PETER WOKE AT dusk. He checked his phone. 4:30 p.m. This time of year was hard. Just when he got going, the day was gone. He blamed the long nights for his drinking. He knew it wasn’t so. His mother was sitting up in the dark when he got home. Dawn wasn’t till eight this time of year.
Exhaustion still beat him with big fists. He had let Claudia pass out in the crook of his shoulder. He did not allow himself to rest with her. You should never turn your back on that kind of woman. She had to be observed to act right. He could see that. His buzz slid into a sorry ache as she mewed and breathed heavy beside him. She looked younger asleep.
Spent and near slumber, he felt something close to tenderness, the desire to protect. He eased out of bed, wiping spit off his arm. Pity was a pile of judgment with sympathy thrown on top. He didn’t want to take part in such things; once he got concerned about a woman, there was no end to it.
He rinsed his dick in the sink, trying and failing to be quiet. The faucet screeched, loud as anything in the night, water rushing through the pipes like a waterfall. To hell with it, he would not creep. Normal, like a man, he untangled his clothes from hers. He draped her stuff on the chair, trying to make the scene more civilized for her sake. Her keys jingled in her jacket. He would sober up on the walk to the bar. He hoped not to get hit by a drunk. There were some things a woman should not have to do.
His mom did not demand explanations when he walked in the door; she never had. He wanted her to acknowledge his right not to answer her unasked questions. Like why did you skip dinner last night? Our first with Roberta in how many years, and you were where? Maybe she thought he wouldn’t come back. Would serve her right.
But when she placed a plate of eggs and bacon and buttered toast in front of him, he ate the bread. The grease and salt worked their way in. It’s hard to be bitter while eating. He didn’t look up until his plate was empty. There she was again. More bacon, a second helping of toast. She smiled. Her dumpling cheeks swallowed her eyes. He smiled back. He couldn’t help himself. That was that.
Through his bedroom door, he heard his mother murmur and pause, murmur and pause. He hoped she hadn’t picked up a habit of talking to herself. Old people have so many demons to keep at bay. He doubted Claudia would stop by, given how he’d left her. Maybe Roberta? He hadn’t showered. She would know what he’d been up to just by looking at him.
Cleaned up, he strode down the hall and heard a woman laugh. He recognized that knowing, confiding chuckle.
“Son! The most wonderful lady has come for a chat.”
Claudia was focused on his mother, smiling and nodding like she was hearing about a child’s day at school. Something pinched deep in his stomach.
“Have you met Claudia? I think I told you about her—she visited last summer? We’ve been telling stories all afternoon. Have a seat.”
Claudia’s expression was too confident for what he could do to her right now. “Hello.” She did not get up. “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Did you have a good sleep?”
“I was tuckered.”
“I’ll bet.” She gave an open, rueful grin. He would be able to fuck her again, if he wanted to. His whole body relaxed.
“You and Mom were in the middle of something. Should I leave you to it?”
“Take a seat, son. I want you to hear this. I would have told it last night, but you and Roberta weren’t around, so I saved it, and then Claudia got to asking about Thunderbird.”
Peter tried not to look startled. Roberta sent Randall over alone, with three kids? Was she trying to make a point? Force them to talk? Maybe she saw the window for a rare night home alone—or with someone else, a thought that made him jealous despite the fact that he was sitting next to a woman he just fucked six ways past Sunday.
His mother waited until he got settled. It occurred to him that she might think he and Roberta had been together. Randall, too.
“My great-grandmother came from across. They’ve kept things going up there. When she told this story, it began this way.”
Claudia looked older than she had yesterday, drawn and furrowed, but she bobbed her head in encouragement. Did she know that, in his mother’s family, “came from across” meant their ancestor had been brought over the strait as a slave? Or did she know about his dad’s side, descended from a highborn tribal member on Vancouver Island, some chiefly Nuu-chah-nulth? Didn’t matter. He sure as hell wouldn’t tell someone like her. He hoped his mother hadn’t either. He wished Claudia hadn’t caught her while he was asleep.
“So a bird . . . I can’t remember what kind . . . it may have been a blue jay, anyway, Blue Jay hires Kwa-Ti—you know, Claudia, the biggest trickster of them all—well, he hires Kwa-Ti to go get the daughter of Blackberry Bird.”
Peter breathed a soft warm scent, a sweet mix of whiskey sweat and soap. His reverie broke when he heard “blackberry bird.” There were no blackberry birds in the bedtime stories he remembered. Did his mom mean salmonberry? Her face was animated but closed, black eyes bright and hard.
“And Kwa-Ti, you know, he’s always singing, letting people know he’s out and about, which is silly if you’re trying to sneak around.”
I wasn’t sneaking, Peter thought. She’s the one with a husband.
“But he gets her anyway.” His mom clapped once. “He takes her to Blue Jay. Later on, everybody’s over at Blue Jay’s house, and Thunderbird sees Blue Jay’s pretty new wife bringing buckets of blackberries. Every time they’d eat ’em up, she’d go out back and get some more.”
His mother was up to something. She knew as well as he did that it was salmonberry bird. And he was pretty sure this wasn’t a Blue Jay story, either. Maybe Robin? He couldn’t recall. But she wouldn’t forget something like that.
“Thunderbird acts like he wants to stretch his wings. He goes out back to watch Blue Jay’s wife call blackberries into the bucket. He decides he wants her for himself. He starts flapping . . .”
