Ma-ma-oo, Aunt Trudy didn’t talk to her at all. I wondered if it was for the same reason.
“Why doesn’t your mom talk to Ma-ma-oo?” I asked Tab when we were reading comics in my bedroom.
Tab sighed. “Don’t you pay attention?”
“I pay attention,” I said, getting indignant.
“No, you don’t. Ba-ba-oo was an asshole. He beat Gran. Instead of sending him away, she sent Mick and Mom to residential school.”
“And?”
“God, you can be so dense,” she said.
If Mick and Dad hadn’t been brothers, I wonder if they would have ever spoken to each other. Dad had been to school to become an accountant, but he quit the firm he was with after they passed him up for promotion four times. He spent a few years working at home, but the money wasn’t good and he hated the tax-time crunch. He tried working for the village council, but the politics made him crabby and tired. Working at thepotlines in Alcan was steady—he got to leave his job at the end of the day and didn’t have to think about it again until the next shift and, he told me once, he made more money. Uncle Mick, on the other hand, hated straight work. After he drifted out of A.I.M., he fished on Josh’s seiner, did some logging, beachcombing, trapping, fire fighting, tree planting—whatever paid his rent. He rarely used his apartment because he liked camping better. Dad didn’t like to be anywhere you couldn’t get cable.
They shared a fishing net, which meant that Dad had bought it and paid for gas for the boat while Mick did most of the actual net-checking. Mick took me out sometimes, when I behaved and managed to stay out of trouble for a few days at a time. Mom bought me a life jacket and said that if she caught me even once without it, she’d tan my butt from here to kingdom come.
Our net was a five-minute ride from the docks. One end of the net was attached to the shore, and the other to a buoy, a few hundred feet out. The net was held up by a series of corks, which was how you could tell if you’d been skunked or not. If a section of the corks was underwater, it meant that the net was holding up some weight. It could fool you, though, and just be driftwood. We would pull up beside the net, and Mick would cut the engine. With one cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he would reach down and, beginning from the buoy end, pull the net up section by section, pulling out weeds and gunk as he went. The weight of the net and Mick together would make the speedboat tilt so the bilge shifted and gurgledunder our feet. At first I was afraid, convinced we were going to tip over, but after a few times, I trusted Mick to know if we were in danger. Sometimes, the fish would still be alive, and Mick let me club them on the head. I wanted to prove I wasn’t a wussy girl. He’d shake his head and grin, telling me not to turn them into mush.
That summer, the ocean was clouded with jellyfish—small, translucent ones with an oily rainbow sheen. They got stuck in the net, and when we were pulling it up, they stung my hands. Mick kept smoking and pulling. I swallowed my tears, and that night my hands burned. I smeared them with Noxema. I swore to myself that if Mick didn’t say anything, neither would I.
He baby-sat us five more times that summer. If it was hot, we’d make a trip to the corner store and get double-scooped ice cream and candy. Mom protested, but he said it was his job as an uncle to get us hypered up before he sent us home. If it was raining, he’d drive us around to the mall or the library. Once, he took us to Mount Layton Hot Springs and stayed in the hot tub while me and Jimmy tired ourselves out in the big pool.
The last time he was supposed to baby-sit us that summer, Mom dropped us off but stopped outside his door, listening to the sounds of breaking glass and swearing. Neighbours cautiously stood in the hallway, staring at Mick’s door. The walls vibrated as things were thrown around inside. Jimmy’s eyes went
“Why doesn’t your mom talk to Ma-ma-oo?” I asked Tab when we were reading comics in my bedroom.
Tab sighed. “Don’t you pay attention?”
“I pay attention,” I said, getting indignant.
“No, you don’t. Ba-ba-oo was an asshole. He beat Gran. Instead of sending him away, she sent Mick and Mom to residential school.”
“And?”
“God, you can be so dense,” she said.
If Mick and Dad hadn’t been brothers, I wonder if they would have ever spoken to each other. Dad had been to school to become an accountant, but he quit the firm he was with after they passed him up for promotion four times. He spent a few years working at home, but the money wasn’t good and he hated the tax-time crunch. He tried working for the village council, but the politics made him crabby and tired. Working at thepotlines in Alcan was steady—he got to leave his job at the end of the day and didn’t have to think about it again until the next shift and, he told me once, he made more money. Uncle Mick, on the other hand, hated straight work. After he drifted out of A.I.M., he fished on Josh’s seiner, did some logging, beachcombing, trapping, fire fighting, tree planting—whatever paid his rent. He rarely used his apartment because he liked camping better. Dad didn’t like to be anywhere you couldn’t get cable.
They shared a fishing net, which meant that Dad had bought it and paid for gas for the boat while Mick did most of the actual net-checking. Mick took me out sometimes, when I behaved and managed to stay out of trouble for a few days at a time. Mom bought me a life jacket and said that if she caught me even once without it, she’d tan my butt from here to kingdom come.
Our net was a five-minute ride from the docks. One end of the net was attached to the shore, and the other to a buoy, a few hundred feet out. The net was held up by a series of corks, which was how you could tell if you’d been skunked or not. If a section of the corks was underwater, it meant that the net was holding up some weight. It could fool you, though, and just be driftwood. We would pull up beside the net, and Mick would cut the engine. With one cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he would reach down and, beginning from the buoy end, pull the net up section by section, pulling out weeds and gunk as he went. The weight of the net and Mick together would make the speedboat tilt so the bilge shifted and gurgledunder our feet. At first I was afraid, convinced we were going to tip over, but after a few times, I trusted Mick to know if we were in danger. Sometimes, the fish would still be alive, and Mick let me club them on the head. I wanted to prove I wasn’t a wussy girl. He’d shake his head and grin, telling me not to turn them into mush.
That summer, the ocean was clouded with jellyfish—small, translucent ones with an oily rainbow sheen. They got stuck in the net, and when we were pulling it up, they stung my hands. Mick kept smoking and pulling. I swallowed my tears, and that night my hands burned. I smeared them with Noxema. I swore to myself that if Mick didn’t say anything, neither would I.
He baby-sat us five more times that summer. If it was hot, we’d make a trip to the corner store and get double-scooped ice cream and candy. Mom protested, but he said it was his job as an uncle to get us hypered up before he sent us home. If it was raining, he’d drive us around to the mall or the library. Once, he took us to Mount Layton Hot Springs and stayed in the hot tub while me and Jimmy tired ourselves out in the big pool.
The last time he was supposed to baby-sit us that summer, Mom dropped us off but stopped outside his door, listening to the sounds of breaking glass and swearing. Neighbours cautiously stood in the hallway, staring at Mick’s door. The walls vibrated as things were thrown around inside. Jimmy’s eyes went
Similar Books
