hard floor. Everyone around me had closed their eyes, but I watched my father through my lashes. I watched him without blinking, until my eyes started to tear. I could see why he would make a good priest: his voice was deep and calming and caring, the voice of a contented man. I felt proud
of him. I felt proud of myself. You are who I come from. I am more like this man than my mother. I am you , my father.
Above the altar hung not a cross, not Jesus, but a portrait of a family—parents, son, daughter, all in traditional clothing. The same outfits worn by the older members of the congregation. In this church, you gave thanks to family.
My father began setting the communion table. He took more steps than seemed necessary to bring each object to its proper place. I was unsure whether or not to take communion. I was afraid of being that close to him, of his looking me in the eye as he pressed the wafer into the palm of my hand. Like a key . It would be unfortunate if he recognized me. Or worse if he did not.
The first row rose for communion. Trying not to call attention to my departure, I left through the same doors of the church through which I had entered.
6.
Outside, the sky was streaked chartreuse, white-blue, salmon— colors from a freezer opened in a dark room.
I went in search of food. I walked toward the small town on the snowy road—there was no sidewalk—and past the tourist information center, now closed. The posters in the window advertised a trip to Santa Land, a snowmobiling excursion, a vacation in Thailand. A large souvenir shop sold handmade jewelry and dolls wearing traditional black dresses. SAMI HANDI -
CRAFTS , said the sign. Hundreds of reindeer horns and stuffed animals, all huskies, on display in the window. They had probably been there for years, and would remain unsold.
I was born here, I thought, and looked around with pride.
I was born here. The town was bleak, small, struggling.
I entered a restaurant by the lake, now frozen. I took a seat but couldn’t understand the menu. A waitress came to take my order, and I requested what I hoped was a sandwich.
The wall by my table was lined with gambling machines and old black-and-white photos of men I assumed were locals. Some were wearing Sami outfits; most were wearing hats. None were my father. In the corner, boys who looked no more than twelve were shooting pool. Dire Straits played on the jukebox, and Angela Lansbury was solving a murder on the TV.
Three o’clock. It was possible Eero Valkeapää would be home by now, and if not, I could go back to the church. Everyone else would have left, returned home to their families, to their Sundays. The restaurant was loud, and even if I located a phone, I didn’t want to call from there. I paid the waitress and walked outside.
Near a small supermarket stood a phone booth with a glass door, a Superman phone booth. I took out the number I’d copied from the phone book and called my father.
7.
A man answered the phone.
“Eero?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I was pronouncing it correctly. I didn’t know how to say my own father’s name.
The man indicated that he was Eero, and then said something else.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. Dumb question. My mother didn’t speak Finnish.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s Clarissa.”
“Clarissa?” he said. “Yes.”
There was a long pause. “Olivia’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. And your daughter , too.
“Where are you calling from? California?”
It struck me that he had no idea where my mother went when she left, just as Richard hadn’t had a clue. “I’m . . . I’m here in Inari.”
“Here!”
“Yeah, yes, here. In town.”
“Your mother . . . she has died?” he asked.
Who Sleeps Where in the Lav u �
1.
Eero Valkeapää and I agreed to meet in front of the restaurant at five p.m. I walked along the main road through town, venturing farther than I’d gone before—over the bridge, with its
of him. I felt proud of myself. You are who I come from. I am more like this man than my mother. I am you , my father.
Above the altar hung not a cross, not Jesus, but a portrait of a family—parents, son, daughter, all in traditional clothing. The same outfits worn by the older members of the congregation. In this church, you gave thanks to family.
My father began setting the communion table. He took more steps than seemed necessary to bring each object to its proper place. I was unsure whether or not to take communion. I was afraid of being that close to him, of his looking me in the eye as he pressed the wafer into the palm of my hand. Like a key . It would be unfortunate if he recognized me. Or worse if he did not.
The first row rose for communion. Trying not to call attention to my departure, I left through the same doors of the church through which I had entered.
6.
Outside, the sky was streaked chartreuse, white-blue, salmon— colors from a freezer opened in a dark room.
I went in search of food. I walked toward the small town on the snowy road—there was no sidewalk—and past the tourist information center, now closed. The posters in the window advertised a trip to Santa Land, a snowmobiling excursion, a vacation in Thailand. A large souvenir shop sold handmade jewelry and dolls wearing traditional black dresses. SAMI HANDI -
CRAFTS , said the sign. Hundreds of reindeer horns and stuffed animals, all huskies, on display in the window. They had probably been there for years, and would remain unsold.
I was born here, I thought, and looked around with pride.
I was born here. The town was bleak, small, struggling.
I entered a restaurant by the lake, now frozen. I took a seat but couldn’t understand the menu. A waitress came to take my order, and I requested what I hoped was a sandwich.
The wall by my table was lined with gambling machines and old black-and-white photos of men I assumed were locals. Some were wearing Sami outfits; most were wearing hats. None were my father. In the corner, boys who looked no more than twelve were shooting pool. Dire Straits played on the jukebox, and Angela Lansbury was solving a murder on the TV.
Three o’clock. It was possible Eero Valkeapää would be home by now, and if not, I could go back to the church. Everyone else would have left, returned home to their families, to their Sundays. The restaurant was loud, and even if I located a phone, I didn’t want to call from there. I paid the waitress and walked outside.
Near a small supermarket stood a phone booth with a glass door, a Superman phone booth. I took out the number I’d copied from the phone book and called my father.
7.
A man answered the phone.
“Eero?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I was pronouncing it correctly. I didn’t know how to say my own father’s name.
The man indicated that he was Eero, and then said something else.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. Dumb question. My mother didn’t speak Finnish.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s Clarissa.”
“Clarissa?” he said. “Yes.”
There was a long pause. “Olivia’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. And your daughter , too.
“Where are you calling from? California?”
It struck me that he had no idea where my mother went when she left, just as Richard hadn’t had a clue. “I’m . . . I’m here in Inari.”
“Here!”
“Yeah, yes, here. In town.”
“Your mother . . . she has died?” he asked.
Who Sleeps Where in the Lav u �
1.
Eero Valkeapää and I agreed to meet in front of the restaurant at five p.m. I walked along the main road through town, venturing farther than I’d gone before—over the bridge, with its
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