My Mother Is Now Earth

12. Rocket Son

Whiskey is the first to spot my older brother James coming down the dirt road with a red duffel bag hanging over his shoulder. The dog barks nonstop as he races across the front lawn and jumps over the ditch. He stands guard in the middle of the road growling, his tail and the hair on his back straight up. But when James drops his bag, takes off his round wire-rimmed sunglasses, and calls out to him, the dog’s bark turns to a high-pitched whine. Whiskey must remember the sound of James’s voice. My brother was there the night Whiskey’s mother gave birth to him in the foster home back in Milwaukee. A judge ordered James to live at the foster home because he was skipping high school and because he had more trouble trying to get along with the old man than any of the other brothers. My mother bought a new box of hair dye. It’s still on the windowsill in the dining room because she hasn’t had any time to use it. She has been baking more bread and cinnamon rolls ever since she talked with James on the phone when he called long distance to Hank and Irene’s home two days ago. The Cloutiers drove out to the farm to tell my mother she needed to get in the car and go with them because James would be calling back. f12g Rocket Son 120 Rocket Son 121 The old man did not even bother to come out of the house to say hi to Irene and Hank. I saw him with his crutches under his arms, peeking out of the kitchen window Before my mother got in the backseat, she said everyone had to stay home. But Scott and I raced alongside Irene and Hank’s car as far as we could down the dirt road. Just before Hank speeded up and left us in the dust, my mother smiled and yelled at me to sweep out one of the upstairs bedrooms so James would have a place to sleep once he got here. By the time we get to the dirt road, James is on one knee, hugging Whiskey. He looks more like a hippie than the last time we saw him. James’s black hair is longer, stretching past his shoulders. He wears bell-bottom jeans and a silver watch. Of course, he starts right in on teasing my brothers and me for having butch haircuts and dirty faces. “What do you got in the bag?” I ask. “Did you bring us anything?” “Maybe,” he says, smiling. “Where’s Philly?” Scott and I carry James’s duffel bag as we walk back to the house. I tell him Philly just left for camp. Mrs. Barthel, the Koochiching County social worker, said Philly could go to Camp Buckskin for free. “She’s gonna be away for five weeks,” I say. “Do you think you’ll still be here by the time she gets back, James?” My mother wears the best dress she has—dark blue with three white buttons and sleeves that reach past her elbows. When Scott and I drag James’s duffel bag up the stairs and into the muggy kitchen, I see sweat dripping down the sides of her neck. Right away James puts his arms around her and squeezes. My mother doesn’t like hugs. Dennis once told me that’s an old Indian thing. A lot of Indians have a hard time making a big deal out of seeing someone 122 1972 they haven’t seen in a very long time, especially if it’s a son or daughter. When the old man hobbles into the kitchen on his crutches, James looks at his ankle. They removed the cast over a week ago. “Well, how’s it going, James?” the old man says, putting out his hand. “It’s cool,” James says. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the bus stop, but I can’t drive too long before my ankle starts acting up.” “I caught a ride at a truck stop outside of Bemidji.” “Oh, yeah, those trucks are always up and down the highway. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra smoke on you, would you?” After James hands him one of his Kent cigarettes, he turns away. The old man runs his hand through...