The Leaving Year

by Pam McGaffin

  The Montana contingent is here. Aunt Corrine is an older, brunette version of my mother, and I almost don’t recognize the older woman at her side. Nana’s hair is no longer orange but a pretty silver-grey. She introduces her boyfriend, Phillip, who shakes my hand and immediately starts talking about music. He’s in a bagpipe band, very Scottish, with the same startling blue eyes as someone else I know.

  David just got back from fishing with his dad. He came over and gave me that hug, one year late. It was nice, but I’d rather be hugging Sam. Where is he, anyway?

  The tables are almost filled when the lights blink on and off and Uncle Pat’s voice booms over the microphone asking everyone who hasn’t yet to please take their seats.

  I find my place between Dena and Mom just as the room goes dark. The audience grows quiet and I can hear them, the drums and rattles, coming up from behind us. Sound building like passing thunder, they shuffle past our table and climb the stairs to the stage, taking their places. The music stops. The stage lights come on, revealing a circle of robed performers wearing cone-shaped hats. They part, revealing a young man, crouching, head down, so that his beaked mask and shiny, feathered arms create the illusion of a magnificent white bird.

  Many years ago, when Raven was born, the world lived in darkness.

  The narrator is a woman with a voice so strong she doesn’t need a microphone. She stands on the far left side of the stage, all but invisible in her black robe.

  Jody?

  A rich old man who lived far up the Nass River kept the light just for himself.

  Yep, that’s her all right. Her voice is clear and smooth—as smooth as this graceful boy in the Raven mask. He unfolds his body, stretching his winged arms wide. Then he starts to dance, pivoting back and forth on alternate feet around three big boxes spaced evenly across the stage. Under his mask and cloak of feathers, he’s nearly naked save for a loincloth where it matters most. The other dancers, in contrast, appear weighed down by their elaborate robes, decorated with buttons or woven in designs of black, white, and yellow with long fringe that jumps and sways when they move.

  I glance around our table. Mom’s looking mighty pleased with herself, no doubt because Grandma Grace, sitting across from us, can’t take her eyes off Raven.

  Raven flies to where the old man’s daughter is picking berries. He turns himself into a hemlock needle and drops into the stream.

  Two dancers unfurl a long blue cloth. Raven disappears behind it and a young woman steps forward. She bends down and cups her hands to her mouth as if to drink.

  She swallows the needle and becomes pregnant, giving birth to a baby boy with bright black eyes.

  The cloth is lowered to reveal a little boy standing next to the young woman. Everyone goes “ah” because the kid is so cute. And now he’s making an adorable fuss as he clamors for the first box.

  Raven cries until the old man gives him the box containing the stars. He plays with the box for a while, then opens the lid and lets the stars escape through the chimney.

  When the lid to the first box opens, the mirror ball in the center of the room starts to spin, sprinkling us all with spots of light. Mom gets this dreamy look in her eyes like she’s a million miles away. Grandma Grace is spellbound. Dena, sitting next to me, is so uncharacteristically still that I almost forget she’s there.

  Too bad Dad couldn’t attend his own potlatch, but then, maybe he is here, admiring the way this storytelling girl he once mentored is drawing out the suspense.

  Only one box left—the box containing the sun. Raven cries and cries. His eyes turn round and round, showing different colors. The grandfather thinks, Maybe this is no ordinary baby, but he loves his grandson like he loves his daughter, and so, with much sadness, he hands over the last box.

  The drumming gets louder as the dancers circle around the boy and the third box, their backs to the audience, displaying the full spread of their beautiful robes. “Gr-r-o-c-c-k!”

  cries Raven, rising up from the center. The little boy is gone and the half-naked bird-boy is back, this time in a black cloak of feathers, holding aloft a red lantern the size of a beach ball. At the same time, the orange and yellow lights switch on over the ballroom, bathing us all golden.

  From that day on, we no longer lived in darkness, Jody finishes.

  There’s a celebratory dance involving all the performers. Then they form a line, with Jody and Raven in the middle, and take their bows. The audience rises to its feet in a standing ovation.

