Wabanaki Blues Read Free Page B

psychologist’s dream. The only thing she doesn’t complain about is our neighborhood on Manburn Street. She insists it has a good vibe—which is pretty funny. Our apartment building is a former cattle slaughterhouse wedged between a former funeral parlor and a former orphanage. My grandmother, Bilki, says places carry spirits, which suggests the sidewalks of my neighborhood creak under a heavy load.
    Mom continues to zone out on the mop, her facial muscles limp, like she’s correcting freshmen midterms. Clearly, this mop has triggered one of her depressions. They always begin like this. Some photo, or story, or random object elicits an unpleasant memory, and she goes on a mental vacation for days, forgetting all of her responsibilities. I should have reminded her to take her pills last night. On the bright side, whenever she freezes, she instantly transforms into a lovely Land O’ Lakes American Indian butter girl.
    Wait! I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. Calling my ex-professor mom a butter girlsounds like a sexist, racist stereotype. She would kill me for even thinking it. But I can’t help it; it’s true. That’s the way she looks—minus the ridiculous butter girl outfit.
    Dad’s mildewed book, stale coffee scent enters the room ahead of him. Sweat drips from his weedy gray ponytail, and he wears only one argyle sock. After removing his fogged up glasses, he rolls his eyes backwards, way up into his head. He can’t help doing this disturbing thing because he has a photographic memory. Faced with any tough situation, he focuses upward, searching the books in his brain for helpful information. Right now, he’s probably researching advice on childrearing. I hope he is flipping through some friendly ancient guidebook like Baby and Child Care and not one of those nasty parenting texts like Dare to Discipline .
    Dad’s weird eye motions explain why freshman attendance in his Introduction to Archaeology classes has always sucked. He does better with the upper level undergraduates, and his graduate classes are always packed. The more educated a student becomes, the more they think his eccentricities demonstrate brilliance. Now you see why I’m determined to go on tour with my music and skip college.
    Millicent Dibble ignores Dad and addresses Mom. “Lila Elmwood, I realize Mona must have left home dressed in this vile shirt without your notice. I know how much you respect innocent animals. All of your people do.”
    Your people. Who says that to an Indian? Mom says nothing in response to Dibble’s bigoted statement. She’s still staring stupidly at the mop in the corner. I don’t know much about the technical aspects of clinical depression, but personal experience suggests this is a bad sign. In the good old days before she lost her job teaching Native American history at Twain College, Mom would have rifled back at Dibble’s remark with words hot enough to burn her ears off. I miss the old Mom with the Red Power picket signs. Down with Columbus Day! No More Native American Mascots! Save American Indian Burial Grounds! Now she is a mute, frozen butter girl, eyes fixed on a rag mop in the corner of a stuffy basement closet. Dad also stays silent, but for a different reason. His academic field of study is ancient Russian archaeology. Nothing in twenty-first-century America remotely interests him. That includes Mom and me. My parents share one true love, and it’s their work. That’s why it hit them so hard when Twain College made its cuts.
    Millicent Dibble shakes her head at Mom, clearly vexed at her lack of response. She shouts, “Does the girl have a job lined up after graduation? Dr. Elmwood, your daughter needs discipline!”
    My ears perk up at her mention of a job because this is a sore point. I had scored a great paid internship with the Twain College music department. But the budget cuts that eliminated