Punished

42. Marge

MARGE

1986

Jon-Ante picked them up on the snowmobile, having spiffed up its sled with three big reindeer pelts and a backrest. Marge was the one who’d called him this time, asking if he wanted to go to the ice-fishing tournament in Láttevárri with them, and he’d suggested they take the snowmobile all the way there. It was a long trip, and she hesitated. He pointed out that there were snowmobile trails wider than the village road and it was above freezing out.

Stella jumped up and down when she found out she’d get to ride behind the snowmobile for such a long trip. They bundled her up and áhkku made a bow under her chin, snug in the fox-fur hat she’d sewn. On with her sunglasses and a thick layer of sunblock over her nose and cheeks. Marge gave her a smooch and got the cream on her lips. She tucked a few strands of dark hair in around Stella’s forehead and brushed the scar that would always remind them of how Stella had fallen out of the tree and gotten a big gash and a concussion. Now her little girl had two scars on her forehead, but they would probably never know the story of the first one, which she’d gotten in her home country. She’d asked if Stella remembered what had happened but received only a shrug in return. Marge sometimes ran a finger over the new scar, thinking about how the frightening accident had changed something between the two of them. Above all, Stella had learned to trust her.

Her daughter had needed to stay overnight at the hospital for observation. Marge staggered into the emergency room, sure this was the ultimate test that would show she wasn’t worthy of being called “Mama.” But there she ran into a nurse’s aide with a keen eye—Marie-Louise was her name. Soon she had coaxed Marge’s fears and doubts away and said, “Well, I think it’s time you stop talking nonsense, Marge. You’re doing just fine.”

And for some strange reason, this snapped her out of it.

“It’s not about your daughter seeking you out or rejecting you, it’s up to you to show her that she can feel safe. Go lie down beside her in the bed.”

The light from the corridor outside their room trickled in each time Marie-Louise came to check on Stella, to make sure she could wake up. Marge blinked beside her, eyes wide open, her arms around the child.

“You’re a mama bear,” the aide whispered in the darkness. “You haven’t slept a wink and you wouldn’t have needed me here to keep an eye on her. You would have been just fine on your own.”

Around seven, Stella woke up on her own and Marge held her breath, waiting to feel her push away. She could tell that Stella was on her guard.

“I’m here, Mama’s here,” Marge murmured, her lips against Stella’s hair as she squeezed a little tighter.

The girl melted into her embrace, suddenly letting go. Marie-Louise came in, nearing the end of her shift, and smiled at them, and Marge felt that no words could adequately thank her.

She submitted an entry to the “Roses and Thorns” column of Norrl?ndska Socialdemokraten thanking everyone who had helped them, especially Marie-Louise. She signed it with her own name and her daughter’s, waffling over whether to call her Stella or Estela but settling on Stella. Once she saw her entry in print, in a newspaper that everyone read, she regretted her choice. What if the parents at school thought she was robbing her daughter of her rightful name? She was no better than the priests of the past, changing Sámi names to Swedish ones. So many boys called Biera and Ante became Per and Anders in the church records. And she herself had been Margit at school. Robbed of their real names, all of them Swedified. But Stella was proud to see her name in the paper, and painstakingly spelled her way through each sentence. They cut out the clipping and stuck it on the fridge.

“We forgot Gustu! He was the one who made it stop bleeding!” Stella looked horrified at the realization.

“We’ll thank Gustu when we see him. He doesn’t want to be in the paper.”

It wasn’t as if their relationship changed overnight, but ever since the accident Stella said “Mama” with a new kind of assurance, completely unaware that it nearly bowled Marge over each time.

“You can start calling me Enná if you want to,” she’d said. “Or Mama is fine too. It’s up to you.”

“áhkku is your enná, you’re my mama.”

That hurt, even as it was so wonderful to finally hear her little girl call her “Mama” without hesitation. Of course, Stella’s reasoning was that of a child: áhkku and Mama couldn’t both be called Enná.

