by Pam McGaffin
“So, what did he do when he visited?” Mom asks.
Trinity’s expression turns thoughtful as she considers her answer. “He listened. He asked questions. He played Ping-Pong. He talked about fishing. He cared.”
She motions for us to follow her into the longhouse. We enter a space that seems large and intimate at the same time. The light is dim, amber-colored, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The sound of a drum draws my attention to a group of dancers in ceremonial dress. A man directing them sees us and waves. Trinity waves back.
“Our dance group is practicing for tomorrow,” she says. “This is where the potlatch will be. I wanted to show you this because Steve was absolutely passionate about this project. He helped us raise the money we needed to rebuild after the fire.”
“Fire?” Mom asks, suddenly interested.
“Yes, our old longhouse was among the buildings destroyed in a rash of arson fires some years ago.”
I want her to tell us more about the fires, but she turns and starts walking toward the man who waved at us. We’re introduced to Joe, a master storyteller, who shakes our hands and tells us that Dad was quite the storyteller in his own right.
“Apparently there were some stories he didn’t tell us,” Mom says, her voice flat.
As we walk back to the green house, which is actually called that, Trinity explains the importance of stories to Native Alaskans.
“Our myths and teachings build cultural identity and pride, much of which has been lost. Steve, in his way, was doing his part to make sure our stories never die.”
Mom stops and shakes a pebble out of her right shoe. “If he was so involved,” she says, resuming her mincing walk, “why didn’t he tell us about it?”
I hear the challenge in her voice, but I’m glad she asked the question because I want to know, too.
Trinity is silent for so long, I wonder if Mom’s tone has offended her. “I really have no idea,” she says finally. “He talked a lot about fishing, but never his life outside of it. I got the impression fishing was his life.”
Mom’s burst of laughter takes me by surprise. “Truer than you know,” she says. “Truer than you know.”
As we approach the back of the green house, kids pass us carrying boxes and bags of food.
“Hi, Jimmy. Did you find your hat?” Trinity asks a plump boy with a buzz cut.
He shakes his head.
“Keep looking.” She leads us up the steps to the back porch. “So this potlatch,” she says. “It’s a memorial for a clan elder. Geraldine Weaver. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”
Mom and I shake our heads as we thread our way through the busy kitchen. The smell of bread baking makes my stomach growl.
“Anyway, she made it her mission to resurrect the Tlingit language. Not many speak it anymore. When Russell came to my office, I thought he was going to tell me that some representatives from the church were here. They’re taking us on as a charity.” She frowns. “Ironic. The church once did everything in its power to strip us of our culture.”
We return to Trinity’s office, which I now notice used to be a nursery. Running along the top of the baby blue walls is a decorative strip of the cat and the fiddle and the cow jumping over the moon. The clothes I saw earlier spill over the sides of big cardboard boxes against the wall. Next to them is an old-fashioned, foot-pump sewing machine like the one Grandma Grace has. The opposite wall is lined with shelves holding bins of what look to be art supplies. They remind me of Dad’s hardware filing cabinet, but messier.
Trinity’s desk is buried in papers and mail. It’s a wonder she found my letter. Mounted above her desk is a large, framed photograph of a bunch of people posing around a totem pole. Dad isn’t hard to pick out. He stands at least a head taller than everyone else and is the only non-Indian. He has his arms over the shoulders of the teenagers beside him, a boy and a girl. Jody’s in front, wearing her trademark baseball cap, and, off to the side, like a teacher in an elementary school class photo, is a younger Trinity.
“That picture was taken at the pole-raising ceremony,” she says. “Somewhere in here, I have a whole bunch of photos from that day.” She turns around and scans a bookshelf above her desk and finally pulls out a thick green photo album. “Here it is. We document everything now. I swear we could single-handedly keep Kodak in business.” She plops the album down on top of the layer of papers on her desk. “I’m sure Steve is in several of those pictures if you’d care to flip through here.”
