Reading the Bones (6 page)

The old man breathes deeply when a gust of wind brings the smells of the forest to him. Even more than fishing, he longs for the days when he walked with the other hunters among the tall fir, hemlocks, and cedars. Sometimes they would come upon a huge ancient tree of their ancestors. At times like that the men would proudly join hands and embrace the giant tree, thanking the Great Spirit for this sign of his power and abundance. Then they would rest in the forest until it was time to silently creep out to the meadow of white-tailed deer.

After Eddy left for the day, I decided to head to the beach. I knew Aunt Margaret would want to mess around with my head, checking out how I was feeling about my mom's bad news. But there was no way I'd talk to her about it, no chance I'd let her analyze me. Cutting through the path that led past the sailing club and out to Mud Bay, I found an old log worn smooth by years of rain, sun, and wind and rested my back against it. It was nearly supper-time, and the place was almost deserted.

Even though I had managed to push her to the back of my mind all afternoon, Mom was never really out of my thoughts. Now that I was alone, I let myself think about how much I missed her. It felt like years since we'd been together and she had pinned me in one of her bear hugs. My heart beat harder and my eyes started to water.

“Hello, young lady. I was wondering when I'd see you again.”

I recognized Mrs. Hobbs's voice coming from behind me and quickly rubbed my eyes. Just then Chester waddled over to me and plopped his wet, sandy snout on my arm. I pulled it away and rubbed his gob on my shorts.

“Would you like to search for more of those tusk shells with me, or are you too tired from all that excavating?” Mrs. Hobbs asked.

I was surprised she knew about it. I hadn't seen her
for over a week.

“This is a small town, Peggy. News spreads faster than cow patties.” As she looked at me, her eyes turned into warm pools of concern. “Perhaps this isn't a good time, dear?”

I didn't have a grandmother, but if I did, I'd want her to be just like Mrs. Hobbs. Suddenly, I felt the warm trickle of tears on my cheeks. It made me angry that I was crying, and I tried to fight it off.

“You just go ahead and let those tears flow, Peggy. Sometimes the best thing we can do for ourselves is to have a good cry. It helps when we're worried about some problem to let out all that emotion.”

After a few minutes, my head was pounding and my eyes stung from all the salty tears. When Mrs. Hobbs handed me a tissue, I wiped my face dry, then sniffed. “Thanks, Mrs. Hobbs. I'd really like to collect shells with you. Could we do it after supper? I know my aunt's expecting me to come home to eat soon.”

“I don't think the light will be so good after supper, but I have an even better idea. Why don't you come by and we'll get started on that shell necklace for your mother?”

I jumped up off the sand and almost tripped over Chester, who was gnawing on some driftwood beside me. “That would be great, Mrs. Hobbs! I'll bring over my collection.”

She gently swept her warm, soft hand across my face and smiled. Her unexpected affection almost made me start crying again. “All right then, my dear. I'll see you after dinner.”

When I got back to the house, I found a note on the kitchen table:

Peggy, Uncle Stuart and I are making a trip to the garden store. We're going to price koi fish for our pond — for whenever it finally gets done! I don't appreciate your leaving without letting me know where you're going. We'll talk about that when I get home. There's a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of soup waiting to be warmed up in the microwave. Uncle Stuart made it, so I can't promise you how it's going to taste. We'll be back by 8:00.

— Aunt M

Good, I had the place to myself for once. I put the microwave on, then dashed upstairs to my room to get my box of shells. When I tripped over the clothes scattered on the floor, I was reminded that one of these days I should wash them. After my supper was ready, I ate on the porch overlooking the backyard. My eyes were dry and sore from crying, but I felt a lot better. Mrs. Hobbs was right. I guess a good cry really did help. I polished off the last of my soup and sandwich and was getting up to leave when Duff rubbed against my leg.

“Sorry, boy, you're too late. I ate it all.” I scratched the orange tabby under the chin, but he seemed annoyed with me and took off down the stairs. He glanced up at me, then sauntered over to the orange tarp protecting the burial. Just as he was about to walk across it, I yelled, “Get out of there, Duff!” My sudden outburst startled him. Then he narrowed his eyes, flicked his tail at me,
and marched toward the gate as if I'd hurt his feelings.