  I pity Father O’Neal, who comes next. Jody didn’t need a podium or a microphone, but both are brought out for the Good Father, who fortunately keeps his words short and his scripture-quoting to a minimum. Then we sing that song again, the one from the candlelight vigil with the line I liked about praying for “those in peril on the sea.” This time when I sing the chorus, I think of Sam as well. I wish he would have waited and taken his chances on the draft, but I’m kind of glad he’ll be on a ship rather than in the jungle. In spite of what happened to my dad, boats seem to be the safest option over there.

  Father O’Neal steps aside for my Uncle Pat, the first of our family and friends to get up to speak.

  Looking at him all suited up and clean-shaven, I notice for the first time how much the past year has aged him. His forehead’s looking as lined as President Johnson’s, and he needs reading glasses to see his pages of notes. He talks about his and Dad’s childhood together, how they used to go down to the docks to watch the fishermen repair their nets. “From them, Steve learned how to tell a good story and swear a blue streak. Actually, we both learned to swear at a tender age.”

  The audience titters.

  “But who do you think gets in trouble when I ask Mom to pass the blankety-blank potatoes?” Pat wiggles his fingers in the air, inviting laughter. “Truth is, I couldn’t have asked for a better…. He chokes up, looks towards the ceiling. “I’ll miss you, Bro.”

  I hear sniffling all around me. Mom’s going through one Kleenex after another from the box on her lap.

  My uncle Alex goes up and tells the story of that one Christmas when Dad fell off the roof. He was playing Santa. Tradition dictated that he get up on the porch roof and prance around like eight tiny reindeer, then make his grand entrance.

  “This was the year it really snowed,” Alex says. “There must have been a foot on the roof, which would have been fine, except Steve had had a little to drink. A couple of us gently suggested he not go up there, but Steve wouldn’t hear of it. So the kids got their pawing and prancing—as well as a yell, followed by some crashing and snapping, and one choice four-letter word. I went outside to see if Santa needed help and found Steve picking himself out of Mom’s rhododendron bush. He brushed himself off, put the hat back on, and then burst through the front door bellowing, ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ as if nothing had happened, though clearly something had. His beard was askew and his Santa pants were torn.”

  I remember that Christmas. I must have been about five. I no longer believed in Santa, so it didn’t come as a crushing blow to discover Dad under there. What I remember most was the adults laughing their heads off. They seemed to have a secret understanding of events that excluded us. Now I realize there was nothing sinister about it. They reacted to Dad’s mishap as they would any pratfall. The humor was lost on us kids because we still saw our parents and uncles and aunts as perfect, always knowing right from wrong, safe from unsafe. That fall off the roof, and my parents’ unusually loud fight after they got home, may have been my first glimpse into the hidden world of imperfect adults.

  All these years later, his near-disaster is remembered as comically heroic. Of course, no one’s going to say anything bad about Dad at his own memorial. Even the fishermen, who aren’t known to sugarcoat things, have nothing but praise. My father was committed and caring, a generous man and hard worker, dedicated to his family.

  It’s not that I disagree with these descriptions, it’s just that I know he wasn’t so saintly. He took unnecessar
y risks and was prone to mood swings—long, silent, brooding stretches—that could come without warning and just as suddenly disappear. I guess problems with your marriage would be reason enough to brood and search for love elsewhere. What better elsewhere than Alaska? Of course, Dad was so lovable he could get anyone, even Trinity, to cover for him. That business with the condoms. She didn’t really explain why there would be loose ones in his pockets. It took Sam’s want of one to get me to wonder if Dad was using them himself. I’ve never purchased condoms and I’m relatively sure Mom hasn’t either, but I saw them for sale at the little store on Nagoon. They’re sold in boxes. If you were to make a donation to a teen center, you wouldn’t remove them first.

