He'd have to get Adam to help him haul the beast out. It looked as if the snow would start again anytime. Bad weather only meant more trouble and time getting the meat back to the house.
He strung up the quarters and headed home. He wouldn't have time to talk to Ray today. The powwow would have to wait for another time.
Mattie settled herself on a cushioned chair across from her grandmother. Taking one of Luke's shirts out of a basket, she examined a torn pocket that flopped over. She turned the shirt so it faced Atuska. “Now, how did he do this?”
“It is something men do,” her mother said from the kitchen as she pressed her palms into risen bread dough.
Atuska looked up from her embroidery. “Men mutilate things.” She clicked her tongue. “I can't count the hours I have spent repairing my family's clothes. Your grandfather was one of the worst. Every time he went hunting or fishing I would have more work.” Sadness touched her eyes. “I should not complain. I wish he were here so I could sew for him.”
The old woman peered at a piece of linen she'd been embroidering. Her hands trembled as she struggled to push the needle through just the right spot. “Oh,” she said, dropping it into her lap. “I get so mad! I want to do what I used to, but my hands and my eyes won't work together anymore.” She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I am old and useless. I can't even embroider a pillow cover.”
Affia walked into the front room and leaned over her mother. Lifting the embroidery, she said, “It's still beautiful. Your eyes may not see so well, but your hands haven't forgotten what to do. You just can't see how wonderful it is.” She smiled warmly. “Would you like a cup of chia?”
Atuska resettled her glasses on her nose. “Yes. Thank you.”
Mattie pressed the wool shirt to her face. “This smells like Luke. It's strange that each person has his or her own smell.”
“Not so strange,” Atuska said. “We are each separate and unique, even our smells.”
Mattie set to work repairing the shirt. The fire in the barrel stove popped and crackled. The house was warm and smelled of rising bread. It was a good day and a good time to tell her family the news that she was carrying a child.
Her grandmother returned to her sewing. She peered intently at the piece of linen, then pushed the needle through and pulled it out from underneath. She stopped and studied it. “Oh, dear. That's not right.”
“Maybe we can get you new glasses,” Affia said.
“No. We need more important things. I'm fine. When the sun shines and brightens the room, I can see much better.” She glanced out the window. “If only the snow would stop, then I could see.” She held up her work. In spite of her shaking hands and failing eyes, her intricate artistry had interlocked with the linen. She set it on her lap and rested the back of her head against the sofa.
“No one can create the beauty of the otter and sea lion like you.” Affia returned to the kitchen. “Would you like a ginger cookie with your chia?”
“Yes. That sounds good.” She took a cookie, dipped it into her tea, and took a bite. “My mother would have liked these.” Ancient eyes rested on Mattie. “When I was a little girl, we did not have cookies. We had our barook and sometimes berries.” Her eyes lit up. “And my favorite—Eskimo ice cream.”
Mattie knew all about Eskimo ice cream. She'd never much liked the mix of seal oil and berries though. Grateful for cookies instead of dried fish and animal fat, Mattie took a cookie. “I like Mama's cookies.”
“It's hard for you to understand, but when I was young I had a good life, better than today.” She leaned forward. “The people in the village worked and lived together; we were a family. It was not like it is now. We shared the fun and the work. And how wonderful it was when the men returned with a whale. Everyone in the village gathered and helped pull it ashore; then the men would butcher it and the women worked side by side to cut the meat and preserve it.”
She smiled and her face crinkled into a map of fine lines. “We would have a feast, then late at night we would enjoy music and dancing, and storytelling.” She sat back, resting against the sofa cushions. “I wish you could have known what it was like. If you knew, you would not be so anxious to go away.”
“I know a lot,” Mattie said. “And I don't think you have to worry about me going anywhere. Luke isn't leaving this valley.”
“Good.” Affia smiled and bit into a cookie. She looked at her mother. “And I did what was right. I taught my children about the old ways.”
“Yes, but it is not the same as living it,” Atuska said. “It is sad that Mattie's children will not know what it means to live in and be part of a village—the bond between people, the love and trust.”
Knowing her grandmother would be offended if she knew Mattie was grateful her child wouldn't grow up in a village, she only nodded and took a bite of her cookie and a sip of tea. “I know you loved growing up as you did,” she said, glancing from her mother to her grandmother, “but there is a wonderful world outside of this place. I hope my children will get to see that world too.” She looked at her grandmother. “You cherish your past and that's good, but we have a future. I want to see other places.” Glumly she added, “Luke wants to stay put.”
“Staying put is good, better than you know.” The old woman stared into her cup. “Now it seems that everyone is doing as they please. People are going here and there, and they're too busy to care about each other.” She looked at Mattie, her gaze intense. “How can you be happy without being connected to someone or something?”
“I am connected. I have you and Mama and Luke and God. I don't need to know my dead ancestors or the way they lived.”
Atuska shook her head sadly. “You do not know what you are saying.”
Affia placed a loaf of bread in the oven to bake. “Mattie, I don't think your grandmother is saying it's wrong to look forward. But it is upsetting that you have no respect for your ancestors, or where you came from. Those people are your beginning.”
There was nothing Mattie could say in response.
Atuska set her empty cup on a table beside the sofa and picked up her sewing. “I wish you had known how it was. You would be happier.”
“Grandmother, I honor and respect you, and I know you are wise, but I think you are wrong about my being happy. When I lived in Seattle, I was very happy. I'm not the kind of person who needs to think on or dream about where I came from.”
Affia put a mixing bowl in the sink. “Maybe it's time to talk about something else.”
“We're just different,” Mattie continued, ignoring her mother's warning. “But that's all right. I know you love the life you once knew, and hopefully I'll love the life I have. And I'll teach my children to think about their future and help them find joy in the world and be successful.”
The brown in Atuska's eyes had lost its luster. “You do not understand that being who we are is enough. The world is not a bad place, and having adventures is good, but knowing who you are deep inside is what matters most.”
“I understand.” Mattie didn't want to talk about this anymore. It was time to reveal her secret. She rested her hand on her abdomen. Looking from her mother to her grandmother, she tried to think of the best way to say it. Finally she simply blurted out, “I'm going to have a baby.”
“A baby?” Affia asked, then as understanding dawned, her eyes brightened and her mouth turned up in a smile. “A baby! How wonderful! I'm going to be a grandmother!” She hugged Mattie.
Atuska smiled. “Life continues.” She set her embroidery in her lap. “Now it is even more important that you know about your beginnings. This child will want to know. I have taught you since you were a girl.”
Mattie felt annoyed but said nothing.
