Adrift in the Sound (32 page)

“I don’t know about that,” Marian said. “Just tell me what happened. Did he go after Tucker again?” The dog wiggled between the two women, begged for attention. Marian patted the dog’s head, shooed him away with her leg, glanced down. “He looks OK.”

“Looney’s washed up on the beach below the cabin,” Lizette said, pulling out a chair and lowering herself. “He’s dead.” She put her forearms on her knees, leaned forward, head in her hands.

Marian went to the drawer under the counter by the phone. She pulled out a battered notebook, leafed through the smudged pages of numbers compiled through the years for ranch business. Her finger stopped. She studied an entry, turned and dialed a number.

“Jim? This is Marian Cutler, out in Crow Valley … Yeah. It
has
been a while. How’s the game warden business? … Poachers deserve to be caught. Everything’s fine here. We didn’t have too much trouble with predators this lambing season. We’ve got good dogs. But there’s a problem thought you should know about. We’ve got an orca washed up at our place.”

She listened into the receiver, looked impatient. “Down at the cove … No, there’s just a foot path. Too steep to get a truck down there … Cutting it up will take too long, make a big mess.” She wrapped the phone cord around her finger, turned to look at them clustered there, rolled her eyes. “Poland’s not here … On vacation. Probably couldn’t get to the carcass for a week. It’s too much for him to handle, anyway. How about getting those guys at the Marine Research Station? Can’t they haul it off the beach? … I have no idea how much it weighs … I thought they’re supposed to respond under the new Marine Mammals Act … OK, thanks for checking. Tomorrow will be fine.”

She hung up and faced Lizette, shrugged, as if to say: That’s all I can do.

“It can’t stay there.” Marian said and paused, saw the orca meant more to Lizette than just another washed up marine animal, that her emotional balance remained delicate. “Look, sweetheart. I’m sorry about Rocket, really, I am. I understand … “ Her voice trailed off as she realized the men were watching her and Lizette, who looked crumpled. “These things happen,” she said scanning their faces, looking helpless. “Usually not a full-grown male, but still, we find seals and gray whale calves washed up all over the islands. It’s nature.” She focused on Lizette. “You can’t let this upset you, Lizette. Please?”

Silence settled into the room, movement suspended, breathing went shallow. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. The faint washing sound of the sea flowed into their midst. They waited, watched Lizette.

“OK,” Lizette said finally, stood up, clicked her tongue softly. “Poland and Abaya are expecting me.”

“That’s right,” Marian said quickly. “Did you take your meds?” Lizette gave her a mind-your-own-business look. “Are you guys ready?” she said to the men.

“I’ve got to get clean clothes for Violet, diapers, bottles, comb my hair,” Lizette said. Marian went to the refrigerator, handed Toulouse a beer. The men went to the living room and sat, Einar holding Violet. Tucker settled at his feet. Lizette ducked out the back door, Fisher right behind her.

“Wait,” he said. “Listen.”

She stopped in the dooryard, looked impatient. “What?”

“About the fire,” he said, looking down, nudging at the gravel. “No one knew Bomber was down there, in the basement, I mean. We just got out when we smelled the smoke. Didn’t know.”

“Somebody should have checked,” she said accusingly.

“It was the middle of the night,” he said.

“What about the piano?”

“I’d gotten it out that morning. Took it to my old man’s glass shop. Just like I told Rocket.”

“Have you talked to him?” She looked at Fisher closely, watched his reply.

“I offered to buy the piano from him,” Fisher said.

“What’d he say?”

“He was OK with that, sort of. Offered him $10,000 and said he could buy it back later. That’s the deal. Now it’s here, in the barn.

“Here?” She looked over, the barn doors were shut. “I thought you said it was at your father’s glass shop.”

