“Th
e old women call them God’s messengers,” Luke said.
I smiled then, because this idea made me happy. But Luke wasn’t looking at me. He was thinking hard about something else, something serious.
“I never eat uunaalik for a long time,” he said fi nally.
I didn’t know what uunaalik was and couldn’t fi gure what eating it had to do with snowbirds. Or with Bunna. But I didn’t say anything. I just looked up at the birch leaves and watched the way they fl ickered in the sunlight.
“Th
at’s whale meat and blubber, cooked,” Luke said.
“Uunaalik—the only time we get to eat it is right after they catch a whale. After they freeze the maktak, they can’t cook it that way anymore.”
He was fi ddling with Bunna’s toy gun, and I knew better than to say anything. I didn’t have a clue why he wanted to talk about cooked blubber all of a sudden, but with Luke you 174
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:174
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
H E ’ S M Y B R O T H E R / C h i c k i e just have to wait sometimes. He’ll explain things, eventually.
Th
at’s how he is.
“I haven’t been home for spring whaling in nearly three years,” he said at last. “When it comes to whaling, I’m only about 11 years old. Th
at’s how old I was last time I tasted
uunaalik.”
He sat there, just playing with that little tin gun, pulling the trigger back and forth so hard, it seemed like he was about to break it. Like he didn’t even notice what he was doing.
When he fi nally let go of the trigger, the gun made a sharp little clicking sound.
“Th
e snowbirds come in the spring, right before whaling, so when you see the fi rst snowbird, you know right away the whales are coming. Th
at’s why they call them God’s messen-
gers,” he said.
Th
e way he said the word messengers made it sound serious, but I looked up at him, smiling, because a funny idea had just popped into my head.
“Th
ree whole years,” I said, “and all you get here is a girl named Snowbird who can’t even fl y.”
Luke tossed Bunna’s gun back into the box and laughed for real, which I don’t think he’d done in a long time.
“Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “Could be worse.
Could be a lot worse.”
I looked at Luke, and a strange thought came into my head: he’s my brother now. And it didn’t have anything to do with Bunna, either. Th
at was the strange part. Maybe nobody
else would have understood it—him with pitch-black hair and 175
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:175
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
me as light as snow—but to me it was as sure as the morning sunshine, brand new and old, both at the same time.
“My brother Isaac,” Luke said suddenly, like he’d heard me thinking about brothers. “I have to fi nd him.”
176
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:176
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
Eskimo Rodeo
NOVEMBER 22, 1963
LUKE
—
I walk into the cafeteria feeling pretty good that day even though I’m late. It’s Friday, so it’s fi sh day. I like Fridays, and I like fi sh, too. Th
e fi sh isn’t frozen and juicy with seal oil,
like the way we eat it back home—it’s baked and gooey, but I still like it. And I especially like the cornbread they serve for breakfast on Fridays. It tastes great, smothered in butter and syrup.
Today, though, something’s diff erent. I feel it the minute I walk in. Something bad has happened. Again. Even if I can’t feel it in my gut, the way I felt Bunna, I can tell right away, because nobody’s smiling. Sister Mary Kate is serving slabs of cornbread like she doesn’t even know it’s food, her eyes red-rimmed and puff y.
Th
en I hear it—the sound of everybody talking about the news, most of them whispering like they’re in church: President John F. Kennedy has just been shot. I suck in a big breath of sticky sweet air and sit down to eat. Th
e cornbread turns
177
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:177
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
into hard globs on our plates while we listen to the crackly sound of the radio. Reporters are talking about how President Kennedy got shot in the head and collapsed into his wife’s arms in a car in Dallas, Texas. It’s like being right there, the way they talk on the radio. We listen as they rush him to the hospital and talk about what’s happening as it happens. At fi rst they don’t seem to know much. It’s just the same voices saying the same things, over and over, like that’s all there is.
Th
en we hear a man’s voice, lone and fi nal. “Ladies and gentlemen, the president is dead. Th
e president, ladies and
gentlemen, is dead at Parkland Hospital in Dallas.”
It hits me in the chest with a dull thud, and I am feeling Bunna’s dying again.
“How can this be?” Sister keeps saying again and again.
“Oh Lord, how can this be?”
She says it over and over like a broken record until I want to tell her to stop. Just stop. But my throat is frozen.
“Our own president, our own Catholic president,” Chickie blubbers. “Our very fi rst one.”
She’s thinking of Bunna, too, I think.
Everybody else is hardly moving, just sitting there on narrow benches listening to the radio tell us how at this very moment, right now, Vice President Lyndon Johnson is on board Air force One being sworn in to serve as the thirty-sixth president of the United States.
Suddenly there’s a rush of sound in my ears, like the roar of Bunna’s plane crashing somewhere far off in the mountains, hard and fi nal, echoing over and over.
