The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [59]
After school, he would hurry to their house, grab his rain gear, and do his best not to run down the boardwalk to the house Carl lived in with a wife, six kids, mother, and grandmother. Once at the house he would climb the steps and take a deep breath before going through the arctic entry, where Carl had an old white drop-in freezer on one side loaded with birds and frozen fish, and coats and boots and other outdoor gear hung on the opposite side.
In the middle, in the path that led to the next door, which opened into the main living area of the small three-bedroom house, were various obstacles to avoid—all of them foul smelling. A full honey bucket might be waiting to be dumped, or a pile of geese ready to be plucked, or a black garbage sack bulging with fish or bird guts. Always something new, and always something odorous awaited his arrival.
Once inside, he would exhale quietly and say his hellos to the usual crowd of people gathered around the television. Carl or his wife would say, “Kuuvviara. Have coffee.” And he would. He would pour himself a cup of lukewarm coffee from the pot sitting on the stove, and then pull out a metal folding chair and wait to see if Carl felt like hunting.
While he waited his eyes would roam the items covering the wood-panelled walls, the paper elementary school certificates and awards, the gold-framed paintings of the Virgin Mary, Russian saints, and several pro basketball posters. Most of the time he would watch Carl’s wife, Carrie, or his mother prepare the evening meal. Usually, one of the women would sit on the floor, uluaq in hand, cutting a bird or a fish. Once, it was a beaver Carl had shot the night before.
The last evening they took the boat out together, Carl stood in the kitchen, gazing out the window that faced the river. He slid a hand beneath his shirt, a thin white cotton tee with STOP PEBBLE written in large red letters. “Probably not much reason to go out tonight,” he said, “but if you want to, we can.”
He turned and smiled at John.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Me neither,” Carl said. “River could freeze up any time. Maybe when we get back you could help me pull the motor on the boat. Get it ready for winter.”
“No problem. That’s the least I can do.”
Carrie looked up from the stainless mixing bowl in her lap, while her hand continued stirring the mixture of lard, sugar, and berries. “I’m making your favourite kind, John. Salmonberry akutaq,” she said. “Carl, we’re almost out of water, too. You’ll have to haul some when you get back. Have John help you if he wants my famous Eskimo ice cream.”
“Yours is the best a-goo-tuck I’ve had,” John said, attempting to say the word as well as he could. He looked at the plastic garbage barrel that they used for their drinking water, a green can sitting beside the stove with a round plywood cover.
“Do you think you’ll ever get running water in the houses?” he asked.
Carl finished his coffee and set the mug in the sink, a traditional white sink, except there was no faucet, just three holes where the fixture should have been. “Not in my lifetime,” he said. “If we had oil wells here, or if there were more kass’aqs, maybe then. Some company is putting a gold mine up the Kuskokwim. Maybe if they take a couple billion dollars of gold out they will think about helping us get running water, but I doubt it. No one in the Lower Forty-eights cares that we shit in buckets and have to haul our water. Nobody cares if they deploy three-quarters of our best men and women to the desert. No one cares if our kids have tuberculosis. Sorry, enough complaining. You ready to go?”
John nodded. He finished his coffee and put the cup in the sink. “Thank you,” he said to Carrie. She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
“We say quyana,” she said.
“I know. I’m working on learning some words,” he replied.
As they packed their rain gear and guns in the boat, John asked about the mine. He hadn’t heard about any gold mines nearby.
“It’s not