  I suppose he could have been doling them out to his deckhands and young fishermen friends. David? Or Arrow? I won’t jump to conclusions like Mom did, but I suspect Dad’s love, while limitless, may have also been imperfect. As a husband, he could be selfish. As a father, he had a bias for sons. I could choose to be mad and jealous, but that would only lead to more hurt. Instead, I’ll focus on the good and the love that always brought him home to me.

  I’m thinking the eulogies are done when Mom gets up from her chair. My God, is she actually going to speak? Clomping across the stage in her dark blue dress and high heels, she looks so small. She unfolds her written remarks on the podium, and, unlike Pat, actually reads them, her voice starting off shaky but gaining in strength as she goes along. I find myself sitting forward in my seat, silently rooting for her.

  “Just over a year ago, I got the call every wife of a fisherman dreads. My husband was lost at sea. A search was underway. As you all know, that search was valiant and thorough, but ultimately unsuccessful. It was as if Steve really had disappeared. That’s a hard death to accept, though no death is easy. Without so much as a mayday, without a wreck—indeed, without a trace—I was supposed to accept that he drowned in a fishing accident. And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Obviously, I couldn’t accept the thought of a funeral, either. In fact, as many of you also know, I fought it.”

  “Boy, that’s the truth,” Grandma Grace mutters.

  “I think I knew in my heart he wasn’t coming back,” Mom continues. “But I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. Then my daughter, Ida, ran away. Yes, it’s been a hell of a year.” Her sarcasm gets knowing chuckles. “But that’s what it took to get me to see beyond myself. Ida ran away to Alaska in search of answers about her dad. I only went up there to retrieve her, but I ended up needing that trip as much as she did. We learned things about ourselves. How strong and connected we really are. And we learned things about Steve. I didn’t know of his involvement with the Center for Native Alaskan Youth. I didn’t know that he’d changed lives by giving young men a chance to fish on his boat. I didn’t know he carried around a book of myths and stories, retelling them to help keep them alive. You might say there was a lot I didn’t know, and you’d be right. For whatever reason, Steve kept his two worlds separate. Still, I don’t think he’d mind if I shared something with you all, a letter from a young man who was probably the last person to see him alive. Arrow couldn’t be here today, but he wanted you to know what Steve’s involvement in his life has meant to him.”

  Mom doesn’t read all of Arrow’s letter. She leaves out some of the grittier details of his life, as well as the entire last page, which was so personal to the two of us. But it’s still enough to get most everybody reaching for their handkerchiefs—everybody but me, of course. I’m still praying for Mom, willing her to get through what she has to say without breaking down.

  “When I was in Alaska, I got to thinking how important stories are,” she says. “How they help us make sense of the world and how they help us heal. I never thought of Steve as a reader. He never had books by his side of the bed like I did or like Ida did. But he knew, maybe more than us, that stories told well, memories passed down, are absolutely vital, so vital that a young girl would run all the way to Alaska to get them.

  While we were in Ketchikan, we attended a memorial potlatch for a woman we didn’t know—Geraldine Weaver. After the celebration was over, I had a real appreciation for her efforts to keep her native Tlingit language alive, though all I knew of her were the stories that had just been told, some of them in a tongue I didn’t understand. That’s what finally convinced me it was time to have a memorial for Steve, to say good-bye and celebrate his life instead of mourn it. If stories are so powerful they can turn a modest fish into the biggest one you ever saw”—she waits while the crowd laughs—“then maybe, just maybe, they can make a sad anniversary a little less so. That’s all.”

  My mother walks away from the podium. Everyone claps, and then, one by one, they get up from their chairs until the entire room is on their feet, including Grandma Grace and Grandpa Bill. My mother stops walking and just stands there. I hear someone whistle loudly. She puts her hands to her mouth and lowers them again. Her lips pucker and widen like a fish taking a breath.

  “Wow,” she’s saying, though no one can hear her.

  And then it finally happens. As I’m silently willing her not to cry, I start. I grab my napkin from the table to mop my face as the tears keep coming. My aunt Janet puts her arm around my shoulders and draws me to her. She probably thinks I’m sad. But the weird thing is, I’m not. I’m happy. Really, really happy.

