by Amy Espeseth
He’s taking off his big boots in the mud room, Uncle Peter is. And now he pushes open the door and starts off smiling. I’ve never seen him cross that threshold.
‘Merry Christmas.’
He already missed lunch. Acting like Peter being here is normal, everyone smiles and says hello — except Grandma just sits and looks out the window.
In a giant cardboard box, Uncle Peter’s brought turkeys for everyone. The turkey workers always give bit parts to their neighbours at the holidays, but my uncle’s got whole birds, processed and shrink-wrapped. They are huge turkeys; white plastic covers the featherless puckered skin. Unwrapped, they will be the colour of my flesh. With our family’s turkey resting on my lap, I feel the cold from the pick-up seeping into my thighs.
‘Merry Christmas, Momma.’ Uncle Peter cradles Grandma’s bird; he leans over her rocker to kiss her cheek.
‘You stink of kerosene.’ Grandma pulls her face away from her boy.
I notice the stumbling then. Uncle Peter is clumsy in his stocking feet but he’s still grinning big. He’s trying to catch their eyes, but nobody — not even my momma — will look at his face. I’m looking: his eyes are near to sleepy-shut, but his cheeks are up from the smiling and his head moves slow. His hand rests on the back of the rocking chair, fingers laced in the red crocheted blanket that usually supports Grandma’s head. But she’s up and moving now. Shaking her head and mumbling about the ‘smell of death’, Grandma brushes by Peter with her eyes set to cry.
‘Ingwald, take the drunkard home.’
And then she’s shut in her room. I hear the springs of her bed take her weight and a low sighing sound; except for the refrigerator noises from the kitchen, now the house is silent.
Uncle Ingwald don’t move from his chair. He sits there staring and don’t even look Peter in the face.
‘I’ll just leave the birds then.’ Uncle Peter drops Grandma’s and Ingwald’s turkeys onto the seat of Grandma’s rocker; it sways back and forth with the weight. His hip hits the arm of the chair as he turns around in a faltering circle and the blanket slips down the chair and shrouds the meat.
Mom jumps to her feet and reaches out to right the chair; she looks like she might cry.
Peter stares at my mom. The Christmas lights on the tree reflect in his eyes. ‘Merry Christmas, Marie.’ For the first time in my life, I see a grown man’s tears.
Daddy jumps up and holds his brother by the elbow. ‘Enough now.’ And he takes the empty box from Peter’s hands, and the man’s shoulders slump. Head down but eyes up, Daddy says he’s taking his brother home. He guides Peter through the living room into the kitchen.
We kids sit still, eyes down and trying to be small. Ingwald keeps his face toward the window, looking at the tiny triangle dents in the snow the birds make with their feet. Their tracks are stamped beneath the shadow of the feeder, mixed in with black sunflower seeds and cracked shells. He keeps his eyes on that snow.
Even when the Lord chooses to show Himself — causes His goodness to pass in front of our eyes and proclaims His name in our presence — we cannot see His face. No one may see Him and live. He has mercy on whom He chooses and compassion just the same. We do not know His ways and can only ponder. When the glory of the Lord passes by, He will hide us in a cleft in the rock and cover us with His hand. Look quick to see His back as He stirs and steps away; never try to look Him straight in the face.
17
I AM SCRUNCHED UP IN THE PICK-UP WITH DAD AND REUBEN driving around the neighbourhood. We are on our way into town to Ingwald’s place for the church’s regular New Year’s celebration. Mom’s already at the parsonage helping Aunt Gloria prepare, but Daddy always likes to drive past all the nearby homeplaces to get a look at what’s changed in a year. A quick gander at new machinery or maybe a different barn colour gives him something to talk about with the old farmers during the party. We know the Svensen barn collapsed and burnt, and we sure don’t need to drive past it. That change, from barn to ash, life to death, is too lasting to need to go and look at again. Every now and then, a tuft of ragged brown grass pokes up from the roadside, but the roads are slick with a layer of ice and then a light coating of snow. They aren’t too bad for nearly January, but we are driving slowly anyway to get a better look at the neighbours’ homesteads.