Trinity sits down at her desk and explains some of the pictures as we flip through the album. My tall father is like a beacon in his red sweater. There he is walking in a procession of people, pulling on a rope, standing in the crowd, posing, smiling. Seeing him in all these pictures feels like spying, even though I’m now convinced he wasn’t doing anything shameful here. Saintly is more like it. Was I really going to ask Trinity if she was harboring a man who’d faked his death? That book she gave him with the story of the vengeful she-bear was just an odd coincidence. If all these pictures don’t prove Dad had nothing to hide, I don’t know what would.
Oh my God, what about that photo? T’s favorite.
“Who’s Miss Red?” I blurt out loudly.
Trinity stops talking. I’ve interrupted her in about the rudest way possible, but she just looks at me and cocks her head, as if trying to place the name.
“The note I found that you wrote to my Dad. It said, My favorite photo of you and Miss Red.”
The answer comes to her, bringing a smile. “Miss Red isn’t who! It’s a what. You knew her as the Lady Rose.”
“Miss Red” for a boat that was mostly red. I remember what Murf said about nicknames in Alaska. I want to ask Trinity why people and things up here are never called by their real names, but I’m distracted by a nervous tapping next to me, Mom’s heels against the hardwood floor.
“Okay, so Miss Red was the boat,” she says. “But how do you explain the condoms? I’d find condoms in Steve’s pockets.”
I want to disappear.
Trinity pauses. I study the grains of wood in the floorboards. My cheeks are on fire.
“We really don’t advertise that,” Trinity says. “You see, we started making condoms available to our teens several years ago after we saw an alarming rise in teen pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases. They’re going to have sex, whether we like it or not. We want them to protect themselves.”
I look up to see Trinity point out the boxes against the wall.
“As you can see, we get plenty of donations of clothing, but we have to appeal for other necessities, like toothpaste, soap, and deodorant. Condoms are no less necessary, but we don’t dare ask for them, for obvious reasons. Steve knew that, and he always brought a bunch to replenish our stocks. Heaven knows what the drugstore clerks must have thought.”
I laugh at that, but Mom doesn’t. She starts to sway on her feet. Before I know it, she’s grabbing the edge of Trinity’s desk and sinking to the floor.
“Oh, dear,” Trinity says just as Mom lands with a thud and rocks back, one hand still reaching for the desk. I really should help, but I’m frozen. Fortunately, Trinity isn’t. She rushes over, bends down next to Mom and asks me to find something in the clothing box we can use for a pillow. Thankful for something to do, I grab the softest thing I can find, a hooded winter parka, and hand it to her. She folds it up and eases it under Mom’s head.
“Does anything hurt?” she asks her. “Let’s take this off.” She removes the scarf around my mother’s neck. Mom’s hand flutters up to hide what the scarf was covering: a patch of red welts that makes me want to scratch just looking at it. But Trinity has the grace not to say anything, and Mom eventually drops her hands and surrenders to her care.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says as Trinity helps her sit up. “God, I’ve made such a mess of things.”
Trinity strokes Mom’s arm. “You’ve lost a husband. This must be a lot to take in when you’re still so raw. No need
to apologize.”
“No.”
I don’t know what she’s saying no to. No, she does need to apologize? Trinity and I sit Mom down in a chair, then Trinity goes off to get her a glass of water. Why do people always assume you’re thirsty when you’re upset? I ask Mom if she’s okay, even though the answer should be obvious. For several long seconds, she just sits there hugging herself. Then she clears her throat. “That’s a hard question to answer right now.”
“Okay.”
She reaches out to pat my shoulder. “We have a lot to talk about.”
I should be glad that Mom’s finally admitting there is stuff to talk about, but all I feel is nervous relief when Trinity returns with two glasses of water, one for each of us.
“I have an idea,” she says. “Why don’t the two of you come to the potlatch tomorrow as my guests?”
“I … I don’t know,” Mom sputters, either uncomfortable or embarrassed, I’m not sure which.
“You won’t be the only whites there.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” she says, flustered. “It’s just, well, we don’t know the deceased.”