178
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:178
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
E S K I M O R O D E O / L u k e
Th
ey never found his body. Th
ey never did.
I have to get out of here, I think. Right now.
I have to get away from this fi sh that isn’t our fi sh and these strangers’ voices talking about a person we never knew, dying thousands of miles away, their voices as brittle as tin. I shove my chair from the table and leave, all alone.
And now I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, clutching my pillow, glad I’m alone because it feels like somebody just punched me in the gut. I really hate it when people try to talk to me when I’m hurting, especially white people, even the nice ones.
Why do they always think it helps to talk to people when they’re hurting?
I’ve got my feather pillow wadded up so tight, it’ll probably shoot off like a bullet if I let go, and now I’m punching it, just for the heck of it, my hard fi st punching that ball of broken feathers. It feels good. Th
at’s when I realize I’m not alone.
Father Flanagan is standing in the door, watching me.
“Are you all right, Luke?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not alone, you know. Th
e whole country is feeling
the same way you’re feeling.”
I nod, even though it’s not true. Th
e whole country has
nothing to do with how I’m feeling. My feelings are not about President Kennedy, but I can’t say this to Father, who’s stooped forward like he’s carrying the weight of Kennedy’s death on his back.
“I’m okay,” I say.
179
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:179
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
&nb
sp; Father doesn’t believe me. I can see it in his eyes. “It’s a hard thing, Luke, but it’s better not to isolate yourself. We all need to be together at a time like this.” He straightens slowly, like it hurts.
I nod again, but I don’t move. I just sit there holding that dumb pillow while Father stands halfway out the door, like he’s not quite sure what to do next. All of sudden these words come shooting out of my mouth: “Father, can I call home?”
Father sighs with relief, I think. “Certainly, Luke. I’m sure we can arrange it. No one’s in the offi
ce right now. You may
use that phone.”
Father’s right. No one’s in the offi
ce. Everyone else is
huddled up together in the cafeteria, still listening to the static-fi lled news from Washington, D.C.
I dial the number, and suddenly I’m remembering how it was after Bunna died, right after his plane went down and they were still trying to fi gure out what happened and trying to get the news to the families. Th
ey let me call home that
time, too. At fi rst I didn’t think I’d be able to talk, but it was so good to hear Mom’s voice. I close my eyes now, warming myself on the memory.
Mom had been working at Smythe’s Café, which is more like old man Smythe’s home, because it’s the only place in town that’s got a phone, and a lot of people hang out there. When I called that time, some guy I didn’t recognize had answered the phone and handed it to Mom without a word.
Th
e line between Sacred Heart and the café was scratchy 180
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:180
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
E S K I M O R O D E O / L u k e
with static that time, just like it is now with the radio. Mom’s voice had sounded scared and confused.
“Amau?” she had said, using my old nickname.
She sounded like a person not quite awake, a person unsure about what’s real life and what’s dreaming.
“Amau?” Her voice had wavered. “Th
at you?”
Th
ere was this lump in my throat the size of an iceberg, and I was suddenly so homesick, I could barely breathe.
“Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”
Suddenly, I had to pull the phone away from my ear
because Mom was screaming so loud it hurt, screeching like a hundred thousand seagulls. Calling out for Uncle Joe and for every other uncle, aunt, and cousin I got like they were all right there, sitting in the café with her, waiting. And maybe they were.
“Joe, Mae, come here! It’s Amau! Anna! Look who’s on this phone right here! Dora! Dora! It’s Amau! He’s alive! Isabel!
He’s alive! He’s alive, Rachel—come hear! Right now! Alice—
guess who this is right here, it’s Amau! He’s still alive!”
I’d forgotten how many relatives I had until right at that exact minute when Mom started punctuating every other word with their names.
“Esther! Donald! It’s Amau. Helen! Amau? Amau, is that really you?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s me.”
“Oh praise God, we thought you died . . . Joe! Joe! Come here right now! Qilamik! ”
Th
e sound of her voice taking off across the phone line 181
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:181
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
like a fast car without a driver had made me start to laugh, crying at the same time. And in between the laughter and the tears, I was feeling every kind of feeling there was to feel, like I was fully alive for the fi rst time since Bunna died. It felt really good and hurt really bad, both at the same time.
Suddenly I realize that the phone in my hand has quit ringing.
“Hello? HELLO?”
I had gotten so lost in remembering, I’d forgotten that I was calling again.
“Hello, I . . .” Suddenly, I don’t know what to say or who to say it to. My thoughts and feelings are wadded up inside so tight that the words get squashed fl at.
“Smythe’s place. Hello?” It’s Uncle Joe’s voice, rich as whale meat.
