Just after her son left, Maggie started keeping things to call him back. Or to provide a hiding place for her husband’s spirit. Who knows. Maggie said the dead don’t know how they affect those left behind.
Maggie’s boast—“I have people”—ricocheted through Claudia’s gut. Maggie’s husband was in the grave and her son most at home on the road, but she belonged. My own people are gone to me, Claudia thought. They grew past me, pushed me out. Knit together. They’re stronger now, like a scar.
If Maggie really had people, she would not call an outsider into family business, Claudia decided. But this was her way in.
Everyone is related here, she reminded herself. It’s a matter of degree. The blood tributaries of the tribe were charted in the memories of those who attended potlatches held to set the record, the prerogative of the rich in any society. The hosts paid the most important partygoers with Pendleton blankets and carved paddles and twenties, if they could afford it, but a dollar per guest would do, and they’d even give out quarters, like at the potlatch Claudia attended with Maggie the previous summer. Claudia made a makeshift altar with the gifts she received for chauffeuring an elder—a beaded olive shell necklace, a pounded cedar bark rose, a plastic napkin holder—but what she truly cherished from that night was a scathing analysis shared among the smokers outside. Claudia was close by, having left to see the night sky. She couldn’t sit still for ten hours like a Native. She almost nodded off during the namegiving—the name belonged to a great-great-grandfather who was a hereditary chief, according to the emcee. The coffee had worn off. She was heavy with chowder.
A squat woman coughed a laugh into her fist. “Please! People are pulling some bullshit now that the elders have passed on. His great-great-grandfather wasn’t no chief.” The others nodded, plumes of smoke writhing into a ball whitened by the gym’s floodlights.
Maybe she kept that moment close because it meant the whispers of her childhood did not set her apart. Here was no different. No matter where you were, people held each other down. Or, to be more anthropological about it, freewheeling gossip was the most accessible form of self-governance.
Claudia could only imagine the stories that had flown around Maggie since her husband turned up dead. Would the tribe turn out for Peter’s party?
Camera slung around her neck, Claudia held Maggie’s elbow until they were past the dunes. A line of clouds sent gusts to tug Maggie’s button cape toward the forested hills. She insisted on carrying the mask herself.
Snipes scurried beyond reach of the waves, only to dart back in tandem, pecking and pulling. Rocks below the tide-line held in their wakes braided rivers of outflow whose patterns replicated flood-furrowed land east of here, ravages of the last ice age.
Claudia positioned Maggie against the distant outline of a sea stack. Her focus shifted from Maggie’s face to the heavy mask in her hands. “Put it on.” She raised her camera.
“It doesn’t belong to me.” Maggie frowned. “I just take care of it.”
“For the picture.”
“Only Peter can wear it. When we do the giveaway.”
“Can you hold it up? Close to your face. Closer.”
Carved from a solid piece of cedar, the mask was a wild man with open eyes, his mouth a grimace, brows and cheekbones arched to the same height, accentuated with bars of red worn thin at the edges. A large charred circle crowned his forehead; on either side of his hooked nose, phased moons orbited his hollow cheeks, meeting in a pair of singed crescents at his chin. Twisted ropes of pounded cedar feathered from a topknot at the center of his hairline.
Next to the mask’s geometric grandeur, Maggie’s face seemed small and wizened, yes, but more alive, too, her eyes brilliant. She did not smile. Claudia stepped back to frame the bird-shaped rattle in Maggie’s other hand, noticing the trembles—cold? fatigue? emotion?—when she zoomed in.
“Want to go inside?” She lowered her camera. “Warm up in my cabin?”
Claudia had stopped getting cold as of late. A distant part of her brain knew she should feel chilled—it was December—but her body felt at peace with its surroundings, if not her thoughts. This woman did not need more pain. Peter hadn’t yet agreed to play his part, and without him, there could be no potlatch. Claudia may have gotten ahead of herself when she proposed the photo shoot for the invitations. She would have to talk to him. Convince him to make good.
