by Amy Espeseth
Her daddy nods and reaches across to her and pulls her tight to him; since I am holding on to Naomi, I am pulled into his flannel jacket too. He smells like a man. Aunt Gloria puts her arms around us all, and we pause there together for a while.
As we turn to head in to start fixing supper, Uncle Ingwald’s spotlight swings inside the shed and the light catches on ten or twenty eyes staring from the corners. In the cold air, my scared, quick breath in makes me cough. Uncle Ingwald’s eyes are now wet from laughing at me and my fright.
‘Daddy.’ Naomi sounds like a little girl whining. ‘Don’t laugh at her when she’s scared.’
And I am scared. Staring back at me from the shadowy eaves of that creaking shed are opossums clinging to branches and a fox with a pheasant dragging out of its mouth. There is a grimy muskrat and a mean-looking weasel stacked on a shelf and three old fish, maybe muskies, hanging on the wall. I got such a fright, I’m shivering in spite of myself.
Aunt Gloria tells Uncle Ingwald he better clean up his mess, and by mess she means me. I’m trying to laugh at being afraid of dusty animals covered in cobwebs. You got to expect taxidermy in a taxidermy shed, but those glass eyes just about shocked the life right out of me.
To make up for the fright, Uncle Ingwald is going to let Naomi and me help him with a pelt. Besides mounting most of the deer and other hunted animals around our neighbourhood, he also puts up fur from trapping. My daddy says that though Ingwald is home-taught and slow, he’s about the best taxidermist and tanner he’s ever seen. Working one or two jobs off the farm while trying to run a trap line — checking sets morning and night — a guy don’t always have the time to flesh and skin out his own catch. So Uncle Ingwald takes care of it. He takes care of it right, as long as you don’t mind waiting until after the Lord and the church, waiting until he gets around to it.
Lights on now, I can see animals in varying states of life all over the shed. Some new ones still got bodies, but most are pelts and parts. I know that my body is just a house for my soul, but seeing these inside-out animals with pink-grey skin stretched tight makes me wonder. Stroking my hand across a finished silky mink, I believe I’m knowing mink for the first time. Mink is soft almost to wetness, still and sleek; mink is not beady eyes and sharp teeth. There are other scalps — muskrat, weasel and skunk — stretched out on wood around the shed. Uncle Ingwald points out which animal is which as we can’t always tell from the inside out. He explains while lifting up various just-come-in bodies or skins or pelts on boards.
‘You got to case the fur, pull it inside out like a sweater over your head.’ He says to take the skin, slit it from one hind foot to the other and peel it back up over the head. ‘Now you got yourself a hose of skin, a cased fur. You don’t case a coyote, fisher, grey or red fox, not a bobcat either. You leave them with the fur on the outside and prepare the pelt thataway.’ Beavers are special too: skin them open by cutting down the underside, slit them from nose to tail.
Uncle Ingwald is happy out here in the tanning shed; he moves his arms — covered in wiry, red-blonde hair — like he does when he’s really preaching. He points to chemicals in bottles on the tables, pats furry animals hanging from gambrels, and rubs a few slick skins pulled taut over fleshing beams. The fleshing beams are pointed boards that look like short skis, but skis with a strange glove of skin and fur. There is little blood, mostly skin, grey and pink skin and stripy fur. Uncle Ingwald is pulling up a soaking raccoon, and he looks mighty excited. He is known for his brain tan and is rightly proud.
‘Now what I’m rubbing into the coon, this is just a little brain tan.’
Naomi’s momma don’t like him cooking the cow brain in her kitchen, so he simmers it out here in a pot of water on the camp stove and then mashes it up good with an ice-fishing strainer. He likes the brain tan; it must remind him of his grandpa, Naomi’s and my great-grandpa, putting up fur for neighbours.
‘Not using chemicals for this one — just like the early folk around these woods and the Indians too — just using regular oil straight from the brain. Got to rub it into the skin of this coon, then I’ll wait for her to dry and start scraping and working her. I’ll work her until she’s snow-white and soft as a girl’s cheek. Take me a while, but she’ll get there.’
