The Leaving Year

by Pam McGaffin

  “Well, yes and no,” she says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Trinity doesn’t go by that name anymore.”

  “Trinity is … was Two-Bit?”

  Jody exhales. “It’s not something she advertises.”

  I remember Trinity saying something very similar when she covered for Dad. We don’t advertise, in reference to the Center’s need for condoms. She’s no longer working as a prostitute, but she’s still protecting her customers’ identities as carefully as she protects her own.

  “That was a long time ago, before she started the Center,” Jody is saying. “I don’t think her past is any secret, but no one talks about it, out of respect for her. She’s Trinity now.”

  “That would explain why Dwight and Hank said they’d never heard of Two-Bit. Maybe they had, but weren’t saying. And what about her new name, Trinity?”

  “My grandmother says she took it from Raven’s three names. I don’t remember the names in Tlingit, but they basically mean White Raven, Black Raven, and Baby Raven. I think she wanted to show that people can change—maybe not their forms, but certainly their futures. It doesn’t matter how you start out. With support, you can change your path.”

  The restroom door swings open. Dena bursts in. “Oh, hello,” she says to us before checking herself in the mirror. “It’s getting kinda wild out there with the circle dance.” She grabs a paper towel from the dispenser and blots her neck and forehead.

  “Uh, Dena, this is Jody, the roommate in Alaska I was telling you about? Jody, this is my cousin, Dena.”

  “Hey, nice to meet you!” Dena turns to Jody and they shake hands. “The Raven Tale Dancers, wow! Just wow. Especially Raven.”

  “Sorry, he’s taken.” Jody flashes a grin.

  Dena whistles through her teeth. “Lucky girl. What’s his name?”

  “Cody.”

  “You’re kidding—Jody-Cody? Oh my God, it was meant to be.”

  “Dena’s a habitual matchmaker,” I explain.

  “Speaking of matches, where’s your love?” Dena asks me.

  “I haven’t seen him. I don’t think he made it.”

  “He better have a damn good excuse,” Jody says. “If we could make it all the way down from Alaska.” She bounces off the counter. “That reminds me.”

  She digs into the back pocket of her jeans, pulls out a well-worn envelope and hands it to me. “Your cannery check, special delivery. Bill told me to give it to you.”

  “But, I—”

  “He couldn’t bear the thought of you not getting paid for all your hard work.”

  “Well, this is a surprise.” I fold it up and tuck it into the pocket of my skirt.

  “Aren’t you even going to see how much it’s for?” Dena asks.

  I shake my head. “Maybe later.”

  Jody shrugs. “Suit yourself. I got more than nine hundred dollars. Gonna use it to move to Anchorage.”

  “Anchorage? I thought you wanted out of Alaska.”

  “Well I did, I do, but Trinity thinks I can get a grant at Alaska Community College. It’s changing into a four-year university, and they’re recruiting Native Alaskan students who show promise.” Jody pats her puffed out her chest with her cigarette hand.

  “That’s great.”

  She pouts at my lackluster reply. “You don’t sound very happy for me.”

  “It’s just that you and Dena … all my friends have plans, even Sam, and I can’t see past school starting. I’ve been so focused on my dad, and now, with this memorial, it’s all over. I won’t know what to do with myself.”

  Jody shakes her head. “Trust me, Ida-Sue, it’s not over. It’ll never be over. Saying good-bye to your dad is a beginning, not an end.”

  Dena fidgets with one of her earrings. “That’s really profound.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And I have no idea what it means.”

  “You will.” Jody beams, all calm and knowing, like some wise man—or woman, rather. She stubs out her cigarette in the sink and drops the butt in the standing ashtray. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Cody.”

  THE dance circle isn’t so much a circle as a crazed amoeba snaking around the floor, swallowing unsuspecting bystanders in its path. There goes Dena. With everyone dancing, it’s easy to spot Trinity, looking beautiful and proud in her white beaded dress. She’s sitting with her musicians and dancers, including one little boy, still wearing his Baby Raven robe.

  Your secret’s safe with me, I think as I accept her bear hug.

  Jody introduces me to the others as her “roommate from Can-a-lot,” no mention of me being Steve Petrovich’s daughter, which is fine by me. She takes a seat next to her boyfriend, identifiable by the black makeup that still clings to the valleys of his face.

  “You were amazing!” I sound like a groupie.

  He acts embarrassed, like he’s not used to compliments, which I find hard to believe. Close up and in full light, I notice that his nose is a bit crooked and he has some pimples on his chin, so I guess he’s not perfect—but he’s still pretty damn cute.

  “Cody has been dancing since he could walk.” Jody reaches down and squeezes his knee. I notice that he’s traded his loincloth for cutoffs and a tie-dye T-shirt, but you can still see the lines of muscle in his arms and legs.

  “It shows,” I say, willing myself to look up at his eyes.

  For a moment, no one says anything. I blush.

  Finally Jody fills the silence. “Cody is doing an internship at the Center. He wants to counsel Native teens, same as me. So, you see, Ida, you really can stop your worrying.”

  “Never.” This is the first I’ve heard of Jody’s plans to become a counselor. I’ve no doubt she would be good at it.

  Cody grins. “I heard about what happened at the cannery, how Jody had you searching for her.”

  I blush even more. By now, I must match my pink dress. “Hey, speaking of friends …”

  Jody’s gaze fixes on a point to my right, toward the dancers—and a black-haired boy in a brown suit.

  “Sam!”

  He turns around, relief spreading across his face. I excuse myself and walk over. He smells wonderful, spicy and sweet.

  “You made it!”

  “Of course.”

  “Jody’s here. With a new boyfriend.”