Trinity waves her hand dismissively. “So what. Seems like you could use a party.”
I’m confused. “A party? But you said it was a memorial. Isn’t that like a funeral?”
“We had the funeral a year ago,” Trinity says. “This potlatch is a celebration that marks the end of mourning for friends and family. The dead are released to go on to the spirit world and be reborn.”
“Well, that sounds nice,” Mom says.
There’s a moment of awkwardness where we’re all waiting for someone else to speak first. I don’t know about the potlatch, but I’m thinking that Trinity is right. A party might be just what we need.
“We’d love to come!” I say, answering for both of us.
CHAPTER 28
Boat-hook
A pole with a hook on the end used to reach into the water to catch buoys or other floating objects
Mom booked us a room in Ketchikan’s oldest hotel, a musty building with creaky stairs and a bathroom at the end of the hall. The innkeeper’s desk is just like the ones you see in old movies, with rows of keys hanging on the wall. As we walk past, the clerk stops us and asks if we’re “the Petrovich party.” There’s that word again. It strikes me as funny given it’s just the two of us, and Mom’s hobbling because she’s still woozy and her feet hurt. I nod.
“Something came for you.” He reaches down behind the counter and comes out with my backpack and flowered suitcase.
“Oh, wow! Thank you!” I take the bags, which smell of fish. “Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome, Miss.” The clerk, an older man, discreetly wipes his hands on the jacket of his uniform and sniffs.
Our room has two twin beds separated by a nightstand with a drawer that holds the Holy Bible, a tablet, and a pen. On the wall over the beds is a painting of a mother bear and her cubs at the banks of a river. Everything, even the painting, is green or gold—gold carpet, green chair, heavy green drapes over the window. I start to pull them open to see our view of the moss-covered building next door.
“Oh, leave those closed,” Mom says. She sits on the bed closest to the door, takes off her shoes, and lies down.
With nothing better to do, I dump the contents of my backpack and suitcase on the other bed. Maybe I’ll find my necklace. I start tossing all the candy bar wrappers, moldy leftover sandwiches, and orange peels in the room’s little plastic-lined trashcan. There’s no necklace, but I do find something else. In the outside pocket of my backpack, where I have Trinity’s letter and the partial photo of me and Dad, is a small package wrapped in a magazine centerfold of Davy Jones from The Monkeys, his luscious lips on one side and his heavily browed eyes on the other. I open it up to find a folded piece of notebook paper and two macramé bracelets, one with blue and green beads and the other with black and red. The note says, “For my friend, Ida-Sue (Can-a-lot survivor and best roommate ever!!!): Please write.” Underneath is Jody’s full name and a Ketchikan address, care of “Mrs. Mildred House.” Her grandmother?
Thanks, Jody. I slip the new bracelets on my wrist with the first one she made me, getting that lump that everyone talks about, except that mine isn’t in my throat—it’s in my heart, knowing I’ll probably never see her again.
Wait a minute. What if she was the one who dropped off my stuff? Nah. They wouldn’t let her leave work during the busiest time of the year. On the other hand, my stuff was in our room. I can’t imagine anyone else bothering to pack up my stinky, crusty clothes.
A knock, loud and confident. Could it be? Did Fate time this? I hurriedly fumble with the chain lock to open the door.
It isn’t Jody.
I scream. Dena screams. We hug and she lifts me off the floor, which hurts my banged up bod, but there’s no stopping her. We scream some more before I remember Mom is trying to sleep. I usher her in, her and her enormous backpack/sleeping bag combo, like she’s just spent the last two months camping. For once, she’s as ragged looking as I am, no makeup on and her hair rolled up in a sloppy bun. She dumps her load on the floor and flops back in the green chair, arms and legs splayed like a starfish.
“Not to sound rude or anything, but what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Didn’t your mom tell you? I’m coming back with you guys. Couldn’t hack it. Canning is just too damn gross and boring.” She plays with her right hoop earring. “Nice bandage, by the way. Rocks are so unforgiving.”
“You heard about my accident?”
