Punished

12. Jon-Ante

JON-ANTE

1954

One morning, Jon-Ante woke up looking like a hamster. He had never seen a hamster in real life, but he’d heard they stuffed their cheeks full of food. He wasn’t the only one—Aslak, Johánas, and Else-Maj’s little sister Sara also had lumps that extended from ear to neck. It had started with a fever, and they’d been tucked into bed for a few days, and Johánas, who was the oldest and seemed sickest, had been put in an isolation room for one night. Once their cheeks swelled up, panic engulfed the house. Mumps. Incredibly contagious. Housemother wanted to hit them, he could tell by her red face as she barked orders to the maids. Windows were thrown open and beds emptied, and the four children reeled feverishly down to the common room, waiting to be driven home.

Else-Maj ignored Housemother and stood with Sara, holding her hand. Plenty of children probably would have liked to get close, catch the disease, be taken home. Jealous whispers ran through the corridors. Only Anne-Risten was scared and asked if you could die of mumps.

Sara was seven, just like Jon-Ante, and he wished he, too, had a big sister there to comfort and hold him. Else-Maj took Sara into her arms and sat with her on the floor. Jon-Ante sank down as well; his left ear ached.

“Stay at home for a long time, Sara,” Else-Maj whispered in Sámi. “Don’t let them send you back here. Tell Enná and Isá that you’re sick, that you can’t manage school.”

Sara nodded and closed her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with fever and her neck was swollen worse than Jon-Ante’s. Every so often she whimpered.

Housemother entered the common room and saw Else-Maj cuddling her sister. “What are you doing here?” she screeched, then grabbed Else-Maj by the arm. Sara tumbled out of her lap and onto the floor as Housemother hauled Else-Maj out into the hall. “Damn you, you little brat! If you get sick it’ll be straight to isolation for you. You won’t be going home!”

Sara struggled to sit up; she couldn’t hold back the tears. Jon-Ante shifted closer to help hold her up and whisper that she had to stop crying.

An engine rumble outside interrupted Housemother; her voice climbed to a falsetto. “Out. The taxi is here. Hurry it up!”

Jon-Ante hobbled after the others, glancing up the stairs to the crowd of children staring at them. If it hadn’t hurt so badly, he would have laughed. He got to go home. He wouldn’t be forced to take part in the other boys’ mischief. So far they hadn’t snuck into Housemother’s quarters, but Nilsa and the big boys said almost daily that it would soon be time.

T HE TAXI DROVE DOWN the bumpy road, and Jon-Ante bounced on the seat and breathed onto the window. They were squashed together, three boys in the back, Sara in the front. It looked like she had fallen asleep, sickest of all now, her eyes clouded and her voice thick.

They passed yellowing trees and thickets of vivid red willow, drove through Vuolle Sohppar, and at last came home to Badje Sohppar. The taxi driver kindly asked where they lived and drove around the gravel roads to drop them off. He wasn’t afraid of catching their disease, he said, as he’d had both mumps and measles before.

Jon-Ante was the last to be dropped off, and he made sure to thank the driver properly in Finnish: kiitos. There he stood, swollen like a hamster and his forehead feverish, but he had never been happier. Ránne was the first to show up, loose in the yard as he always was. The dog barked and rubbed his black fur against Jon-Ante’s legs, and he bent down to let his face get licked. Ránne’s breath was horrible as usual, but Jon-Ante hardly noticed. Enná had heard him and stepped onto the front stoop, her sleeves rolled up and hair hidden under a white kerchief. She was baking! The scent of bread followed her out, and it was almost too much. She came down, the gravel crunching, and put her arms around him. Held him so tight. She pressed her cheek to his, buried her nose in his hair, and stroked his back. He was not going to cry, he wouldn’t. She seemed to have made up her mind on that count as well.

“Ráhkis, Jon-Ante,” she murmured into his hair. “How are you?” She gently touched his cheek and down along his throat.

“I’m contagious,” he managed to say.

She snorted and laughed all at once, telling him not to be silly. As if she wouldn’t take care of her sick child? The warmth of her hand when she took his made it hard not to cry, and he glanced down. Together they walked into the house.

The kitchen table was piled high with her round flatbreads, almost overflowing. She had been baking. He could picture exactly how she would have rolled the rounds out on the baking board and poked gently with the back of a utensil to form the dimples where melted butter would gather when he got to eat the bread fresh and hot. Then she would use the flat round bread peel to move the bread in and out of the woodstove.

In the summer she baked gáhkku over the fire when they were out with the reindeer or used the smoke goahti in the yard, and Jon-Ante had always liked to dash in and out, pretending it was a fort.

Today, she had already spread butter on a triangular piece she’d cut, and sure enough, the butter settled into the dimples.

“Bora!” she said with a smile. “Eat!”

He dropped his canvas bag on the floor and sat down on the kitchen bench that had been áddjá’s bed in past years. He tucked his feet up under him and closed his eyes as he took his first bite.

The pain in his swollen throat was intolerable, and his disappointment a black cloud. “It hurts too much.”