“Are you coming, Mama?” Stella called from the sled.

Jon-Ante had let her hop in and was showing her how to hold on when he went extra fast. He’d also packed a blanket to put over their legs and demonstrated this with the same amount of enthusiasm. Then he lifted a reindeer pelt and showed her the ice auger, telling her that it was sharp and she mustn’t touch it.

Marge settled in against the backrest and made space for Stella to sit between her legs and recline. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed so hard that she snorted and wiggled. But she didn’t pull away; she huddled closer, seeking warmth.

Jon-Ante was visibly happy and his good mood was contagious. He popped up behind them one last time, tugging at the reindeer pelts to make sure they were perfectly arranged. He placed a hand on her shoulder in passing.

They took off, and he had to give it a lot of gas to launch them through the trees, where they risked getting stuck in the snow. It was morning and not yet warm—but it would be later, and their trip home might be difficult if the snow began to melt and get too heavy. They passed lakes where yellowish water had seeped up over the ice. Marge kept an eye out for holes and held tighter to Stella, who was singing.

The promised snowmobile trail opened up on the bog and Jon-Ante turned around to give them a thumbs-up. He drove at an easy pace and Marge kept her eyes on his broad back. His snowmobile suit was black, his belt had colorful eyelets, and his knife hung in the usual spot at his side. The long hair at the back of his neck peeked out from under his hat.

After a few kilometers, they came to a road crossing; they stopped on top of the snowbank and Jon-Ante checked carefully behind them and in every direction before zooming over. The asphalt scraped beneath the runners of the sled.

They headed out onto the river, Lávnjiteatnu, where they could follow the next snowmobile trail to Láttevárri.

“We went fishing here last summer, remember that?”

Stella glanced around, but everything looked different with all the snow and she shook her head.

They were still far off when they spotted people on the ice near the village. An echo fluttered across the river as a speaker rattled off the rules for the day’s ice-fishing tournament.

Jon-Ante slowed down and they smoothly pulled up among the other people and snowmobiles. He stood with one knee propped on the seat and steered with his arms straight. There were plenty of curious eyes—soon there would be talk about how the three of them had arrived together. He took a lap around the ice, as though he wanted to show them off. After parking, he appeared at their side.

“That’s where the fish bite best,” he whispered to Stella, pointing discreetly out at the ice. “Quick now, get out the reindeer pelts and we’ll run over and call dibs on that spot.”

Stella leaped into action, pulling down the first pelt and holding it tight. “Ready!”

“Great, they’ll be blowing the starting horn soon.” Jon-Ante took out the auger and a black canvas bag that could be unfolded. Inside it were fishing rods in all sorts of colors, as well as a dozen lures in a clear case with many small compartments. From the pocket of his snowmobile suit he took out a jar of worms, which were crawling all over one another in the dirt.

Marge gazed out at the shore, where people had gathered to await the starting signal. She recognized many of them. There would be time to walk around and chat later.

She looked up, toward the village, glad the school wasn’t visible. A glance at Jon-Ante reminded her of the time they had to search for him. They’d been around Stella’s age—it was incomprehensible. The thought of her child being made to dash around in fear, searching for a missing friend, made her feel sick.

“Okay, folks! Just seconds left to go now! Get ready!” The speaker’s voice echoed and Stella tried to tug at the unwieldy pelt, but Jon-Ante took over, rolling it up under his arm, with the auger in his other hand. Marge was carrying two pelts, one tucked under each arm. “On your marks, get set, go!”

They ran, Jon-Ante first, Stella behind him, and Marge bringing up the rear. They splashed through the snow, wet where many other feet had already trampled.

Out with the pelts, and Stella sat down, now wide-eyed and wearing an expectant smile.

Jon-Ante removed the blade guard from the auger and shuffled snow away with his boot before starting the motor. Stella jumped. They heard motors all around them, although a few people nearby were struggling with hand augers.

