“It’s like a zoo, the way they’re on display,” Anna said. She didn’t look up from the brushing.
“Almost like we’re endangered animals,” he replied. She was surprised he said it at all. He tried to quietly work in that world.
“Mmmm.”
More paint dried. And more time elapsed. They had a momentum like this when she was between projects, her blanket or robe done, and he finishing. Except this pole was not even close to complete. She thought if he saw the black paint, he might work on the surfaces still yet to be carved.
“Art has to decay sometime,” Anna said. “The poles that still stand ‘saved’ from the elements, we need to let them go.”
“We didn’t choose that.”
“I know you didn’t. But you could choose to retire. Maybe we could go stay in Sitka for a while with your cousin Bill.”
“Shit, Anna. I hate this. I’m tired of the commissions and the games. I want carving to be beyond this. No … before this way outsiders brought in.”
His thoughts usually carried in the loudness of the silence—in what was missing versus what he said. In how he moved along the wood. Maybe all these years remaining quiet had built up.
“So, stop.”
He sighed. “I still need to finish.” He didn’t look at her. Instead, his eyes remained on the smallest part of the design.
She was aware they might never leave Haida Gwaii again. She had learned to be okay with that. Sometimes more than him.
A knock on the window in the back of the shop drew her eyes. Aaron didn’t notice. Some man gestured to come inside. The museum was closed. Usually that meant quiet enough for Aaron to finish. She motioned him to go away. The outline of his body disappeared into the trees. Right now, she could feel that Aaron needed less people in order to dig into the wood. He shifted like this sometimes and could block the world away. But he would come back.
She watched Aaron move along the wood, his hands flying down the grains marked in lead.
He chipped at the totem pole. It echoed as the only sound in the shop. Anna had left earlier to make dinner. This was a slow carving. He hated not finishing, but he also had a distaste for this project. Commissioners now stopped listening to him and respecting his ideas.
He used the adz as his guide and something like a punching bag. He pushed into the wood grain and the lift of it vibrated up his arm. It didn’t stop Aaron from holding back, though. He did not like this design, how his pencil and paint marks launched around the trunk.
The slam of the shop door stopped him. John, his nephew, walked in, no knock. Aaron and his family rarely saw John. He had attended college in New York City and stayed there. Family gatherings never pulled him back. This didn’t shock Aaron, as John had rarely attended them once he became a teenager. He seemed to sit on the outside. A disconnect put up by him that no one could figure out.
“Uncle,” John said. He shook Aaron’s hand and stepped back. His eyes floated along the totem pole, black pupils steady. “This your next piece?”
“Yeah. It’s getting there.” Aaron picked up a smaller adz. “It’s good to see you.”
“Long time. I know.” His nephew stood by three long rods that held Aaron’s many tools. A pristine row held his many versions of an adz. John picked one up, then another. He swung them at the wood, but didn’t hit anything.
“You here to see your dad?”
“Yes.” John remained by the tools as Aaron moved up the totem pole. “He brought me out here telling me it was important. Something to do with his health.”
“Mmmm.”
“All he did when I got here was talk about our family and how our family’s declining. I told him, ‘We’re not disappearing Indians, Dad.’ But he kept going on one of his rants. You know.”
“I do know, ya. I think his point is that you are family, but you don’t act like family.”
“It’s the same as when I was here. I still talk to Mom and Dad and everyone else.”
“Ya, that is about all you did when you were here. But are you talking to them or at them?” Aaron chipped away more wood. He could feel the vibrations move through his voice. He tried not to think about John. He had thought when the boy was born that he would be the next family carver. John had even grabbed people’s fingers tightly—a good, solid carver’s grip. He knew that things changed and evolved. But the older his bones, the harder it was to accept how the younger ones grew up with different ideas. Ideas he worried might interrupt their ways. Maybe that was why he didn’t stop carving.
“I see.” John’s back stiffened at Aaron’s words. “But there’s no real health issues with Dad, right?”
“None that I’m aware. He probably doesn’t know how else to get you here.”
John stood still while Aaron worked at one spot. The wood seemed tough getting the one curve he tried there.
John cleared his throat. “Uncle, I have a few colleagues in New York who are interested in your work.”
“Oh. Who?”
“Some from museums. One is planning a new art center.”
“Art center?”
“Yes. Today’s traditional artists and contemporary Native artists.”
“You a broker, John?”
“I only thought I could send some business your way.” John’s face turned red.
John’s body—his entire body—appeared annoyed, from eyebrows to stiff back. Aaron scanned the room. A few more projects lay scattered on the floor. And then there were those commissioned still in his sketch pad. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling a moment, then back to his nephew.
“I think I’m good, John.”
“Oh come on, Uncle. It could be good for you and Aunt Anna. A nicer house. Maybe retire in a few years. They pay quite well.”
“No. I’ve got enough. And Anna doesn’t need more to clean.”
“Who is going to take care of both of you when you get older?” John clanked the adz back on the bar. “This money could do that.”
Aaron stopped his work. He swung the adz down hard enough for one last chip. Then he peered into his nephew’s eyes. It was difficult to experience the emptiness that invaded the dark irises.
