brothers and run. Bunna is staring into the tree-fi lled darkness with wide eyes.
“You think there’s evil spirits in there?” Bunna whispers, 17
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watching the branches swing back and forth in the wind and ducking his head like he’s afraid one might reach out and try grab him.
“Naw,” I say. “Th
ere ain’t.” But I duck my head, too, for just a second.
When we look up, we both see him at the same time: a skinny, old priest. With his black clothes and clawlike hands, he looks like a big, bald-headed raven.
“Bet that’s where them preachers live,” I whisper, nodding at those trees.
And suddenly that old guy looks really funny—both me and Bunna see it at the same time. Like he’s pretending to be the kind of thing that would actually live in the middle of all those big black trees. Th
e kind of thing that is scary and funny, both at the same time. Like at puuqtaluk, the costume contest back home, where old people dress up goofy to try and scare us and make us laugh, putting their parkas on inside out and dragging their arms across the fl oor like monsters learning to dance.
Th
e priest’s nose is mashed up weird against his cheek, too, like he’s got a nylon stocking on his face, and now I see he’s wearing a black dress. I look at Bunna and he looks at me, and we both start giggling. And every time we look at each other, we laugh harder. Just like at puuqtaluk. Even Isaac’s laughing now, peeking out from under Bunna’s arm.
I don’t think Isaac even knows what’s so funny. All he knows is we’re laughing and sometimes, especially when you’re scared, it’s just good to laugh.
18
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Th
en that old priest speaks. “How old is your brother?” he asks, looking right at Isaac, Isaac who isn’t even seven yet.
It feels like everyone and everything has stopped breathing, even the trees.
“Six,” Bunna squeaks before I can stop him.
“I see,” says the priest.
I don’t like the sound of those words, because the way he says it means that whatever it is he sees, it’s something bad, something that makes him herd us into the school, away from the other kids, like we’re sick or something.
“Sit over there,” the priest says, waving at a bench by the wall. We sit, like rocks in the river, watching kids moving past us, staring. Th
e priest swoops off into a room across the hall, and a door shuts behind him with a snap. We sit on a hard bench, waiting. It feels like we wait forever. Finally, an old lady in a long white dress opens the door, and the priest sweeps past her without a word, throwing shadows up and down the hall.
“Your little brother is too young for Sacred Heart School,” the lady tells us. “Th
ey shouldn’t have sent him.” Her voice sounds soft and weak, like a scrawny seagull way up high. But her hand reaching for Isaac’s shoulder is hard as a steel trap.
“Th
ere’s a family in town where he can stay for a while, until we get things sorted out.”
Th
ey’re stealing Isaac.
My heart starts to beat so fast, I’m sure I’m gonna choke.
“It’s only temporary,” she says.
19
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Th
ey’re taking Isaac away. Forever. Th at’s what she’s really
saying. I can feel it. But I don’t speak. My throat is frozen.
Another lady bursts out of the offi
ce, waving a piece of
paper. Th
is lady is big and solid and wears a skirt and sweater the color of ashes.
Th
e old lady looks at her. “Father’s gone to get the station wagon,” she says.
Father’s gone to get the trap. Th at’s what she really means.
“Here’s the affi
davit, Sister,” the lady in gray says, handing the paper to the old lady.
I watch the way Sister holds that paper, reading it slowly, and I think about that word, affi davit. It’s a word I never heard before.
“It’s a permission form, Mildred, not an affi davit,” Sister
says sharply, reading it slowly, like she’s looking for something.
Something bad. “In loco parentis,” she says. “Good.”
“Father will need to have it notarized,” Mildred says,