A MUG SAILED past their heads, scattering ash. Claudia hid behind him, peering at his mother, who emerged from the hall, screaming, “I told you not to smoke in the house!”
“Mom! We’ve been over this. No throwing!”
“No smoking in the house! Don’t change the subject!”
“Okay! We have a guest.”
“Who?”
“Claudia.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Stop poking around under my bed, Mom. Privacy. It’s a form of respect.”
“What would you know about respect? This is my home! I told you not to smoke inside, Sam!”
“Mom, I am Peter. Sam was my father.”
“You’re worse than him!”
“Slow down, Mom. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Ahead of you.” Her shout faded to a mumble. The veins on her hands flexed and bulged as she picked at the flowers on her apron.
Claudia whispered, “I can come back later.”
“No, it’s fine.” He kept between them, just in case. “Stay. Or go and don’t come back. You choose.”
She patted his shoulder. “I’ll take that coffee.”
He stooped to pick up the crumpled cigarette butts. He had caved and smoked in his room last night, thinking on things, wishing for a beer he wouldn’t let himself have. Drinking in this house didn’t feel right. Growing up with parents who drank made Peter sensitive to patterns. Maybe being a loner did that, too. Forgiving his folks could be as simple as recognizing they were dealing with problems they couldn’t share. Turns out the same held true for forgiving himself. Staying apart from the old hurt let it harden around his heart. He knew that now that he was back on the reservation, living with the mother he had tried to forget. Keeping a window open all night didn’t work any better now than when he was a teenager. “How about it, Mom? Shall we start this morning again?”
“Smoke on the porch.”
“Okay, I get it.” He touched two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. “Shall we serve our guest some coffee?”
His mom tsked at Claudia. “Coffee sours an empty stomach.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve eaten.”
“You look like you need a decent meal.” His mom moved toward the stove. “Skinny.”
“Um, thank you?”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” He grabbed the mug. Cracked. “Sit down. We’ll feed you.”
“Great, thanks.” Claudia looked around. “Where do you want me? Kitchen table or the couch?”
He felt the hint of a smirk forming on his face.
“I’ll join your mother in the kitchen.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
His mom was most at ease around the stove, peeling strips of bacon from the slimy package and laying them in the cast iron pan. Grease splattered the stovetop. She didn’t fidget when she had purpose.
The scanner crackled, spitting updates on a burglary at Wa atch Beach.
. . . unauthorized entry . . .
She fished frilly bacon onto a paper towel and cracked an egg into its grease. The egg spread thin and whitened, bubbling.
. . . white male wearing a snow hat, black jacket and blue jeans . . .
He decided against turning off the scanner. Kept her company.
“So . . .”
“Claudia.”
“Right, right. Claudia. What brings you here?”
. . . extensive property damage, glass everywhere . . .
“I’m here to continue the research we did together last summer.”
“About the old days?”
. . . neighbor says . . . known trafficker from Sekiu . . .
“Yes, but also about how songs figure into your lives now.”
. . . destroyed the hard drive, took off with some masks . . .
Finally, his mother spoke. “What kind of songs?”
“You know, the ones connected to those old stories, about how animals were people with animal skin robes on, like whales and minks and crows, or . . . how people and animals shared some kind of spirit essence?”
His mom’s movements slowed. “What about them?”
“I’m curious about what they mean and how they’re understood.”
“Uh huh.” His mom was bustling again. “How am I supposed to help?”
He jumped in. “I think we can figure it out together.”
. . . checking the bushes behind the house . . .
“Sounds tricky.” His mom’s tone was gruff. Claudia’s face was all sweet expectation, but he didn’t believe it for a second. Keep up your spirits, sweet tits. Old people are grumpy. He needed his mom to work with him here.
“It would be worth your while, Maggie.”
“Seems like it’s more for you.” Now his mom was in form. She’d been so lippy when he was a kid. He loved that about her.
. . . transporting witness back to her house to complete a statement . . .
“No, just the opposite! This project is about you and your worldview. It could help preserve your knowledge for future generations.”
“We have our own ways.”
“I’d like to learn them.”
“Then pipe down and listen. That’s hard for your kind.”
Claudia exhaled hard.
“Just kiddin’!” His mother laughed. “Son, why don’t you get busy?”
“Doing what?” He pushed back in his chair.
“Fixing that coffee you promised!”
His mom made small orbits around the kitchen, laying out forks and knives and a jar of homemade jelly—salmonberry, from the looks of it.
“So, Claudia.” He concentrated on pouring. The coffee rose, thick and oily, in her cup. “What’s the plan?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your research. How do you want to go about doing this?”
“First, we should get comfortable. Anything you’d like to know?”
“It might be useful to have your phone number, so I could text you if we’re out and about, doing something you’d enjoy, or if we need to delay a visit.”
“My carrier doesn’t provide coverage out here. You can have my email address, but the resort Wi-Fi has been spotty.”
“So there’s no good way to reach you.”
“You know where to find me.”
“You realize this entire tribe is online, right? I mean, like, from kids to elders, people post stories and photos and stuff.”
His mom smiled at her plate. “I didn’t know you were keeping track.”
“I don’t go in for social media, myself. Seems like a bunch of snooping and bragging to me, but Claudia . . . you’re going to have a hard time staying in touch without a phone or the Internet.”
“I’ll take that into consideration, thank you.”
“Parents?”
“Dead.”
“Sorry to hear that. Siblings?”
“None.”
“Husband?”
“Back in Seattle.” She coughed.
“Do we get to meet him? Is he coming out for a visit?”
“His work keeps him busy.”
“Huh.”
“A provider. That’s what women want, son.”
Claudia raised her hand. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Maggie, when you and I spoke last summer, you gave me permission to record our conversations, which was really helpful because it freed me up to concentrate on what you were saying rather than worrying about writing it down or remembering it right. I have a terrible memory.”
“You seem pretty sharp to me.”
“I can’t depend on it. The words . . . they move with time. On a certain day, I remember it one way. Another day, another way. Or I make something up. With a recording, I can go back and check. I want to get it right.”
“Listen harder. Or ask me to tell the story again.”
“I admire that, I really do. But written records can be useful for everyone involved.” Claudia picked up her mug. “I’m here to learn from you, but also to leave documentation for long after we’re gone.”
His mother spoke before he could. “If you want to learn from us, practice what we do. It’s the only way.”
“I don’t want to lose time.”
Sometimes spitting out the truth feels better than sucking on a lie.
His mom laughed. “Let me tell you something. It’s impossible to lose time. I’ve been trying to shake it for years. Time likes to hang.”
Claudia looked panicky. “Creating a record isn’t for me. It’s about keeping knowledge intact for future generations.”
“That’s what son’s for.”
“Yes, Peter is home now. I’m so glad.”