She had cut up some pieces of dried meat too, and he held them to his nose, battling tears. He couldn’t help bringing a thin slice to his tongue to taste its wild, salty flavor, but chewing was impossible.

“Oh, my little reaηga.” Enná ran a hand over his hair. “You’re hungry, I can tell. Don’t they feed you at school?”

He could tell she was worried and decided she didn’t want to know the truth. “We get food, but it’s not this good.”

A whimper came from a bedroom. Little brother! He had two: Mikkel, who was almost five, and Isak, who had only just had his first birthday.

Jon-Ante stood, wanting to hurry to them. “Can I?”

“You can peek in, but don’t get too close.”

The little one, in the cradle on the floor, was wide-eyed and waving his fists in the air. He rolled onto his belly in spite of the small cradle and spotted Jon-Ante. Isak laughed out loud, as though someone were tickling him. Jon-Ante wanted to pick him up, feel how warm he was, touch his soft tiny hands. Enná came and picked up viellja and waved Jon-Ante back to the kitchen. She nodded Jon-Ante to the bench and put Isak down on the floor.

“He can walk now,” she said.

And so he could—Isak put his bottom in the air and pushed off with his hands to stand. His legs were skinny and he swayed, his diaper hanging down to his knees. Jon-Ante couldn’t help it—he held out his hands, urging him along. “Boa ? e, vielja?. Come here.”

Isak was thrilled with himself, staggering along on his bow legs.

“Don vázzát!” Jon-Ante clapped his hands, but just as he was about to scoop up unna viellja, Enná was there to lift him away.

“He needs a fresh diaper.” She vanished into the bathroom with him. The tap ran and he heard Enná singing.

“Jon-Ante!” Mikkel was in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, his voice raspy. He ran straight for Jon-Ante and they fell back onto the kitchen bench together. Unna viellja giggled until he gave himself hiccups. He tried to speak, but half his words got eaten up. “Are you home forever now? Is school over?”

He clung to Jon-Ante’s neck, wanting to wrestle like they used to. They tumbled around on the bench and Jon-Ante let himself be conquered; he lay on his back gasping as Mikkel bounced on his belly.

“Mon vuiten!” Mikkel screeched in delight.

No, he hadn’t won for real.

“Jon-Ante! No!” Enná was back and in one firm swoop she picked up Mikkel; she stood there with one brother on each hip.

“I didn’t have time to say no. He just ran over.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Well, now what? They’re going to catch your disease.”

Jon-Ante brought a hand to his painful neck and gazed at the floor.

“It’s not your fault, reaηga.” Enná’s voice was gentle again. “It will be okay.”

Mikkel pouted, wanting down; he was too big to be carried.

“Jon-Ante is sick. You can’t wrestle anymore.”

“I get to stay home for a long time now, right?” Jon-Ante couldn’t quite bring himself to look at her, because her lower lip was trembling. She often said that she wasn’t always sad when she cried, that she was made in such a way that her tears came for both joy and sorrow.

“Yes, I’m sure it will be a week. Until your fever is gone.”

“You look funny,” said Mikkel, who had only just realized something was different. “Does it hurt?”

Jon-Ante nodded. He could feel the fever fading in his body. Over the past few days, lying dizzy in bed, he had heard Anna mutter something about forty degrees. He didn’t want to get better. He wanted to stay home forever.

Mikkel took Isak’s hand and led him around the kitchen, and Jon-Ante watched with envy. “When did he learn to walk?”

“The day after you—” Enná cut herself off. “It was this past week sometime. Maybe even yesterday.”

“Isá isn’t coming home, is he.”

“No.”

“Does he know I’m sick?”

Enná shook her head. It would be months before they saw each other again. If everything were normal, he would have been out with Isá and the reindeer.

“But he made you something. It was supposed to be your Christmas present, but I think you should have it now.”

She brought him a guksi, a wooden drinking cup carved so smooth it almost slipped from his hands. Isá’s mark was engraved on the handle. He would have used a fine, small knife to cut the pattern into the antler before rubbing dried birch bark into it. Jon-Ante had gone along to gather bark to dry, after which they scraped off the brown part and crumbled it into powder. They would use saliva or a few drops of water to moisten the powder, then rub it into the carved pattern. Jon-Ante knew exactly how it was done.

“You can take the guksi with you to school.” She patted his shoulder.

He didn’t know what to say, just stroked it with his fingertips. If he brought it to the dining hall, Nilsa would steal it. But of course he wanted to take it with him. He would hide the guksi in his bed and hold on to it at night and think of Isá.

“Did you bring your dirty laundry home with you?”

“Yes.” He felt ashamed of handing his underwear to Enná. Several pairs had stains on them, spots of dried urine.

“So what have you learned at school?”

He could read a few words of Swedish now, and knew almost all of the morning prayer. He didn’t mention any of this. “I can do addition, and soon we’ll learn subtraction.”

“Do you like it there?” Her tone was as light as a feather on the breeze. And he blew that feather right back.

“It’s not so bad.”