Daddy’s always watching, learning our land. Before we were born, he was a sneak hunter, tracking deer by their marks in the dirt or snow. With seeing eyes, he can tell doe hooves versus wide buck track; he was a born sneak hunter with a natural gentle pace and the patience of a stone. He can rest standing while he listens to a doe drink from the river, and he can crouch quiet while a flitting bird lands near and a fat red squirrel gnaws acorns. When Daddy drives the deer toward us and we stand or walk slow, my brother leads me. Even though Reuben nods deep and taps his foot on branches that could trip me up, I tend to stumble through. I am not a born sneak hunter.
Driving the neighbourhood, we turn the corner where the Goodenoughs live. Their house is a green timber box wrapped in plastic up to the ground-floor windows. Sensing a bad winter is coming, they also got straw and hay bales stacked against the siding to insulate even more from the cold, blowing wind. Rusted tractors, camper trailers and half-built snowmobiles are scattered here and there across the yard. They must rob parts from the old machines to keep their new ones running. I’ve seen the old man hunkered on one of those sleds outside the grocery store; he waits on the snowmobile and smokes and coughs while the grey woman buys supplies. They don’t go to any church that I know of, but I think their last name makes them Indians, part at least. Grandma said that maybe they are Catholics too. We don’t see them much except buying provisions at the store during winter.
Across the road from the Goodenoughs is the former Nelson place, now the Bjorgen place. That Bjorgen is a good old farmer. He’s from over by Mishtogie or somewheres, and so he ain’t one of the original Failing families. He bought his farm fifty or so years ago, and he did marry a local widow so he wasn’t a true stranger. Only one son is his; the rest came as a package deal with his pretty wife. He claims them all, I guess. That youngest boy with the red hair plays the fiddle real good; I’ve heard him at the nursing home when our church and theirs — the Methodists, I think — share nursing home service. Our school bus route is crooked, so he don’t ride our bus. Because of that, I don’t know that boy all that well. Their place is falling down a bit, but it always looks tidy.
Another mile or so, and next is the Turgeson place. It is calm and still with near a proud acre of yard between the house and the barn. That round white barn stands straight against the snow while the trees make shadowy dances against its side. It is already getting dark even though we’ve just finished supper. Grandma told me why Mrs Turgeson’s mouth, her lips bitten and rough, is always tight even when singing hymns in church. I thought it was from holding her face straight when she helped the ladies of the church give birth, for she’s a midwife. But it wasn’t just that. Before I was born, Mrs Turgeson’s daughter fell in love with the Goodenoughs’ son. She even went and left high school and stayed with him — Evan, maybe — in one of the broken-down trailers that sit in the Goodenough part of the woods.
Just before hunting season and the first snows, she was home again already. She had bruised eyes and a big belly; her momma said rest but her daddy said she still had to pull her own weight. So she was mowing that big yard with the lawn tractor when Evan’s truck came roaring into the driveway. She was running toward the house, screaming and holding her big belly, when Evan unloaded his shotgun into her back. Her daddy didn’t come to see her buried amongst the weeds and fallen leaves in the country cemetery. When I watch him bow his grey head while serving communion, I see that fawn and that girl. My fawn taking a shortcut through the fence, and his girl taking a shortcut across the lawn; now the deer hangs as a cage of bones, and she is buried near a stone. When I
watch Mr Turgeson stand and pray, I see him holding her bleeding in the new-cut grass.
We set quiet in the truck as we go past that big yard; we just keep on driving. There’s plenty of time to make it to Ingwald’s house to help ring in the year. I’m very much looking forward to tonight, both for the fellowship and the rifle blasts from the roof of the parsonage. Although Ingwald ain’t a veteran, many in the congregation are, and they always make their own fireworks. The singing of ‘My Country, ’Tis of Thee’ and other patriotic songs and eating goodies will take up the hours after supper until midnight. We will be in good company, and it is a good night.
