I met Uncle Angus. He came down the morning after we got here. How he knew we were here I have no idea. He packed a whole caribou quarter down for us!
l
A winter of caribou steaks and eggs for breakfast, that quarter hung in the frigid porch all winter long. Leah’s stomach tightened, thinking of the delicious aroma and taste of fresh caribou steaks. Her mouth watered, and she went to get a chunk of dry moose meat from the kitchen. It wasn’t caribou, but it had the taste of smoke and the wild.
l
I know the caribou wasn’t for Doris. For some reason, Angus and Doris don’t get along, that’s what Haywire said. Her house has a closed-in porch out front, and it’s already cold enough in there to hang meat. So, when you walk in from outside, there’s the quarter hanging there. Rustic. We’ve been sawing off steaks for breakfast and supper. My new favourite breakfast is caribou steaks and eggs. It is so good! Succulent, full of wild flavour. I don’t have to eat again until supper! But I have been told that a person should not live on caribou alone.
Uncle seems to really love Haywire; they had a lot of catching up to do over tea. Well, Haywire did. Uncle Angus listens. With a “maybe, too” or “uh huh” here and there. I like him a lot. He doesn’t look or act like Doris (thank God!) – and geez, I better hide this journal – but the way she talks I don’t think she can read (hahahaha).
Uncle is a small, wiry old guy. He has the sweetest smile I have ever seen (well, besides Haywire’s). When we were introduced, he was shy, but I saw the most kindness I have ever seen in any man’s eyes. I wanted so much to hug him, but he is old-fashioned, so I knew not to. One day I will, though.
l
Doris’s house was an old army shack, a remnant from the era of the Second World War. From when the American Army came through to build the Alaska Highway. Leah guessed those greenhorns back then didn’t have the sense to insulate it. The only heat was from heater made from a rusty old forty-five-gallon barrel with a metal plate welded to the top. When you first walked in, there had been an enclosed porch. Right inside the front door a washstand. To the left there was a kitchen counter with a propane stove and a small bathroom sink that drained into a bucket.
Doris kept that stove immaculate. On the barrel heater was a perpetual kettle of hot water. If there was no propane that barrel heater top was used for cooking.
The bedrooms had a space left open between the ceiling and the walls, so the heat could come through. It didn’t. She laughed thinking about herself and Haywire squeezing together in his single bed.
Leah had desperately missed running water. At Doris’s there wasn’t any for a couple of miles. They mostly melted snow in the cold weather. She shuddered, remembering that if she was up last, she was expected to wash in the water that Doris, Haywire and his sister had used. It was a revolting grey.
Their diet, besides the caribou, had been sparse. Fried potatoes for breakfast, macaroni for lunch with canned meat or tomatoes, and fried baloney, or just canned tomatoes. The leftovers for supper. Doris made fantastic bread, though.
When Leah and Haywire went out with the .22 they came back with grouse, and rabbits. She couldn’t get enough of the wild food.
Hauling water was a constant pain. It involved a several-mile walk along the road if the truck broke down or ran out of gas, which happened often. Doris hated carrying the buckets from the closest stream and ran off the road into the bush every time a car came. She said she hated it when the white people stared as they passed. Leah hadn’t seen a white person yet, just Indians going by. She would drop her bucket and hide, too. Her arm needed a break, and the buckets were dead heavy.
l
August 26, 1993
Haywire went up to visit his Aunt Laylie, and he told me she said, “Hey, bring that Kutchen up here so I can get a look at her!” I guess they heard I was light-skinned, so they think I’m white.
I hope the rest of the family likes me better than Doris does.
September 1, 1993
I can’t believe Haywire’s cousins Sammy and Johnnie came all the way out here to Little Annie from Whitehorse. Just to tell me there are going to be open auditions for the big music festival in Faro. They aren’t interested, because it’s folk music. They’re all about country rock. I know I have a shot, but I haven’t been playing for a while so I’m probably pretty rusty.
