Page 9 of Harper

“I don’t stay here for her,” I say softly.

“The fuck you don’t,” my cousin snaps back. “Listen, you’re making me crazy, and I gotta feed the kids something other than saltines. You gonna drink tonight?”

“No.”

“You still got the Fourth off? Coming to my BBQ?”

“Planning on it,” I tell her. “I’m bringing one of Vera’s cakes, too.”

“I’ll put out the Tums,” she quips, telling me she loves me before hanging up the phone.

My bottle urges mostly averted, I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. It’s been a long day. In no time at all, I’m dreaming.

Fifteen Years Ago

Joe

Violently in love.

Violently.

To be clear, I wouldn’t have chosen to read Pride and Prejudice in a million years; I was forced. And when there are only six other kids in your class and your teacher is friends with your aunt, you don’t skip your homework, or your mom finds out before you get home, and she beats your brown ass red.

What really surprised me, though, was that I kinda liked it. Not that I’d admit that to anyone, but it’s true. I liked the writing. I’d never read anything like it before.

“Joe!” calls my aunt. “This table needs to be put together and set up over by the path from town so we can collect the entry fees.”

“On it!” I call to my aunt, heading over to the stack of tables we borrowed from the First Presbyterian Church.

My thirteen-year-old cousin, Sandra, is sitting at one such table, painting a last-minute sign that reads:

FORTH OF JULY COMPITITION PRICES:

Under 18 Axe-throw (three tries) $9.00

Over 18 Axe-throw (one try)$9.00

Underhand Chop$10.00

Single Buck$15.00

Double Buck $20.00

“You spelled ‘fourth’ and ‘competition’ wrong, dumbass,” I tell her.

“Shut up, Joseph!” she yells. “You’re just a big shithead!”

“Nagten! Ugauluni, Sandra,” warns my aunt, telling her daughter to cut it out and be a good girl.

My cousin sticks her tongue out at me.

Laughing at her for getting in trouble, I take a folded table to the mouth of Smuggler’s Cove, set it up, and place two chairs behind it. My aunt will be sitting in one, and my mother will be sitting in the other. The Clearwater-Raven sisters are in charge of the competition fees every year, which is good since half of the money goes to the Skagway Traditional Council, a local organization that provides services to our tribal citizens.

I spend the next hour helping my uncles set up the portable bleachers we borrowed from the high school, then roping off competition areas with a friend from school. We are a small community of Native Alaskans in Skagway, but we all do our share to get this event off the ground every year.

By eleven, the sun is high, and I’m getting hot, so I take off my T-shirt and tuck it into the back of my jeans. Uncle Cody sits down on one of the chopping stumps we’ve set up, takes a swig of whiskey from his omnipresent flask, and scans my sweaty chest with his dark eyes.

“Geez, Joe,” he says, “you trying to show us all up?”

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