Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel Read Free Book Online Page B

inside a locked box in our basement storage unit. I wonder how violently Mom would explode, if she ever found it. What am I saying? My mind must be rambling because I’m exhausted and overjoyed to hear Grumps’ voice.
    Overjoyed to hear Grumps’ voice. Who would have thought I’d ever think that?
    I wag my itsy bitsy flashlight in the direction of his singing and gulp. He’s wearing overalls that look as though they’ve never been washed. His long ponytail has faded to white and his belly hangs real low, like an honest-to-God Native American Santa Claus, minus the good nature and clean suit.
    â€œDo you have a bathroom?” I holler, now bruising my knees with pressure.
    â€œHello to you, too, City Gal,” he says roughly. “I’m sorry you found the place deserted. I thought you’d be here a bit later. As far as an indoor bathroom goes, there ain’t any. But there’s an outhouse out back. Or there’s always the woods.”
    He unclips an industrial-sized flashlight from a loop on his overalls and hands it to me. “Your mom should have given you a proper flashlight to bring along. I guess she forgot we don’t have streetlamps up here. I’m glad to see you kept your wits about you and weren’t spooked by the dark. These woods are Abenaki country, your territory. They’ll always keep you safe.”
    â€œNo problem,” I lie. “Which direction is the outhouse?”
    He points to a nearby knoll.
    I push though a tangle of overgrown bull briars that tell me Grumps prefers the woods to this outhouse.
    â€œRemember to keep an eye out for poison ivy,” he calls. “You know the old saying: leaves of three, turn and flee.”
    He doesn’t need to warn me to watch out; tripping on his front step taught me to observe my footing. But it appears I have bigger worries than itchy plants. A skunk scampers out a burrowed hole under the outhouse door. I gently tug a few vines off the door handle and check for more stray animals before entering. Inside, I find only a splintered wooden seat covering a hole that hangs over a bottomless pit. In lieu of toilet paper, there’s a pile of torn newspapers, filled with small-town personal ads. My flashlight catches one that says, “Logger Looking for Big Love.” I groan, fully realizing how far away from Hartford I really am. So far, the trees and animals feel great but the people up here may be another story.
    Grumps’ cabin windows shine with a melted caramel glow that tells me he’s lit his woodstove. I recognize that glow from the lantern light tours of Mystic Seaport’s nineteenth-century village. Dad took us there because he loves outdated stuff. I have to wonder about Grumps’ motives for living in the past. Does he do it because his wife was alive in the past?
    My flashlight beam falls on a patch of burnt-looking chaga mushrooms. I know these fungi because a kid at tribal camp picked some off a birch tree and ate them. Our counselor phoned the Connecticut Poison Control Center. But they told her he’d be fine, more than fine, actually, as these things are some kind of super-cure. I want to bring a bag of these home to fix whatever is wrong with Mom.
    Bilki chimes in loud and clear, inside my head. “The flora, fauna, and fungi of these woods are all sentient beings.”
    I decide to leave the mushrooms alone and head inside the glowing cabin.
    â€œWhere do I wash my hands?” I ask, arms outstretched.
    Grumps directs me to an iron hand pump built into the kitchen counter over a tin washbasin with a hard clump of handmade soap beside it.
    â€œThis jewelweed soap will take care of your poison ivy.”
    I notice the black flecks in it. “I don’t have any poison ivy. I was careful where I stepped.”
    â€œWhat about where you put your hands? Were there any vines on the outhouse door?”
    I decide to lather up with the nasty soap while