September 2, 1993
I’m on my way to the audition in Whitehorse. I’ll start practising again right here in the truck after I’m done trying to write this (which is why this is so messy!) I’m going to play “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” and two of my songs, not sure which yet. I used to hate Hank Williams, but since I’ve been listening to only him on the truck cassette player, I’ve been indoctrinated into the Church of Hank Williams. His lyrics are like deep water: there are exquisite layers down into the cold deep.
September 2, later
I got in! Sammy and Johnnie were really cute. When we got there, they acted like security and stood with their arms crossed. I don’t know where they got the sunglasses. They were ridiculous and adorable. It was hard not to burst out laughing.
As soon as I started to sing, they busted out in their usual crazy grins. Sammy was snapping his fingers and tapping his feet, and Johnnie was mouthing all the words. I guess he listened more than I ever thought. They didn’t notice that I didn’t drop beats all over the place like them. I figure it has to do with the traditional rhythm in their blood. Sammy and his brother both do it, and I figure it’s the ancient rhythm of this land. It sounds and feels right to them, and to me.
I’m so excited! I am playing in my first big International festival! And I found out at the audition that it will be fed live over CBC across Canada! People everywhere will hear me! This might be my big break. I would so love to play music for a living.
Those who don’t write have no idea how much it takes to create a song. I remember sitting in my sister’s kitchen in North Van. I was writing “Seasmoke” and sat playing the first two lines over and over. In the sun on the back-door sill. It had probably been an hour of me repeating, repeating. Sis was puttering around in her kitchen, and in her usual patient and kind way, she said, “Can you play something else for a while?” That was the first time I really understood the work involved with writing a song, and how much practise it takes, line by line. Before, just did it.
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Leah looked out at the North Shore Mountains across the water from downtown Vancouver. She heard the front door of the condo close and called to Phillip:
“You’re home late.”
“Yeah. Bill had something he needed to talk to me about. He’s is pretty depressed.”
“Is that because his name is actually Adele?” she said under her breath. It was clear their relationship was in its death throes but neither of them seemed to want to pull the plug on it.
“I’m just going to take a shower.”
Sure. Because drinking in a sports bar with “Bill” is such a sweaty activity. Ass. She went back to the journal.
l
I also got how it drives other people crazy when you repeat a couple of lines of a developing song over and over and over. After that, I tried to do it in private. People are only interested in hearing finished songs. Other than songwriters, that is. Songwriters love to hear partial songs; they get to hear the possibility when you stop after one verse and chorus. And no matter where the song stops, even after a verse, they are enthralled, and can’t wait to hear the whole thing.
Oh my God, I can’t believe next month. I can hardly wait! I’m going to practise my ass off. Nobody will know the length of their sets, or how many. Until you get a program when you get there. Oh yeah – and there are workshops we’re expected to be in, too. That’s a little nerve-racking. I can’t prepare for a workshop when I don’t know the theme. I guess they’re trying to create some magic, but wow, talk about putting pressure on the performers! I can do this! I will do this! This is my dream coming true.
; September 3, 1993
Haywire is jealous. I’ve never seen this before. I was so excited to get back and tell him about the festival, but all he did was look at me and walk out of the house. He went down to the lake, I guess, because he’s been gone for a long time. Doris didn’t say much, but Uncle was really happy for me. I explained about festivals, since I don’t think he would have been to one. He said, “You got good songs; it’s good people gonna hear ’em.” I will play the one I wrote for him (“Courage in My Eyes”) and dedicate it to him; but I won’t tell him until the performance, and then I’ll surprise him! I’m sad about Haywire. I really expected him to be happy for me. He is absolutely not.
l
Leah stopped reading, on a whim grabbed her phone. Dialled.
“Haywire?”
“That would still be me.” Leah could hear the happiness in his voice as he recognized hers.
“Haywire, what the hell went wrong with us?”
Deep silence.
“Leah, it’s…complicated. I think…we were young. Things were just harder than we knew how to get through them.”