“Family, John. Family will care for family.”
“Okay, Uncle. They will move on to others, you know.”
“Fine.”
John left. The shop door closed behind him with one last thud. Aaron paused for a few minutes before returning to the totem pole.
Anna drank her tea, a few sips here, a few sips there. She felt invested in the morning when completing the ritual. The small kitchen left room for a two-person table. But mornings were hers here, with a steady gaze out the window. The Haida Gwaii mountain range, snowcapped, created sheer walls that rose out of the ground, with grass and flowers and tree roots defying gravity. Craggy rocks held deep gashes like layered scars left by the backhoes and dynamite.
The butterflies, wings opening and closing with a rapid flutter, remained her favorite. She could watch them as long as Aaron could watch his eagles.
A raven’s croak steered her eyes away from the yellow wings. Crazy birds, always mucking about near anything scavenge-able—her berries this time.
The doorbell interrupted the next sip.
“Nari,” Anna said. She hugged and kissed the young woman. During high school, she was hard to speak to. But she saw light deep in her eyes that some people had missed back then.
“Auntie.” Lily in her arms barred the hug from a whole embrace. But the squeeze held tight.
“Lily wanted to see Uncle. She pointed at his picture this morning.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “She’s a smart one. He’s out in the shop. He’ll probably be there until dinner time.”
“Ah. We should go catch him then.” She uncramped Lily’s hands from Anna’s hair. Hands that somehow strayed during their conversation. “Sorry.”
Anna shrugged. She liked the feel of the little fingers gripping tightly.
“I’m leaving Lily
there for a bit. Could I come over and watch you weave?”
“I haven’t gotten to weaving this one yet,” Anna said. “I’ve still got more wool and cedar to roll.”
“Then I’ll come over and help.”
Anna nodded.
By now the tea had lost its steam and some flavor. She microwaved it and sat by the loom. She pulled the wool out and let the cedar strips drip off some of their water. Then she rolled the two together on her upper thigh. The strength of the string still amazed her.
Nari had never asked to work with her before. No one in their family had. She had learned by asking the same way. But there weren’t weavers in Aaron’s family. She traveled to be taught in their community and further south. Sometimes she had to drive far or take a ferry to learn. Aaron encouraged it after her mother died.
Aaron hadn’t painted the design board yet. But the sketch lay across the board. He hadn’t shown her this one. And frankly, something seemed off about it. She kept rolling, creating a rhythmic movement in the process. She wanted something different from the weaving.
The wool and cedar gathered together almost like one. Their colors gave them away. White against khaki. Strings piled next to her. She found that once she got going, she could roll for hours until dizzy. The only thing stopping her this time was the doorbell and Nari returning.
Aaron looked up in time to see arms wrapping around his neck. The heft of Lily entered his arms as he took her from Nari. “Well, a little visitor.”
“Yes. Upon her request.” Nari paced the workshop—touching a tool at times. He noted her glances while he carried her. Lily gestured to the totem pole and he leaned her over the carved portion. She picked up a tiny adz and swung it around.
“Oh no. Not a toy.” He pulled it out of her tight grip. “Let’s not smash an eye, here. Ya.”
He chipped at the excess pieces of the pole with the small tool. As his hands flicked at the cedar, his voice carried directions. Step by step, he crooned to Lily. He never heard Nari leave. Lily’s eyes remained on him, and she felt the carvings as he explained them, her little fingers dipping below the grooves and following the forms.
Aaron sat by the large trunk of wood and ran his hands over the smoothed and readied surface. The shop was empty again, Lily eating dinner with her parents. The sketchbook next to him held many things he never got to. One in particular remained on his mind, one from the day he met his wife, set down and unfinished.
He picked up a pencil and began outlining. His eyes moved to the high ceiling and the beams cutting across the peak. Back down his eyes rested on the page.
The commissioned totem pole lay next to it—unfinished.
“Tell them,” Anna had said to him last week. “Tell them you’re done.” If he could, he would return to it. He kept his word. But the things that came first needed to change, as much as the wood carved became something more than a tree.
As Anna headed into the kitchen to put water on, she passed the design board with Aaron’s lines for her next Chilkat blanket. The lead lines remained yet unpainted.
With the steaming water pouring into the mug, her thoughts continued to wander to the design. It stopped her when she passed the room again. Tea and mug now down on the bench in her space, she picked up paint and paint brushes, hovering over the design. The pause was momentary. Bristles met the cedar board as she changed the design—lines thicker, figures swirling into one another.
The kitchen doorknob jiggled and the door opened.
“Nana!” Lily thumped her shoes as she ran in. She stopped to watch Anna.
Anna nodded at her and recognized a light in the small child’s eyes that emanated from her own eyes when she was young.
Aaron came in behind Anna and stood at the back of the room. The picture of Lily tilting her head toward the wallboard and Anna intense on the design reminded him of when Anna used to paint. She lost herself in the images and often remained at an easel until she finished. He missed that part of her.
It was a good design. Maybe better than his original one. He touched her hand with his, gently. She paused and they met eyes, each one smiling.