But as we pass by, there is a Jersey cow — tan hide stretched tight across her giant bloated belly — sprawled out in Turgeson’s yard. She’s right in front of the big milking barn, only twenty yards from the gravel road that separates their land from a forty-acre piece my grandma’s got. When we first drive near the farm, I think the cow is dead. But then I see her head lift and her lips shape a deep, hollow moan. We can’t hear her with the pick-up windows rolled up tight against the snow, but we can all feel her. We drive on around the mile corner, but then it feels too hot and close in the truck.
Daddy, Reuben and I go back to the cow. Daddy turns the truck around and drives back to the Turgeson place. In front of the barn, he slams on the brakes and we slide to a halt. Reuben’s opening the door before we are barely stopped. When he cracks open his door and lets one foot step outside, we sure hear her bellow real good then. Daddy jumps out but leans back into the cab of the pick-up to take down his rifle from its spot above the rear-view window.
‘This ain’t gonna be pretty, Ruth. Looks like a twisted stomach; could go either way.’
He is asking if I am sure I still want to come to the cow, and he is asking if I am prepared to help Mr Turgeson, prepared for what I might see. A twisted stomach can be ugly and there won’t be much thanks coming from that stubborn old man leaning on the barn, his hands on his head and hatless in the wind. Even together in the yard, they are alone in this world, both the cow and that man. I nod my head, grab a few bullets from the glove compartment, and pull on my knitted stocking cap. It is part of being a neighbour. It might not be pretty, but it sure will be cold.
18
BECAUSE I MISSED THE NEW YEAR’S PARTY LAST NIGHT, I got to come and stay at Uncle Ingwald’s place today. Well, I wasn’t supposed to stay. First off, I was just coming to help Aunt Gloria and Naomi clean up from the party and maybe learn a little about the lace making they all do. Naomi did her 4-H demonstration on tatting, and Mom said ‘oh, for cute’.
So, here I am vacuuming their good room and waiting to learn. Since it started blowing hard and the freezing rain came in good, Aunt Gloria called my mom and told her that they would just bring me to church in the morning. No need to make the trip — short though it may be — seeing I can just wear one of Naomi’s old dresses to church tomorrow, and Mom and Daddy can take me home after the potluck. I don’t know whether I’m happy about staying or not. At least Samuel has already left for hockey camp, so that don’t prey on my mind.
Outside their kitchen window, I can only see blackness. I can hear the rain hitting the snow and trees and leaving a thick skin of ice dragging everything down. Tomorrow morning, there’ll be broken trees and snapped electricity wires. The county will have to call out their men to do plenty of fixing. That ice can do damage, alright, but the cold don’t bother me much except for when I feel it freezing my bones. I guess it is the water. The water inside of us freezes up and makes a body hurt like it is too big for its own skin. Pulling a walleye out of a frozen lake must do the same thing. That fish — mouth, lips and pointy teeth all gasping for water — must feel the opposite of freezing. He thaws in the air, drowning being outside his cold, black water. His silvery scales break about in two, and he has to use every bit of his spirit to command his body to stay together tight. He has to be like Jesus, calling the storm to rest, rebuking the wind. He has to have faith strong enough to command the winds and the water.
Naomi is sorting her closet, piling up hand-me-downs on her pretty four-poster bed; after she is done with them, I inherit her dresses and sweaters. Fancy brands and fabrics, most of the clothes come from Aunt Gloria’s fancy family out in California. The sweaters are always pink or purple, being colours Naomi, her momma and other swanky folk like. I like red, but I know ladies don’t wear it. Naomi points out what sweaters can be thrown in the washing machine and what can’t; it makes me think rich people must be dirty. She couldn’t fit another sweater in that closet edgewise, crammed as it is with hooks and plastic hangers, but still, it is kindness that makes Naomi give me what she don’t need — kindness and the thick-growing middle she thinks she’s hiding.
Curled up on the bed like cats, we are warm and resting amongst the wool: Naomi leans against the foot and I stretch out along the head. Her room smells of lilacs and all other purple things, and there are even flowers in the curtain pattern. I wonder aloud whether Samuel is having fun at hockey camp. When I ask, she moves her pink foot away from where it was resting by my thigh. She crosses her legs and starts unbraiding her hair. Tracing a rabbit of soft white fur sewn into my new sweater, I thank her again for the clothes.
‘Do you think Samuel has any for Reuben?’