Through the lens, Maggie’s shoulders were narrow beneath her red cape. “I’ll hold these out.” Her blue polyester pants ended above dark socks, exposing a small strip of dry skin. “I can’t keep this up. Take the picture!”
The digital camera sounded out a shutter click.
Chapter Sixteen
THE ROCKS SIZZLED, gushing a large cloud of steam that sent Beans to the bottom bench. It was hot as hell, but that was the point of a sweat. Peter couldn’t see anyone but for a faint red sheen along their paunches. Dave sighed. “That’s good.”
Plywood creaked and groaned under their weight, the corrugated roof rumbling with rain that hadn’t let up for days. The door opened. “Who’s that?” Dave craned forward. A figure appeared in a blast of cold air and rain. A white guy. What the fuck? Dave bumped fists with him. “Come in!” Peter kept his silence. Dude offered a hand before the door swung shut. “Dwight.”
“Dwight, this here’s Maggie’s son Peter, the guy I was telling you about.”
“Nice to meet you, Pete.”
“It’s Peter.”
“Nice to meet you, Peter.” He sat, blowing out his cheeks.
“Dwight cooks for the tugboat crew. Tanker breaks loose, they’re on it.”
“Big job.”
“Long day.” Dwight propped his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “Ready for it to be over.”
“We’re just getting going.” Dave shoved another log into the stove. Peter split wood all afternoon. Dave said he had to contribute something, so there it was, a nice wall of firewood from telephone poles being replaced somewhere outside of town. Forget the creosote, Dave said when Peter brought it up, but he didn’t want to be in here when the first treated log went nuclear. He stocked the sweat with old cedar and stacked the new stuff out back. “I’ll do the prayers tonight. Don’t nobody open that door.”
Dave rummaged beneath the bench, coming up with a bulk bottle of oil. He sprinkled a few drops on the rocks and turned a faucet next to him; water shot through a pipe onto the rocks. Peter sat back. Steam so loud it hurt his ears. Eucalyptus stung his nostrils. “Didn’t know they used that stuff in a sweat.”
“Smells good.” Dave laughed. “Unlike you.”
“Not what I was expecting.”
“This is Plains Indian technology, son. Might as well spruce it up.”
Beans snorted. “You want something traditional, take a swim.”
“Grandson’s right, that’s what Makahs did. Still do. Nothing like it.”
“Me and the boys thought we’d try a dip off the bow.” Dwight slicked his hands through his hair. “My balls just about crawled out my mouth.”
“Been wondering what happened to your face, buddy.” Dave hooted. “They got stuck in transit.”
Peter decided against commenting on the dunk tank set up outside. A food bank bin. You cannot make this stuff up. You would be accused of something. He always said that to people, when they asked him about rez life, but they didn’t get it. Resilience was unrecognizable to those who had never needed it.
The fire popped. Rain smacked the roof. Each breath brought the steam deep into his body. Sweat rolled from his face, arms, chest and legs, splattering his feet. At some point, he stopped thinking. Sweet relief. Sweat and breath.
He heard Dave pull a rattle from a plastic bag with a hollow clatter that sounded like shells, sending Peter back to sitting cross-legged at his grandmother’s feet as a kid, listening to the dry clap of her hands as she taught the family—work that was his granddad’s, but she was the one who stuck around—his mother making salmon hash
, his dad’s favorite, and listening from the kitchen because these songs didn’t belong to her, a bystander. Before the fall, before the flight, before the world split into glare and murk, there had been that, a room full of people making music like the ones who came before, the reel of years too long to hold in his mind. When his grandmother still asked her son to show up, he made Peter a drum, giving him something to do, and he did it, pulled the boom from his heart, over and over. The drum sang its way back to him, always welcoming, no matter how hard he hit it.
“Thank you, Grandfather Rocks.” Dave shook the shells, and shook them, and shook them, and shook them. “We thank you for being here with us today to show us the way.”
What followed was a long string of words Peter could not understand, chanted again and again until it was the cadence that counted, the swells carrying him into something he could not name, like going back in time and finding himself before he fucked up, and discovering it was still him. When he couldn’t take the heat anymore, he stayed put and kept sweating. His vision grayed around the edges. His ears popped like he was underwater. He would not get up before the old guy. Dave didn’t move. They sat, liquefying. He would not get up before the white guy. They sweltered and dripped, and no one made for the door.
