Not Dead Enough Read Free Page B

matter.
    â€œOkay,” the woman said, “I’ve been doing all the talking. Now it’s your turn.”
    The kids clapped and chattered excitedly.
    She looked at the younger kids sitting up close. “Who can tell me why the salmon is such a special fish?”
    A thin little girl wearing heavy glasses shot her hand up. “Um, they go back to have their babies in the same place they were born. Sometimes it’s a really long swim back to that place, but they never forget where it is.”
    â€œVery good. What are fish called that do this?”
    A boy in the second row called out, “Ana…uh, anadromous.”
    The woman smiled brightly. “That’s right. She looked at the boys in the back. “What do you guys think about a fish that swims a thousand miles up a river just to spawn?”
    A tall boy in gangbanger pants and a black tee-shirt said, “They’re damn tough.”
    The woman’s face lit up. “Wonderful point. Tell me more. Why are they so tough?”
    â€œWell, look at all the stuff they have to fight against—fishermen, dams, sea lions, pollution, people messing up their spawning grounds, stuff like that. But they keep coming back every year. My dad says there’s no quit in them.”
    I looked at those kids huddled around the woman, tough survivors, too. No wonder they have such a strong bond with the fish they hold sacred. After all, they’ve lived together along this river for thousands of years. And then I had another, less comforting thought. What if our stupidity wins out and we allow Columbia River salmon to become extinct? Could these people cope? Shit. Could I?
    The woman ended the discussion with an old Wasco story of how Coyote freed the salmon for the benefit of all the river peoples by fooling two old women who were hoarding the fish. The kids laughed and clapped when she told them Coyote did this by destroying a dam that was holding the fish captive. The irony of the story wasn’t lost on them. Not one bit.
    Philip and I waited in the back until she finished her talk, and the kids began to drift away. Philip waved and she came over to us.
    â€œHi, Winona,” Philip said as he hugged her. “Meet Cal Claxton. Cal, this is my cousin, Winona Cloud.”
    Her face was unadorned with makeup, and her smile was as modest as it was brief, showing the hint of two honest-to-goodness dimples. Her eyes were almond-shaped and hazel-going-to-green. They regarded me with intelligence and obvious curiosity as she offered her hand.
    â€œI enjoyed your talk, Winona. You had those kids eating out of your hand.”
    â€œShe knows her stuff,” Philip interjected, gazing at her proudly. “She has a PhD in biology from Stanford.”
    Winona showed another hint of a smile, and I thought she might actually be blushing.
    â€œWhat are you doing with your degree?” I asked.
    â€œI work for a nonprofit, Pacific Salmon Watch.”
    I nodded to let her know I’d heard of the organization.
    â€œI’m heading up a project on river habitat restoration. We’re working with the Columbia tribes on this. She glanced back at the booth, stacked with literature and decorated with photos and illustrations of salmon. Part of my job’s education.”
    â€œI liked the way you mixed the science with the Indian lore,” I told her.
    She smiled more fully, deepening the dimples. I thought of the sun breaking through somewhere in rainy Oregon. She said, “I grew up with that particular story of Coyote. It was my grandmother’s favorite.”
    â€œI’ve told Winona a little bit about what you do, Cal. I think there’s something she wants to discuss with you. I need to find my father, so I’ll look you two up later, okay?” Philip turned to leave but not before he gave me that look he has when he thinks he’s done something clever. God, I hate that look.
    We lingered in an awkward pause