“I’ve been collecting shells for a long time, Peggy, and I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along and make use of them.”
A smile streaked across my face, and I knew this was how it felt to visit a grandma.
“Well, let’s begin, shall we?” Mrs. Hobbs pulled over a large stack of books that was sitting on the table. Each book had several paper markers. She picked the top book off the pile and opened it about halfway. “Take a look at this one, Peggy.”
The picture was black and white and seemed very old. I was fascinated by the unsmiling, young Native woman staring out from the page. She wore a long, wide band of tusk shells, mixed with smaller round shells over top of what appeared to be a poncho. The woman had a wide face with high cheekbones and a squared jaw. Though her skin looked smooth, she had deep creases around her eyes — like laugh lines. Crow’s feet, Mom would have said. And her hair was parted in the middle and braided along each side of her face. But it was her dark, magnetic gaze that held my attention.
Mrs. Hobbs showed me other pictures and necklace patterns. Some were made of beads and feathers, others of shells, porcupine quills, and bones. But I had already decided I’d make a necklace like the one worn by the lady with the penetrating eyes. Her necklace must have had over a hundred tusk shells. Mine would have to be narrower.
“Mrs. Hobbs, I think I’d like to make a necklace like this one.” I pointed at the picture. “Only I won’t be able to make it as wide. And I’m thinking of using up my Adanson’s leptons in between to fill it out more.”
Mrs. Hobbs studied the picture thoughtfully. “Yes, you could do that, Peggy dear. But rather than put holes in your lovely leptons, we could use shells that have natural holes.” She pulled out a couple of shells and placed them in her hand for me to see. “This here is a two-spot keyhole limpet, and the other is a littleneck clam with a hole drilled by a moon snail. The tusk shells already have holes at each end, so it would simply be a matter of threading them all.”
I had my heart set on using my Adanson’s leptons, but maybe for my first necklace it was better to go with the simpler plan. “I guess I could use these keyhole limpets, Mrs. Hobbs. I think the littlenecks are too big for what I have in mind.”
“Okay, then. And we can use this fishing line to string them together. Of course, the ancient people wouldn’t have had this. They’d have made their necklaces with leather cords, or twine from cedar trees or strands of woven human hair.” Mrs. Hobbs pulled out a tray with tiny coloured beads. “You can add a few of these for colour, if you like, though traditionally they wouldn’t have had anything like this.” She helped me get my necklace started, then turned back to the books to look for a pattern of her own.
Before long my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own as I strung the shells and beads. And for the first time in a long while I felt safe and comfortable, like the nights Mom and I curled up together in bed and read. As I worked, I thought about the stunning face in the book and wondered what the woman was thinking as she had stared down the lens of the camera nearly a hundred years ago.
“Mrs. Hobbs, if you found an artifact on your property, what would you do with it?” I could see that she was thinking about the question before answering. “The reason I was asking,” I went on, “is because this weird guy came over to our house. He owns the gift shop in town and buys and sells ancient artifacts. I even saw his ad in the paper this morning. Our neighbour, Mr. Puddifoot, and Aunt Margaret seem to think it’s okay.”
“The gift shop owner you’re talking about is Walter Grimbal.” I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that she knew who I was talking about. “Well, honey, Mr. Grimbal hasn’t had an easy life, and I think it’s left him hard and indifferent. But in my mind those artifacts he sells should never belong to just one person. They’re part of our prehistory. If they can’t stay in the ground with their original owners, then they belong in a museum where everyone can enjoy them.”
“You sound like Eddy. She’s the archaeologist who’s been excavating the burial in the backyard.”
“Oh, heavens, no need to explain who Eddy is. We go back a very long time — back to about your age, I imagine.” Mr. Hobbs chuckled over the surprised look on my face.
“You were friends?”