Naomi’s loud breath out tells me no.
‘Why do you always want to talk about boys? I think you have a crush on Samuel. Just shut up about him.’
That ain’t fair and she knows it. I sit looking at my hands for a while. When I look up, she’s got her hair all unbraided and it almost touches her waist.
‘I wish I could sit on my hair,’ she says. In front of the dressing mirror, Naomi shimmies her shoulders and hips. She’s been watching television, pageants again, I can tell. She’s peering at the mirror as she walks slow and ladylike, eyeing her reflection above the perfume bottles and hair ribbons lined along the shelf.
Staying quiet ain’t getting me nowhere. ‘I don’t even like boys.’ I got my sock off and I’m picking at my toenails. ‘I sure wouldn’t even want to be a boy.’ My chest feels tight with me wearing this silly bra my mom brought home the other day. Mom said she could see me jiggle, and I was ashamed. I must be the only thirteen-year-old with saggy enough breasts to need to wear a bra. My nipples rub against the lace, and now I’m hunching my shoulders so that Naomi can’t see. Everything needs to slow down, but it is getting all mixed up in my head.
‘Do you remember when I fell through the ice, Naomi?’
Naomi’s re-braiding her hair. With her hands tangled through and looping back and forth, she shakes her head no.
I ask her again if she remembers, and she looks up with mean eyes all squinting. She pouts, then nods a little as she finishes tying her hair with a shiny pink bow. Glancing in the mirror, she turns to the side and holds another rosy ribbon to one ear and then the other, pretending earrings.
‘That was so long ago. I forget things all the time, Ruth.’ She wraps the ribbon around her neck and makes a pretty sash. ‘I’m forgetting this already.’
Naomi thinks she’ll be Miss Failing when she is eighteen. The high school gym full of family and friends will witness her singing in the pageant, purple spotlight on her lacy dress and gospel song. Her hair will be piled up shiny and thick, and she’ll smile in surprise and cry all pretty when they place that diamond crown on her head. She sees herself riding in the parade, waving from the royal seat carved in the back of a giant plastic bird. She’ll reign atop Failing’s Turkey Princess float, holding fake roses and catching the eye of a boy who ain’t from around here.
But I know the turkey farmers pour that turkey crap in the river. I know it is drowning the fish and making folks ill. And I know — more than I know anything — no one’s ever going to let Naomi forget who she is.
‘Girls, come and see.’
Uncle Ingwald is calling up to Naomi’s room fro
m the breezeway that connects their kitchen to the plywood mud room. He’s never home, always in church, visiting shut-ins, or working in the shed. Something must be bad.
‘Now just you wait.’ Uncle Ingwald’s face is round and his cheeks are red; the scarred lines of his cheeks crinkle like frosting. His balding head is covered up with a winter-weight cowboy hat, and his eyes are shining.
It’s done raining, but it sure is real cold. All of us, Aunt Gloria and prettified Naomi and plain old me, bundle up tight with jackets, scarves, hats and woollen gloves to head out to see just what has made this man come in the house. I’m worried, but seems like Ingwald aims to smile.
We follow him out to the shed, walking single file like hunters trying to limit their footprints on a path. The flashlight in his hand carves a road of light that we step into as we crunch and slip across the yard on the strange icy snow. Once we make it to the shed, Aunt Gloria reaches across the doorway to cut on the lights, but my uncle stays her hand.
‘Wait, Glory. Now I’ll show you.’
And then he does. Taking the big spotlight they use for shining deer, Uncle Ingwald lights up that yard like sun. He sweeps the bright light across the yard and shows us the twinkling ice that coats the world.
‘Sugar snow.’ He speaks real low.
Sugar snow it is with everything that is still standing frosted heavy with clumps of diamonds and crackled like icing. All we do is sigh and look at the beauty. When Naomi reaches over and puts her glove in my mitten, I catch her brown eyes and feel as if I might cry. And if I cried that would be all sweetness and beauty too.
‘We used to blow bubbles, didn’t we, Daddy? When I was little, we used to freeze bubbles in the sky on an icy night.’ Naomi’s eyes shine.