“I couldn’t leave it there,” he said. “It’s so beautiful. Rocket’s right. It would get beat to shit at my old man’s place. I didn’t know what else to do. They want me to start an orchestra here. In the islands. We need the piano. I put it to the side, in the barn, next to some baby furniture. But, I can’t leave it here. It has to be played. Honestly. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched. It needs a home. I need one too.” He raked his thin hair and shoved his glasses up on his nose, shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Me either,” she said, and turned, heading down the path to the cabin.

THIRTY–THREE

DRUMBEATS PULSED ACROSS
the meadow as they headed for the stand of trees at the edge of Poland and Abaya’s farm. Beyond the trees, the trail dropped steeply to a U-shaped cove with a sweeping beach and gentle waves hissing on the sand. Switchbacks through pink heather and huckleberry made climbing down easier. Lizette clutched Violet to her chest and took care with her footing. Her father took the lead. Fisher followed her, Marian on his heels, Toulouse lagging behind.

Men’s voices, chanting rhythmically, rolled up the cliff. Einar stopped to listen, the drone folded into the sea’s cadenced lapping, carried up on strengthening winds that soughed in the cedar and fir boughs. Bonfires smoked on the beach, gathering power from the wind. Men in red-and-black “Chilikat” dancing cloaks with Thunderbird, Salmon, and Orca designs outlined with mother-of-pearl buttons milled around the fires, beat drums and sang ancient songs. A cluster of painted canoes were hauled out at the far end of the beach.

Lizette smelled meat cooking and her stomach cramped with hunger. Her father moved ahead on the trail, glanced over his shoulder, turned to hold her arm as she stepped over a knotty tree root. Violet gurgled against her chest. She had a sense of entering a different world, a sacred place.

Set against the cliff, the big pitched-roof shelter held a mismatched assortment of tables—folding, garden, even a couple of battered kitchen tables—all covered with bowels and platters, heaped with food. The boxes Lizette recognized from Abaya’s barn were stacked in the back. Striped Hudson Bay blankets were laid end to end on the sand floor. Wicker laundry baskets, filled with colorful gifts, sat on them. Abaya’s lavender boxes with satin bows poked out of the jumbles. Children scampered everywhere. Finally, she located Abaya in the back, waving a wooden spoon, her hair flowing, bear claw crown lopsided as she prepared food with a group of women.

Hay bales stacked in rows in front of the potlatch house formed an amphitheater on the beach. A jumble of camp chairs and benches sat off to the side. Further down the sand, a collection of tents, some canvas and sagging, others green and yellow, flapped in the breeze. Blue tarps staked to driftwood poles leaned this way and that. Pup tents were scattered among the larger tents. Lawn umbrellas with beach towels clothes-pinned to the edges formed makeshift enclosures. On a raised dune, a magnificent teepee overshadowed the encampment.

Children and dogs played by the water, splashing and throwing balls. Little girls blew soap bubbles. At the far end of the cove, she saw teenagers and heard guitars and coquettish squeals. A boy lifted a girl and twirled her, black hair flying, dumped her in a heap on the sand. Laughter erupted.

A late canoe arrived and a very old woman stood in the bow, proud in a red-and-black cloak. She balanced triumphantly with a metal walker as the canoe bit into the sand. Raven jumped from the canoe into the water and carried her gently to the shore like a child. A paddler brought her walker. The old woman surveyed the teeming scene, a wistful look on her face. Several children danced up, calling “Auntie! Auntie!” The old woman raised her hand and greeted them with a dignified wave. An older couple came up, kissed her and took her elbows, helped her up the beach.

The drumming intensified as men gravitated to the fires. Wrestling broke out and they made a scrum around the grapplers, shouting and beating circular drums overhead. Her father fell away and joined Poland and the other men by the fire. Fisher watched fascinated as the men struggled.

Lizette walked toward Abaya to join the women. Marian had waited at the bottom of the cliff for Toulouse, who wobbled down in his pointy, high-heeled boots. She caught up with Lizette and they surveyed the huge buffet of salads and casseroles, platters mounded with meat. At a campfire in the back of the shelter women roasted salmon on long skewers, slowly turning the pink flesh over banked coals.