“Our mothers were good friends. As a child, I liked her all right, and she probably thought I was all right, too. We just didn’t have much in common. We both spent the summers here in Crescent Beach. I lived in Vancouver, and she came from New Westminster. Those were the days when Crescent Beach was a ghost town in the winter and only came to life at the start of summer vacation. I was more interested in playing imaginary games or dressing up in Mother’s party gowns. Edwina, well, she was more like you.” Just then Mrs. Hobbs bent down and patted Chester’s flat head. He was asleep under the table at our feet. “What a lovely, smelly old thing you are, dear.”
“So ... what about now?” I asked.
“We don’t see each other often, but there’s certainly a warmth from our shared past. And I realize now that we did have something in common — our love for Crescent Beach. Edwina loves this place because of its rich prehistory — and it’s where she first learned about archaeology. And I love it for all the other reasons — the peaceful walks along the beach, the friendly, small-town feel of the place, and of course the birds! I’ve spent many hours out on Blackie’s Spit waiting for a glimpse of a heron, a red-winged blackbird, or a dove-tailed finch.”
Mrs. Hobbs walked over to the stove and took out another batch of cookies from the oven. “But when I was your age, what I really loved about being here was sailing out in the bay with my brother, Charlie. We had a little sailboat, and almost every day we’d pack a lunch and stay out on the water for hours. There were times when we infuriated our mother. She’d stand on the shore calling us in, but we’d pretend we couldn’t see or hear her.” Mrs. Hobbs giggled as if she still remembered what it felt like to be a kid. I giggled also when I imagined myself far from shore while Aunt Margaret waved hopelessly for my attention, too distant to give commands or lectures about being responsible.
Gazing out her window, Mrs. Hobbs smiled. “Oh, dear, we certainly did have the most wonderful summers a child could have. Days before it was time to pack up and return to the city, I’d spend every waking moment sailing, swimming, or walking the beach and collecting shells. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those shells in my collection are ones I got long ago.”
After a while, Mrs. Hobbs and I fell into a comfortable silence as we worked and I let my thoughts drift away like a tiny boat on the water.
It is morning, and Shuksi’em steps out from the dark, smoky clan house. The warm morning sunlight sweeps over his bare chest like a blanket of soft eagle feathers. The stiff, dull throb in his arms and back begins to fade away under its gentle caress. Pain or not, he thinks this is the best part of each day — behind him the silence of the sleeping clan, before him the rhythmic lapping of the waves on the sand. Carefully, he steps down from the lodge entry with the help of his walking stick made from a sturdy cedar branch. He walks slowly and deliberately toward the water, thinking of the events this new day may bring.
Some of the women and children will gather more of the delicate pink berries that look like salmon eggs. They are a small joy on a summer’s day and a sweet reminder in the cold of winter. Shuksi’em rubs his hungry belly at the thought of the delicious cakes the women will make from mashed berries and seaweed. These small delicacies are like candy as they slip from their moulds slick with fish oil.
At the shore Shuksi’em stands just close enough so that the waves wash over his feet. The cool water sends a shiver up his bent old spine. Later, when the tide pulls the waves away from the shore, the villagers will dig for clams, mussels, and seaweed. He hopes Talusip will prepare his favourite dish for their evening meal — limpets and mussels soaked in tasty fish oil.
With the help of his cedar stick to lean on, Shuksi’em bends his knee
s until he is close enough to fall gently to the sand. It takes great effort, but he manages to stretch his neck so he can gaze across the bay to the land and the giant mountains beyond. He knows the young men are nearly ready for the big hunt and may even leave tomorrow. Soon there will be fresh deer meat, and if the men are lucky, succulent elk or bear. This is the season when every meal is like a feast and his old bones get padded with extra flesh.
Shuksi’em does not hear the gentle swish of the sand as Talusip approaches, though he senses her before her hand rests upon his grey head. He grunts gently to acknowledge her presence.
“Ah, another good day for gathering.” She yawns and stretches before she eases down beside her husband. “You did not sleep well again last night, Husband. Would you like some spruce tea to ease the stiffness?”
She is a good woman, Shuksi’em thinks as he shakes his head.
