feather pillow wadded up so tight, it’ll probably shoot off like a bullet if I let go, and now I’m punching it, just for the heck of it, my hard fi st punching that ball of broken feathers. It feels good. Th
at’s when I realize I’m not alone.
Father Flanagan is standing in the door, watching me.
“Are you all right, Luke?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not alone, you know. Th
e whole country is feeling
the same way you’re feeling.”
I nod, even though it’s not true. Th e whole country has
nothing to do with how I’m feeling. My feelings are not about President Kennedy, but I can’t say this to Father, who’s stooped forward like he’s carrying the weight of Kennedy’s death on his back.
“I’m okay,” I say.
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Father doesn’t believe me. I can see it in his eyes. “It’s a hard thing, Luke, but it’s better not to isolate yourself. We all need to be together at a time like this.” He straightens slowly, like it hurts.
I nod again, but I don’t move. I just sit there holding that dumb pillow while Father stands halfway out the door, like he’s not quite sure what to do next. All of sudden these words come shooting out of my mouth: “Father, can I call home?”
Father sighs with relief, I think. “Certainly, Luke. I’m sure we can arrange it. No one’s in the offi ce right now. You may
use that phone.”
Father’s right. No one’s in the offi ce. Everyone else is
huddled up together in the cafeteria, still listening to the static-fi lled news from Washington, D.C.
I dial the number, and suddenly I’m remembering how it was after Bunna died, right after his plane went down and they were still trying to fi gure out what happened and trying to get the news to the families. Th
ey let me call home that
time, too. At fi rst I didn’t think I’d be able to talk, but it was so good to hear Mom’s voice. I close my eyes now, warming myself on the memory.
Mom had been working at Smythe’s Café, which is more like old man Smythe’s home, because it’s the only place in town that’s got a phone, and a lot of people hang out there. When I called that time, some guy I didn’t recognize had answered the phone and handed it to Mom without a word.
Th
e line between Sacred Heart and the café was scratchy 180
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E S K I M O R O D E O / L u k e with static that time, just like it is now with the radio. Mom’s voice had sounded scared and confused.
“Amau?” she had said, using my old nickname.
She sounded like a person not quite awake, a person unsure about what’s real life and what’s dreaming.
“Amau?” Her voice had wavered. “Th
at you?”
Th
ere was this lump in my throat the size of an iceberg, and I was suddenly so homesick, I could barely breathe.
“Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”
Suddenly, I had to pull the phone away from my ear because Mom was screaming so loud it hurt, screeching like a hundred thousand seagulls. Calling out for Uncle Joe and for every other uncle, aunt, and cousin I got like they were all right there, sitting in the café with her, waiting. And maybe they were.
“Joe, Mae, come here! It’s Amau! Anna! Look who’s on this phone right here! Dora! Dora! It’s Amau! He’s alive! Isabel!
He’s alive! He’s alive, Rachel—come hear! Right now! Alice—
guess who this is right here, it’s Amau! He’s still alive!” I’d forgotten how many relatives I had until right at that exact minute when Mom started punctuating every other word with their names.
“Esther! Donald! It’s Amau. Helen! Amau? Amau, is that really you?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s me.”
“Oh praise God, we thought you died . . . Joe! Joe! Come here right now! Qilamik! ”
Th
e sound of her voice taking off across the phone line 181
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like a fast car without a driver had made me start to laugh, crying at the same time. And in between the laughter and the tears, I was feeling every kind of feeling there was to feel, like I was fully alive for the fi rst time since Bunna died.