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word. “Th
ey drop some bombs to plow out a harbor, nice and
peaceful.” His voice was neither nice nor peaceful.
“Plowshare?” Sonny said.
“It’s in the Bible,” Luke said quietly. “In Isaiah.”
Amiq reached over and grabbed Junior’s newspaper right off his desk without even asking. Junior frowned and adjusted his glasses.
“Th
ey said they were gonna use Operation Plowshare
to demonstrate the peaceful use of nuclear weapons,” Amiq hissed, grabbing Junior by the shoulders so violently that he nearly fell off his chair. “Right here.” He stabbed at the paper with his fi nger, right where it said “Nuclear Blast” in large letters.
Junior wanted to punch him.
Amiq shoved the paper back onto Junior’s desk and slapped Junior on the back. Father turned sideways, eyeing the two of them and noticing, for the fi rst time, Junior’s newspaper .
Amiq smiled smoothly and lifted it up for Father to see.
“Th
e editor is Junior’s uncle,” he told Father. He nudged Junior.
“Can I do a story, Father?” Junior croaked. “For the school paper? About this one?” He looked down as he said it, his face growing warm, waiting for Father to dismiss the idea. Father probably wouldn’t think a person like Junior could write about something as important as a nuclear blast.
“Yes, that would be good, Junior. A story about your uncle’s newspaper,” Father said.
Junior opened his mouth, then shut it again. A story about 199
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the newspaper—that’s not what he meant. But Father already had his back turned. Amiq leaned over and tapped the headline in Junior’s uncle’s paper: “Project Chariot Still On.”
“You ought to do a story on that, ” Amiq said.
Luke sat in the library with Sonny, Michael O’Shay, and Amiq, staring at Amiq’s collection of Anchorage Times news clippings, each one cut out neatly to the exact shape of its story. Amiq had laid them out like puzzle pieces.
“Eskimos in Game Law Revolt,” cried one headline. “Offi
-
cials Say Eskimos Warned on Duck Killing,” another scolded.
Luke’s Uncle Joe was right up front in one of the pictures, smiling the same way he smiled when he told Luke that Catholics ate horse meat.
Duck killing. Luke remembered the three dozen ducks he and Uncle Joe had caught one spring. Th
ey had not called it
duck killing.
Giving away all those ducks had been just like Christmas; they gave ducks to everyone. Some of the people they gave ducks to hadn’t had any fresh meat all winter. When Luke thought about rich people, he always remembered handing out all those ducks, the smell of duck soup everywhere.
Th
e Anchorage Times story said 138 Eskimo hunters had turned themselves in to the game warden in Barrow, waiting to be arrested for catching ducks out of season. Th ey did it
because they were protesting a law that made it illegal to hunt ducks in the spring and fall, the only times the ducks were in Alaska. One of the newspaper stories called it the Duck-In.
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Luke studied the picture. Th
e hunters were waiting in line
in front of the game warden. Th
e one at the head of the line
was signing a piece of paper. Every single hunter held a dead duck. Uncle Joe was standing in the front of that picture, off to one side, holding his duck up high, like it was some kind of victory symbol. Grinning straight into the camera with a look that made Luke smile.
It made Amiq smile, too. “I like this guy,” he said. “Fearless.”
His dad would’ve liked the look on that guy’s face, too, Amiq thought . Like he’s not afraid of anything. Like he could ask to get arrested and grin about it.
Luke nodded. Th
at’s how he is, all right.
Th
ere was something about that picture that just forced you to notice it. Th
ose hunters were all Luke’s family, too—
uncles and great uncles, his mom’s cousins and Uncle Joe’s buddies—and Uncle Joe seemed so alive, bigger than life. Like he could just step right out of the newspaper and march into the room with all those hunters behind him.
Fearless.
Luke looked up and blinked with a sudden realization.
When they were all together like that, what was there to be afraid of ?
“Th
ey got a jail in Barrow big enough for that many hunters?” Michael O’Shay asked, leaning over Luke’s shoulder.
“Not a chance,” Amiq said. Th
ey would of had to take ’em
to Fairbanks.”
“Th
ey’d have to pay for one heck of a big plane to send 201
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all those guys to Fairbanks,” O’Shay said, and suddenly Amiq started laughing. Laughing and laughing the way Luke’s uncle must have laughed. Laughing for both him and his dad.
“All them hunters and their ducks!” he cried. “Don’t forget the ducks!”
“You don’t need permission,” Amiq was saying.
Th
ey were sitting in the Sacred Heart Guardian editorial offi
ce, which was actually Father Flanagan’s classroom. Chickie and Sonny were Sacred Heart Guardian reporters, and Junior was the editor. Amiq wasn’t anything.