“Uncle Joe?”
“Luke? Th
at you? Hey, guy! When you coming home?”
“I’m not sure,” I croak, almost ready to cry for happiness, it’s so darned good to hear his voice. “Christmas maybe?”
“Yeah well, you have to come home,” he says.
“I’m going to have to work hard next break to get enough money to get home,” I say. But my voice catches on the word home. Th
en there’s another silence. A silence that feels as long as forever.
Th
em damn Catholics.
I’m not sure if he really muttered it or not, but all of a sudden it feels like we turned a corner somehow.
182
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:182
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
E S K I M O R O D E O / L u k e
“Hey, guess what?” Joe says suddenly. “Guess what I got now—a new kinda rodeo.”
Rodeo?
“Yeah,” Joe says, laughing suddenly at some joke of his own. “Rodeo with horses, mechanical horses, just like you guys got down there at that school.”
I don’t tell him that we don’t got no rodeo at Sacred Heart School, mechanical or other. I just smile because something in his voice makes me feel like laughing. Th
e sound of Uncle
Joe, just being himself, is suddenly the best thing in the whole world. If he wants to think we got cowboys with our Indians here, let him.
“Rodeo just like the Indians got. Just like them cowboys.
Eskimo rodeo.” Th
en he laughs long and loud.
And Uncle Joe’s laughter, smooth as seal oil, reaches all the way across the two mountain ranges that separate us, across all the rivers, right up into the offi
ce here at Sacred Heart School,
where I stand in the growing darkness, smiling.
“No kidding,” Joe says. “Eskimo rodeo. And you sure can catch caribou with this thing.”
“Caribou?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Sure,” Joe says. “Bring that old gun with you when you come home, and I’ll show you how it works. Pretty slick.”
Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat as big as Sacred Heart School. Joe doesn’t know about his gun, the gun that was supposed to be mine when I got old enough to take the kick.
I already took the kick.
“Th
e gun was with Bunna, Joe,” I whisper.
183
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:183
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
“What?” Joe says.
I can tell by the way his voice cracks that he heard me, but I say it again, anyhow. “It was in the plane. With Bunna.”
And then there’s another silence, like his voice got cut off . It’s a silence empty as fog that reaches down across the God-forsaken tundra, over the mountains that claimed my brother and straight through this valley prickly with blue black spruce.
“Well, hey,” says Joe, like he’s warming his voice up. “Never mind that old gun. Just a piece of tin, right? Wait’ll you see this new one I got.”
I don’t say anything.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?” It’s all I can manage.
“Hey, this new gun?” Uncle Joe’s voice sounds shaky. I nod as if he could see me. “You know what? It’s got a site that’s never more than a hair from right. No jokes. Wait’ll you try it.”
It’s totally dark now, but when I step out into the bitter-cold November night, it feels good, like coming home, somehow.
Th
e stars are pricking through the dark sky same as always, like nothing diff erent has ever happened or ever will, and all of a sudden, I like that.
I have tha
t letter, the one I saved. It’s been there in the bottom of my drawer all this time—the letter from my little brother Isaac. In Texas. In Dallas, Texas. I never burned it like I said we should. I saved it. It wasn’t much, but it’s enough 184
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:184
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
E S K I M O R O D E O / L u k e
right now, enough to know that Isaac’s alive somewhere, writing letters and swimming and climbing trees. Maybe even looking up at the same winter sky I’m looking at right now.
Maybe even watching the same stars I’m watching—the ones in the hunter’s constellation, bright as blazes. Th e one them
taniks call Orion’s Belt.
When they fi rst told us how they named those three stars Orion’s Belt, we used to wonder, me and Bunna. We knew those three were really hunters, and we wondered how those three hunters got trapped like that in a giant’s belt.
I look up, and all of a sudden I’m laughing. Laughing and laughing all by myself, under the bright black sky. Th em hunters are right there, and that giant Orion don’t even know it.
Th
em hunters aren’t trapped at all. Th
ey’re just waiting for the
chance to take a shot. And when they do, that big old dumb Orion won’t even stand a chance. Not one single chance.
I don’t know how I know this, I just know.
I don’t know how Isaac’s gonna fi nd his way home, all right, but he will. All of a sudden, I’m as sure about this as I am about anything. Isaac will fi nd his way home. One way or another, we will all fi nd our way home. Even Bunna.
185
my name is n ot easy final text_.indd Sec1:185
18/07/2011 8:25 PM
Unchained Melody
MARCH 7, 1964
DONNA
—
Th
e girl in the mirror is watching her hair fall to the fl oor in thick black ropes, falling to the scratchy snip-snip rhythm of Evelyn’s scissors. Th
e girl in the mirror concentrates hard on
My Name Is Not Easy Page 16