Free The Trap by John Smelcer Page B

grandfather’s snowmobile was not out front. Johnny left his machine running while he went inside, afraid that it might not start again.
    â€œ Dzi’di’da, Johnny,” Morrie said.
    The greeting was common, though without English equivalent. Loosely translated, it means, “So, you’re still alive.” In such a dangerous place, where people may not have seen one another for months or seasons at a time, it is not difficult to imagine why this greeting became tradition. It is a salutation that respects survival and resourcefulness.
    â€œClose the door,” she said while sweeping the floor.
    The young man took off his parka and hung it on a hook near the fire.
    â€œAny word on Grandpa?” he asked.
    The old woman stopped sweeping, leaned the battered broom against a wall, and sat down in her chair.
    â€œNo,” she said finally.
    â€œBut, Grandma, it’s been too many days and it’s very cold. He should have come home when the temperature started to drop.”
    She didn’t say anything, but Johnny could tell that she was worried.
    â€œMaybe he’s waiting out the cold in one of his trapping cabins.”
    His grandmother reached for her sewing things.
    â€œMaybe,” she said without looking up.
    Johnny sat down on the couch opposite her and rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them.
    â€œMaybe he decided it was better to wait it out.”
    â€œMaybe,” she said again, but this time she looked up at her grandson and their eyes held, filled with more concern than their words.
    They sat quiet for a few minutes. They could hear the clock on the wall, ticking between a picture of Christ on the cross and a print of two wolves lying beside a lake. Their reflection on the still water was that of an Indian man and woman. Husband and wife. Mated for life.
    Finally, the old women broke the silence.
    â€œYou go look for him, Johnny,” she said with a steady voice.
    In her Indian way, it was not a request, not a question awaiting an answer. It was a statement, something he had to do, like when she told him to bring in water or firewood.
    â€œBut, Grandma, it’s almost forty below. Besides, I don’t know which cabin he’s at.”
    This was true and the old woman knew it. In her younger days, she had gone up into the trapline with her husband many times. In the old days, before there were snowmobiles or four-wheelers, they used to go on foot. Back then, it took a whole week to walk in and back out.
    â€œYou get you grandaddy,” she said again, rising from her chair to check on something cooking on the stove.
    â€œYou a good boy, Johnny. You get him.”
    She didn’t say another word after that. When she was done stirring the pot, she walked back into her bedroom and did not come out again.
    Johnny checked the woodstove, poked at it a bit with a long iron rod, and then went outside to his still-idling machine. He made a wide turn in the front yard, barely missing several empty fuel drums, and headed back toward the village.
    *   *   *
    His uncle was working at the tribal office, so Johnny stopped by to talk to him. It was the largest building in the village. It even had a room filled with rows of washers and dryers, which were always broken. Outside, buried under many feet of snow, was a playground built for all the Indian children. But now it, too, was broken. The chains to the swings were gone, and the ladder to the slide was missing. Almost everything was broken in the village—snowmobiles, boats and boat motors, even the village firetruck with its flat tires and the bright red fireweed growing up through its wheels in the summer.
    â€œCome in, Johnny!” his uncle yelled when he saw his nephew.
    Even though he drank hard almost every night, his uncle never went to work drunk. It always amazed Johnny that he could do that. The few times Johnny had ever got drunk, he was sick all the next