Free Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson Page B

back, waiting for Dad’s reaction.
    “Yeah?” Dad said, looking skeptical. “Was the invitation in the mail?”
    “Nah, it was an Indian marriage,” Barry said. “Medicine man and everything. How long’d you stay together, Fly-by? Two, three days?”
    “Screw you,” Mick said, shoving Barry, who shoved him back.
    “Hey, you’re not my type,” he said.
    “Kids are present,” Dad said.
    “I got to get going,” Barry said, standing. He towered over Dad, but slouched so he was Mick’s height. “Think about it, Mick.”
    He shook his head. “I’m retired. Good to see you, though. Stay out of trouble, you crazy bastard.”
    Barry slapped his shoulder. “Take your own advice.”
    They laughed again and his friend nodded to us, then left.
    “What was that about?” Dad said.
    “Barry? He’s getting together support for another hopeless cause. Some caribou thing up north.”
    Dad asked if we could stay until ten or so, and Mick said that was no problem. Jimmy settled down in front of the TV and I waited until Dad was gone before I asked Mick if he was really married.
    “Another life,” he said. “Long, long ago. Who wants ice cream?”

    Mick took me
q°alh’m
picking in the spring. We wandered through the bushes, stopping to examine interesting trees or listen to birds or throw rocks in rivers. We scanned the ground for the serrated, broad leaves of thimbleberry and salmonberry shoots,
q°alh’m
. You had to be careful not to pick the ones higher than your knees, because once they were that tall the stalks became woody and no amount of chewing would make them soft.
    Winter in Kitamaat meant a whole season of flaccid, expensive vegetables from town.
Q°alh’m
was the first taste of spring. The skin of the shoots had a texture similar to kiwi skin, prickly soft. Once you peeled them, the shoots were translucent green, had a light crunch and a taste close to fresh snow peas.
Q°alh’m
picking lasts a few weeks at best.
    Mick had two large bundles of
q°alh’m
under his arms. I had a smaller one that I had reduced to two shoots by the time Mick was ready to go back to his truck.
    “Let’s drop this one off at Mother’s,” Mick said, holding up a bundle.
    Ma-ma-oo’s house was one of the oldest in the village, a box with a low-ceiling basement and a steeple-like roof. It was painted a plain, flat brown, which was peeling back to reveal grey wood. The glass in the windows was so warped that the world outside looked like it was being reflected through a fun-house mirror. She never liked gardening, so the lawn was wild, with tree-high elderberry bushes and a tangle of untrimmed grass.
    Mick opened the door and stepped inside, then said, “Yowtz!”
    “Mick!” Ma-ma-oo said. She was brushing her hands against her apron as she came out of the kitchen.
    “Here,” Mick said, handing her the bundles of
q°alh’m
.
    “Oh, I was wanting her,” she said. “Come in, sit, have tea.”
    We followed her into the kitchen where freshly baked biscuits were cooling on the countertops. Once I was eating and quiet she turned to Mick and they talked while I watched everything around me. Inside, she kept the house tidy, but she didn’t bother to decorate like other grandmas I knew. There was nothing on the walls, no doilies on the chairs, no knickknacks on her coffee table. Her saggy, orange sofa never moved from its spot by the front window. I was afraid to touch the curtains because they were so threadbare. If you breathed hard, they whispered against her cracking linoleum, which still had a few sparkles not worn out of its yellowing surface. She had a heavy, black rotary phone that rang like a fire alarm. On the phone stand,she kept a picture of her husband, Sherman, who had died before I was born; another picture of Uncle Mick holding a giant halibut; and a popsicle-stick house I’d made for her in kindergarten and painted hearts all over. Even when the glue wore out and the popsicle sticks fell off one by