By the time Dave sent his prayers to all four directions, Peter was clutching his own real true self, right there, bear hugging it like the best friend he never had.
Beans was the first to break, but it was a bumrush after him, men bumping into each other like boys as they poured into the rain, heads steaming, Peter first into the pool, his whoop louder than rain, louder than fire, louder than the voice that had been riding him for years, that liar.
Stretched out on a beat up old lounge chair, Peter and Dave sat and smiled and didn’t have much to say. They watched Dwight pack up his things in contented silence. Beans was gone as soon as he touched his phone and found the world rushing by without him. Thumbs flying through replies, he waited at the wheel of Dave’s car, face aglow, stopping once when Dwight rapped goodbye on the window.
“Kids.” Dave nodded. “Don’t know how to live with themselves.”
“Hard thing to do.”
“You’re telling me.” Dave sucked down a soda. “Spending a lot of time at the beach, eh?”
“I can’t stay cooped up. It’s bad enough being on land this long.”
“Been keeping warm in Claudia’s cabin, I imagine.”
“Don’t start dirty daydreaming on me, Dave. I’m not having that.”
“You’re so sensitive these days. You probably use conditioner, too.”
“What are we talking about here?”
“Keep close to good people. Stay away from bad people. It’s that simple.” Dave burped into his fist. “Some people, they can’t help themselves, they’re all tore up inside. Bad energy. Their spirit is sick. And you know they got good reasons. But you, you got your life to live. Surround yourself with good people.” He took another swig. “I’ll give you an example. Being with someone with bad energy, it’s like singing next to someone who’s off key. Yeah, you keep singing. But you have to filter out what’s coming from them just to hold your line. And that takes energy. Costs you. They’re not trying to hurt you. They just don’t know what else to do.
“The good part of you, the part you’re trying to grow, wants to help them out. And you should. The thing is to live right, to be able to look in the mirror without judging yourself and to know that you are living right, honoring your obligations, doing right by other people. It all comes back. But at some point they need to get to a good place inside of themselves. You need to see that’s where they operate from. Or at least that they can access it. It’s too easy to get blown off course. Some people don’t want to get better. And watch how they treat other people. They’ll treat you like that one day. Believe me. I been there.
“So yes, help people. Give them a hand, give them a lift. But seek out the folks that make you feel good. Seek out the folks that know how to make themselves feel good by walking around, looking at the trees, the mountains, the water, breathing the air, feeling the sun, feeling the rain. Those people—those places—are good to be around.”
“Is there a point in there somewhere?”
“I know you know things.” Dave clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why I’m telling you. Pass on what you know. That’s your part in this. You will have work to do when we’re gone.” He put a plastic bag of green leaves into Peter’s hands, some shaped like ovals, others like crooked hearts.
“What’s this?”
Dave said a word he could not understand, full of soft has and shs.
“What?”
“Snowberry. Good for the spirit. And the pecker. A twofer!”
“I don’t need this.”
“That’s strong medicine, Peter. Wash with water steeped with these.”
A car with subs on full blast pulled up. His teeth buzzed with each beat.
“That’ll be the next shift.” Dave uncrossed his legs. “Back to work.”
“Guess I’ll be going. And thanks, Dave. That sweat did me good.”
“Any time, son. Any time.”
Dressed, his towel and trunks slung over one shoulder, Peter made his way out to the truck, avoiding the younger men who gathered around the trunk of their car to stare into the sound of blown woofers. He didn’t recognize any of them. He might have been able to guess their families if he got a good look at their faces. Not knowing felt wrong in a way that betrayed every choice he’d made since he was their age.
His truck smelled like old smoke, and so did his clothes. He patted his pocket, out of habit, and instead rolled down the window and stuck his head out, mouth open, to taste the rain on his way back home. But at the base of Diaht Hill, he veered left, not quite ready for another night with his mom, watching TV and not talking, communicating instead with little grunts of acknowledgement, him waiting, just waiting for her to bring up the Indian party so that he could light into the idea, expose what a fraud she was.
