Julie of the Wolves (8 page)

P.S. When are you coming to live with us in San Francisco?

Julie folded the letter and whispered to herself: “Daylight is spelled A-M-Y.”

The wonders of Mekoryuk dimmed as weekly letters from Amy arrived. Julie learned about television, sports cars, blue jeans, bikinis, hero sandwiches, and wall-to-wall carpeting in the high school Amy would soon be attending. Mekoryuk had no high school. The Eskimo children of the more prosperous families were sent to the mainland for further schooling, something which Aunt Martha could not afford. But, she thought, if she married Daniel, perhaps Naka could send her to school.

As the winter passed, Martha became irritated with her. She nagged Julie for wearing her hair short, and complained about Judith. “She’s disrespectful of her parents,” she snapped. “And she’s bad.” That’s all she would say except, “The old ways are best.”

After that Martha gave her chores to do on weekends and refused to let her attend the movies with her friends. The winter nights in the dark little house became nightmares. Julie waited for letters from Amy and the call from Naka.

The call came suddenly. One morning in June as Julie was dressing to go to the store, the head of the Indian Affairs in Mekoryuk appeared at the door. He explained that Naka had written, requesting Julie to come to Barrow and marry his son.

“You are now thirteen,” the man said, “and I have in my files an agreement for this arrangement signed by Kapugen and Naka.” Martha sputtered and whispered in her ear that she could say no if she wanted to.

“The old ways are best,” Julie said, and Martha could not protest.

The next day transportation was arranged for her by the Bureau of Indian Affairs and Julie packed her few possessions in a moosehide bag and walked to the airport with Martha. The old lady dragged behind, taking slow steps, and by the time they reached the airport she was limping.

“What shall I do when I’m too crippled to get out of bed?” she said angrily. Julie was about to remind her how strong her legs had been a few hours ago, but had time to say no more than good-bye. The pilot himself escorted her up the steps into the gleaming cabin and showed her how to fasten her seat belt.

Cautiously she looked at the upholstery, the overhead lights, the open door to the pilot’s cabin—then she closed her eyes. She was afraid the plane could not really fly. The engines roared, the ship moved, and minutes later she opened her eyes to see the houses of Nunivak shrink to specks and the island grow smaller and smaller. When it was but a jewel in the sea, she touched her seat and her armrest and stared down at herself.

“I’m sitting in the sky!” she said to the man beside her. He winked and she pressed her head against the window. She was an eagle seeking out new pinnacles. After a long time she relaxed and her wonder at the miraculous airship changed to curiosity.

“What makes us stay up here?” she asked the man.

“That’s not a good question,” he said, and she lapsed into silence. The plane landed in Anchorage, then Fairbanks. Here she was put on another plane, a smaller one—the only one that flew to remote Barrow.

Rugged mountain passes and valleys passed below her; the trees became smaller and more scarce, then disappeared entirely as the craft shot out over the North Slope and the pilot announced that they were crossing the Arctic Circle. The gussaks cheered and opened bottles to toast the mythical line, but hardly had they taken sips than the windows became white and the plane was bumping along through a summer fog.

They made wide circles over Barrow for an hour and a half before the pilot announced they would try once more to find an opening in the fog, then head back to Fairbanks. Julie had her nose pressed tightly to the window, for she could see the long threads that spoke of a clearing. Suddenly Barrow appeared below, its houses huddled against the ice-piled shore like a cluster of lonely birds.

As the plane began its descent into Barrow, Julie could see in the distance the towers of the Distant Early Warning System that marked the presence of the military in Barrow, and a narrow road along the coast that led to a group of buildings. The pilot announced that they belonged to the Navy and the University of Alaska. “The Arctic Research Laboratory,” he said, “where scientists study the Arctic. People from all over the world come here to investigate the top of the world. We now know a lot about living in the cold.”

The wheels struck the runway and the plane pulled up by a small wooden house on the tundra, the terminal building. For a moment Julie had misgivings about her fate; then the stewardess brought her coat and escorted her to the door. She looked down at two people she knew must be Naka and his wife, Nusan. Daniel was hiding behind them. Slowly Julie walked down the steps, crossed the stretch of macadam and took Naka’s hand. He was dressed in a Navy Arctic field jacket and his eyes were dark and smiling. She remembered those eyes from her color wheel of memories and she felt better.