“You’re going to scare away all the fish!” Stella exclaimed.

“They’ll come back,” Jon-Ante reassured her. He pulled up the auger, and with it came cold water and slushy snow, which he kicked out of the way. He took a few steps and drilled the next hole, and then a third one. “You get to have the best hole, Stella,” he said. “You know, there’s a little inlet here I know they like to swim by.” He smiled as he knelt beside her and let her pick a rod. She chose one with a cork grip and blue reel. It already had a silver-and-orange oval-shaped lure attached. “Good choice. This Rauto lure is the best kind.”

Marge had taken out the dipper and was clearing the hole of snow until only clear water remained.

Stella looked at Jon-Ante’s hands. “What’s wrong with your pinkie?”

Marge waited in silence for his answer. She could have told Stella it was rude to ask a question like that, but she decided not to. Jon-Ante smiled, but she glimpsed something else in his eyes.

“I hurt myself back when I was in school.”

“How?”

He had nieces and nephews and must have known that “how” and “why” wouldn’t be the end of it. She readied herself to jump in.

“I fell, and my finger landed under me.”

“Ouch!”

Marge was disappointed, even upset. “We better start fishing,” she said. “Did you get the worm on?”

“You can do it,” Stella said, dangling the lure in front of her.

“I’m on it,” Jon-Ante said, reaching for the line.

“I’ll do it,” Marge answered gruffly, already holding a wiggly, soil-covered worm between her index finger and thumb. She threaded it onto the hook and Stella made a face. “Now drop it in, and let the line go free until it stops. That means you’ve hit the bottom, and if you reel it in three turns it will be perfect.”

“Oh, you do three—I always say two and a half,” Jon-Ante said.

“That’s all wrong,” Marge said, throwing up her arms. “No wonder you never catch any fish.”

“What?” He grinned. “I guess we’ll see.”

Stella let down the lure, which did a pirouette in the water before vanishing into the darkness, and she turned the reel three times.

“Like this. Up and down,” Jon-Ante said, demonstrating with his hand.

His little finger stuck out, and Marge looked away.

“You have to fish too,” Stella said to them.

They baited their hooks and dropped them in.

“Lie on your belly and look down, Stella, and you might see the fish when they bite.”

She did as he suggested. “I don’t see anything,” she whispered.

“Twitch your fishing rod.” Jon-Ante nudged Marge with his shoulder and smiled. “She’s good.”

Stella’s head snapped up. “No speaking Sámi.”

“You’ll have to learn.”

“Mama doesn’t want me to.”

“What?” Jon-Ante looked at Marge and she raised her chin in defiance.

“She has to get good enough at Swedish first.”

“Oh? Who says?”

She turned her back on him and tilted her face to the sun.

“Inspection!” The call came from across the inlet. A man whose hat was askew waved his arm and two people in yellow vests headed his way to measure his catch.

“Dangit! Now we won’t win!” Stella said, sitting up.

“Don’t swear.” Marge tried to sound strict, but she wore a tiny smile.

“You can swear in Sámi. It sounds better. Henneha.”

Marge rolled her eyes at Jon-Ante.

“What? Henneha’s not that bad. Oh, that’s right, she has to learn to swear in Swedish first.”

Marge scooped up a handful of snow and threw it at him, hitting him right in the cheek. Stella laughed, and he pretended to be outraged as the snow melted and ran down his chin.

“Inspection!” This time the call came from the center of the river and Jon-Ante scratched his head through his hat.

“They never bite out there.”

“You made our holes in the wrong place,” Stella said.

“Maybe you’re right, I’ll have to make a new one.” He marched off, about ten meters to their right, where he carefully eyed the trees on the riverbank; he changed his mind and headed a little farther out onto the river. He stood with his legs planted wide, and water splashed up as he drilled the new hole. “Come here,” he called, and Stella reeled in her line.