“It makes me wonder. There was nothing I remember that was enough to split us up. I remember you drinking near the end, I remember you being mad at me quite a bit, but we loved each other so much – why didn’t we work it out?”
“Leah, let’s talk about it…next time you’re up.”
“I just feel so sad, Haywire. I’m reading that old diary, and it brings up all my feelings for you. How deep they were – are. My relationship with the white guy I told you about is a hot mess. It’s all making me think you and I should have stuck it out.”
He fell quiet for so long she thought the connection might have been lost. But she knew this silence and waited.
“Leah, know that I love you, and always will. Sometimes life…just…gets in the way.”
“Well, we shouldn’t have let it.”
“Chaos…”
She could hear in the name and within his silence the words he could not speak.
l
September 10, 1993
Haywire finally told me what’s bugging him. He says he’s afraid I will leave. As he puts it, I’m as good as anyone on the radio. He’s afraid I’ll have to move to the city to have a career. He says he’ll never live in a city, because Whitehorse is bad enough. He has seen cities on TV and in movies, and he knows he would hate them. He is wrong. I would stay wherever he is and travel as needed from there.
I’m sad: I always thought he would come with me. Be offstage smiling at me when I played. I guess that fantasy of mine is just that. How could I leave him here and go? My heart would break! He says he knows other men will want to be with me. I tell him he is the only man I want. He just shakes his head.
How could this be the way it is? My dream is coming true and I have no room to be happy about it! I cry when I’m splitting wood, so nobody sees. But that’s dangerous, I’m likely to hit myself with the axe. I better cry when we haul water and walk behind Doris, so she won’t see.
l
In her new journal, Leah writes: Today, I am free. Or am I? I will still sit inside this cage, and for a long while will not remember that the door has been opened. My mind is still in the prison. Gradually, I will understand that I am not. The crow is nagging at someone else now. I’m like a rescue cat. I’ll be skittish and unsure, I expect. In a dream, Haywire asked for an important keepsake and I said, “But I don’t remember” and began to wonder what else I’ve lost of my life – I realized in the dream that I was having blackouts. This was a terrible thought.
“Don’t worry,” says the woodpecker. “He wishes for you to doubt; it gives him power as you are distracted from your own.” It’s Phil the woodpecker is speaking of. Moon Power is what I own today. “Yes,” says the woodpecker, who has moved closer. A lone goose calls. I do not listen. The woodpecker says, “It’s nothing” from a distance again. A seagull cries: “Lonely, lonely.”
Humans are intruding now nearby. “Humph,” says the goose. I will listen well to the creatures today; speak gently. Well, except for the goose, who is a little judgemental.
All my life I’ve longed to comprehend to converse with the geese, otters, gulls, and squirrels. “Oh, have you?” mutters a squirrel, who runs erratically, arrogantly around the garden like he owns it. I call him Bart. He staccato-chatters now at the gulls, telling them to keep their distance. He tears up trees, leaps from one delicate branch to another leaving them swaying wildly behind him. A bird now asks, “When, when, when, when?” And I answer, “NOW!”
But still I will hide this journal from Phil, who would make fun of it. No, I will NOT. Not now! If I do hide this, I am closing my OWN cage door. “Oh!” hollers the crow, nearby. Four geese cross, close, west to east. Thank you, grandmothers. “Thanks, thanks, thanks, thanks,” affirms crow. I ignore the seagull, who has nothing good to say but shrieks like an old woman. Neurotic. Crossing east to west, the geese seem confused, unsure. I choose to walk, determined in ONE direction: HOME. To myself.
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ME AND NO ONE IN THE RAIN, Verse Three
It’s a long, long way from the wooded hills
And the quiet people
It’s a long, long way from the wooded hills
And the quiet water, quiet water
Me and no one in the rain
Me and no one in the rain
This is the place of the body but not the heart
Should have known it better from the start
This is the place of the body but not the heart
I should have known it better from the very start
Me and no one in the rain, oh
Me and no one in the rain
l
October 29, 1993
The sea is restless, pale grey. The sky an ocean above, ready to come down again as rain. The trees fuss, each leaf nervous, waiting. A crow races across, west to east. There are no creatures speaking. None to be seen. The hummingbird feeder hangs, swaying to and fro, to and fro, to and fro. My heart is stone. Heavy, cold, old. It does not move within me or feel. It’s like a cold fire pit. My heart’s fire is stone, deep cold.