Nusan was dressed in a kuspuck trimmed with Japanese lace flowers and she was smiling at Julie. They had not met before. Nusan had never gone to seal camp.

Then Julie saw Daniel. She knew from his grin and dull eyes that something was wrong with him. Nusan must have seen the disappointment that flashed over her face, for she put her arm around Julie.

“Daniel has a few problems,” she said quickly. “But he’s a very good boy, and he’s a good worker. He cleans the animal cages at the research lab. He will be like a brother to you.’’

With those words Julie relaxed, and pushed him out of her mind. He would just be a brother. That was fine. She looked at the little houses surrounded by boats, oil drums, tires, buckets, broken cars, and rags and bags, and happily followed her new parents home.

The very next day, however, to Julie’s surprise, there was a wedding. The minister came to Naka’s house with two strangers and Nusan took Julie into the kitchen and gave her a beautiful sealskin suit. She helped her to dress. Daniel put on a dark blue shirt and gussak pants. They were told to stand in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, and the minister began to read. Daniel grasped her hand. It was as clammy with anxiety as hers. She stared at the floor wondering if Kapugen had known that Daniel was dull. She would not believe he did.

When the reading was over Daniel escaped to the kitchen and sat on his bed. He began to tinker with a radio and mumble to himself. Naka walked outside with the minister and the two strangers, and Nusan sat down at her sewing machine.

“I’ve got to finish these boots for a tourist,” she said. “Make yourself at home.” The sewing machine hummed and the radio droned on. Julie stepped outside and sat down on an oil drum. The streets were hushed for it was the rest hour. She did not know how long she sat in quiet terror, but it was a long time. Presently a little girl came around a rusted ship’s engine, pulling a smaller girl by the hand.

“Come on,” she ordered the reluctant child. “It’s time for the blanket toss.” As they hurried along, other children gathered from all directions and clustered in front of the community house. Several men unfolded a huge skin. Eskimos and tourists took hold of it. A child got in the center, bounced, and then was flipped twenty feet up in the air, like a toy rocket. Giggling, the child kicked her feet as if she were running, and came gracefully down.

Julie looked away. Snow buntings whirled around the house, an Arctic tern darted over the ocean, and the waves lapped the ice that was piled high on the shore. She was desperately homesick for Mekoryuk. She dropped her head on her knees.

“Julie?” a tall girl tapped her arm. “I’m Pearl Norton, Pani NalaGan.” She began speaking in Innuit. Julie shook her head.

“We’d better use English,” she said. Pearl nodded and laughed.

“I said, ‘Let’s go to the quonset.’” Julie jumped to her feet and followed Pearl around a broken box, over a battered auto door, and into an alley. In silence they passed the wooden hotel, where a tourist was huddled on the porch out of the wind; then they stepped onto the main street, where the stores stood. Crossing the street they entered an enormous quonset hut. When Julie’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light she could see a dozen or more young men and girls, some in blue jeans and field jackets, some in kuspucks and parkas. They were seated at tables or leaning against pinball machines as they listened to rock and roll music. Pearl bought a Coke, got two straws, and they sat down at a table near the door.

“I know how you feel, Julie. I was married last year,” Pearl began. “Don’t pay any attention to it. No one does. All you have to do is leave the house or run away and everything’s forgotten. Most of these arrangements are for convenience. I’m sure you are here to help Nusan make parkas and mittens for the tourists.” Pearl leaned back. “Even in the old days they didn’t make kids stick with these marriages if they didn’t like each other. They just drifted apart.”

Julie listened, her head swimming in confusion ... Daniel, marriage, parkas, tourists, jukeboxes, pinball machines ... divorce.

“I must go,” Julie said. “Can I talk to you again?”

“I’ll meet you here tomorrow. All the kids come here to have fun.”

Daniel was gone when Julie stepped into the kitchen and nervously glanced around.

“Do you know how to sew?” Nusan yelled from the floor where she was cutting a short length of rabbit fur.

“A little,” Julie answered as she unzipped her coat and folded it carefully.

