Chapter 3

After the last bell, I collect my little brothers, Mikko and Alexi, from their classrooms, and Alkomso and Mark-Richard do the same. We walk through Colter and on home together. On the outskirts of Colter is where Alkomso and her family live in an apartment. Mark-Richard and his brother, Gary, live in a trailer out near us. They’re close enough that sometimes we can even hear their parents arguing and throwing stuff.

“What are you doing for your STEM project?” Mark-Richard asks Alkomso and me.

“Don’t even mention it,” I say. “I haven’t started.”

“Me, either,” says Alkomso. “But that prize sure sounds sweet. What would you buy with two hundred and fifty dollars? Do you think they give it to you in cash? I’ve never even seen a hundred-dollar bill in real life.”

“Bikes, for sure,” says Mark-Richard. “And a whole bunch of corn dogs.”

What’s weird right now is that I can’t think of what I’d spend two hundred and fifty dollars on. Even though all the things I don’t have bother me all the time, I’ve gotten used to being bothered in that way.

Alkomso grips the sleeve of my coat, Toivo’s old wool shirt. “Maybe you could get yourself a new jacket?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe a new coat.”

“I’d take my whole family out for cheese pizza.” As we approach her apartment building, Alkomso’s little brothers nearly dash out into the street before she grabs each of them and pulls them back onto the sidewalk.

“No!” she says. “Don’t you ever cross the street without me.”

They protest and say they’re big enough, but Alkomso gives them a face like she means it, and they stop. A truck goes roaring by. “See?” she says. “You could get hit!”

The back of the truck has a bed full of pipes.

“Aren’t those the pipes your grandpa’s factory makes?” Mark-Richard asks me. Sometimes Mark-Richard’s dad works for Grandpa’s factory. Lots of people in town do, since there aren’t very many other places to get a job. But they get hired and laid off, so their jobs aren’t real reliable.

“I guess so.” Grandpa doesn’t always treat his workers that great, and since a lot of his workers’ kids are my classmates, I hear about it when their moms and dads are unemployed because of Grandpa. “I don’t care about that stupid factory.”

“I would if I were you,” says Alkomso. “Maybe you’ll inherit it someday!”

“I wonder where the trucks are going,” says Mark-Richard. His dad also sometimes works as a truck driver, which is another pretty common way to try and make a living around here. “That gravel road is too small for that kind of traffic, and it just leads out into the country.”

I think about the map on Mr. Flores’s screen. I think about drilling. Miles and miles beneath the surface, Mr. Flores had said. Wastewater pond. I shudder.

Alkomso takes her brothers by the hand and calls, “See you!” over her shoulder as they cross the road to go home.

Mark-Richard and I continue on. The sidewalk ends, and the road turns to dirt right where the Colter water tower stands. On one side of the road are farm fields, and on the other are woods. When a car comes, we move off to the woods side.

Mark-Richard grabs my arm and pulls me aside.

“Hey!” I say.

He points to the ground, where there’s a big brown mound.

My brothers run over.

“Bear poop!” Mikko shouts.

“Get a stick!” Alexi says.

“Don’t you dare,” I say. “You are not playing with bear poop.”

Gary puts the toe of his boot right to the edge of it. Mark-Richard yanks him away. “Don’t mess your shoes. Those are the only ones you have.”

The boys whine, but they listen and move on down the road.

“You don’t like your grandpa much, do you?” Mark-Richard sneezes into his elbow.

“You got a cold again?” I ask.

“All the time,” he says. “You don’t have to answer about your grandpa. I was just curious.”

“It’s okay. Grandpa thinks he knows what’s best for everyone without asking them.”

“Yeah, I understand. But think about all the cool stuff you could have if you lived with him.”

“I don’t ever want to live with him,” I say. “I want to stay with Toivo.”

Mark-Richard’s parents don’t take care of their kids half as good as Toivo takes care of us. They don’t act very grown up. Last year, Mark-Richard’s baby sister got taken away and put into foster care in a home four hours away. Now he only gets to see her once a month. When she first got removed, Mark-Richard cried in school for about a month straight.

We keep walking until there’s a little clearing in the woods, where Mark-Richard’s trailer is. A couple of overweight cats play with a pop can. A few cords of wood are stacked up messily along the driveway. Mark-Richard’s house is heated with a wood stove in winter, like ours.

“You’ll need a lot more wood than that,” I say.

“I know it. Mom says Dad’s a lazy son of a gun for not cutting more. But I know where a dead tree finally fell down, so I’ll go out and hack off the easy branches. Come on, Gary.”

Gary clings to Mikko. “I don’t want to go home. I want to go to Mikko’s house.”

