The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,8

around my head like ice fog. I failed at everything today. I failed at getting to school on time and turning in my algebra paper. I failed at keeping the nightmares at bay and not sleeping with a chair propped under the doorknob, even though nothing has happened in months and I sleep at Dumpling’s now. I failed at telling myself I would not let Crazy Dancing Guy make me count off on my fingers all the ways I failed at not failing.

—

Later, Mom comes over to Dumpling’s and says she’ll drive me to the Salvation Army to look for some new snow boots. I need to say that again: Mom says she’ll drive me to the Salvation Army to look for some new snow boots. That seems like such a small, ordinary thing, but remember I live with Dumpling now. Her father brings home moose and caribou and ptarmigan, and her mother cooks them up on top of their woodstove in these huge cast-iron pots and the whole house smells like it’s smothered in gravy. Nobody yells at each other and throws pictures that will break in their frames and then get hung right back up on the wall anyway. At Dumpling’s you don’t have to look through shattered glass to see whose face it is, looking back out, warning you that the sound of glass breaking means it’s time to hide.

So when Mom comes over to Dumpling’s house like she’s just a friendly neighbor offering to take me to the Salvation Army, I wonder what’s up. I know Dumpling’s father does, too, but nobody is going to say anything because that’s not what we do. Dumpling’s father shrugs and fiddles with his suspenders while her mother spoons Crisco into an empty coffee can and nods at the frozen blueberries in the sink, reminding me that the akutuq, Eskimo ice cream, will be ready when I get back.

—

“She makes that just for you?” Mom asks as we climb into her rusty blue Chevy. I shrug and make sure to hook the bungee cord really tight. It keeps the door from swinging open on the corners. Another thing I like about being at Dumpling’s is that her mother knows my favorite dessert and goes out of her way to make it for me without drawing a lot of attention to it. Also, there are real locks on all the doors.

I don’t say anything, and my voice would be drowned out by the sound of the Chevy’s muffler even if I did. Bunny and Lily are on the merry-go-round, spinning and laughing. They yell something in unison, and even though I can’t hear, I imagine it’s another commercial.

As we drive away, I watch them spinning faster and faster on the merry-go-round, another gift from Catholic Charities for the poor kids of Birch Park, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders as if they are the only two people in a world they have created just for themselves. How do they do that?

At the corner of Bartlett and Second Avenue, Crazy Dancing Guy is still doing his thing.

Mom honks and smiles. “I love him.”

“Mom, don’t encourage him. He looks stupid.”

“He makes people laugh. He makes people feel good.”

“He’s pickled,” I say before I can stop myself, and she slaps me with the back of her hand, right across my cheek. So fast I never even saw it coming.

“You know better,” she says, lighting up her cigarette, tossing the match out the window. “You starting to think you’re better than us now, ’cause you live with rich people and eat akutuq every day?”

I ignore that she thinks eating lard mixed with sugar and berries somehow makes you rich. But it’s really her way of saying she sees what Dumpling’s mother does for me. If I didn’t know her better, I might think it bothers her, but that would mean she cares and I don’t let myself go there. Not after all the times she just stood by and did nothing.

I silently tick off three more things I have failed at today. Understanding my mom, remembering that we never talk about other people’s problems (or our own), and convincing Mom not to honk and wave at Crazy Dancing Guy.

“Is he native?” I ask her, trying to make it sound like I didn’t just accuse someone’s parents of drinking so much that their kid came out fermented and weird, and now dances on a street corner. He doesn’t really look native, but that doesn’t mean