“You shall know a lot when I’m through with you,” Nusan replied and pointed to a large box in the corner. “Yard goods and rickrack. We have to make thirty parkas for the airlines by the end of the month. They lend them to the tourists who come here. None of them know how to dress. They’d freeze without parkas.” Nusan threaded a needle and whipped the rabbit fur onto the top of a mukluk. She glanced up at Julie.

“You’ll do nicely,” she said. “You’re smart and you’re pretty.”

Julie saw little of Daniel that summer and even less of him after school started. And so, by October she was beginning to enjoy her new home. She cooked and sewed for Nusan, studied at night, and had a few hours in the afternoon when she met Pearl at the quonset.

As the months passed, the letters from Amy became the most important thing in Julie’s life and the house in San Francisco grew more real than the house in Barrow. She knew each flower on the hill where Amy’s house stood, each brick in the wall around the garden, and each tall blowing tree. She also knew the curls in the wrought-iron gate, and how many steps led up to the big front door; she could almost see the black-and-white tile on the floor of the foyer. If she closed her eyes she could imagine the arched doorway, the Persian rug on the living-room floor, the yellow chairs and the huge window that looked over the bay. Radios, lamps, coffee tables—all these she could see. And if she shut her eyes tight, she could feel Amy’s hand in her hand and hear Amy’s big feet tap the sidewalk.

The second floor was always fun to dream about. At the top of the winding stairs four doors opened upon rooms lit with sunshine. And one was the pink room, the one that would be hers when she got to San Francisco.

D
URING THE WINTER
J
ULIE CAME TO UNDERSTAND
Naka. At first she thought he had a very important job, for he would be gone for days, often weeks, and be very tired and angry when he came home. He slept sometimes for two days. But when the subzero weather set in, Naka stayed home, and Julie realized that he did not work at all. He drank. The more he drank the angrier he became. Sometimes he struck Nusan; more often he picked a fight with his neighbor. Finally, numbness would overcome him and he would drop on the bed like a huge limp seal and sleep for days.

When he awoke he would be pleasant again, sitting in the fur- and scrap-filled room, making moosehide masks for the summer tourist trade. He would sing the old songs of seal camp, and tell Julie about the animals that he and Kapugen had known. On those occasions, she would understand why Kapugen had loved him.

One night he struck Nusan over and over again. When she screamed and hit back, Julie ran to the quonset to look for Pearl. She was not there, but in a corner sat Russell, the young man who had been campaigning around the village, begging the Eskimos to vote “No” on requests for liquor licenses by the local restaurants.

Julie sat down. “Naka is evil again,” she said. “His spirit has fled.”

Russell nodded. “He, like many others, cannot tolerate alcohol. There’s a man from San Francisco who does lots of business in Alaska. He has been able to help people like Naka. He helped my father. And me,” Russell added. “Now we all join together and help each other not to drink. But Naka must agree to see him. If he does I’ll try to get in touch with—”

Julie leaned forward, knowing exactly what Russell was going to say. “Mr. Pollock,” she whispered.

“Ee-lie. How did you know?”

The pink room in San Francisco had a new dimension.

January twenty-fourth was a day of celebration. Beginning about the twenty-first, the top of the world began to glow like an eclipse as the sun circled just below the horizon. The Americans began to smile and the Eskimos put away their winter games of yoyo and darts. Excitement mounted higher and higher each day.

The morning of the twenty-fourth Julie and Pearl ran all the way to school, for this was the most beautiful day of the year, the day of the sunrise.

Just before noon Julie and her classmates put on their parkas and mittens and skipped out the school door in awesome silence. The gussak principal was already outside watching the southeastern sky anxiously. His face seemed to say he really did not believe the miracle would happen.

“There it is!” a little boy shouted, as a brilliant light, first green then red, exploded on the horizon. Slowly the life-giving star arose until it was round and burning red in the sky. The Eskimos lifted their arms and turned their palms to the source of all life. Slowly, without any self-consciousness, every gussak raised his arms, too. Not one person snickered at the old Eskimo tradition.

For an hour and a half the sun moved above the horizon, reminding the Eskimos that the birds and mammals would come back, that the snow would melt, and that the great ice pack that pressed against the shore would begin to retreat and set them free to hunt and fish.