“Some other time.” Mark-Richard puts his arm around Gary. “Maybe Mom made us a snack.” He leads Gary up the driveway. “Bye,” he says to me.

“Bye.” I stare up at the trailer. Mark-Richard’s mom stands at the screen door. I raise my hand and wave at her. She turns away. “Wanna walk to school together tomorrow?” I shout after Mark-Richard.

He gives me a thumbs-up.

When we get home from school, my little brothers race off into the woods. I find Toivo in the shed. He’s got three wild turkeys spread-eagle on a butchering table, and a headless, gutted deer strung up from the rafters. The head and a gloopy pile of innards rest on a garbage bag. A bucket of water steams at his boots. His hands drip crimson with blood. Bits of fur and feathers stick to his fingers.

“What’s a wastewater pond?” I ask.

He spins around. “Hello to you, too,” he says. He talks with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I had a nice day, as well.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Hi. How was your day?”

“Fine, thanks,” he says. He points to the corner of the garage, to where I left the bag with my mushroom in it this morning. “What did you find for us?”

“A big one,” I say. I bring the sack over and open the top.

“Very nice!” He nods. “Want to pluck the turkey legs?” With his knife, he points to the water bucket. “Got the hot water right here.”

Plucking feathers used to be Mom’s job. Now it’s mine, ever since Mom and Baby Matti were killed in a car crash right near the water tower on the edge of town.

In a couple of days, it’ll be two years ago. It’s a really sad story, but everybody has one, and lots of times somebody important in the tale is dead.

Toivo slides his knife around the joints of the turkey he’s working on and splits the breastbone. Then he goes to the deer hanging from the rafter and slaps its side. “Look at this guy. I’ve seen him hanging around in the woods, and this morning I got a perfect shot off.”

I happen to know that Toivo can’t afford a hunting license and has gotten in trouble before for poaching. Unlike most other hunters, though, he’s doesn’t do it for fun. He does it because we need the food. “He’s huge,” I say. “Lots of meat. Look at those back straps.”

He reaches up and tugs tight on the rope’s knot. Toivo is tall and reedy. He smokes cigarettes pretty regularly to keep his jitters tamped down. His time in the Iraq War made him jumpy. Sometimes he talks about his time in the marines, but most of the time he doesn’t.

“Indeed,” he says. “To be honest, I’m relieved. We were getting pretty low on supplies there.”

I think about the biscuit-and-ketchup sandwiches the boys and I choked down for lunch and how nice it would have been to have had a slice or two of venison sausage on them.

I hold the turkey leg by the claw and dunk the muscle in hot water, lift it up and down, up and down, until the skin relaxes enough for me to rub the feathers off. Then I settle into an old, crooked chair and pull the feathers out by the handful, flap them off onto a plastic bag.

“Got homework?” Toivo asks.

“No,” I lie.

“Better get it done after this,” he says.

I’m not sure if he knows that I lied or if he didn’t hear what I said. Toivo lost the hearing in one of his ears in the war. He wears a hearing aid to help, but it malfunctions all the time, and he says the VA won’t buy him a new one.

“Well, I do have to come up with a STEM project,” I say.

“Gotta keep the grades up,” he adds. He pinches the cigarette from his lips and snuffs it out in an ashtray on the table. “I got another letter from Children’s Protective Services today,” he adds. “And your gramps left a message on the phone.”

I tear ferociously at the turkey feathers. Gramps and Children’s Protective Services are on Toivo’s tail all the time. They think my brothers and I would be better off living with Gramps, with his big wallet, big house, big pool, big garage full of classic cars, and big bank account. They don’t call Gramps “Big John” for nothing.

“I guess I’d better come up with something good, then.” If I get an F, it’ll just be more fodder for Grandpa to target Toivo.

If Mom were here, she’d have this sorted out in no time. Even though she taught English, Mom loved science. She was always reading plant books and physics books about multiple universes.

When I let myself dwell on Mom and Matti being gone, I can’t breathe. My lungs feel as though they are the size of maple tree seeds. That my little brothers and I might be taken away from Toivo feels like an extra airlessness that makes me dizzy.

Technically, Toivo is not my dad. My father is long gone. I don’t even know where he is and can’t remember ever knowing him. I was a baby when he took off. Mom met Toivo at the school where she taught. After the war, he went there to take some classes. Even though she was ten years older than he was, he fell in love with her when he took a writing class from her.

Mom married Toivo when I was three. I was the flower girl. I don’t remember much, but I’ve seen photos. I wore a green dress with a black sash. After the wedding, Toivo and Mom had Mikko, Alexi, and Matti. Toivo’s the only father I’ve ever known. I don’t know why he didn’t adopt me while Mom was still alive. Maybe they just didn’t imagine that there would ever be a day when they’d be separated, when Mom would be gone, when the law would get to decide what makes a family.

