THAT FALL, AS TED LAY dying in the hospital with tubes poking out of him, Vern and I built a tree fort in the bush. Vern found scrap lumber around the trailer court and I brought hammers, nails and a saw from the Edwards’ basement. We built a platform between three aspens. Each time we went there and sat back in the lemony light of the fragrant trees surveying our work, we thought of something new to add: a wall to lean against, a window, a rope ladder, then a real ladder. We didn’t need a roof because the leaves of the aspens formed a golden canopy that flapped around us like tiny flags in the breeze. In the sun, the leaves flipped and tossed patterns of light on the rough floor of our fort. Even in the slushy fall rain, we were protected; the wet flakes pattered a rising and falling song against the leaves. Eventually, if we stayed long enough, we would get wet, but it was worth it to be inside that sound.
“If you were blind,” said Vern, “I bet you could learn the names of trees just by listening to how they sound in the wind.”
An eagle hovered, then landed on a fir snag near our fort. He was a regular. Vern and I had watched him a few times.
“My grandma says that if you call someone’s name when an eagle is near, that person will hear you, wherever they are.”
“Ted!” I called.
Vern joined me. “Ted! Ted! Ted!”
The eagle lifted his giant wings and rose with a rush of air. We watched as he cruised towards the hill where the hospital was. Vern and I grinned at each other.
When the leaves had all gone from our fort, we hammered planks into place for a partial roof to keep the wind off. We still went after school when I didn’t have to work, and put our backs to the wall where we could catch the last of the sun.
“How’s Ted?” Vern asked one Friday.
“Hanging on. Or so says Beatrice.” I drawled her name. I had no real idea how Ted was. He was doped up now most of the time I visited, which Bea said was because they’d upped his dose of morphine.
“Do you know how to braid?”
“Sure. I braid Jenny’s hair sometimes.”
“I want to braid my hair.”
“It’s almost long enough. We can practise with some twigs.” I pulled out my pocket knife. “We need three skinny twigs.”
“What about practising on you?”
I met Vern’s eyes. He was smiling. “My hair isn’t long enough,” I said, smiling back.
He slipped down the rope ladder that we still used even though we’d built the sturdy wooden one, and found three small green shoots. He scrambled back up into the fort.
“Okay, it’s really easy.” I set the twigs on the boards in front of me. “You cross this one over the middle one. Then this one over that one. Then you just keep going.” My fingers moved down the twigs till they were braided into a coarse braid.
“We need something smaller.”
We untied the shoelaces from both of Vern’s runners and one of one mine and I showed Vern how to make a nice, even braid. I untied it and he practised with the shoelaces till he had the method down.
“This is a cinch,” he said. “But can you do it in my hair?”
“Barely,” I said. “Your hair really needs to get a little longer.”
Vern fished in his jeans pocket and pulled out a fine, black comb. He handed it to me. I positioned him in front of me and set the comb gently into his hair. Ravens cawed raucously from the woods and burst out of the trees in a fury of black wings, fighting over something.
I lifted the comb and started at his forehead, working gently.
“Your hair is thick.”
“Yeah.”
As I smoothed Vern’s hair, the warmth of his back heated my legs where he rested against me. A shampoo scent wafted from him.
“Stop moving,” I said, and held his shoulder. It was warm and solid.
“Ever think about going to see your mom?”
“My mom? I think about it,” I said. “I don’t know where she is right now.”
“I thought she was cooking in a logging camp near Kleena Kleene.”
“I don’t think she’s there anymore. She’ll write to us soon and tell us where she is.”
“I think I’ll go see my mom,” Vern said. “I’m free to go whenever I want.”
I divided his smoothed hair into three and began braiding, pulling it close to keep it tight.
“Is it working?” he asked.
I laughed. “It’ll be short, but it’ll be a braid.”
We heard a high whistle above us and Vern pointed to the eagle, cruising in on a wide circle. It landed on top of the fir snag and looked out over the trees as if it were deliberately ignoring us. Vern twisted around to meet my eyes and he was smiling.
“Hey, quit moving. I’m not done,” I said.
“That’s a good sign, you know,” he said. “I think it means it’s good that I’m braiding my hair in the Indian way.”
“Give me your shoelace,” I said.