Just after his father died, on the day she found him crying in the bathtub, scrubbing blood from his boots with the toothbrush his dad wouldn’t be needing anymore, his mom drove him to a Shaker Church on another reservation. She’d never been a Shaker. She laughed at Indians convulsing and speaking in tongues and laying hands like they were Pentecostals. But when she found him freaking out, her face went grim. She took him by the hand to his bedroom and watched him lace up his sneakers before leading him out to the car.
They said nothing during the hours to and from the church, his question—“What happened?”—met by her silence, and, finally, “It was an accident.” Not knowing hadn’t protected him, not from the nightmares, nor the self-recrimination, nor the anger, nor, for that matter, the flashbacks, which showed up on the day of the Shaker ceremony and never left.
The plain room was lined with rough pews. Candles sucked the air. Everything was white but the people with metal bells in their hands, and they were clanging and clanging, and he was back with the lolling buoys, the nets splaying like wings around the corpse of his father, who rolled to face the deep. The people were told nothing by his mother but that he had a demon inside, and they were shaking and clustering around him, words flowing from their mouths, heat pouring from their hands, which were all over him, and him feeling nothing but cold, trembling with anger they confused for holy spirit.
Months later, when he was alone in the garage billed as a studio apartment in the classifieds, he got the feeling that someone was trying to shake him awake. He took to drinking before he went to bed, just to sleep through the night after his shift. Soon enough, he lost the garage, and when he did wake to a hand on his shoulder, he was on a couch. He should never have played along with her schemes.
Tonight, though, tonight a potlatch didn’t seem so impossible. He didn’t want to get snookered into something by one good sweat. He turned up a logging road before the Pacific appeared on the horizon, his hand ste
adying the wheel as his lights washed over a blue and white sign, a stick figure running from a wave. His truck shimmied up the muddy gravel to Bahokus Peak, swinging its backside every time he hit a rut.
Crushed cans and cigarette butts splattered from the base of a huge boulder scrawled with graffiti. Peter pulled over and huffed up the sloped path to the top of the rock. A dog barked in the distance, setting off its neighbors crisscrossing the hills from the clamshell-shaped town to the hidden maze of houses. To the west, lit by the moon, gray clouds toppled over each other, pushing up the sky and leaving a band of night on the horizon. The coast scalloped into sand and sea foam that erupted into sea stacks at Shi Shi Beach. Peter focused on the far sound of breaking surf. The cloudbank leaked a light rain that thickened, snuffing out the separation between sky and sea, the squall line moving ashore, swallowing the earth. He was buffeted by a burst of wind. He liked being close to the ocean because the elements of survival were clear. The punishment for not paying attention was immediate, irrevocable.
He’d been up and down the west coast, anywhere there was a port and people willing to pay for progress. Seattle. Coos Bay. Grays Harbor. Longview. Portland. Oakland. Long Beach. San Diego. After years in the Gulf of Mexico for oil and gas, flying to foreign seas for deepwater jobs if they’d have him, he chose to hug land. From offshore oil rigs, he turned to dams, locks, bridges, nuclear power, shipping and docking facilities. No job was beneath him. Employers were the sole architects of his time, which he hated, but he liked barnacling barges and pilings with anodes one day and, the next, welding steel members on bridges and platforms and powerhouses.
In the end, no one saw his work, but everyone depended on it. They only came for him if he fucked up, which satisfied his inner nihilist. He wanted to be left alone.
His dad was like that. During the six and a half hours it took to motor the Magdalene to their fishing grounds, the waves foaming over the prairie in big rolls, the boat getting beat up and them with it, his dad wouldn’t say a damned thing. If Peter wanted to talk, it had better be before the trip, when they’d fix what needed fixing and bait two hundred, maybe two hundred fifty hooks to a tub, depending on who was packing. By the time they got through putting the gear together, his hands felt like they’d been out for six days.
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