Since his dad left for George River, Etua has been staying in our tent. Etua got to choose whether he wanted to stay with us, or with Jakopie and Roy, and I was kind of glad when Etua chose us. He’s a good kid. But tonight he’s kind of in my way. That’s because I have plans I don’t want him knowing about.
I wait till after Etua falls asleep to mention the beer. Tom and Lenny are still tossing caribou bones. From what I can tell, those two don’t get bored easily.
I’m lying on my mattress reading Catcher in the Rye. Dad told me it was his favorite book when he was my age. I like the narrator—Holden Caulfield. He’s the sort of person who says what he thinks, even if it’s rude or inappropriate. I wonder what Holden would make of the Inuit. He’d probably have trouble getting used to them at first. But I think once he spent some time in the North, he’d like them. Holden hates phonies, and there’s nothing phony about the Inuit.
Steve still hasn’t turned up. I just hope he and Joseph made it back to George River all right and Joseph’s got ten digits again. Matthew says he can tell from the bottom of the sky that the weather’s about to clear, maybe even overnight. “The dogs know it too,” he told us. “They’re restless, and it’s not a full moon.”
Now, when the dogs bark, Tom says they probably smell a fox. “I’m pretty sure I spotted a furry red tail before. With any luck that fox’ll be waiting in my trap tomorrow morning.”
I’ve got seven cans of beer in my backpack. They should be nice and cold, since I left the backpack by the tent door. “Anybody here care for a beer?” I ask, as casual as if I was asking if Lenny’s still winning at the bones game.
Lenny’s head flies around like it’s on ball bearings. His eyes are shining. “You got beer?”
“Not so loud,” I say. “You’re gonna wake up Etua.”
“Where is it?” Tom asks, grinning.
“Right in here,” I say, patting my backpack. “Safe and sound.” The cans make a clanging sound as I lift the backpack from the ground.
“You mean to say you’ve had beer all weekend and you’re only telling us about it now?” Lenny says.
“Do you want some or what?”
The bones are lying in a pile on the floor.
“Of course I want some,” Lenny says.
Tom makes a slurping sound. “Me too,” he says.
I slide the beers out of the backpack. There are droplets of water on the outside of the cans.
“You only got seven?” Tom asks.
“Seven’s plenty.”
“It’s a start,” Lenny says when I pass him a can. He pops it open and takes a big gulp. Bigger than I’m used to. Tom and I drink some of ours too. The beer tastes yeasty. When some dribbles down my chin, I catch it with the tip of my tongue.
“It’s my dad’s,” I tell them.
“You stole it?” Tom says. His shoulders tense up. “What if he finds out?”
I hand Tom and Lenny each a second beer. Then I pop another one open for myself too. “He’ll get over it. Plus I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. I’ll pay him back—one day.”
“One day when?” Tom asks.
“One day when I’ve got some extra beer. Maybe when I’m thirty.”
Only Lenny laughs.
“Think you’ll be teaching up here like your dad does?” Tom wants to know.
“You never know. Think you guys will still be up here when you’re thirty?”
“I sure hope so,” Tom says. “There’s no place better.”
“I don’t know if I’ll make it to thirty,” Lenny says. He’s only on his second beer, but he already looks a little drunk. It’s the way he’s holding his head, like he’s having trouble keeping it upright. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But what harm can a couple of beers do?
“Your dad’s a good guy,” Lenny says. “A very good guy.”
“You told me that already.”
“Imagine not getting mad at you for borrowing his beer. Let’s drink to your dad.” Tom raises his beer can in the air. “Here’s to Bill.” Lenny and I raise our cans too, clinking them against Tom’s and then against each other’s. A bit of Tom’s beer spills on the floor.
Tom leans down and licks the spot. Right where the spruce boughs are. “Don’t want to waste Bill’s beer,” he says, laughing.
Lenny is eyeing the last can. “Who gets that one?” he wants to know.
“You haven’t finished your second one yet,” I tell him.
Lenny takes another long swig. “Wrong,” he says. “I just finished it.” He burps. “I can handle one more.”
“Your ataata had trouble handling his beer,” Tom says to Lenny. Then Tom covers his mouth with his hand, as if he just realized he probably shouldn’t have mentioned Lenny’s dad.
Lenny’s eyes flash. “I’m nothing like my dad,” he says.
So Lenny and I have something in common after all. “Me neither,” I say. “Nothing like my dad. I don’t sing in public or make dumb jokes.”
“I like your dad’s jokes,” Lenny says. “Most of ’em, anyway.”
Tom lies back on his elbows. He points his chin at Etua, who’s fallen asleep face down in squatted position. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath. “Look at that kid sleep,” Toms says. “Hasn’t got a trouble in the world.”