Naomi can do it too. She can stretch and flesh an animal, scraping off every little bit of fat and muscle without even tearing the hide. She’s nowhere as quick as Uncle Ingwald, but she is practising. I watch as her black-haired arms work a tube of skin and fur and her daddy leans over and guides her with his heavy hands. His pants press hard against her back while he talks low and slow of oil glands, stripping tails, rabies and such. I watch with my glassy eyes, sometimes pretending I’m Naomi; sometimes pretending I’m Uncle Ingwald. I stay still and catch dust on my hair.
‘Don’t work that section so much it gets weak.’ Uncle Ingwald helps Naomi as she scrapes and cleans the skin toward the tail. ‘One little bit of fat will spoil the whole pelt.’
You got to scrape out the insides to preserve the fur. That animal is more than dead: it is empty, and this is the only way to pretend it is still alive. We all pretend together. Whether the skunk is stuffed and mounted with glass eyes and one foot raised up ready to step, or whether the pelt is soft and silky and ready to make a fur collar, we all pretend together that it is real. It will stay that way forever.
Naomi’s arms are slowing; she is done for the night.
As we walk together toward the house, I worry about church in the morning. Just last Sunday, my uncle preached scary.
‘There may be corpses amongst us this morning, corpses that haven’t been buried yet.’
He told us to take out what is inside. He told us to reject the pretender who seeks to destroy.
‘My eyes have seen Thy salvation. The Enemy seeks to eliminate and ignore. Woe to the scribes, Pharisees and hypocrites. Do not cleanse the outside of a bowl or cup and leave the insides full of rot. Pretending is hiding behind a mask. This is not a dead, empty pulpit!’
I ain’t heard of nobody from the congregation dying, but I worry about bodies waiting to be raised from the dead. Week-long funerals with no burials have caused other Full Quarter churches to split; they splintered with cousins and brothers no longer speaking, let alone praying together on Sunday. We believe in Lazarus too; we believe, but I’ve never heard of us leaving a body in the sanctuary until it started to stink. Seems like flies are the end of our faith.
I wonder if our pulpit is dead and silent, and if our church smells of brain tan and blood. I wonder if I will feel black, furry raccoon arms holding and protecting me in my sleep. Maybe their masked eyes will look at me brown and gentle, or blue and mean and they’ll haunt me, hunting me through the night. Precious Jesus, please keep me warm and protect me from spoiling. Scrape me clean inside and make me holy. Wash me in Your blood, raise me from the dead and take me to live with You in heaven forever. Dear Jesus, all of these things are written on my heart, in Your Holy Name, amen.
19
HIS HAND IS BEHIND HIS BACK. IN ALMOST ALL HIS NAVY slides, Uncle Peter’s arm is crooked at a strange angle, tucked up and away and hidden from the camera. He’s grinning wide and his buddies are laughing, slouching in their rumpled off-duty gear. And the ladies with them — long black hair looping across sundresses, bare shoulders and barely covered breasts — are sparkly-eyed with wet, pink mouths. I know without them saying: he’s got a bottle of beer in that hidden hand.
Daddy and Peter and Reuben are smirking at the picture projected bright and big against the screen because they think I can’t know. They think that I don’t know about the liquor behind his back or what those wet mouths mean, but I do. They needn’t hide it — well, maybe they should from Mom and Naomi — but they needn’t hide it from me or for me. In the darkened living room, the slides of a teenaged Peter flash; the corners of the pictures glide off the screen and splas
h blue Pacific light across the curtains.
Plain winter light creeps in through the cracks between the curtains and the windows. It’s unusual for the men to be inside during daylight, but this cold Saturday afternoon seemed a good day for Uncle Peter to remember the old times, his away times. Dad and Peter are on the couch together, and my brother sits before them on the floor. Naomi and I are sharing the recliner, legs up on the footrest to make enough room. After New Year’s she came home with me. She was supposed to stay the night, but we’re almost tired of each other already after just a morning of hairstyling and radio. So she called Uncle Ingwald to come and get her before supper. For now, I’m thankful for the slides and the break.