“Take the dipper,” Marge said, handing it to her. “And your hide.”

Stella dragged it along and the hide glided smoothly across the snow. She watched as the two of them crouched down to clear the water, laughing softly and chatting, and Jon-Ante gesticulated, apparently demonstrating the size of a fish.

Stella fished standing up this time, dropping her line in and then winding it back up. Three turns. She gently bobbed her hand and got a bite right away. Her eyes widened and she gave a hoot. “I got one!”

“Pull, pull, pull!” Jon-Ante cried.

Marge got up and dashed along the snowmobile trail. Stella was craning way back and the line was taut. Her mittens slipped, but she recovered her grip.

“Help her!” Marge called.

“She can do it.”

Stella backed up and tugged on the line, giving up on reeling; she let go of the jig and took hold of the line with determination and pulled.

“It’s heavy.” She panted. “Help!”

Then there was a splash in the hole and up came a grayling, lovely and silvery and slapping its tail fin.

“Get it away from the hole,” Marge urged her, and Stella backed up. The fish followed, sliding along the snow and wriggling, bending itself into a U-shape.

“Don’t forget to call out now,” Jon-Ante said, stooping to capture the fish.

“Inspection!” Stella screamed. “Inspection!” She spun around to locate the vests, and there they were, jogging over.

“Hold on to the fish,” Jon-Ante said, handing her the thrashing creature.

She held tight to it and the inspectors arrived.

“Aha, I see a big little fisherman got a bite,” one of the guys said in a joking tone.

There was something familiar about him, and Marge took a closer look. It was Juvva, Nilsa’s younger son. He sounded eerily like his father had when he was young, and they had the same eyes.

Jon-Ante removed the hook from the grayling’s mouth and rapped the handle of his knife against the back of the fish’s head. Juvva and his friend laid the catch out in the snow and held the wooden measuring stick beside it. Yes, well over the twenty-five-centimeter requirement.

“I think you’re in the lead so far,” Juvva said, jotting down the name, competitor number, and length on a scrap of paper.

Stella offered up a big smile and let her mitten slide over her catch. The fish had blood in its eye, but it didn’t scare her.

“Aren’t you Juvva, Nilsa’s son?” Marge asked, and the boy nodded. He stood up straighter, as though expecting something more. It couldn’t be easy, having Nilsa as a father. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, which was probably awkward enough for the boy. He and his friend lumbered off, their yellow vests reflecting the sunlight.

“Look! Here come áhkku and áddjá.” Stella waved. “I’m gonna run and tell them about my fish.” She darted off and Marge hardly even had time to caution her about the wet snow.

“Isn’t he the spitting image of Nilsa? Juvva, I mean?” she said, turning to Jon-Ante.

He nodded. “His brother is good at soccer.”

“Right, just like Aslak was. But poor kid, everyone knows how Nilsa shouts from the sidelines.”

Jon-Ante looked at her and opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind.

“He was such a jerk at school, wasn’t he? I actually have a hard time looking at him when I come to the village,” she said.

He let his hands fall to his knees and looked away. Blood rushed to her cheeks. How could she be so stupid? Saying that she couldn’t look at him, when Jon-Ante was the one who had taken the brunt of the bullying, not her.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was dumb to even bring it up.” She tentatively sat down next to him. It was like there was a filter over his gaze.

“It wasn’t Nilsa I was thinking of just now,” Jon-Ante said. “I don’t give a shit about him. It was Aslak.”

She took off one glove and pinched at crystals of snow in the reindeer pelt; they burst and melted between her fingertips. She waited.

“It wasn’t easy for him either, having a brother like that.”

“No, that’s true,” she said. “But you were good friends, you and Aslak, weren’t you?”

“Yes, we were, and Nilsa didn’t like it.” He looked at her from under the long dark bangs that stuck out beneath his hat. She had a sudden urge to brush the hair away, just so she could touch him.

