations. Unprompted, Maggie shared secrets, the kind that weighed on whoever held them in keeping. Perhaps she was ashamed now, because here was the son, and Claudia knew things.
“Staying long?” Peter put the bleach down.
“A couple of months. I just arrived. I’m stocking up.”
Wait, she thought. I don’t mean you. I’m not stocking up on you.
Mindless chatter was where she stumbled the most. She revealed what she didn’t want to reveal, her mask no mask at all but a bullhorn for social awkwardness, solitude, self-doubt. Everything she tried to keep at bay came tumbling out of her mouth as superfluous commentary.
Relax, she told herself. Focus. We’re having an interaction. I’m lucky Natives take their time talking.
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