Mom is edging around the room, shelving blankets, folding clothes, and sending sideways looks to make me feel guilty. Cleaning is Saturday afternoon’s chore, but my dust rag hangs clean and still between my knees. Naomi is supposed to be sorting odd socks — about the only job my mom trusts to the girl — but Reuben rests there without duty or blame.
Daddy lets Mom slip around the edges of the house, clanking pots and sighing, but he can’t ignore the vacuum cleaner’s roar.
‘Marie. Marie, come set with us a bit.’ And he grabs at her waist as she runs the vacuum near the couch.
Mom pushes his hands away but then smiles as he grabs her again and pulls her down, hard but catching her fall, onto his lap.
‘Let’s see all what Peter got up to, eh?’ Daddy smooths her hair and wraps his arms around her elbows, pulling her close in a tight hug.
My mom can’t help but smile, and she can’t really get away anyway. She leans back against him and turns her face to the flickering screen. She’s probably seen these slides before, all Peter’s adventures while he was in the navy. But that doesn’t mean she can’t see them new all again: white sand and palm trees; fish with sharp faces and fanned fins; coconuts stacked like cordwood; and girls, girls, girls.
The colours flash as each slide jangles into the projector and I see the places so far away. He left Failing, my uncle, and saw people and things none of us has seen. He met folks who didn’t know his name or where he was from, and no one knew he was one of us. No one even knew why he kept that hand hid behind his back. He left us, and could have gotten away, and still he returned. While the slides clink ahead, and Naomi braids and re-braids her hair, I imagine my way outside this place — outside this family and house. Me, lounging next to a boat with my shoulders bare and hair hanging loose; my mouth a wet, pink kiss. But there will be no slide of me hiking up my dress, the ocean up to my knees; there is no war for girls.
When the slides stop, Daddy slithers out from beneath Mom and opens the curtains. He heads into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’
And both Mom and Uncle Peter agree. Bored, Reuben pulls on his boots and goes out the door, but Naomi and me stay quiet on the recliner. If we are still enough, maybe Mom will forget the cleaning. Maybe we can waste all afternoon.
Uncle Peter and Mom rest side by side on the couch, talking about the oceans he’s crossed.
‘Sometimes I can’t believe I’ve been there, Marie.’
And she nods and smiles and puts her hand on his elbow.
‘Sometimes I can’t believe I ever left.’ My uncle looks down at his knees and back at my mother. ‘It all changed while I was gone: you all changed.’
The sun trickles in through the window and shines on her braid, escaped wisps tangled and caught behind her ear. She is lovely and smiling, settled low in the sagging middle of the couch, chewing her lip. Mom closes her eyes and opens them like she’s seeing old things new again. Sunlight streams through the glass and shows the dust in the air. The coffee percolator gurgles from the kitchen.
‘Up, girls. Get to work.’ And Mom springs forward off the couch, grabs my dust rag and play-swats me a little on the legs.
She’s humming and straightening and moving about the room before I can even get on my feet. I’m not going to feel shame for watching the slides, for sitting and resting gentle for an afternoon. Once I’ve done my dusting, I’ve decided we’ll be done. We are going to leave this house. Naomi and I will be outside in the cold and the light today. We are going to walk outside, even if it is just for a moment.
Naomi’s wearing Christmas presents from her mother’s people: snow gear, brand new every year. I’ve got on Reuben’s old camouflage pants and Naomi’s last year’s jacket. The jacket is missing a snap. She is a frosted cupcake; I am a yard sale.
Carrying a cup of hot water from the house, Naomi wants to throw it in the air and watch it freeze before it hits the ground. She heard the television weatherman say it would work. I don’t believe it. Not even cold this cold can halt and hold time.
‘It ain’t going to work.’ I shake my head and walk toward Naomi. She’s got her pink candy-striped gloves wrapped around the mug.
Her eyes darken. ‘Yes, it will. The weatherman said.’ She’s even pouting. ‘You don’t know everything.’
She’s always got to be right and, time to time, she gets mean about it.
‘Do it then. I’m cold.’ I stamp my boots.
‘You ain’t my boss, Ruth.’
‘Somebody has to be.’ What’s gotten into her, I don’t know.