“It was a good thing that you got to leave the nomad school.”

When he didn’t respond, she kept going, feeling a bit nervous, trying to find that cheerful voice she had used to make Stella her own.

“It was a real surprise when you didn’t get on the bus that fall. I was so jealous that you got to start attending the village school.”

There had been a lot of talk in the village about how a family had managed to get their child out of the nomad school. But Marge also recalled people saying it was too late, that Jon-Ante’s time at the boarding school had changed him. That it took awhile before he was himself again.

Now he smiled, but only with one corner of his mouth. “Yes, it was a good thing, what happened. For me and my brothers. But…” He shook his head. “It didn’t go so well for Aslak.”

“Yeah.”

It was remarkable, how those two had found each other. The way Marge remembered it, they grew even closer once Nilsa finished the last grade at school. That was when Aslak became a punching bag. No one could have taken Nilsa, but several of the boys patiently waited to get their revenge. Jon-Ante was free but now it was Aslak’s turn. Jon-Ante, given the chance to strike back, get even, didn’t do it. Instead he tried to rescue Aslak. She wanted to tell him that it was brave, what he’d done. But in truth, it was also foolish, because their friendship meant that Jon-Ante kept getting beaten up, too. Until the day he finally got to leave the school.

“It was nice that you and Aslak stuck together,” she finally said.

“He was nothing like his brother, I’ll put it that way.”

“Did you spend time together later on?”

“Once in a while, when I was back home in the village. But I don’t know, it was never the same as before. I left for town and started working. I’m sure he thought I was a traitor.”

“Yes, I suppose we’re both traitors, moving to town,” she said, trying to sound jocular. She wanted to offer consolation but also remind him that they had something in common. She gazed back at the riverbank and saw that Stella was taking huge bites of a hot dog alongside áhkku and áddjá. “She probably thinks she already won, that she doesn’t have to keep fishing.”

“Just wait until someone else calls for the inspector, and I bet she’ll come back.”

The moment of intimacy was slipping away.

His hands rested calmly on his knees. She wanted to hold them. They looked rough around the knuckles, as though he rinsed them too often in cold water and let them air-dry. He wasn’t hiding his little finger; he let it stick out.

How often did he think about how she had seen Rita Olsson stomp on his finger? She had relived that moment in her mind many times. Over the years, she supposed, the memory transformed. Had Housemother lost her balance, or had she stomped on it on purpose? Guilt had plagued her for years afterward, for some reason growing stronger when she was a teenager. She had even written about it in her diary, calling herself a coward and brooding over the question of whether she was partly to blame. The melodramatic thought that an onlooker who didn’t act was just as guilty as the perpetrator.

He must have noticed her gaze, because he pulled on his gloves.

“Hey…” It wasn’t loud enough. Maybe she’d only said it in her mind. Probably just as well; what could she say now, after all these years?

Her shoulders sank and her back hunched, the muscles recognizing the posture and tightening. It was a recurring pain that would spread to her spine. A physical therapist had once told her that a grieving heart could cause pain in surrounding muscles. Has something in particular happened? she’d asked. No, Marge said, her job involved some heavy lifting, and that was probably all there was to it. But how long has this been going on? persisted the young woman with her annoyingly perfect physical therapist posture. Marge had considered the question that evening; this was before Stella, when her sleep was often disturbed by rumination. Really, though, she hadn’t even been an adult yet when it started, tiny knots gathering around her shoulder blades and shooting arrows of pain in every direction. It got worse with age, couldn’t be massaged away, easily flaring up at a grim thought. When Stella arrived, her body experienced a sort of ecstasy, like when you fall in love, and her muscles rested. But it was only temporary.

You have to listen to your body, said the physical therapist, it’s trying to tell you something. No, that was enough of that. Marge canceled the rest of her appointments. She bought a strong-smelling salve, but of course she couldn’t reach the spot where it hurt the most.