“Q’am says he will take the boy with him on the big hunt. I say it is too soon, but he will not listen. You should talk to him. He listens to you.”
Shuksi’em’s stiff backbone will not allow him to turn his head to face her, but she sees his smile from the side. “You said the same to me when I took Q’am out to the hunt for the first time.” His voice falls silent as he thinks back to that day. “We both know the journey of life is often dangerous. You and I have travelled a long way on its path together. Whether we went slow with cautious steps or raced along fearlessly, we have always known it was not us who decides when the journey will end. Q’am is a good father to the boy, and I say we let him do what he thinks best for our grandson.”
“Old man, do you ever have a simple answer? After all these seasons together, it would be nice if sometimes you would just agree. But that is not possible for you. No, no, no!” Talusip slaps teasingly at his bare arm but does not hurt him.
Shuksi’em smiles at his good wife. He knows why her heart is filled with fear. The clan has lost many of its young over the years. Some died on the hunts or out on the ocean when the waters turned angry. Then there were many seasons of terrible sickness, and the clan lost many children, including two of their own young ones.
Talusip rolls onto her side like a round sea lion and pushes herself up. Before she leaves she strokes Shuksi’em’s long silver hair. “Don’t forget, Husband. You promised your granddaughter you would help her design a necklace for the fall ceremony.”
With his wife gone, Shuksi’em steals back to the last few peaceful moments of the morning. Behind him, at the forest’s edge, the families are beginning to stir and will soon emerge from the clan lodge. He pushes his rough, rigid hands past the sun-warmed surface to the cool sand below. Over and over, he churns up the warm and the cold, the dry and the wet. Then he lets the sand sift through his thick, leathery fingers until all that remains are a few small spiral shells. They will not do. He will need something special for this youngest grandchild.
When it is time for the fall spirit dance, the guests will come to the village for the feast. The elders are to announce each daughter’s passage to womanhood. Shuksi’em wants his granddaughter, Sleek Seal, to sparkle brighter than the dew in the morning’s light. He will send her mother out to the flat, muddy shore around the bend to search for the precious tusk shells.
I’d had a great time with Mrs. Hobbs, and I’d made a good start on my shell necklace, too. When the light began to fade outside, I knew I’d soon have to go home.
Mrs. Hobbs beamed. “You’ve made wonderful progress, Peggy dear. And if you want, you can come tomorrow and work on it some more. I don’t mind telling you that I’m glad to have your company.”
I felt the same way.
As I walked home, I was all warm inside. But when I entered the house I was hit by a wave of tension. Aunt Margaret was talking on the phone, and her voice pierced the air. “Oh, here she is. Honestly, that child needs to learn to be more responsible and considerate. I want you to tell her that this kind of thing is definitely not okay with me! She just wanders off, God knows where, and never thinks about telling someone where she’s gone. You need to talk to her.” Then she angrily shoved the phone at me. “Peggy, it’s your mother.”
I was glad when Aunt Margaret stormed out of the room. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, Peggy. Your aunt’s very upset with you for leaving the house again without telling her where you were going. She’s been worried.”
“How was I supposed to do that? She wasn’t here at suppertime. She was out shopping for pond fish.”
“You could have written her a note, or stayed home until she got back. Or why didn’t you call from wherever you were?”
“Yeah, I guess I could’ve done that. But then she’d have found a way to ruin my plans.”
“Well, where did you go?”
“I was with Mrs. Hobbs. I’m making something, but it’s a surprise, so I can’t tell you about it.”
“Well, honey, I can’t see why Margaret wouldn’t let you visit Mrs. Hobbs. But next time you need to get her permission before you go out. She’s only trying to do her best to look after you. And I shouldn’t need to remind you that she’s doing us a big favour.”
“Mom, I feel like she’s trying to squeeze the life out of me. She has so many rules and she always has to tell me what to do. We have nothing in common. She doesn’t even care about the excavation Eddy and I’ve been working on. She keeps dropping reminders of what a hassle it’s all been for her. When are you coming back, Mom?” There was a long, awkward silence.
