was deeply jolted. But he was so quiet nobody knew that.
Why so quiet? Landreaux asked, once.
Why talk when Josette’s always talking?
He had a point.
Emmaline still thought about what Father Travis had said. If she wanted to, yes, she could take her son back. She wouldn’t go through the system. With social work files, always sprouting forms in triplicate, anything could happen. But always, instead of taking that step, pushing things that far, Emmaline thought of Nola’s loss, her husband’s responsibility for Dusty’s death, and she did something else. In the last few months she’d scraped bits of money for LaRose into a savings account. At other times she stitched her love into a quilt that she brought to the Ravich house. Emmaline gave the quilt to Nola, who thanked her at the door, folded up the blanket, and put it on the highest shelf of a closet. Also, every couple of weeks, Emmaline couldn’t help herself from making the special soup and frybread that her son favored. She put it on Nola’s doorstep or even into Nola’s hands, hoping that LaRose would tasteher love in it. Nola tossed it out. Just before Christmas, Emmaline came back with the moccasins. Left them wrapped with LaRose’s name on them. Nola put the moccasins in a plastic box. Stuffed into that container they waited, and Nola feared them, for their woodsmoke scent held the power of creation.
On those occasions she brought offerings, Emmaline saw that her half sister knew who was in charge. When Nola opened the door, her smile was pasted on lopsided. Sometimes before accepting the food, Nola’s hands clasped and unclasped in distress. Nola’s scrupulous thank-you covered a desperation that made Emmaline turn away. In the car, she put her hand in her pocket and touched a slip of paper upon which she had written You can take him back.
One day, just before Christmas without LaRose, after dropping off the food, she couldn’t leave. Emmaline got out of the pickup and went back to the house. Maybe talk to Nola? Glimpse LaRose? She knocked, but Nola didn’t answer. Emmaline knocked harder, then so hard her knuckles stung. She knew that Nola was somewhere in the house with her son, pretending that the knocks were not Emmaline.
Inside the house, LaRose heard his mother’s voice and knew the smell of that soup which he wouldn’t taste. Nola just kept reading Where the Wild Things Are over and over, until the knocking went away. Nola’s voice was hoarse and thin.
And it was still hot, Nola said, and closed the book. Shall I read it again?
Okay, said LaRose in a tiny voice. A fuzzy wash of draining sadness covered him. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Is there a bitch gene? said Emmaline, walking in the door after standing outside the Ravich house, knocking.
Snow gave Josette a look and Josette said, Did my mother really say that?
Because if there is, Emmaline went on, my sister got it from her mother, who was renowned as a prime bitch.
The girls stared at Emmaline, frowning in an effort to reject their mother’s talking this way.
Marn was her name. She killed her husband and got away with it. Of course, he was the leader of a cult.
Whoa.
The girls put their hands up.
Crazy talk, Mom, said Josette.
It’s true, though, said Emmaline.
Okay, Mom, but may we remind you that you’re talking about our grandfather? Josette and Snow nodded vigorously.
What you’re saying, Mom, is way too weird. I mean a bitch is one thing, but killing your husband is out of whack. We don’t want that.
So you don’t want truth. What do you want? said Emmaline.
We want our life to get normal, duh, said Josette.
Uneventful, except for good things, said Snow.
Melodrama? That detracts.
Vocabulary words!
The girls smacked hands.
Fine, said Emmaline. I acquiesce.
MACKINNON SPOKE TO the girl in her language, and she hid her muddy face.
All I did was ask her name, he said, throwing up his hands. She refuses to tell me her name. Give her some work to
Why so quiet? Landreaux asked, once.
Why talk when Josette’s always talking?
He had a point.
Emmaline still thought about what Father Travis had said. If she wanted to, yes, she could take her son back. She wouldn’t go through the system. With social work files, always sprouting forms in triplicate, anything could happen. But always, instead of taking that step, pushing things that far, Emmaline thought of Nola’s loss, her husband’s responsibility for Dusty’s death, and she did something else. In the last few months she’d scraped bits of money for LaRose into a savings account. At other times she stitched her love into a quilt that she brought to the Ravich house. Emmaline gave the quilt to Nola, who thanked her at the door, folded up the blanket, and put it on the highest shelf of a closet. Also, every couple of weeks, Emmaline couldn’t help herself from making the special soup and frybread that her son favored. She put it on Nola’s doorstep or even into Nola’s hands, hoping that LaRose would tasteher love in it. Nola tossed it out. Just before Christmas, Emmaline came back with the moccasins. Left them wrapped with LaRose’s name on them. Nola put the moccasins in a plastic box. Stuffed into that container they waited, and Nola feared them, for their woodsmoke scent held the power of creation.
On those occasions she brought offerings, Emmaline saw that her half sister knew who was in charge. When Nola opened the door, her smile was pasted on lopsided. Sometimes before accepting the food, Nola’s hands clasped and unclasped in distress. Nola’s scrupulous thank-you covered a desperation that made Emmaline turn away. In the car, she put her hand in her pocket and touched a slip of paper upon which she had written You can take him back.
One day, just before Christmas without LaRose, after dropping off the food, she couldn’t leave. Emmaline got out of the pickup and went back to the house. Maybe talk to Nola? Glimpse LaRose? She knocked, but Nola didn’t answer. Emmaline knocked harder, then so hard her knuckles stung. She knew that Nola was somewhere in the house with her son, pretending that the knocks were not Emmaline.
Inside the house, LaRose heard his mother’s voice and knew the smell of that soup which he wouldn’t taste. Nola just kept reading Where the Wild Things Are over and over, until the knocking went away. Nola’s voice was hoarse and thin.
And it was still hot, Nola said, and closed the book. Shall I read it again?
Okay, said LaRose in a tiny voice. A fuzzy wash of draining sadness covered him. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Is there a bitch gene? said Emmaline, walking in the door after standing outside the Ravich house, knocking.
Snow gave Josette a look and Josette said, Did my mother really say that?
Because if there is, Emmaline went on, my sister got it from her mother, who was renowned as a prime bitch.
The girls stared at Emmaline, frowning in an effort to reject their mother’s talking this way.
Marn was her name. She killed her husband and got away with it. Of course, he was the leader of a cult.
Whoa.
The girls put their hands up.
Crazy talk, Mom, said Josette.
It’s true, though, said Emmaline.
Okay, Mom, but may we remind you that you’re talking about our grandfather? Josette and Snow nodded vigorously.
What you’re saying, Mom, is way too weird. I mean a bitch is one thing, but killing your husband is out of whack. We don’t want that.
So you don’t want truth. What do you want? said Emmaline.
We want our life to get normal, duh, said Josette.
Uneventful, except for good things, said Snow.
Melodrama? That detracts.
Vocabulary words!
The girls smacked hands.
Fine, said Emmaline. I acquiesce.
MACKINNON SPOKE TO the girl in her language, and she hid her muddy face.
All I did was ask her name, he said, throwing up his hands. She refuses to tell me her name. Give her some work to
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