Tell the Wolves I'm Home by Carol Rifka Brunt Page A

Finn’s. That Sunday when Greta didn’t want to come along. That day, my mother and Finn were arguing about the pot. He wanted her to take it but she wouldn’t. He held it out to her with two hands, and she batted him away.
    â€œStop being like that. We’ll see you again,” she said.
    Finn gave me a look like he was checking to see if it was okay to tell the truth. I looked away. I wanted to go into another room, but Finn had a one-bedroom apartment and there was nowhere else to go except the tiny kitchen, which was behind two swinging doors like they had in the Old West.
    â€œDanni, just take it. For June. Just let me have my way for once.”
    â€œHa. For once. That’s a good one.” My mother’s voice was shrill. “We don’t need your teapot and that’s that.”
    He walked across the room toward me, with the pot cradled in his hands.
    My mother gave me a look. “Don’t you even think about it, Junie.”
    I sat there frozen. My mother headed Finn off, grabbing at the pot. Finn held it up over his head, trying to hand it to me.
    Right then I thought I could see into the future of that teapot. I could see it smashing against the wood floor of Finn’s living room. I could see all those shiny colored pieces catching the light of the sunsetthrough Finn’s big windows. I saw half a dancing bear, a bear with no head, just legs, kicking up toward the ceiling.
    â€œYou silly old woman,” Finn said. He always called my mother “old woman.” Since they were kids, she told me once. And they had other jokes between them. Finn would call her “mutton dressed as lamb,” which wasn’t really true, and then she’d call him “lamb dressed as mutton,” which was true. Finn did dress like an old man, with brown-buttoned cardigan sweaters and big, clunky old man shoes and handkerchiefs in his pockets. But it looked good on him. It looked right.
    â€œYou silly, silly old woman.”
    My mother stopped reaching for the pot. She smiled the tiniest little smile.
    â€œMaybe,” she said, her whole body drooping. “Maybe that’s what I am.”
    Finn lowered the pot and took it back to the kitchen. He was so pale that the colors of the pot looked garish next to him. I would have liked to have taken it from him. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t have to mean we wouldn’t see him again.
    â€œJune,” Finn called from the kitchen in his hoarse, worn-down voice. “Can you come here a sec?”
    When I got in there, he hugged me. Then he whispered in my ear. “You know that pot’s for you. No matter what, right?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAnd promise me you’ll only serve the best people from it.” His voice was cracking, splintering up. “Only the very best, okay?” His cheek was wet against mine, and I nodded without looking at him.
    I promised. Then he squeezed my hand and pulled away from me and smiled.
    â€œThat’s what I want for you,” he said. “I want you to know only the very best people.”
    That’s when I broke down and cried, because I already knew the very best people. Finn was the very best person I knew.
    That was the last time I saw that teapot at Finn’s house. The last time I ever thought I would see it. Until the day it showed up on my doorstep.

    I ripped open the rest of the packaging, then stood the teapot on my dresser. It was exactly the same. I picked the lid up from my bed and went to put it on the pot. That’s when I saw there was something inside. At first it looked like just a scrap of the packing paper, but it was folded too neatly. Then I saw my name on it.
For June
. A note? Maybe from Finn? A rush of joy and fear rose up in my chest.
    I rewrapped the pot with all the bubble wrap, but I kept the note out. I settled the teapot into the box and looked at it again. No return address and no stamps. How could