The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,59
doesn’t surprise him in the least.
“She’s an elder,” he says simply.
“Yeah, but…” Dumpling’s dad does not have to yell or throw things the way my dad does to let me know when I’ve gone too far. The way he looks at me makes me want to crawl under the table.
“There were a bunch of us who worked really hard to defend the rights of all Alaskans,” he tells me, and I’m not sure what that has to do with pie.
“We didn’t want to become a state; we wanted to continue to have certain freedoms we’d always had. The right to fish and hunt on our own land; to protect our culture. You know, simple human rights, and it wasn’t just native—a lot of nonnative Alaskans stood right alongside us—all worried about what statehood would mean.”
I squirm, thinking about my dad drinking at the bar and letting everyone else do all the heavy lifting.
“I was supposed to be on that plane,” Dumpling’s dad is saying. “The one that went down in Canada and killed five of my good friends, including Ruth and Lily’s dad.”
I look down at my purple fingers, stained with berry juice.
“Their mother will never be okay again after losing him, and her gran is trying to raise them all on her own. Is a pie asking too much, Dora?”
“Did you know about the note?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible, trying not to be a disappointment.
“I’m the one who told Dumpling where Ruth’s mother is. I visit her from time to time—they hoped seeing a familiar face would jog a part of her memory.”
He looks defeated.
“It’s my fault, Dora. I shouldn’t have let any of you girls go there. Dumpling’s accident is all my fault.”
He slumps in his seat. Adults never talk to us kids like this and I’m not sure how to respond, but I don’t believe it was his fault. Luckily the oven timer dings, and I can busy myself getting the pie out of the oven.
—
I knock on the Lawrences’ door, balancing the sticky, hot pie on an oven mitt. I hope desperately that Lily will answer, but that would make me a lucky person and that’s not how I would describe myself.
I’ve never been up close to their gran before, and when the door opens I brace myself, expecting to see eyes sunk deep in their sockets and perhaps fangs instead of teeth, so I am surprised when she is nothing but an old woman in a faded flowered housecoat. Her wispy gray hair looks like a dust bunny stuck on her head. I could never throw a pie at someone who looks like she does.
“Hello, Dora,” she says. “Won’t you come in?”
The kitchen is totally bare, smelling of floor wax and Comet and not a hint of anyone my age or younger possibly living here. I’ve become so accustomed to Dumpling’s house, which is a bustle of activity, with piles of tanned animal skins everywhere waiting to be sewn into hats and mittens, and muddy footprints because who has time to take off their shoes when you just need to grab that book you forgot or one more stick of venison jerky on your way out the door? It smells like a place where people like each other, and the Lawrence house smells like it’s judging you the minute you walk inside. I make sure to slide out of my shoes before I step onto the worn, but still shiny, linoleum.
Gran—I don’t know what else to call her—motions for me to place the pie on the counter. “That smells wonderful,” she says as she opens the refrigerator, pulling out a brown Tupperware pitcher. I am annoyed at the way she seemed to expect the pie.
“Would you like some Tang?”
But she is already pouring me a glass, even though I haven’t said anything.
“Here; sit, sit,” she says, setting the glass down on the table, which is also polished to a shine and smells of Lemon Pledge. There are no stacks of magazines, or unopened bills, or plates of half-eaten food. There’s not even one crumb. It’s unlike any table I’ve ever seen, and I am careful not to spill a drop of orange Tang on it.
She pours herself some coffee and sits across from me.
I take a gulp of what is normally a sickly sweet drink, but this just tastes like orange-flavored water. Either Gran is skimpy with the powder or Bunny is generous when she makes ours.