“I’m not going with them,” I whisper. I stop plucking and shake the sticky mess off my hands. Globs of feathers fly. One smacks Toivo right on the neck.

“Hey!” he says. He scrapes it off and plops it on the ground.

“Sorry,” I say.

My grandfather never liked Toivo. To make his point, Grandpa cut Mom off from his money the day she and Toivo married. Since she’s been gone, papers from Grandpa’s lawyer, from the family service people, and from the courts clutter our mailbox practically every day.

They say that Toivo is a chain smoker.

That Toivo is unemployed.

That Toivo neglects our schoolwork.

That Toivo “fails to maintain a clean living environment.”

That Toivo “suffers from severe psychological distress.”

That Toivo is an “unfit parent.”

All those things are true except the last one. That last one isn’t the least bit honest. If anyone would just ask me or ask my little brothers, they’d know. But no one asks us.

“They say I’m no good.” Toivo sighs. I’m not sure if he heard what I said or if he’s just talking. He shakes his head. “But I do my best.”

He comes over and plops the next turkey leg right on my lap. “You’re my girl,” he says. “No matter what. Always have been, always will be.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze and leaves a bloody handprint.

I dig my short fingernails into the loose, pale turkey skin and capture the final needle-y pinfeather, just a small black speck that can cause all kinds of problems if one gets stuck in your gums. I flick it to the ground.

I hold up the leg. “There,” I say. “That one’s all done. Ready for the frying pan.”

“I do enjoy fried turkey skin,” he says quietly. “Your mom could sure fry up a turkey leg.” He turns and looks at me. Toivo’s got hazel eyes, the color of a bullfrog. Matti had them, too. “Remember that?” he asks.

I remember. Butter, flour, onion, salt, hot pan. Keep it simple, she always told me about cooking.

Fried Wild Turkey Legs

Melt a stick of butter in a medium-hot fry pan. Dust four turkey legs (preferably from two separate birds—ha-ha!) with flour and fry them. Turn them over after a minute. Turn heat to low. Add two cans of beer, a whole onion, and a cup of morel mushrooms. Simmer for two hours. Eat them like a barbarian.

Toivo chuckles to himself. “You know, when I met her, she’d couldn’t cook a noodle.”

I already know this story, but I don’t mind hearing it again. “No way,” I say. I dunk the second leg in the scalding water. “Mom was a great cook!”

He shakes his head. “Nooooooo. Not at first,” he says. “When I met her, you were living on take-out pizzas.”

“What?”

“Yep,” he says. “I never expected her to cook, you understand. I just couldn’t eat that junk she was serving. Boxed macaroni and frozen corn dogs. Makes my insides work like a cement mixer. So I took over the cooking, and she caught on. She started that little recipe book you have.”

That little recipe book is my prized possession. I keep it on my nightstand. It’s a simple spiral notebook with extra pages shoved in it or paper-clipped to the back cover. Mom’s handwriting loops and twists and turns into directions for rabbit stew, creamed pheasant, wild parsnip soup, crabapple cider, mulberry preserves, and everything else we eat and drink. By now, I know many of the recipes by heart. Still, I like to have the book open when I’m cooking. That way Mom feels right next to me.

My whole head gets hot, and I can practically feel my scalp frying behind my ear, turning more brown hairs gray.

Toivo and I work quietly for a while, cutting, trimming, plucking, and wrapping the meat in butcher’s paper. I think about asking him where he poached the turkeys, if someone from the Department of Natural Resources saw him, or if he had any luck finding a job today. But I don’t.

A crash from behind the shed breaks the silence. Toivo and I both jump.

“I’m gonna get you!” That’s Mikko. His nose is always stuffed up.

Another crash.

“You are not, you ratface!” Alexi.

A thump.

“I’m gonna tell on you!”

A bump.

A scuffle.

“I’m gonna tell on you, you smelly idiot!”

Hard footsteps.

Boots scratching gravel.

Heavy breathing.

More sounds of scrapping.

“You’re an ugly, stupid fartface!”

Running. A screen-door squeak. A door slam.

Toivo chuckles. “I guess your brothers are back from their adventures,” he says to me.

My little brothers spend a lot of time in the woods, poking sticks into mole holes, digging clams out of the stream, shaking hornet nests from tree limbs, and throwing deer-poop pellets at each other.

Toivo straightens his face, takes a deep breath, and roars, “You boys better knock that off!” His face wrinkles up with smiling. Then his face flattens and he says, “Did you ask me something about a wastewater pond earlier?”

“Nah,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

He returns to his work of filling the freezer with meat before winter comes.