“I can’t say right now, sweetheart. Hey, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been learning about archaeology and excavating?”
She had totally ignored my question. I would have pressed her, but her voice sounded funny, as if she’d been crying. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “But I wish you were here to see it.” There was another long, silent moment, and sniffling noises came from inside the phone.
“There’s nothing I’d like better, honey, but I’m afraid it’s not possible right now. I didn’t get that job at Cobblestone Communications. And I was really counting on it, since money’s getting tight.” More silence. “But don’t worry, Peggy. I’ll find a job soon. And the moment I do, I’m coming to get you, okay?”
It was bad enough that Mom was feeling down for not getting the job. I didn’t want her to worry about me, too. “No problem, Mom. I’m fine and I’m happy to be here. Just take care of yourself.” There was a really long silence this time, and I could actually hear her sobbing. “Mom, please don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Good night, Peggy,” Mom’s voice squeaked, and then I heard a click as she cut the connection.
I had a hard time sleeping and spent most of the night thinking about my mom, crying, alone in some motel room, far from everyone she loved. I must have fallen asleep for a while, but woke up to a large, wet spot on the pillowcase. I turned the pillow over and dried my tears with the back of my hand. For the first time in years I felt angry at my dad for dying.
CHAPTER 6
“Good morning, Peggy. It’s time to get out of bed.”
My aunt’s stern voice startled me awake. “Things need to change around here, and I’d like to start with this bedroom. Before breakfast it must be cleaned and your dirty laundry has to be taken downstairs.”
“Yeah, okay.” I looked around my room and admitted to myself that it had gotten a little out of control.
“And another thing. You have far too much free time on your hands. You need some structure, so I called up the Crescent Beach Sailing Club. They just started a new class a few days ago, but the instructor said it’s not too late if you start today.”
“But that will interfere with the excavation,” I argued.
“You’re a twelve-year-old girl. You don’t know what’s best. Besides, what child wouldn’t want to learn to sail?”
“Me!” As soon as I replied, I thought about what Mrs. Hobbs had said about sailing — about being so far away that her moth
er couldn’t tell her what to do.
“Well, anyway, it’s a chance for you to make some friends.”
So that was it! “I have friends,” I said, trying to sound normal. I hadn’t forgotten what Mom had said last night.
“Yes, well, I think you’re spending far too much time with senior citizens. You need to meet someone your own age.”
Silently, I apologized to my mom before I opened my mouth. “How would you know? I bet you can’t even remember what it was like being a kid. Mrs. Hobbs and Eddy might be old, but they know a lot more about kids than you do.”
My aunt’s eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets. Then she turned and went out the door. I’d won! Or so I thought.
“Get ready to go,” she said as she stomped downstairs. “They’re expecting you in half an hour.”
How could she decide something like that without even asking me? Who did she think she was? “Well, what if I don’t go?” I yelled back.
“Then you can say goodbye to spending time excavating with Eddy or visiting Mrs. Hobbs.”
A half-hour later I stormed out of the house and headed up Sullivan and then right on McBride. I hadn’t bothered to brush my hair, and I knew my aunt had seen me leave wearing my ripped skater T-shirt, the one she said I could only wear around the house. I thought about skipping the sailing lessons and going to Mrs. Hobbs for the day, but Aunt Margaret was probably planning to check up on me.
I was so angry that I broke into a run and sped down the road. When I arrived at the sailing club, I was out of breath and gasping. Then I noticed a tall guy standing in the doorway of the clubhouse. His skin was so tanned and shiny that he reminded me of an oiled hot dog.
“Hey, there, you must be Patty. I’m the sailing instructor — Vic Torrino. But the kids just call me Tornado. Get it? Torrino, Tornado!”
I tried to tell him that my name wasn’t Patty, but he only started to babble some more.
Reading the Bones Page 5