as quiet.”
Cory fixed her eyes on the fire. Not quiet, but still. Mac was still. And no matter what was going on with his life, he was a calm center for hers. Cory didn’t want to burden her mother and complain. Didn’t want to tell her how crazy things were, how the illness had blown into her life, picked her up by the heels, and started shaking. She couldn’t tell her that in the middle of it all, Mac was a refuge. Things were still when they were together.
Margaret sat back on her pile of pillows. She breathed deeply several times, then closed her eyes. “Your first boyfriend.”
“The first. Who was yours?”
“John Hanover. Lord, he was sweet.”
“What happened?”
“Your father happened. He was sweeter. And he had a car.”
Mike’s voice charged through the back door seconds ahead of Mike. They turned to look as he walked toward them through the kitchen. Mac followed.
“Look who I found,” Mike said. “Give me your coat, Mac, and go on in.”
Mac pulled a small package out of his coat pocket before handing it over to Mike. “I got here fifteen minutes ago. I’ve been helping Mike put away the snowmobile.”
“Only used the darn thing twice all winter,” shouted Mike from the back entry where he’d gone to hang the wraps. He returned. “Might sell it next fall. Unless you’d miss it, Margaret.”
“Not for a moment.”
Mike rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “I need to warm up with some pie. Is there any left?”
“You’ve been outside twenty minutes, Mike,” said Cory. “How could we eat a pie in twenty minutes?” Margaret motioned Mac to sit down. “He made this heart-healthy pie today but couldn’t decide if he wanted apple or cherry, so he put a crust down the middle and made half and half.”
“The cherry looks better,” said Mike. “Want some?” Mac accepted, the other two declined.
“Good,” said Mike as he walked toward the kitchen. “Mac and I will eat it all.”
Mac handed the package he had brought to Margaret. “Barb has finally got her business going. I thought you might like one of the first pieces.”
The delight and surprise Cory read in her mother’s face mirrored her own. She couldn’t imagine what nerve it must take for a boy to bring a gift to his girlfriend’s mother.
Margaret untaped the package and smoothed back the tissue. A golden circle the size of a man’s palm lay on the paper. Inside the circle, lines of gold crisscrossed in a webbed pattern similar to the earrings Cory had admired at the powwow. At the very center was an opening the size of a dime.
“An Ojibwa dream catcher,” said Mac.
“Barb made this?”
He nodded. “She draws the pattern, then makes a stencil and uses that to cut it out of pressed metal.”
“It looks like gold,” said Cory.
“It is. Not exactly traditional material, but it sells better to the gift shops.”
Margaret held it up by a short string laced through a small loop. The dream catcher spun around.
Mike returned with the pie. “Trying self-hypnosis?”
“He calls it a dream catcher. Explain that, Mac.” He took a plate from Mike and set it on his knee. “The tradition says if you hang it over your bed it will keep away the bad dreams and spirits. The bad ones are rough and get caught in the web, but the smooth, good ones slip through the little hole in the middle.” As she watched her mother trace the golden web with her finger, Cory suddenly felt like crying. Instead, she reached for Mike’s pie plate. “Changed my mind,” she said.
“Roxanne once told me,” Margaret said to Mac, “that you’re Cree.”
“My father’s people are, and most of my mother’s. Some Ojibwa. My father is Metis Cree, technically. That’s what the Canadians call mixed bloods. His grandfather was white.”
“Canadian?” asked Cory.
“My parents were both born in Manitoba.”
“She also said the Ojibwa and Cree were related,” Margaret said. “Do the Cree have dream
Cory fixed her eyes on the fire. Not quiet, but still. Mac was still. And no matter what was going on with his life, he was a calm center for hers. Cory didn’t want to burden her mother and complain. Didn’t want to tell her how crazy things were, how the illness had blown into her life, picked her up by the heels, and started shaking. She couldn’t tell her that in the middle of it all, Mac was a refuge. Things were still when they were together.
Margaret sat back on her pile of pillows. She breathed deeply several times, then closed her eyes. “Your first boyfriend.”
“The first. Who was yours?”
“John Hanover. Lord, he was sweet.”
“What happened?”
“Your father happened. He was sweeter. And he had a car.”
Mike’s voice charged through the back door seconds ahead of Mike. They turned to look as he walked toward them through the kitchen. Mac followed.
“Look who I found,” Mike said. “Give me your coat, Mac, and go on in.”
Mac pulled a small package out of his coat pocket before handing it over to Mike. “I got here fifteen minutes ago. I’ve been helping Mike put away the snowmobile.”
“Only used the darn thing twice all winter,” shouted Mike from the back entry where he’d gone to hang the wraps. He returned. “Might sell it next fall. Unless you’d miss it, Margaret.”
“Not for a moment.”
Mike rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “I need to warm up with some pie. Is there any left?”
“You’ve been outside twenty minutes, Mike,” said Cory. “How could we eat a pie in twenty minutes?” Margaret motioned Mac to sit down. “He made this heart-healthy pie today but couldn’t decide if he wanted apple or cherry, so he put a crust down the middle and made half and half.”
“The cherry looks better,” said Mike. “Want some?” Mac accepted, the other two declined.
“Good,” said Mike as he walked toward the kitchen. “Mac and I will eat it all.”
Mac handed the package he had brought to Margaret. “Barb has finally got her business going. I thought you might like one of the first pieces.”
The delight and surprise Cory read in her mother’s face mirrored her own. She couldn’t imagine what nerve it must take for a boy to bring a gift to his girlfriend’s mother.
Margaret untaped the package and smoothed back the tissue. A golden circle the size of a man’s palm lay on the paper. Inside the circle, lines of gold crisscrossed in a webbed pattern similar to the earrings Cory had admired at the powwow. At the very center was an opening the size of a dime.
“An Ojibwa dream catcher,” said Mac.
“Barb made this?”
He nodded. “She draws the pattern, then makes a stencil and uses that to cut it out of pressed metal.”
“It looks like gold,” said Cory.
“It is. Not exactly traditional material, but it sells better to the gift shops.”
Margaret held it up by a short string laced through a small loop. The dream catcher spun around.
Mike returned with the pie. “Trying self-hypnosis?”
“He calls it a dream catcher. Explain that, Mac.” He took a plate from Mike and set it on his knee. “The tradition says if you hang it over your bed it will keep away the bad dreams and spirits. The bad ones are rough and get caught in the web, but the smooth, good ones slip through the little hole in the middle.” As she watched her mother trace the golden web with her finger, Cory suddenly felt like crying. Instead, she reached for Mike’s pie plate. “Changed my mind,” she said.
“Roxanne once told me,” Margaret said to Mac, “that you’re Cree.”
“My father’s people are, and most of my mother’s. Some Ojibwa. My father is Metis Cree, technically. That’s what the Canadians call mixed bloods. His grandfather was white.”
“Canadian?” asked Cory.
“My parents were both born in Manitoba.”
“She also said the Ojibwa and Cree were related,” Margaret said. “Do the Cree have dream
Similar Books
