My Mother Is Now Earth

8. Evening of the Bear

Mrs. Mattson is meaner than Mrs. Schmidt. And the third grade is harder than the second grade. Mrs. Mattson not only hates my “sloppy” cursive writing, she also complains about the way I hold a pencil. “Mr. Rolo?” she says, standing in front of my desk, snatching my pencil from my hand. “You hold it this way.” I try it her way until she turns her back to complain to another student, and then I slip the pencil back between my pointing and middle finger. Mrs. Mattson also thinks I can’t read as well as the other students. The first week of school, she sent a note home to my mother telling her I need to go to a special reading class twice a week for the rest of the year, maybe even next year as well. I’ll be stuck with Mrs. Mattson for two years in a row. She teaches both the third and fourth grade classes, in the same room. I finally stopped thinking about looking forward to having Mrs. Baker for my teacher back at Lincoln Avenue Elementary in Milwaukee. My mother’s Indian payment has not come, and my father is now making plans to cut enough wood to last through the winter, until spring and even the first part of next summer. I think my mother has given up on getting that check from her tribe. She stopped asking me to walk to town to get the mail once f8g Evening of the Bear 74 Evening of the Bear 75 school started again. I haven’t heard her say anything to my father about going on a bus trip to Milwaukee to visit her sisters. And I haven’t seen her writing any of her letters. She just keeps busy making her bread and reading her rummage-sale books that Irene gives her. The only good thing about being back in school is not having to dig up row after row of potatoes and peel laundry baskets full of corn all day. But this morning, our father tells us to plan on coming straight home after school to help out with cutting wood. “And no one goes anywhere this weekend or the next,” he says, rolling a cigarette. “We have to fill that basement up with as much wood as we can.” I am the first one off the bus after it squeals its brakes at our driveway. I zip up my jean jacket and watch all of the brown willow leaves swirling behind Whiskey as he races toward me. When we get close to the house, I see my father splitting birch wood. He yells at us to change out of our school clothes and “get right back out here!” My mother is at the kitchen table, sewing cupboard curtains from an old white sheet with rose flower patterns. Just when I take off my jacket, she tells me to grab the big kettle and go downstairs to get a load of potatoes. I glare at her, wanting to ask her why we have to eat potatoes again. We’ve had mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, baked potatoes, and scalloped potatoes just about every night. But my mother glares back. “Don’t get mouthy with me, or I’ll make you peel ’em as well.” “But I’m supposed to change and go help the old man with the wood,” I say. “Good. You can do that right after you fill up that kettle for me,” she says, looking back at her curtains. 76 1971 I take my time picking the potatoes, putting them one by one in the kettle. I sit on the cement floor and watch my brothers toss chopped wood through the window. My father got a permit from the forestry department for that birch wood. He says we’re going to burn a lot of it when it “gets down to forty below” this winter. But it’s already getting colder. Some mornings when I wake up, I can see my breath. When I get back upstairs, my mother is not in the kitchen. Philly is at the counter, mixing eggs and oatmeal in a bowl of hamburger. She tells me to start peeling potatoes. “Where’s Mom?” I ask as I place the kettle on the table. “She doesn’t feel well,” Philly says. “Now, are you gonna peel those potatoes, or do I have to...