Rafael dropped into a seat at the picnic table, closely scrunched in next to me, and started venting.
"She acts like she owns the ground she walks on. And she's always got to be the center of attention. And she won't stop making fun of my glasses."
I smiled angelically. Sometimes I was glad to be an only child.
"Shut up, Sky. Why did she have to come back here?"
I shot him a sideways look, concerned. I knew he loved his sister.
"It's not that. It's just... Never mind. Can I have a samosa? I like 'em."
It was some time later that Lila's friend Morgan Stout jumped from his seat and gasped.
"There's a wolf eating my dinner!" he cried.
That wasn't the sort of proclamation that could go ignored. Wolves usually keep a respectful distance from humans; whenever they cross that distance, it means danger.
Ten different people leapt up at the same time. A few shouted, paranoid. But then I heard Dr. Stout's voice rising above the crowd, reprimanding her son.
"It's just a coywolf, you loon!"
I thought: Now
that's
the pot calling the kettle black. Dr. Stout was as loony as they came.
Morgan's paper plate lay on the ground. Head bowed over the plate, Balto busily devoured the last of Morgan's jackrabbit.
"But..." said Morgan, distressed.
Coywolves will sometimes lurk around a human settlement looking for food scraps, but when there are a lot of people gathered in the same place at the same time, they typically stay away. I guess it was different for Balto. It wasn't like he had a pack to pick up normal coywolf behavior from.
Already the adults had gone back to their dinner, unfazed. Coywolves are like coyotes in that they really don't want to hurt humans. I clapped my hands twice, briskly, and Balto abandoned Morgan's plate and sprinted over to the picnic table. I bent over the bench to give Balto the rest of my pumpkin pie.
"He thinks you're his mom," Rafael said dryly.
I sat up straight and leveled Rafael with an unamused gaze.
"Seriously. He'll probably wanna follow you indoors. Are you gonna let him in bed with you?"
Rafael stopped and checked himself. He lapsed into an appreciative sort of contemplative silence I didn't know how to interpret.
Balto licked his plate clean and watched me expectantly, his tail thumping against the soil. I reached down and stroked the scruff of his neck. He curled up comfortably beneath the picnic table, and Dad came and sat opposite Rafael and me.
"Hello," Dad began stiltedly.
I waved and grinned. Rafael stared openly, like Dad was a ghastly apparition.
"It's nice out, tonight," Dad went on.
Really, Dad? I thought. You sound pretty uncertain about that.
I kicked Rafael under the table. He started.
"Uh," said Rafael. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sir."
It was impossible to tell which of the two was more socially stunted. I felt the strong urge to let my forehead fall into my palm. Instead I smiled, my chin on my hand, my elbow on the scrubbed table, and looked between the two of them.
"So," Dad said.
"Yeah," Rafael said quickly.
"Alright," Dad said. He nodded politely, rising from the table. "Have a good night, Rafael."
"Yeah. I mean, okay. Thanks."
Granny and Dad and I went home together after the bonfire had been extinguished. Dad lit the hearth for the cold autumn night. I caught Dad by the arm before he could retreat to bed.
"What is it?" Dad asked.
I lifted my eyebrows.
Dad coughed into his fist, stalling for time. I waited patiently.
"There's nothing wrong with trying to get to know my son's boyfriend," he said sheepishly.
I didn't know whether to stare or hug him. I kind of wanted to laugh--because really, how amazing was my clumsy dad?--but I didn't want him to think that I was making fun of him.
"You're not really keeping that coywolf, are you?" Dad said.
Balto sat by the hearth on his scrawny legs and peered into the flickering flames like a sage old prophet searching for his future. Seriously, the little guy was mesmerized.
I showed Dad the most earnest, most piteous pair of eyes I knew how to affect.
Dad winced. "Okay, okay," he said. "Just remember that he's a coywolf, not a dog. You can tame him while he's young, but he's still a wild animal. When he grows up, and his wild instincts kick in, you'll have to let him go. And if he goes to the bathroom in the house...please clean it up before Mother notices. You know how she can be."
Dad's jack-o-lantern was sitting on the floor by Granny's loom. Dad picked up the jack-o-lantern and put it safely on top of the mantel. I guess he didn't want Balto destroying such a fine work of art in his childlike enthusiasm.
As a matter of fact, Balto
did
sleep in bed with me that night. He got his gold-and-gray hairs all over my pillow, too.
The real trouble started the next morning, when Balto tried to follow me to school. He made it as far as the front steps of the schoolhouse before Mr. Red Clay gave the two of us an appraising look.
"Sorry, Skylar," Mr. Red Clay said. "I only teach humans in this class."
It was heartbreaking to hear Balto whining and scratching outside the doors all morning. By the time class had ended, Balto was nowhere in sight. I had to track him down all the way back to Annie's grotto. The pattern repeated itself over the next few days until Balto finally learned to stay home in the mornings.
One afternoon, Balto and I came home from the woods to find Granny and Ms. Whitler sitting on the porch.
Ms. Whitler jumped out of her seat, her horn-rimmed glasses askew. "Oh, goodness, there you are!" she said. "I thought I'd be waiting out here all day for you!"
Granny shot her a furtive, disgusted look.
I smiled politely. Ms. Whitler presented as bubbly and ditzy, but she was a lot smarter than she was willing to let on. She liked to pretend she was your friend--while slowly gleaning whatever information she wanted from your defenseless mind. It seemed like a deadly combination of traits for a social worker to possess.
"Aw, is that your puppy?" Ms. Whitler bent down and reached for Balto's head. "Aww, aren't you so--"
Balto snarled, baring his lupine teeth.