Dena rolls her eyes. “Your mom only told the world, and this was after all the missing posters and phone calls. They thought you were with me.” She shakes her pointer finger at me. “You had us all worried. Then you go and crack your head open. But at least we found you. Actually, Sam called your mom.”
“I thought so.”
“No offense, but I’m kind of glad. I can’t get out of here soon enough.” Her eyes sweep around the green and gold room. “I thought Alaska would be so, I don’t know, exciting? Ha! The scenery’s kind of nice, but half the time it’s raining so hard you can’t see it. And sliming.” She shudders. “I never want to see another salmon for as long as I live.”
“I know. Me neither.”
“But at least you stuck with it. You weren’t calling begging to come home.”
“No.”
“You’re made of stronger stuff than me. So your head’s okay?”
“It hurts a little and I’m kind of tired, but the doctor said to expect that. At least I’m evened out now.”
“Huh?”
I tap my finger to my slightly crooked nose.
“Oh yeah.”
Behind us, Mom’s mattress creaks. She’s sitting up and digging through her purse in the light from the night-table lamp. She gets a bill out of her wallet. “Hello, Dena. Did you have any trouble finding this place?”
“Nope.” Dena straightens up in her chair.
“Good. Here’s some money,” she says, handing me a ten. “Why don’t you girls go downstairs and get a snack in the lounge?”
“You’re not coming with us?” I stuff the bill in one of my back pockets.
“No, I’m going to rest some more. But you can bring me up a turkey sandwich.”
As we walk down the hall to the stairs, Dena says, “She really loves you, you know.”
A heavy sigh betrays my guilt. “I wish people would stop reminding me what a jerk I’ve been.”
“Sorry.” Dena’s stride slows as she turns towards me. “I just thought you should know what my dad said about your mom when he was helping her find you. He said she was really scared, like really scared. I mean, you can see for yourself. She looks terrible.”
“I know. I know. I already feel like crap for worrying her, okay?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t say that to make you feel like crap, Ida. It’s just that, well, I do it too. We take our parents for granted. We even
hate them sometimes. Since your dad, you know … I’ve been appreciating my dad a lot more. And then, being up here at this stinky job, well, it really makes you think about how good you have it.”
“I suppose.”
The dining room isn’t open for dinner yet, but we can get stuff that doesn’t require cooking. We slide into a cave-like booth that smells of stale cigarettes and order the boysenberry pie a la mode. There’s only one slice left so we have to share. I’m glad I remember to ask for Mom’s turkey sandwich to go.
Our pie comes. I dig into its tart-sweet-flaky-creamy-cold wonderfulness like a starved person.
“Do you think we need to experience bad stuff to know what good is?” I ask Dena. “After I was rescued, I was so thankful for everything—not just my life, but the people in it. Sam and Jody, my cannery roommate, and even this weird guy who I thought was a pirate but ended up saving us. It was weird. I just felt all this love. But it took almost dying.”
Dena nods vigorously with her mouth full of pie. She swallows and points her fork at me. “Exactly! That’s why our dads came up here. It wasn’t just the fishing, it was the excitement and the occasional close call. They felt more alive after they cheated death. It’s the danger. They get kind of hooked on it.”
“So to speak.”
“Ha, hooked,” she says. “I get it. By the way, did you find out anything?”
“Oh, my God, I haven’t told you about Trinity!”
Her fork stops midway to her mouth, dripping ice cream.
“Dad’s secret lady friend in Alaska.” I fill her in on the note, the letters, our visit to the youth center, and the mystery surrounding Miss Red and Two-Bit.
“Turns out Miss Red was another name for Dad’s boat. I didn’t get the chance to ask about Two-Bit because, well, Mom kind of beat me to the punch. She asked Trinity about the condoms she found in Dad’s pockets.”
Dena mouth drops open mid-chew.
“I thought I‘d die, but Trinity didn’t miss a beat. She told Mom the condoms were for preventing teen pregnancy. She said Dad donated them to the Center. Then Mom got all upset and, like, collapsed on the floor.”