“My shoelace?”
“I need to tie it.”
He handed it over and I tied his braid.
“Cool.” He swung his head and touched the braid gently. “I hope it stays in.”
“Braid it when your hair’s wet. That’s what Jenny does.”
We watched the eagle lift off and ride a thermal high above the trees. I thought that this eagle could also be a sign for me, but I didn’t mention it to Vern. Maybe it was a sign that Ted was getting better. Or maybe my mother had heard me say her name. Maybe she had been cutting onions in some makeshift shack of a kitchen, and her eyes had begun to run with tears. Maybe at that moment the knife had stopped, resting against the cutting board, and she had looked up, listening for my voice. But then I remembered that “Mom” was not her real name. If I called to her, I would have to call her Irene.
“I’m going to hitch to my mom’s place tonight,” Vern said suddenly. “Do you want to come?”
“Tonight? Bea won’t let me go, I know that.”
“So don’t ask her. I’m not telling Uncle Leslie. I’ll just go.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I was worried about leaving Ted, but I didn’t want to be worried. I was not supposed to be worrying. “Not the best hitchhiking time of year.”
“True. Well, I might go,” he said. “I’ll have to see.”
On Monday, Vern was at school. He hadn’t hitched anywhere after all. But having the plan was important, I knew that. My birthday was a few days away. I had hoped a letter might come from Mom, but nothing did and even Bea let that pass without comment. Jenny baked a chocolate cake and drew a big “13” on it in yellow icing. She studded the cake with thirteen yellow candles. I blew out the candles in the kitchen with the lights off and then Bea flicked on the fluorescent light above the sink, put her hands on her hips and sighed, “Well!”
“Open your present,” Jenny said, clapping.
Unwrapping it, I felt a wave of nausea; this moment was not right, could not be right without Mom and we all knew it.
“Moccasins,” I said. “Thanks.” They were fur-trimmed slippers, with a shimmery flower beaded on each one. I held them to my nose and smelled the smoky tanned hide.
“Do you like them? Vern’s uncle got them for us from a lady on the reserve,” Jenny said.
“They’re great,” I said. And I meant it, but I couldn’t keep that disappointed sound out of my voice.
“Cake!” said Jenny. “Who wants ice cream?”
Two days later I was at the gas station, my parka hood laced tight around my face against the cold wind. I filled Mrs. Gustafson’s truck, peering over the edge of the box as I usually did—two bags of sand, spare tire, a length of chain. I saw Jenny hurrying across the highway towards me with her nylon-stockinged legs and white runners, her coat tossed on unbuttoned over her Frank’s Chicken and Pizza uniform.
Her face was red with the cold. “Ted’s dead,” she said and I couldn’t believe that we both smirked at the rhyme. “No, but he is, Mag, he died about an hour ago. Bea wants us to come home.”
I tightened the gas cap on Mrs. Gustafson’s truck. Jenny and I looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. “I’ll come home after work,” I finally said.
“You sure?”
I nodded.
“Okay, then. I’m going to go home now.” She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and turned to walk away. She hesitated. “You … you know. Be careful or whatever.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” She looked around the gas station. “Don’t light any matches or anything.” Then she ran off, the wind gusting so hard, it made a part in the back of her thick, dark red curls as she leaned against it.
I took the twenty Mrs. Gustafson handed me, rang it into the cash register and brought her back the change. Standing on the pump island with the wind whipping at me, I watched the wheels of her truck as she drove away.
After the funeral, Jenny said, “That was our third thing. And it’s not that bad. I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead but I’m not that sorry. I didn’t know him enough to be that sorry. Well, you did I guess, so it’s worse for you. But my point is, our third thing is an easy one. And now we’re free and clear.”
She waited for me to say something. We were in our room taking off our good clothes. Beatrice had bought us both black skirts and sweaters and leotards. They had not been washed yet, and the new smell mingled with the sweat that flowed from being corralled in a church hall, surrounded by strangers who seemed to think we wanted their sympathy.
“We should look for her,” Jenny said.
“She’s the mother. She should look for us.” I said it without thinking, but later I thought I must have been saving it up for a long time for it to have come out like that.
Jenny said, “For a girl, you’re sure an asshole.”