"Anyway," said Ms. Whitler, standing quickly, "shall we go inside?"
I led the way into the house and kitchen and warmed some spicewood tea for Granny and Ms. Whitler. Balto scratched his nails along the seams in the cellar door. He constantly tried to open that door, but without any success. A good thing, too, or he would have eaten all the produce and left none for us. Ms. Whitler sat at the kitchen table with a sigh of contentment and kicked off her shoes.
The moment I sat down, I jolted. Where was Dad? The Major Crimes Act was the only thing protecting him from the FBI. If Ms. Whitler caught a glimpse of Dad... I didn't know what would happen. But I knew that I'd rather not find out.
I looked toward Granny for a visual cue. She didn't notice. She sat down, cleared her throat, and pushed a sheet of paper across the table at Ms. Whitler.
"Ooh," said Ms. Whitler. "What's this?" She adjusted her glasses and bent over to read it.
"I would like to adopt the boy," Granny said brusquely. "It's clear that his father isn't coming back for him."
"Mm, that's true," Ms. Whitler said. "And anyway, as a murder suspect, it's not like he's in a position to raise a kid on the run..."
Murder. I hated that word.
"Well, then?" said Granny. "Will you approve my request for custody or not?"
Ms. Whitler smiled tightly. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.
"Mrs. Looks Over," she began. "I don't think I've had enough time to assess the long-term stability of this home. I don't know whether I could approve such a thing within good conscience."
"Not enough time?" Granny exclaimed. "He's been with me for four months!"
"Right, I'm glad you see it my way!"
"I absolutely do
not
!"
I stood quickly. I didn't want them yelling at each other.
"Mrs. Looks Over, I think you're raising a little liar. In fact, I think you're all a bunch of little liars! Either his father is right here on the reservation, or else Skylar knows where he's hiding. Heck, I'm just sure of it! When we let him keep that beeper--"
"Oho!" said Granny, enraged. "I think I want my attorney in the room for this one! Skylar! Go get--"
"No, no! That's quite alright; it looks like I've run out of time here. I'd better get going. I'll be back, though!"
We walked Ms. Whitler to the front door, her shoes in her hand, Granny livid.
"It's funny," said Ms. Whitler, just before she left. "If not for his birth certificate, I never would've guessed he's an Indian. He just doesn't look anything like y'all!"
Granny slammed the door in her face.
4
Ach'ii
Dad, Granny, and I sat down to a quiet dinner in Ms. Siomme's barn loft on Sunday. Balto sat on my lap, squirming, restless but compliant, and I fed him slices of ginger root from the table when no one was looking. A soft and hazy rain washed over the apartment's pasture-facing windows.
"I'm sorry to bother you with this," Dad said. "But I--"
"You're not bothering me. Go on."
"I don't think that social worker's going to cooperate with us," Dad said, resigned.
"Oh, you don't
think
, do you?" Granny snapped at him.
"Mother..."
"What exactly did she say?" Ms. Siomme asked. "When you brought up adoption?"
"Some nonsense about 'not having enough time,' " Granny reported. "As though four months' time isn't enough..."
"Then we'll definitely look into getting you a new case worker," Ms. Siomme said. "On the bright side, at least she didn't try to take Skylar with her when she left."
I didn't like this feeling. It was like sitting precariously on a bed of needles, tense, knowing you could never lie back and relax without fear of pain.
Granny tutted reproachfully. "If Christine were here," she muttered, "she would have decked that hussy straight across the face."
It took everything in me not to burst into laughter at Granny's language.
Ms. Siomme smiled nostalgically, her mug in her hands. "She did have a temper on her, Christine..."
I looked between Granny and Ms. Siomme with interest. It was rare that I heard anyone talk about Mom. The wounds were still sore, I figured.
"If Christine were here," Dad said, "we wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. There's no use thinking about it."
And there it was--the shut-down.
Ms. Siomme poured us cups of peppermint tea before we left for the remainder of the evening. Dad and Granny and I walked home together in the light rain, Balto trotting at my side.
As we were treading up the lawn, I took Dad's thick arm imploringly in my hand.
He knew what I wanted. Sometimes he knew what I wanted even before I knew it.
Can't you tell me about Mom?
"Not now, Cubby, please," he begged. "I'm tired."
We went into the sitting room and lit the hearth. I warmed towels over the wood-coal stove and we dried up, quickly, by the fireplace. Balto shook his wet mane all over the wood floor. Dad sneezed.
"Play something," Granny commanded me. She waved dismissively and went into the preceding front room to have another try at figuring out the computer.
I played a song called Heavy Fog on the plains flute while Dad sat on his rocking chair, gazing inexpressively into the fire. I heard Granny in the next room saying: "Hmm, looks like I've got an e-mail letter..."
"That was very good, Cubby," Dad said when I had finished playing.
I smiled wistfully. Dad went on looking at me and finally sighed beneath his breath, turning his head away so I wouldn't have to see a real expression on his face.
"It hurts to remember her. I wish you could understand that."
I'd been selfish, I thought. Of course I didn't want Dad to suffer.
An uncomfortable silence stretched between us.
"So," Dad said. "Are you going to the autumn pauwau? It's on the Black Mountain Reservation, I believe. I think you'll really enjoy it."
What did that mean? Wasn't he coming, too?
"I can't come," Dad said. "I'm sorry. The moment I step out of Nettlebush, the law stops protecting me. I know that sounds cowardly. But I..."
No, it didn't. I shook my head and touched his arm. The last thing I wanted was to lose Dad. Still, I thought, I wished he could join in on the fun.
Dad smiled, but he still looked like a flightless hawk to me. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll keep Balto company while you're gone."