Traplines

I take full responsibility for these stories but happily admit that a good part of their polish comes from tireless editing by people such as Bill Valgardson, Mark Jarman, Dave Godfrey, Keith Maillard and his advanced novel class, Barb Nickel, Zsuzsie Gardner, Sara Bershtel, Louise Dennys, and especially Riva Hocherman and Denise Bukowski.

Dad takes the white marten from the trap.

“Look at that, Will,” he says.

It is limp in his hands. It hasn’t been dead that long.

We tramp through the snow to the end of our trapline. Dad whistles. The goner marten is over his shoulder. From here, it looks like Dad is wearing it. There is nothing else in the other traps. We head back to the truck. The snow crunches. This is the best time for trapping, Dad told me a while ago. This is when the animals are hungry.

Our truck rests by the roadside at an angle. Dad rolls the white marten in a gray canvas cover separate from the others. The marten is flawless, which is rare in these parts. I put my animals beside his and cover them. We get in the truck. Dad turns the radio on and country twang fills the cab. We smell like sweat and oil and pine. Dad hums. I stare out the window. Mrs. Smythe would say the trees here are like the
ones on Christmas postcards, tall and heavy with snow. They crowd close to the road. When the wind blows strong enough, the older trees snap and fall on the power lines.

“Well, there’s our Christmas money,” Dad says, snatching a peek at the rearview mirror.

I look back. The wind ruffles the canvases that cover the martens. Dad is smiling. He sits back, steering with one hand. He doesn’t even mind when we are passed by three cars. The lines in his face are loose now. He sings along with a woman who left her husband—even that doesn’t make him mad. We have our Christmas money. At least for now, there’ll be no shouting in the house. It will take Mom and Dad a few days to find something else to fight about.

The drive home is a long one. Dad changes the radio station twice. I search my brain for something to say but my headache is spreading and I don’t feel like talking. He watches the road, though he keeps stealing looks at the back of the truck. I watch the trees and the cars passing us.

One of the cars has two women in it. The woman that isn’t driving waves her hands around as she talks. She reminds me of Mrs. Smythe. They are beside us, then ahead of us, then gone.

Tucca is still as we drive into it. The snow drugs it, makes it lazy. Houses puff cedar smoke and the sweet, sharp smell gets in everyone’s clothes. At school in town, I can close my eyes and tell who’s from the village and who isn’t just by smelling them.

When we get home, we go straight to the basement. Dad gives me the ratty martens and keeps the good ones. He made me start on squirrels when I was in grade five. He put
the knife in my hand, saying, “For Christ’s sake, it’s just a squirrel. It’s dead, you stupid knucklehead. It can’t feel anything.”

He made the first cut for me. I swallowed, closed my eyes, and lifted the knife.

“Jesus,” Dad muttered. “Are you a sissy? I got a sissy for a son. Look. It’s just like cutting up a chicken. See? Pretend you’re skinning a chicken.”

Dad showed me, then put another squirrel in front of me, and we didn’t leave the basement until I got it right.

Now Dad is skinning the flawless white marten, using his best knife. His tongue is sticking out the corner of his mouth. He straightens up and shakes his skinning hand. I quickly start on the next marten. It’s perfect except for a scar across its back. It was probably in a fight. We won’t get much for the skin. Dad goes back to work. I stop, clench, unclench my hands. They are stiff.

“Goddamn,” Dad says quietly. I look up, tensing, but Dad starts to smile. He’s finished the marten. It’s ready to be dried and sold. I’ve finished mine too. I look at my hands. They know what to do now without my having to tell them. Dad sings as we go up the creaking stairs. When we get into the hallway I breathe in, smelling fresh baked bread.

Mom is sprawled in front of the TV. Her apron is smudged with flour and she is licking her fingers. When she sees us, she stops and puts her hands in her apron pockets.

“Well?” she says.

Dad grabs her at the waist and whirls her around the living room.

“Greg! Stop it!” she says, laughing.

Flour gets on Dad and cedar chips get on Mom. They talk and I leave, sneaking into the kitchen. I swallow three aspirins for my headache, snatch two buns, and go to my room. I stop in the doorway. Eric is there, plugged into his electric guitar. He looks at the buns and pulls out an earphone.