In front of the potlatch house, Poland came and stood beside a short, colorful totem pole and called out in Salish, words Lizette did not know but understood. People moved slowly across the sand toward the shelter, elders going first, families in single file—men wearing funnel-shaped hats, women jingling silver and shell jewelry, toddlers hiding in their mother’s skirts. Abaya stood back, at the edge of the shelter, clasped her hands to her heart, looked exultant.

As they feasted, winds swept the sea into sparkling riffles. Puffs of moist air blew more life into the smoldering bonfires on the beach, orange flames licked the piles of driftwood. They crackled and sparked as they burned. There was laughing and scolding, a whoop from a child who dropped a full plate of food in the sand. A woman scurried to soothe the child and clean up the mess. A dog got to the meat first and slinked off.

Lizette sat with her father on the edge of the crowd, holding Violet, eating salmon and macaroni salad with her free hand. A man came up to Einar, clapped him on the back. They shook hands, smiled and her father pointed at Violet. Einar took the baby, got up and showed her around, compared her with other babies in arms. Lizette relaxed into the feeling of fullness, went to the dessert table, got a big piece of chocolate cake, took a bite, sucked fudge frosting from a plastic spoon, wandered onto the beach.

She sat cross-legged by the water’s edge, scanned the surface in the growing darkness for signs of seals or fish, watched brown pelicans sweep the channel beyond the still waters of the cove. Raven sat down next to her. “Elizabeth, I want to apologize. I’m sorry about what I said.” She gave him a questioning glance. “About your father. When we had dinner downtown, last winter. I mean, what I said about him stealing our things.”

She shrugged. He reached out, took her hand from her lap. “Really, I’m sorry.” He looked into her eyes. “I didn’t know my parents sold him that stuff, that he kept it safe all these years.”

“I knew he wouldn’t steal,” she said softly. “He loves you too much.”

He dropped her hand and Lizette sensed his shame.

“I’m going to dance tonight, made my own mask,” he said boyishly. “Are you gonna watch?”

“What are you going to dance?”

“Raven. What else.”

She giggled and elbowed him. “There are different raven stories,” she said with mock gravity. “The good one who brings the sun and the selfish, jealous one,” she said, scanning his face in the growing darkness. “Which one will it be?”

“I made my own mask,” he said again, pulling back from her gaze. “First we’ll have the Cry Ceremony, then … “

“What’s the Cry Ceremony?”

“It’s not really Lummi, but my mother has Tlingit aunts and cousins. They came down from British Columbia. Probably be here a month. They’re going to send the sadness away.”

“But what is it?”

“What is what?”

“A Cry Ceremony?”

“It’s sort of like a funeral,” he said. “The dancers paint their faces black and cry out loud. They don’t dance exactly, just walk back and forth. They have special movements and they’ll put on masks for my brothers.”

“Your mother never talks about them, about what happened, I mean. I’ve been with her a lot. It’s like a blank.”

“Making a big deal out of death is wrong,” he said defensively. “It hurts the living, puts things out of balance. My people believe too much sadness about those who’ve passed puts living relatives in danger, breaks down their spirit protection. You’ve seen a husband or wife get sick when one or the other dies?” An image of her father flitted before her eyes and she nodded in understanding. “My people don’t want that to happen. That’s why my mother never talks about it. I think it’s a way she tries to protect me and my father. She stays strong so our spirits will stay strong.”

He stood and extended a hand to her, pulled her up. Walking back to the potlatch, she studied the dancing shadows cast on the cliff from camp lanterns glowing on the tables. The feast was breaking up, people spilled onto the beach. She looked for her father and found him in a far corner with the men, playing with gambling bones, money stacked along the edge of a card table. A paper bag with a bottle moved from hand to hand, mouths taking quick sips lest the women see. She tapped her father’s shoulder and threw him a question with upturned hands when he looked up. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and turned back to the game, a wreath of pipe smoke ringing his head, huddling with the men over the game.

