LITMIR.BIZ

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Anne,” John said. “Just get out. Just get out now.”

      He had reached into the cockpit and pulled her out with a strength that she didn’t know he possessed. His fingers dug into her waist and thighs, and her shins hit the rim of the door as he dragged her out. She wondered where this man, this strength, had been all this time. He was always so gentle and tender, even in bed, that she had begun to think he didn’t have anything else to give. He set her down on her knees next to the plane wheel, and then twisted the lock on the door.

      “I didn’t think I would ever have to lock it from you, Anne. The village kids, yes, but not you.”

      He had left her there on the ground and headed back toward the outhouse. She kneeled there, resting her head against her knees until Ellen had sat down next to her and said that the fish head soup was boiling.

      The sounds of the meeting and Alicia’s elbow brought Anne Girl back to the hall. She always wondered if John had wanted to hit her then. The thought kind of pleased her, because then maybe he would act more alive and possessive. Then she could hit him back for always leaving her. Even if she wasn’t successful, she tried to remain calm or indifferent when he went over to Frederik’s for a game of chess or for the news. She at least tried. It was the least she could do for him, she had decided.

      “You letting Ellen go to the Bible camp this summer?”

      “Nah.”

      “You should. That Nora’s a good teacher, real quiet, you know. Not like some. Ellen will just be in the way for fishing. I’m letting my June go. Phil’s going fishing with Amos. And I won’t be able to watch her all the time. It’ll be good for them to learn a little something.”

      “A little nothing is what,” Anne Girl said, and she took a bite from her strips. She worried that Nora in her womanly ways would soften Ellen so that the girl would never learn to fish and hunt and take care of herself. Her hands would become soft and her fingers tender. And then they would be useless. Anne Girl couldn’t let that happen.

      While Alicia listed off the benefits of allowing Ellen to go to Bible camp, one of the most respected elders, Old Paul and his son, entered the hall. Old Paul, named after his Russian father Paulvnskii, a fur trader at Hooper Bay, was one of the oldest in the village. He was a young adult before the cannery pounded piles into the beach and declared the settlement to be a fishing village. He was so old that it was rumored he was a shaman, a good one who knew how to stretch his years from one century to the next. The old man, hunched over, leaned on his son and walked slowly toward the table of food. His thinning white hair glistened in the light like a full moon. Although most of the children didn’t pick up on the sudden tension that weighted the air, Anne Girl could feel something. And she watched Old Paul and Frederik closely.

      Frederik nodded to Old Paul and took a few steps backwards. Years ago when Frederik arrived fresh from the States, it was clear to everyone in the village that he believed all would want to follow the peaceful ways of the Moravian Church. And because the Killweathers had a radio and medicine from doctors, most joined the congregation. Others, like Marulia, avoided the missionaries because it took too much energy to explain why they didn’t want to sing on Sunday. But Old Paul had walked right up to Frederik’s face and told him to leave Nushagak, that he wasn’t wanted in the bay. Half the village, including Anne Girl, saw Old Paul do it. He barely reached Frederik’s shoulders, but he stood as if Frederik was a child with a pair of glasses too large for his nose. Anne Girl had expected Frederik to reach for his Bible and quote something in tongue, but he only turned and walked back toward his side of the village as if his truth would eventually find a way into Old Paul. That’s when Old Paul began his own preaching. He told stories. It made Anne Girl laugh that Frederik still didn’t seem to know that he couldn’t touch the stories repeated during maqis and over tea, those stories that linked the young with the old.

      When Old Paul sat down, there was a sense that the potlatch had finally begun. Shrieks of laughter from the children echoed in the rounded walls while the low hum of conversation renewed itself.

      Although most people came for the potlatch and the dancing, few came for the important issues facing the village. The cannery superintendent had a list of grievances, ranging from children playing on the dock to the broken windows at the mess hall. He stood in the center of the hall and paced in small circles as he listed each one. But the council members listened and agreed that kids shouldn’t be on the docks. One of the members, Sweet Mary, with her rolls of flesh, stood up and said, “Parents with children on the docks will be fined.” The council then announced that Sunday Bible camp was being held by the Killweathers this summer. There were murmurs of interest and glances at Nora and Frederik as people ate. Between strips of dried fish and stew, the villagers agreed on nearly every issue at hand as they waited impatiently for the dancing and drumming to start.

      The drums began their thunderous beat as soon as the door closed behind Frederik and his family. An elder, a tiny and wrinkled man, rose and walked to the center of the room. He meant to tell a story, one that would catch the beat of the drums and ride with the chanting of the singers. All ears, young and old, turned to the old man, and he began a mournful song. The children, knowing that it was time to listen, pushed each other as they crowded toward the center. Ellen was among them, clasping June’s hand and pulling her close.

      A few people sitting along the wall began to sway with the beat as the elder began to dance. He tossed his arms in the air and flung them about. Anne Girl had a bottle of booze in one hand, and she held it loosely. With her eyes on the dancing elder, she rocked, gently swaying from the waist, freeing herself from the confines of the village. The vertical crease between her eyebrows relaxed as her lips curved into the gentle shape of a skiff. She felt a pair of eyes on her and looked toward the doorway to see John gazing at her as if trying to break down the scene in pieces. She knew what he was thinking. He was summing it up, understanding how separate they were, even when lying naked side by side. Anne Girl felt goose bumps rise along her neck, and she looked away. She leaned back into the drumming and tried to forget that John was probably right.

      On the following Sunday, a storm blew in from the North. Unshaven fishermen stood in their rain gear at the cannery dock, shaking their heads as they watched whitecaps curl toward them. It was an off-shore wind that blew the salmon farther and deeper in the bay. Too deep for nets set off the shore. Those who had fished Bristol Bay for several seasons understood that this storm may have been the run, their food in the pocket while they perched on the dock watching it go by. Those who didn’t know the ways of the bay paced the wooden planks impatiently, not understanding that they had no choice but to watch.

      Likewise, a storm that had been brewing beneath the roof of the Nelson house swooped in like a gale of wind when John told Anne Girl that they were invited to have lunch at the Killweathers’, that Nora asked if Anne Girl liked lentils. Anne Girl’s shoulders bristled.

      They argued, each drawing lines in the sand until they found themselves defending what they didn’t believe. John tried to explain that he liked Frederik’s company after a long day being cramped in the air. And Anne Girl had no reason to dislike them. They had lived in the village too long to be treated like outsiders.

      But the Killweather name set Anne Girl’s eyes aflame, and they argued until they had nothing left. Their heated words gave way to the sound of rain drumming on the window pane and Ellen’s voice, as she played in the back room.

      Too exhausted for words anymore, Anne Girl scowled as she pulled on a pair of rubber boots and a raincoat. Shit on friendship, she thought. She felt the anger still breathing fire as it moved from her voice to her shoulders. She had meant every curse from her lips, even the Yup’ik ones that John didn’t understand. Now she would pull the net farther up the beach, because even if there were no fish, the day promised a high tide. Her mother’s ghost was probably sitting in the kitchen, laughing at her for marrying the clumsy kass’aq.

      “Ampi, Ellen! Let’s go pull in that net before the anchor rolls. Like we have time to sit around and drink tea and worry about lentils.” She motioned with her arms. “Lentils.”

      Ellen walked in from the bedroom,

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