She came home one Sunday after church, reached out to thump my ears, but I danced off and climbed a tree, buzzed my tongue down at her, indignant as a squirrel.
One summer long ago, when I was a little girl, he came to Nanapush and the two sat beneath the arbor, talking only in the old language, arguing the medicine ways, throwing painted bones and muttering over what they had lost or gained.
Beverly had shaken out the trophy flag. He’d let it go in the air, and the wind seemed to suck it down, the black arms of the insignia whirling like a spider.
With every picture Beverly grew more familiar with his son and more inspired in the invention of tales he embroidered, day after day, on front porches that were to him the innocent stages for his routine.
Henry Junior cleared the hurdles of class and intellect with an ease astonishing to Beverly, who noted to his wistful customers how swiftly the young surpass the older generation.
There was a long spell of quiet, awful quiet, before the babies showed up everywhere again. They were all over in the house once they started. In the bottoms of cupboards, in the dresser, in trundles.
“You’re the one. So proud of shredding your feet! Getting worshipped as a saint! While all the time you’re measly and stingy to the sick at your door. I heard!”
Created on Thu Mar 18 11:32:49 EDT 2021
(updated Mon Mar 22 14:33:21 EDT 2021)
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