Last night it happened again – spirits are coming one by one in dreams and telling their stories. I don’t want to remember. If I don’t write them down, they say they will keep coming to me. I am crazy. I will never tell anyone this. I can’t even bear how they might look at me. I can’t look at myself!
POETRY IN THE CASTING
I have a longing tonight
to be heard to be seen
to be known and understood
Not to have to explain
and justify
and I cannot help but wonder
where are you, my friend
Are you alone tonight,
alone with somebody
alone and content
or lonely with somebody
or just alone
CHAPTER NINE
“Haywire?”
“Chaos, what’s wrong?”
“Haywire, I need to know something.” Silence.
“What?”
“Haywire, did you leave me because I was a bitch?”
“Hardly. You left me ’cause I was an asshole.”
“Haywire…you know me better than anyone ever did.” Silence. His voice was very soft.
“I say the same about you all the time.”
“To who?”
“Uncle.”
She cried now, wailing like a child. Haywire’s silence fell, heavy.
“Oh God, Haywire, I miss Uncle… my life is a mess.”
“Welcome to the club, Leah, everyone’s is.”
“Phillip just took off to be with his white woman.”
“Who is Phillip?”
“Very funny. I told you about him when I was there.”
“I know, just tryin’ to give your face a rest. Smile, it takes fewer muscles!”
“I can’t be with Indian guys, I can’t be with whit
e guys.”
“Me either.”
Leah laughs bitterly through her tears at his silly attempt at humour. “Oh, my God, Haywire – you kill me!”
“Someone has to make you laugh, Leah.”
“You always knew how to make me feel better.” Silence.
“Not always, Leah.”
“Haywire…”
“Chaos?”
“Thanks for listening, I’m going to go jump out the window now.”
“That’s good… Leave your guitar to me and say ‘hi’ to the seagulls on the way down.”
“Bye.”
“See ya.”
She imagines he sits for a long time, smoking outside. The river is icing over, but he can still hear the water running underneath. That he can hear his kids inside, his wife moving dishes in the kitchen. She feels he will need to stay with thoughts of her for a while; will not have liked how she sounded. For the next four days, at dawn and sunset, he will go out; say her name to the wind. The wind will catch it and dance it all the way over across the river, beyond the forest, all the way to the meadows. The ravens will pick up the sound, hop, flap. They always hear. They will echo her name; while the meadow sits silent, waiting. Waiting for her.
l
Thursday
I am by the water in the garden. I can’t do anything but sit. Last night, a terrible storm within me; this morning, I survey the damage and wonder how can I pick up so many tiny splinters of my heart and my life’s dreams to put them back together again? A new heart within is a large stone. Cold and darker grey than the sea this morning. The geese were speaking, and I did not listen. They crossed in a line east to west. “Look!” one commanded. There were many, one by one in a long line. “Look!” What is it I’m supposed to see? Geese are most unwise. I do as they say,but I am not receiving the message they bring. I’m as unsettled as those shaking trees above me. Restless as the sea. Tears are swollen inside me and I feel as grey as the sky, ready to rain. A crow off in the distance. I cannot hear clearly what he says. No creature has anything to say today? This, then, is what hopelessness feels like? A gull goes back and forth. That crow, in the distance, speaks to another today. What is it that everything seems to be waiting for? Today I long to see the mountain that occasionally appears to the south; it is obscured, has been for weeks, perhaps months. If it was visible, I did not see it. Phil. I hated his behaviour in some ways. But something in me wishes it had worked. Why do things that start out so good end so badly?
The Silence Page 5