Violet saw her first as she searched through the guests and gave a cry, reached out for Lizette with baby hands. She saw Violet was gathered in Marian’s arms, in a circle of young mothers holding infants on their laps, laughing, dangling their babies, encouraging them to stand and bounce.
Marian probably birthed most of them
, Lizette thought and reached over her shoulder and snatched Violet, checked her diaper. She searched for her canvas bag, bent and scanned under the empty tables.

“When you’re done changing her, let’s get a seat on the hay bales,” Marian said. “I want to be close.” Lizette agreed and moved away, found a quiet spot and spread a blanket on the sand. She pulled out a diaper, dug down for the ointment tube, quickly changed Violet, and stood up. She looked for Marian, who’d moved toward the hay bales.

They settled in the front row, on the side, in case Violet fussed. A drumbeat began, growing in power as more spirit drums joined in. She saw Fisher was on the opposite side of the group, beating a drum with the rest, his expression rapt. Firelight glinted off his glasses. Lizette felt the throbbing rhythm take over her body, tapped her feet and rolled her shoulders, bobbled Violet.

On the makeshift platform, three hay bales were covered with red-and-black button cloaks. Owl, Eagle and Frog symbols decorated the cloth. Black-faced dancers stepped onto the platform and paced slowly. The crowd quieted. Poland, Abaya, and Raven came to stand beside the platform, in front of Lizette and Marian. The drumbeats slowed and the dancers stopped and let out plaintive “oo’s,” then more drumming, more pacing, more “oo’s.” Lizette saw her go down first, Abaya crumpled in a heap on the sand.

Marian bolted from her seat, went to her knees, laid Abaya flat, loosened the cape’s tie around her neck, threw her head back. She put her fingers on Abaya’s pulse point on the side of her neck. The guests stood and gawked, the shaman came out, wearing a green and black mask, carrying a storytelling stick. “The spirits have come,” he said to the crowd. Children watched him wide-eyed, sheltered close to their parents. “Sit down. Listen.” He told stories of Owl, Eagle and Frog, the totems of Poland and Abaya’s lost sons. Marian helped Abaya stand. Raven studied his mother, held her around her waist. Poland stood outside the circle of light, grief and worry wrinkled his face.

“Hasn’t eaten anything in about two days,” Marian said, shaking her head in annoyance when she returned to her seat beside Lizette. “I should have been watching her, but she had me so busy getting ready for tonight, I was running in circles and didn’t notice.”

When the stories ended and the black-faced mourners exited with the shaman, Abaya walked onto the platform, Poland and Raven followed, stood back from her. She walked to the edge, surveyed the crowd. The water sloshed ashore, the bonfires crackled and someone threw a big piece of driftwood on the nearest fire, sending sparks flying high into the air. The faces, orange in the fire’s glow, waited for her to speak.

“My children danced like salmon going to the spawning grounds,” she said, moving her arms in wave shapes. “Not all salmon spawn. Some get eaten, others aren’t strong enough to make the journey all the way to the end. Spirits take them and they slip away unfinished.” She put up her arms as if reaching for the moon. “Children are like salmon, they fill the streams of our lives, feed our spirits, then slip away.” She wiped her cheeks, swallowed hard, said softly, “Sometimes, when the seasons change, they return.” She glanced in Raven’s direction.

She paused and let out a throaty “oo.” The black-faced chorus responded from the edge of the platform like an long echo. Abaya waited for the grief sound to die away. “We cannot cry about this, tears weaken us, take our breath away. The spirits of my sons are gathered here.” She swept her arm across the cloak-covered hay bales. “Cry with me once more and I will stop my tears and my sons will join the spirits.”

The families began “oo’s,” the sound fading with breath, others picking up the sound, more voices joining in, until there was a great wail that lifted from the sand and carried up into the trees, the stars. A bald eagle swooped from a snag on the cliff above the cove and in the darkness glided down to the water, skimmed the surface in the firelight. The majesty of its flight silenced everyone. Abaya turned and watched in amazement with the others until the eagle disappeared into the thick, black night.