‘Well, nobody would ever pick you.’ Naomi looks straight into my face with her black eyes. ‘Nobody would ever pick you first.’ And she pulls back her arm and throws the hot water across my chest.
The water is seeping into the jacket, but I can’t feel it. I can’t hear any noise or even smell the air. I can only see the frost forming across my chest, crisscrossing white and blotching the faded purple. I can only watch the freeze.
I can’t smell anything with my runny nose, but I can see breath and steam leave my body and hear birds and small things cracking little twigs. I can see sticks and trees and pale blue sky, dead long grass stiff and glazed with frost like diamond dust. Dirt don’t frost but leaves do. Some trees don’t release their leaves; they just die on the stalk. My legs ache in the cold.
A horn honks and we both jump. Without either of us noticing, the church van has wound its way down our long driveway. Uncle Ingwald doesn’t bother parking. Avoiding the slushy corners, he just turns around in the yard and then honks the horn again. She’s got to go home now. As she moves toward her daddy, Naomi looks over her shoulder at me but she doesn’t smile.
As I head for the house, I see Peter’s truck is gone. He and Reuben have gone off together again. I hear raised voices inside. Pressing my frosted body against the siding, I try to listen to the goings-on inside the kitchen. My parents must’ve fought the whole while Naomi and I were in the snow.
‘Shame you didn’t choose the right one.’ Daddy’s slamming pots and boxes around the kitchen, must be looking for his keys.
‘That ain’t fair.’ Mom ain’t even crying.
The keys jingle as he pushes the door with his hip. ‘Money don’t measure a man, Marie.’
She’s holding firm. ‘All I’m saying, all I’ve been saying, is that we need to fix the dryer.’
She’s right: hanging clothes by the fire means we’ve stunk of wet wool all winter. Kids sometimes won’t share a desk with me.
‘Blood from a stone. I can’t do any more than I can. I just can’t make you happy.’ And the door slams, and the warm air goes outside along with my daddy. He hardly ever says nothing, especially in a fight. His silence is worse than his words. He’s headed for the truck and he didn’t even grab his hat. He sure didn’t notice me standing there.
Usually, we don’t use words. We speak instead with eyes, head and hands: looking through, turning down, holding thighs. Folks move away to say what is necessary. My mother is soft and frightens easily. My father is not and does not. They stand and pray in our church pew. They walk up our dirt driveway, and the light between their bodies always shows like sun amongs
t the jack pines.
It is cold, inside and outside our house, and my mother is building up a fire. She banks the woodstove. The cast-iron stove throws and catches shadows, and I see more of that growing light of the in-between. Mom sits down on our soft sagging couch. Sometimes they rest there — my parents — near one another, not together but not alone.
I settle into a chair at the kitchen table to braid embroidery thread. Before we went outside, before the water, Naomi gave me some of her supplies and told me to make her a friendship bracelet. She was supposed to make me one too. Maybe she won’t, but I still will: over, under, I weave the purple and pink strings. My wrist is smaller than hers.
When my mom is sad, she stays apart from us, restless and moving. She also sings. All to Jesus I surrender; all to Him I freely give. I will ever love and trust Him, in His presence daily live. She sits alone at the battered wooden upright piano, singing and playing old hymns and choruses, even some from her childhood days. All to Jesus I surrender; humbly at His feet I bow. Worldly pleasures all forsaken, take me, Jesus; take me now. Even when singing alone, Mom sings the second part, and that low alto makes the meaning soar. All to Jesus I surrender; make me, Saviour, wholly Thine. Let me feel the Holy Spirit, truly know that Thou art mine.
I’ve listened to her songs, the same songs, dozens of times; but sometimes I hear something new in the singing. I can hear it especially when her face is wet, like today. It is the sound below that helps me hear. All to Jesus I surrender; Lord, I give myself to Thee. Fill me with Thy love and power; let Thy blessing fall on me. I surrender all, I surrender all. All to Thee, my blessed Saviour, I surrender all.
When Mom finishes singing, I halt my braiding and remembering and cross to the piano. She’s hurting. I lay my hands on her back and ask why she’s crying. She won’t answer.
‘Do you still love Daddy?’ I believe I need to know.