  Sam waves to her but doesn’t walk over. He’s more interested in the herky-jerky line of people trying to follow each other’s steps. “What do you call this dance?”

  “The Kolo.”

  “Holo?”

  “K-olo,” I say exaggerating the K. “It’s Slavic for ‘wheel’ or ‘circle.’ We usually do it at weddings.”

  “Looks like fun,” he says.

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “No.” He holds his hand out. “Want to dance?”

  I don’t answer because my eyes have just landed on an extraordinary sight: my mother in a circle of Slav relatives, arm-in-arm with Grandma Grace. They’re a study in contrasts, Mom in her dark sheath dress and high heels, Grandma Grace in traditional Croatian white and sensible orthopedic shoes. One big woman, one small; one strawberry-blond, one black-haired (dyed); their heads leaning together as Grandma teaches her daughter-in-law the steps. Mom’s movements are slow and unsure, but she’s getting it. She tosses her head back to get her hair out of her face, and I think she sees me. I wave. I detect a smirk, as if she’s saying, “See? I’m game.”

  “Your mom looks like she’s doing okay,” Sam says. “So do you.”

  “Even better now that you’re here.” I kiss him on the cheek, not caring who sees. We’re standing so dangerously close to the dancers, I’m getting dizzy from the vaporous mix of Chanel No. 5 and Old Spice. There’s Dena, cool as ever in her sleeveless batik dress, and Uncle Pat, flushed and sweating in his dress jacket. Next to him is Aunt Janet, holding hands with my cousin Doug, who grew so much over the summer that we’ve finally dropped the “ie” off his name. Uncle Alex, the only so
n still fishing full seasons in Alaska, has linked hands with his still-spry father, my grandpa Bill. There are several fishermen (identifiable by their wind-burned skin) and their pale wives, and finally Grandma Grace and my mother. When Mom gets close enough to Sam and me, she lets go of the man to her left.

  “Come on, you two,” she says, waving us into the circle. I take her hand. Sam takes mine and the stranger’s to his left. Gap filled, we’re carried along, mimicking the steps we don’t yet know.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many generous people helped me bring Leaving Year to light.

  My late great high school English teacher, Ellen McComb Smith, of the purple pen, taught me to delve below the surface layer of clichés and broad sentiments to write what is real. I’m trying, EM.

  Friend and fellow author, Anne Leigh Parrish, convinced me that I could and should write a novel (before I die). Then she willingly read and critiqued chapters and drafts ad nauseam. Without her, this book wouldn’t exist.

  I’m tremendously grateful to beta readers Rebecca Alexander, India Rose Bock, Kay Rae Chomic, Steve Kink, Gabe Castillo, Patricia Paul, Paula Zook, Sharron Nasman Whitesel and, of course, Carol McGaffin, who, unlike other mothers, always gives her honest opinion.

  Special thanks go to Steve, Gabe, Eric Hogeboom and Pandora Eyre for taking the time to meet with me and tell me about their fishing and/or canning experiences.

  Every writer needs a good editor, or three. Authors Lish McBride and Martha Brockenbrough, of Nothing to Novel, helped me shape, sharpen and summarize my story; and copyeditor Emily Russin saved me the embarrassment of sending out an error-riddled manuscript.

  The team of professionals at SparkPress, including Brooke Warner, guided me through the whole publishing process, including cover and page design. I may be biased, but isn’t it beautiful?

  Of course, my family took this years-long journey with me. My husband, Mark Funk, deserves endless gratitude for his endless patience and support. I also want to thank Carl and Mara Funk for their ongoing encouragement, and my sons, Casey and Charlie, for listening to me read aloud my entire book (without checking their phones too often).

  I have to acknowledge some family members who are no longer with us. My parents in-law, Mary Ann and Wallie Funk, championed all creative endeavors, including mine, and had the good sense to buy a beach house on Guemes Island, my favorite place to write. Finally, my father, Robert L. McGaffin, died before he could see his daughter become a novelist, but his estate will help pay for the costs of this book, and, I hope, more to come.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo credit: Robert S. Bock

  PAM MCGAFFIN is an award-winning former journalist who returned to her original passion of writing fiction after a long career in newspapers and public relations. Her short stories have appeared in online literary journals, and her articles and essays have been featured in newspapers and magazines. She and her family live in Seattle. This is her first novel.

  Selected Titles from SparkPress

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  The Frontman, Ron Bahar, $16.95, 978-1-943006-44-1. During his senior year of high school, Ron Bahar—a Nebraskan son of Israeli immigrants—falls for Amy Andrews, a non-Jewish girl, and struggles to make a career choice between his two other passions: medicine and music.

  Tree Dreams, Kristin Kaye, $16.95, 9781943006465. In the often-violent battle between loggers and environmentalists that plagues seventeen-year-old Jade’s hometown in Northern California, she must decide whose side she’s on—but choosing sides only makes matters worse.

  Colorblind, Leah Bowron, $16.95, 978-1-943006-08-3. Set in the hotbed of the segregated South, Colorblind explores the discrimination that an elderly African-American sixth-grade teacher and her physically challenged Caucasian student encounter at the hands of two schoolyard bullies.

  Beautiful Girl, Fleur Philips. $15, 978-1-94071-647-3. When a freak car accident leaves the seventeen-year-old model, Melanie, with facial lacerations, her mother whisks her away to live in Montana for the summer until she makes a full recovery.

  Blonde Eskimo, Kristen Hunt. $17, 978-1-940716-62-6. Neiva Ellis is caught between worlds—Alaska and the lower forty-eight, white and Eskimo, youth and adulthood, myth and tradition, good and evil, the seen and unseen. Just initiated into one side of the family’s Eskimo culture, she must harness all her resources to fight an evil and ancient foe.