Before leaving for Mrs. Hobbs's house, I tried calling my mom in Toronto. Because of the three-hour time difference I wanted to talk to her before she went to bed. After several rings, the motel operator came on the line and asked if I wished to leave a message. I said no and hung up. Maybe Mom was having one of her famous long, hot baths. I would try again later.

Soon I was walking up Mrs. Hobbs's garden path with my box of shells tucked under my arm. When I got to the front porch, the door was slightly ajar. The smell of baking seeped through and grabbed me by the nose. I knocked gently and pushed the door open. “Mrs. Hobbs, I'm here.”

“Oh, hello, Peggy dear. Come in. I'm in the kitchen.” I wandered into the room where mixing bowls, measuring spoons, and bags of flour and sugar cluttered the counter.

“I thought we should have something nice for our work party, so I've baked us some double chocolate chip cookies,” Mrs. Hobbs said.

“My favourite!” I said approvingly, sitting at the kitchen table. “I brought my shells like I said. But I don't think I have enough to make a necklace yet.”

“Behind you, on the china hutch, is a box,” she told me. “That's it. Take a look inside.”

I pulled the metal fisherman's tackle box from the polished mahogany chest and opened it. Inside were hundreds of tiny shells of all kinds sorted into compartments. Immediately, I noticed the neat stack of tusk shells.

“I've been collecting shells for a long time, Peggy, and I've been waiting for someone like you to come
along and make use of them.”

A smile streaked across my face, and I knew this was how it felt to visit a grandma.

“Well, let's begin, shall we?” Mrs. Hobbs pulled over a large stack of books that was sitting on the table. Each book had several paper markers. She picked the top book off the pile and opened it about halfway. “Take a look at this one, Peggy.”

The picture was black and white and seemed very old. I was fascinated by the unsmiling, young Native woman staring out from the page. She wore a long, wide band of tusk shells, mixed with smaller round shells over top of what appeared to be a poncho. The woman had a wide face with high cheekbones and a squared jaw. Though her skin looked smooth, she had deep creases around her eyes — like laugh lines. Crow's feet, Mom would have said. And her hair was parted in the middle and braided along each side of her face. But it was her dark, magnetic gaze that held my attention.

Mrs. Hobbs showed me other pictures and necklace patterns. Some were made of beads and feathers, others of shells, porcupine quills, and bones. But I had already decided I'd make a necklace like the one worn by the lady with the penetrating eyes. Her necklace must have had over a hundred tusk shells. Mine would have to be narrower.

“Mrs. Hobbs, I think I'd like to make a necklace like this one.” I pointed at the picture. “Only I won't be able to make it as wide. And I'm thinking of using up my Adanson's leptons in between to fill it out more.”

Mrs. Hobbs studied the picture thoughtfully. “Yes, you could do that, Peggy dear. But rather than put holes in your lovely leptons, we could use shells that have
natural holes.” She pulled out a couple of shells and placed them in her hand for me to see. “This here is a two-spot keyhole limpet, and the other is a littleneck clam with a hole drilled by a moon snail. The tusk shells already have holes at each end, so it would simply be a matter of threading them all.”

I had my heart set on using my Adanson's leptons, but maybe for my first necklace it was better to go with the simpler plan. “I guess I could use these keyhole limpets, Mrs. Hobbs. I think the littlenecks are too big for what I have in mind.”

“Okay, then. And we can use this fishing line to string them together. Of course, the ancient people wouldn't have had this. They'd have made their necklaces with leather cords, or twine from cedar trees or strands of woven human hair.” Mrs. Hobbs pulled out a tray with tiny coloured beads. “You can add a few of these for colour, if you like, though traditionally they wouldn't have had anything like this.” She helped me get my necklace started, then turned back to the books to look for a pattern of her own.

Before long my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own as I strung the shells and beads. And for the first time in a long while I felt safe and comfortable, like the nights Mom and I curled up together in bed and read. As I worked, I thought about the stunning face in the book and wondered what the woman was thinking as she had stared down the lens of the camera nearly a hundred years ago.