Aaron pointed to one area she had already revised. “What about a U shape here?”
Anna pulled herself close, peered at the image, nodded, and then rounded the figure. She thickened certain lines, too. The warmth of Aaron’s hand settled into her back as she continued drawing, fingers flying along the wood.
Calling the Ancestors
He stands along the edge, the outside of the crowd, praying. He bows his head, eyes closed. Beneath his eyelids, a maroon shade appears. Flashes, images, pass each other, his mind creating them from his past, sometimes perhaps his future. Now and again his mouth moves, forming words he knows and some he doesn’t know.
The wind blows his hair behind him, cooling his neck and back. The sun is setting, but still July warm. In Victor, New York, eighty degrees easily feels like an Arizona ninety, even though they stand stretched far from Rochester’s city buildings. Decades have passed, his time away from home.
He searches his mind. Hunts and waits for more words to come. He knows the songs, all of them. They beat through his blood, even if he hasn’t learned them from his grandfather or sung them with others. He can call them forward.
A young woman explains this to the children as they wait, ready to learn. Her soft voice carries. We need to wait for him to find the songs for today, she says.
Songs he had sung appear in his consciousness, another man singing them. He hears but doesn’t see the words. The language he learns as he sings and as they sing to him when he closes his eyes.
You cannot learn without them, his grandfather had told him. They hold our traditions, just there. He holds his hand above his head, then touches his heart. It will connect here if we listen.
So he listens.
Certain images, he wonders if they were from the past, not his past. His family’s past. They are not his future, that he can tell. Strange clothes and familiar strangers.
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes closed. He clears his mind, stops the voices, and blocks out the people around him. A breeze blows again that his skin cannot ignore. He allows the leaves rustling, the grass touching his sandaled feet, the fresh blooms, all to come to him.
New words fall forward, enter his brain, and translates where he understands the meaning, but cannot make English words from them. He sways with the music, bobs his head, taps his leg.
Then another.
Old songs. From so long ago he can’t place them.
Friendship. Brotherhood. A general sweep of deeper intentions and connections.
Words spill forth, and with eyes still closed, he sings quietly. This is enough to gauge tone, speed, and notes.
After twice through each one, he opens his eyes. Light makes him blink a few times. His visions lessen, although he still senses the earth below him, holding him up.
He hands a few boys their own small drums or rattles. He begins to sing, his voice soft, then increasing in volume and intensity. The boys dance behind the men, their shuffles smaller, him stretching his stride, his voice gaining strength. He first sings the songs he knows, ones only for the men who circle with him.
Waving her hand, the young woman encourages the children and even some new adults to join. The men dance first during the men’s song and then there is a song for all, she describes.
A small boy, maybe three, tries the steps. His feet not quite big enough and his body not quite tall enough to carry a beat. But he tries and almost copies his uncle in front of him. The boy does not take his eyes off his uncle’s feet.
Even singing and pulling songs, he notices these things. How each dancer moves, their steps communal, but their own. No two alike. Some more confident and hard stepping. Some softer, careful. Cautious. New at this.
He joins the dances for this. The lessons. What his grandfather had given him, he gives to them.
He steps and sings and drums. The tone vibrat
es through him and around the group, forming a small circle.
They all vibrate. He sees the movements through them, repeating the beat of their blood. All blood. Repeating the steps of hundreds of years. Today. Different. Always different. Yet always calling the ancestors, right there. With them.
Stomping together. Patting down the grass. Patting down the grass.
Nothing but Gray
The fall scents wove their way through the air. When leaves crumbled under Gabriella’s feet, they gave off musk and dirt and damp grass. She loved the crinkle noise they made and the echoes of rakes scraping the ground to grab the leaves and sweep them into piles.
The house Gabriella rented with two roommates loomed large behind her, shadowing the walkway gray. Park Ave was full of these houses, all unique. She pulled mail from the box at the end of the drive and turned back. The white siding, black shutters, red brick foundation, and a front porch made it seem like a real home. Then there was the aqua-blue door that stood out along a street of black or brown doors. Mr. and Mrs. Sandala took care of the property and were good landlords. They regularly checked in on the girls, yet left them to their lives.
Although Craigslist was known for its creepy invaders, Gabriella somehow found both her roommates there. Stacy and Lucia had known each other since grade school, but lost touch after middle school. Only when they all met together to look at the apartment did Stacy and Lucia realize their past connection. It seemed to Gabriella an instant connection between the two—one she had not ever felt with friends or even with these two. But they all got along well. They found the house fit their personalities, warm, open, and comfortable.
Cinnamon and vanilla from Lucia’s cookies hit her nostrils. Flipping through the mail revealed junk from car dealers and Medicaid. Clearly they paid no attention to age. She was only twenty-three. She pushed her auburn hair behind her ear and crossed her legs while standing. A very large red envelope addressed to her stood out. Her mother’s handwriting scrawled Gabriella’s name. She sent her cards for most any occasion, really anything to send a card. This was marked “Happy Fall.” She simply signed it “Mom” with nothing else but the date. This was as per usual.
Living on the Borderlines Page 7