Junior looked at Amiq but didn’t say a word. Who’d said anything about permission?
“Father said I should write about my uncle’s newspaper,”
Junior said.
“Yeah, but that’s not the real story,” Amiq said.
Junior bristled. Th
e real story? Junior could feel the real
story. He could almost hear it, in fact. It whispered in the back of his mind, like a tape machine rolling with the sound turned down low. He could hear the clacking sound of tape on the reel, but he couldn’t hear the words, because Amiq was talking too much.
Junior turned away, tuning Amiq out, thinking about the Duck-In. One of the papers had called it “a civil disobedience action,” which was a curious phrase. How could people be civil and disobedient at the same time?
Junior thought about the hunters. First one hunter had been arrested for catching a duck out of season, and then the 202
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rest got upset, and they all showed up, holding ducks. Th ey
weren’t trying to break the law, like the Anchorage papers said.
Th
ey were just sticking together, following their own law .
Th
at was the real story, Junior thought. Or was it?
And what was the real story behind Project Chariot—the story he wanted to tell? Junior wasn’t exactly sure. But he was sure about one thing: he could fi nd the real story just fi ne without any help from Amiq.
“Th
e story Father told me to write is the story about the new newspaper,” Junior said again. He said it just to shut Amiq up. He needed time to think.
“Is that how your uncle got a new newspaper, by writing the stories somebody told him to write?” Amiq said.
Junior adjusted his glasses. “I guess,” he said.
Amiq grinned and shook his head, like he knew better.
“You write it down and I�
��ll help keep you honest,” he said.
Chickie looked at Junior and rolled her eyes.
“I can write my own story,” Junior said.
But his jaw was set so hard, it felt like he was going to have to grind the words out sideways.
When Father Flanagan read Junior’s story, all he did was frown and scratch his head.
“Th
is isn’t quite what I was expecting, Junior.”
Junior swallowed hard and nodded. Amiq, in the corner of the room, grinned.
“Th
is isn’t the kind of story we run in the Sacred Heart Guardian. And it’s not very uplifting, either, is it?” Father said.
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“A bunch of grown men, breaking the law—who wants to hear about that?”
Junior nodded again, his chest tightening.
“Th
e Guardian is for our students, Junior. Our students are interested in hearing about your uncle’s newspaper because he’s your uncle. Th
is other stuff ”—Father waved his arm like
he was shooing off mosquitoes—“this other stuff belongs in your uncle’s paper, not in ours.”
Junior looked down and nodded a third time, biting his cheeks to keep the tears away. He could feel Amiq, over there in the corner, watching. Th
ey were all watching. He lifted his
chin and adjusted his glasses.
“Write one about the paper, will you, Junior?” Father said.
Junior nodded and swallowed. Th
e lump in this throat
was sharp as ice.
“What about you, Chickie? What are you writing about?”
Father asked.
“I’m writing about the new desks Sister Mary Kate got, the ones that school in Anchorage donated.” She said it fast, watching Junior out of the corner of her eye as if writing about new desks made her feel guilty all of a sudden.
“Great idea,” Father said, shuffl
ing through a pile of papers
on his desk. “What’s the headline?”
Chickie looked at Junior. Junior, after all, was the editor.
“Providence Strikes Again,” Amiq said loudly. “Th
at’s the
headline.”
Chickie glared at Amiq, and Amiq winked.
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“Clever,” Father said without looking up. “Very catchy.
Sister Mary Kate and her acts of Providence . . . now there’s an uplifting story.”
Father scooped up his papers and slid out of the room.
“You kids keep at it,” he called back.
Amiq was hovering behind Chickie like a big crow, reading her story.
“Sister Mary Kate and her student volunteers are up to their elbows in sandpaper and varnish, and from out of the dust, shiny new desks are arising,” Amiq read.
Chickie frowned and swatted him away, but you could tell she was proud of her story. It was good.
“Sounds like all that dust is gonna get stuck to the varnish on their elbows,” Amiq said.
Junior grinned at the image, resisting a sudden urge to laugh out loud.
“Is not,” Chickie squeaked, pulling at the sleeve of her sweater and swatting, again, at Amiq. She reminded Junior of an indignant little squirrel.
“And those desks look just like new, too,” Chickie chit-tered.
Amiq smiled innocently. “Absolutely.”
Junior ducked his head, biting his cheeks to keep from laughing.
Amiq began pacing around the room like he was being propelled by some kind of creative energy, circling over Junior like a bird of prey. Swooping down so suddenly it made 205
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Junior fl inch. Th
en he landed on the chair next to Junior’s
and watched him impatiently, like he expected Junior to do something. Something he wanted done.