Claudia shifted in her seat, the first time she’d moved since he sat down. She clasped her hands. Was she nervous? Good. He liked her better when she was off her game.
“He’s flapping and flapping. The wind gets going, and it’s howling, and there’s thunder. Hail starts a ruckus on the roof. She tries to run back in the house. While she’s distracted, he swoops in, snatches her up and flies away. He’s happy. He got her good. Her house fell down. The hail was big, like boulders, did I tell you that? Everybody else was inside.”
From the corner of his eye, Peter saw Claudia jiggle her leg. Did she feel guilty for cheating? Probably wasn’t the first time.
“Now Blackberry Bird’s daughter is with Thunderbird, living like man and wife. All this time, Blue Jay and Kwa-Ti are trying to get her back, but Kwa-Ti keeps messing it up. Like this one time, they tried to hide as blackberries so she’d gather them up to bring home. Kwa-Ti can’t help himself. He just grows so big. Anyone would know not to pick him.” She made a circle the size of a grapefruit with her hands. “That’s a dead giveaway. Never pick a berry that’s too, too big. It may be sweet, but it’s hiding something.”
And here, his mother paused and looked at him. He sank into the couch. She always knew everything. To hell with it. He rocked forward, ready to fix himself something to eat. Anything to avoid a talking to. He wasn’t a teenager.
“Wait, son, I haven’t finished.” His mom’s cheeks crinkled. She was having fun, dammit. “The best part is coming up.” She turned to Claudia. “This reminded me of that pole you were talking about.
“Blue Jay gets Kwa-Ti to settle down—not for long, of course—and they make like fish and get themselves caught by Thunderbird. When they’re in the house, Blue Jay whispers to his wife, ‘Keep my bones. Take them to the water. Wade in.’ And she does. She becomes a fish, too. They swim away.”
Hands held facing each other, flat as her swollen joints would allow, his mother swayed side to side. Peter saw ripples and tails slipping away in the murk.
“But you know how folks are.” She snorted. “It’s not enough to get what they want. They want revenge, too.”
She bopped the arm of her easy chair. “Kwa-Ti went to Whale and asked to borrow his robe. And Whale told him, said, ‘Now don’t open this mussel shell until you’re ready to put it on.’ But Kwa-Ti don’t listen. You know he had to take a peek.” She cupped her hands together and eased her fingers apart, peering inside. “The whale skin blew up so big, he couldn’t get it back in the shell!”
Claudia laughed, a clean peal that didn’t sound like pandering to Peter.
His mother looked him over. “Kwa-Ti is sneaky—that’s the main thing about him, don’t forget that—and he doesn’t like to admit when he’s done wrong. So he takes some mussel shells and cuts up his own knees.” His mother made claws of her hands and scratched at her kneecaps. “He goes back to Whale and says the shell popped open when he fell.”
Claudia was still chuckling, low and quiet.
“It goes on like that for a while. Whale gets his skin folded up nice and neat in the shell. Kwa-Ti comes dragging the robe back, letting it all hang out, in tatters. Whale said he’d have to see to this himself.”
His mom nodded at him. “It’s always better to do something yourself, that way no one can ask you any favors later.”
But Whale’s the one doing the favor, he thought, and stopped himself. Whale and Kwa-Ti go way back. They must have unfinished business. Why else would you give someone your skin?
Maybe she was referring to how he asked for Claudia’s help. His mom once said that stories reveal the teachings the way light casts a shadow. Maybe she and Randall talked about it at dinner. He flexed his ankles, holding steady, conscious that Claudia had picked up on his discomfort.
“Kwa-Ti and Whale stuff the skin with men and rocks and haul it out to the water in front of Thunderbird’s house, real early in the morning, so no one would see them. Thunderbird spots the whale, and wakes up his sons. ‘Time to hunt.’ They pull on their wings and go outside to get this whale. Man, is it heavy. They couldn’t get it out of the water!” His mother hooked her thumbs together and fluttered her fingers, lifting her hands and letting them drop. “But see, the men inside the whale are busy, too. They’re binding the feet of the birds, tying them to the whale so they would sink together.
“And that’s how the Thunderbirds drowned—every last one of them except their sister, who was out on the beach.”
She waited a moment, making sure she had their attention, before delivering the final word. Shuh. Enough.
Claudia mumbled at her lap. “Those men, and Kwa-Ti—they drowned themselves to get at their enemies.”
His mother clucked. “That’s revenge. Always comes back to bite you.”
“‘Taint not thy mind,’” Claudia whispered.
His mom was quick to reclaim the stage. “Kwa-Ti is always dying, but he comes back. In disguises. He’s a weasel . . . what’s the word . . . a mink. Thick shiny hair just like yours, Claudia.” She cocked her head, examining their guest. “It’s a good thing you’re here. It’s hard to get Peter to sit through a story. When he was a kid, I used to have to wait until he was half asleep to begin, or he’d bounce right out of the room.”
Claudia left soon after. “I’ll be back.” Wouldn’t stay, even though he asked. “We can start again.”
The trailer seemed dingier after she’d been there—stained shag carpeting, piles of bags, even the clean kitchen. She brightened things only to tarnish them.
For a while, he and his mom sat together. Looking at each other. Not looking at each other. A strange crackling filled the silence, full of the pivot and pull of collided particles. He flicked on the TV and scrounged some food.