Lenny scowls. “Wait till he grows up,” he mutters. “Just wait.”
I have some more beer. The inside of my stomach feels warmer than it’s felt in days. Everything feels relaxed, even my arms.
“I’m getting a nice buzz,” Tom says.
“Me too,” Lenny says, “very nice.”
I lean back the way Tom is doing and close my eyes. Even if I’m underage, I feel like I’ve earned this beer. The last few days have been pretty intense. Just then, I feel something near me move, only I don’t react quickly enough. That Lenny! He grabbed the last beer right out from in front of me.
“Hey,” I say, sitting back up. “Give it back.”
“No way,” Lenny says, popping the can open and bringing it to his lips. “You can always steal—er, borrow— more from your old man.”
“We could at least share.”
“No way!” Lenny says again, lifting his free hand and swatting the air.
Tom is still watching Etua. “You really think he’s gonna grow up and have it hard like us?” Tom asks Lenny.
Lenny burps again. Then he raises his eyebrows. “Everyone grows up and has it hard. Except maybe some of you Qallunaat. Some Qallunaat have it real easy,” he says to me.
“You can’t say that,” I tell him. “Qallunaat have their troubles too. Everyone’s got troubles. Hell, you just stole my last beer.”
“You call that trouble? You Qallunaat don’t know what trouble looks like. Did somebody ever kill your d-dogs?”
Lenny slurs the last word. He’s definitely drunk. But I’m a little drunk too. That second beer really went to my head.
“I didn’t do that,” I say.
“He’s right,” Tom says. “Why can’t you let it be, Lenny?”
Lenny sighs. Then he downs the rest of the beer. “I don’t know why,” he says. “I just can’t.” For a second, I think Lenny’s going to cry. He turns to me. “So what kinda trouble you got?”
I kick the empty beer can with my heel and watch the can roll to the side of the tent. “All kinds.”
“He doesn’t get along with his dad, for one,” Tom says.
“At least he’s got a dad. And his dad never beat him or burnt him with cigarettes.” Tom winces when Lenny says that. “He shouldn’t complain,” Lenny adds.
Maybe it’s the beer, but I’m not scared of Lenny anymore. “You’re the one who’s always complaining,” I tell him. “Look,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
Lenny’s head swings around like it did when I mentioned the beer. “Sorry about what?”
“Sorry about what we Qallunaat did to your people.” I use the word we on purpose so Lenny will know I’m not just trying to pin the blame on somebody else. I wasn’t born when the Inuit dogs were killed or when Matthew and the other Inuit were sent to residential schools, but I’m a white guy and white guys did those things. If I were Lenny, I’d be angry with me too. Besides, who else has he got to be angry with?
Lenny doesn’t say a word, but I get the feeling he’s thinking about what I said—taking it in.
Lenny’s rifle is lying next to him on the floor. He leans over and runs two fingers along the barrel. When he picks up the rifle, it never occurs to me he might try to hurt me.
But Tom suddenly sits up. “What you doing, man?” he asks Lenny.
Lenny props the rifle against his side. Then he raises it into the air, making an arc. He brings the rifle so the butt end rests on the floor in front of him. Now Lenny leans over; the muzzle is flat against his forehead. His fingers search for the trigger, find it.
I remember the morning after Tarksalik’s accident, when Lenny used his fingers to make an imaginary gun and pointed it at his head. He’s doing the same thing now. Only he’s pointing at his forehead, not his temple, and it’s a real gun. A real, loaded gun. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure Lenny and Tom can hear it.
“Quit fooling around!” Tom says. His voice sounds high.
“I could blow my brains out right now,” Lenny says. His voice is so flat I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking. “That way I’ll never turn into my ataata.”
“Don’t go talking crazy, man,” Tom says. “You’re never gonna turn into your ataata.”
“Give me the rifle,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm in case Lenny is serious. I want to know what Tom is thinking, but I feel like I shouldn’t take my eyes off Lenny. As if by keeping my eyes on him I can stop him from doing something really stupid. Once again, it’s my fault. I should never have let Lenny have those beers. I should never have brought those cans up to Short Lake in the first place.
“I can’t give you my gun,” Lenny says. “You don’t have a per…mat. I mean a parm…” He can’t get the word out right. But that makes Lenny laugh, and when he laughs, the gun wobbles on the ground.
That’s when I make my move. I swoop down and grab the gun. Just like Lenny swiped the last beer out from under my nose before. Now we’re even. But Lenny doesn’t even notice. He’s still trying to say the word permit.
“You’ve had too much beer,” I tell him.
Lenny looks up at me. For a moment, he looks and sounds totally sober. “I guess you’re feeling sorry about that too.”