Junior bent his head over his paper and began scribbling furiously. He wasn’t really writing anything important; he was just trying to distract Amiq, trying to hear the words to his story. Th
ey still seemed to be rolling along in the back
of his mind, just out of earshot. If Amiq would just leave him alone, maybe he could hear them. But Amiq refused to be distracted. Every time Junior ducked his head lower, Amiq ducked his head, too, sticking his nose right up next to Junior’s paper until pretty soon it seemed like Junior was either going to have to stop writing or start writing on Amiq’s nose.
Junior put his pen down and looked at Amiq.
“It was a good story, the one you wrote,” Amiq said.
Junior shook his head. No, it wasn’t a good story. It hadn’t said what Junior had wanted it to say. Junior realized this with sudden clarity.
“You aren’t going to let them bully you around, are you, Junior?” Amiq said.
Junior sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and looked Amiq right square in the eye. “No one’s bullying me around,”
he said.
“You remember that story about the duck hunters?” Amiq said.
Junior nodded.
“Civil disobedience, just like you said.”
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“I never said that,” Junior pointed out.
“And it only works when writers do their job and write about it,” Amiq said.
Junior blinked with surprise. He was a writer! No one had ever called him that before. He liked the sound of it. He liked it a lot.
“Th
ose Barrow hunters weren’t trying to be disobedient,”
Junior said. It felt like he was speaking with a brand-new authority, the authority of a writer. “Th
ey were just trying to
feed their family.”
He started to correct himself—he’d meant to say families—but then he started thinking about the word family.
Family started out in one village and spread to another and then another. Spread throughout the whole state of Alaska and even down into the Lower 48, some families. And they were all related, too. Just like Luke’s uncle having a cousin in Barrow that time they did the Duck-In.
Th
e human family—he’d heard that phrase before, too.
Suddenly the idea of people just trying to feed their family took on new meaning. He thought about Project Chariot—
the force of the blasts shooting out into the ocean, where people catch whales to feed all the families. And he thought about the ice cellars where they stored whale meat and maktak for the whole community family, and about the bomb shelters where people were going to hide from the bomb that threatened everybody—the whole human family.
He saw the mushroom cloud of a bomb, like he’d seen it in Life magazine, and the feathery spray of the whale . . .
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Amiq was still talking, all right, but Junior barely even heard him. Junior was recording sentences in his mind. Th ey
were the kind of sentences no one could ever ignore. He picked up the neatly typed story Father Flanagan had dismissed and tossed it into the trash. Amiq watched him with a look—a look of what? Surprise? Shock? No, Junior decided; the word was astonish. Amiq looked astonished.
“You can’t just throw it away!” Amiq’s voice rose. “Just because Father said so?”
“Yes, I can.” Junior said.
“Stand up for yourself for once,” Amiq sa
id.
But Junior wasn’t listening. Junior had started to tell another story in his mind. It was like talking into the tape recorder, but this time, a tape recorder with the sound on.
Th
e reel went round and round, and people were listening.
He couldn’t see them, but he could feel them. Th
ey were out
there, somehow, listening to his words. At fi rst it was just the people in his village—his aaka and all his aunties and uncles—people who knew him and understood the story.
But then there were others—strangers from Fairbanks and Anchorage, maybe even Seattle—a whole audience of people who thought the way Father thought. He could feel them leaning forward, as if they were trying to understand. And it was up to him to tell this story in a way they could understand, because he was the storyteller. He was the writer.
“You could send it to the Tundra Times, ” Amiq said.
“Wrong audience,” Junior said. Everyone looked at Junior, and their faces all said the same thing: Audience?
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Junior took a deep breath and looked down. But the tape kept rolling.
Th
e headline for Junior’s story read “From the Ice Cellar to the Bomb Shelter.”
When Father Flanagan read it, he smiled nervously.
It started with the image of Junior’s aaka eating fresh duck soup, meat the young hunters brought her because that’s what hunters do, they feed the people, especially the old ones. And it ended with a nuclear blast bright enough to blind them all. And there was a lot of stuff in between, too, both sad and happy.
When Chickie read it, it made her think of Bunna. She wasn’t sure why, it just did. When Luke read it, he was glad Junior had said something about iodine-131 and the way those guys had put wires on them. He just hoped people would hear what Junior was saying and do something. He wasn’t sure what he wanted them to do. But when he read it a second time, he realized that in fact Junior had never said a single word about iodine-131.
How had Junior done that, he wondered—said something without actually saying it?
My Name Is Not Easy Page 18