“Mrs. Hobbs, if you found an artifact on your property, what would you do with it?” I could see that she was thinking about the question before answering. “The
reason I was asking,” I went on, “is because this weird guy came over to our house. He owns the gift shop in town and buys and sells ancient artifacts. I even saw his ad in the paper this morning. Our neighbour, Mr. Puddifoot, and Aunt Margaret seem to think it's okay.”

“The gift shop owner you're talking about is Walter Grimbal.” I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that she knew who I was talking about. “Well, honey, Mr. Grimbal hasn't had an easy life, and I think it's left him hard and indifferent. But in my mind those artifacts he sells should never belong to just one person. They're part of our prehistory. If they can't stay in the ground with their original owners, then they belong in a museum where everyone can enjoy them.”

“You sound like Eddy. She's the archaeologist who's been excavating the burial in the backyard.”

“Oh, heavens, no need to explain who Eddy is. We go back a very long time — back to about your age, I imagine.” Mr. Hobbs chuckled over the surprised look on my face.

“You were friends?”

“Our mothers were good friends. As a child, I liked her all right, and she probably thought I was all right, too. We just didn't have much in common. We both spent the summers here in Crescent Beach. I lived in Vancouver, and she came from New Westminster. Those were the days when Crescent Beach was a ghost town in the winter and only came to life at the start of summer vacation. I was more interested in playing imaginary games or dressing up in Mother's party gowns. Edwina, well, she was more like you.” Just then Mrs. Hobbs bent down and patted Chester's flat head. He was asleep
under the table at our feet. “What a lovely, smelly old thing you are, dear.”

“So ... what about now?” I asked.

“We don't see each other often, but there's certainly a warmth from our shared past. And I realize now that we did have something in common — our love for Crescent Beach. Edwina loves this place because of its rich prehistory — and it's where she first learned about archaeology. And I love it for all the other reasons — the peaceful walks along the beach, the friendly, small-town feel of the place, and of course the birds! I've spent many hours out on Blackie's Spit waiting for a glimpse of a heron, a red-winged blackbird, or a dove-tailed finch.”

Mrs. Hobbs walked over to the stove and took out another batch of cookies from the oven. “But when I was your age, what I really loved about being here was sailing out in the bay with my brother, Charlie. We had a little sailboat, and almost every day we'd pack a lunch and stay out on the water for hours. There were times when we infuriated our mother. She'd stand on the shore calling us in, but we'd pretend we couldn't see or hear her.” Mrs. Hobbs giggled as if she still remembered what it felt like to be a kid. I giggled also when I imagined myself far from shore while Aunt Margaret waved hopelessly for my attention, too distant to give commands or lectures about being responsible.

Gazing out her window, Mrs. Hobbs smiled. “Oh, dear, we certainly did have the most wonderful summers a child could have. Days before it was time to pack up and return to the city, I'd spend every waking moment sailing, swimming, or walking the beach and collecting shells. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if some of those
shells in my collection are ones I got long ago.”

After a while, Mrs. Hobbs and I fell into a comfortable silence as we worked and I let my thoughts drift away like a tiny boat on the water.

It is morning, and Shuksi'em steps out from the dark, smoky clan house. The warm morning sunlight sweeps over his bare chest like a blanket of soft eagle feathers. The stiff, dull throb in his arms and back begins to fade away under its gentle caress. Pain or not, he thinks this is the best part of each day — behind him the silence of the sleeping clan, before him the rhythmic lapping of the waves on the sand. Carefully, he steps down from the lodge entry with the help of his walking stick made from a sturdy cedar branch. He walks slowly and deliberately toward the water, thinking of the events this new day may bring.

Some of the women and children will gather more of the delicate pink berries that look like salmon eggs. They are a small joy on a summer's day and a sweet reminder in the cold of winter. Shuksi'em rubs his hungry belly at the thought of the delicious cakes the women will make from mashed berries and seaweed. These small delicacies are like candy as they slip from their moulds slick with fish oil.