  “What’s this?” Mom says when she gets back to our table and sees me crying on Janet’s shoulder. Janet hands me over, into Mom’s outstretched arms. Bending over to receive her hug, I’m the ungainly chick that’s outgrown its parent. I finally stop crying, but the hugs keep coming. People line up to hug both me and Mom, many of them telling us, with a tone of amazement, that this is the best funeral they’ve ever attended. “Steve would have approved.” I hear that over and over again.

  When I’m not being hugged, I watch, still waiting for Sam. People start lining up at the buffet tables, and there’s Grandma Grace, gold tooth flashing, as she accepts her accolades for the spread. I’m happy to see the Alaska folks mixing in. Trinity has somehow found her way to Nana, or maybe it was the other way around. I overhear them talking about elderberry roots. Dwight returns from the buffet table with a heaping plate of food. Too excited to eat, I’m scanning the heads for Jody when I get a tap on my shoulder and there she is, back in her jeans and faded baseball cap. We scream and hug like little girls.

  “I thought you didn’t come. Then I see you on stage!” I have to talk loudly to be heard over the Croatian music that’s just started up. “You never told me you were with a dance troupe.”

  “You never asked.” Same old Jody.

  I grab her arm. “Come with me to the ladies’. We need to catch up, and I need to tidy up.”

  “Yeah, you’re kind of a mess.”

  In the bathroom, I splash cold water onto my face. Jody hoists herself up to sit on the counter. I watch her tap out a cigarette. “Those things are bad for you, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She lights up, takes a draw, and exhales. In one of the stalls, a toilet flushes, and we stop talking until an older woman emerges and washes her hands. She casts a disapproving glance at Jody as she leaves.

  Jody shrugs and taps her ash into the sink next to her. “Ida-Sue, you don’t have to protect me from myself anymore. I hereby release you from duty.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “But I’ll never stop caring.”

  “You’re sweet.” With her free hand, she reaches over and pinches my cheek. “Just like your dad. I had no idea until Trinity told me. He was such a nice guy. How many commercial fishermen would take the time to hang out with a bunch of Indian kids?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She holds up her left index finger. “Your dad. He’s the only one. And you are like him, you crazy fool. You and Sam are lucky you didn’t drown.”

  “We’re lucky you came along in the boat. So where did you go that night? Why did you leave the party?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Connor
and Murf?”

  She nods.

  “He’s a jerk,” I say.

  “Nah. He just decided he liked someone else. That doesn’t make him a jerk. But I was pretty bummed out about it, so I took a walk on the beach. When I got back, they said you and Sam had gone out to look for me.”

  I stare at the reflection of Jody’s ponytailed head in the mirror. “I guess I kind of freaked out because of Red Beard and his friend. I thought they took you away and … you know.”

  “Eric and Hoggy? They come up from Canada every summer to fish—and party. Eric’s full of gas, but harmless. What did you call him, Red Beard?” She snorts.

  “That’s the name Sam and I gave him because he reminded us of a pirate.”

  “Ha! That’s funny. But we have another name for him. Earache.”

  I giggle.

  Jody fingers the beads on her bracelets. “Sorry to get you all worried. Is your head okay?”

  “I was getting headaches there for a while, but it’s better now.” I turn my head to show her the wound, which is a lot less obvious now.

  “That’s good. I really like your hair short. It’s feisty, like you.”

  “Thanks.” I blush at the compliment. I’d never describe myself as feisty, but I guess actions speak louder than words, as Dad would say. He was friends with someone far feistier than I could ever hope to be. Then it occurs to me that I haven’t asked Jody, the one person who might actually know.

  “Sorry, this is kind of out of the blue, but have you heard of a Native prostitute nicknamed Two-Bit?”

  Jody coughs on her own smoke. “What?”

  “So she does exist.” I follow Jody’s glance up to the ceiling, where bored girls have thrown wads of wet toilet paper. The mounds look like insect bites.