by Thomas King
And the land claim was ignored as well.
Winston Churchill had called Russia a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, but he might just as well have been anticipating Thomas Locken and how the man had been able to purchase a property that should not have been for sale.
Or why having acquired it, Locken would have given it to me.
I hadn’t asked for the school. The deed to the property was waiting for me with my severance package. I think it was his way of telling me that if I no longer wanted to engage with the world, I should go home.
So I did.
Not that Cradle River was home. Not that it had ever been home.
THE CROWS WAKE ME. Evidently, they’ve decided that I’ve slept long enough and should get back to work. They’re particularly noisy and don’t sound all that happy, as though something has disturbed their world.
A fox along the riverbank.
An owl caught out in daylight.
A politician with a plan to end poverty.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let the melancholy wash over me. Should I go out to the graveyard and pull up more crosses? Or should I just kill myself? Both have much to recommend them. Working among the graves might take my mind off the world. Suicide will take me out of it.
And then there’s lunch.
As soon as I stand up, I realize that I’m hungry. But, as I imagine my normal lunch, as I see it on a plate in front of me, I find that I have little interest in hard-boiled eggs and toast, that I’d prefer something hot, something someone else has made.
The Piggy Bank.
Support local business. If Ada’s daughter is making a go of the café, then everyone should do their part.
I’ll do lunch.
I take my time in the bathroom. I shave, wet my hair so it doesn’t stick up. I find a clean shirt and a jacket that does not have burn holes in it.
It’s probably just the change in the weather, but by the time I get downstairs, I’m feeling hopeful. I’ll have lunch, stop by Dino’s to see if he has any grapes, surprise Swannie and pick up a small gâteau basque for the hell of it.
The grocery list is on the kitchen counter. The grocery bag is hanging on the doorknob.
I don’t notice the girl until I turn to leave.
It’s the girl from the graveyard. The girl I saw this morning when I was burning crosses. This is the first time that any of the dead have left the graveyard, the first time I’ve found a ghost in the school. I know it’s a momentary apparition, a turn of imagination. I know that I’ll look away or close my eyes or take a deep breath, and the girl will be gone.
But here she is. Sitting at the table. The cat on her lap.
“Hello,” says the ghost. “Is there any peanut butter?”
18
The girl, sitting at my table with the cat on her lap, is not a ghost. She’s Lala Stillday, Ada’s granddaughter, Emma Stillday’s child.
“Sometimes Mum-Mum makes me a cheese sandwich.”
I can’t believe the cat is sitting on her lap.
“One time, we had waffles with strawberries and whipped cream for lunch,” Lala tells me, “but that was a special occasion.”
And the beast is purring.
“After we eat, can we pull up more crosses and burn them?”
The cat and I need to have a heart-to-heart on the subject of loyalty.
“I know all about matches,” says Lala, “but I’m not supposed to play with them.”
The cat and I need to reach an understanding.
“This is a nice house,” says Lala. “Some of the rooms have blackboards.”
Shelter and food. These are not minor issues.
“Do you have children?”
THERE ARE PEOPLE in the Piggy I have never seen before. Someone has put sprigs of parsley in tiny vases on each table, along with tea candles.
Lala skips into the café and starts turning circles in front of the counter, her arms out, her head thrown back.
Florence is behind the counter. She’s wearing an apron that says “Kiss My Barista.”
“Good,” she calls out to me. “You’ve met Lala. Would have mentioned it earlier, but I wanted you to get settled.”
I’ve only been gone four days.
“Couldn’t put Emma and Lala in one of the trailers, now could they? Mouldy single-wide’s no place for a child.”
Florence grinds a batch of beans. She packs the basket and lifts the lever.
“The old school’s not ideal, but it’s got room and it’s clean. You won’t even notice that they’re there.”
I wait for the rest of the explanation to show up.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Florence sets a macchiato on the counter. “Wasn’t my idea.”
Ada and Nutty.
“Besides, you’re going to like having Lala around. Little girl like that brightens the world.” Florence puts the tarot deck in front of me. “And a little brightening wouldn’t hurt you one bit.”
I shuffle the deck and cut it four times.
“Ace of Cups!” Florence slaps her hand on the card. “Look at that. Beginning of good things. Joy, love, beauty, health. Breakthrough in spiritual understanding.”
The door to the kitchen opens and Lala is off, bouncing across the restaurant towards a woman who has to be her mother.
“Mum-Mum!”
Emma Stillday grabs Lala and lifts her high in the air. “What are you doing here, sweetie? You were supposed to stay home.”
“It’s okay, Mum-Mum,” says Lala. “Pop-Up brought me.”
Florence comes out from behind the counter. “Emma. This is Jeremiah Camp.”
“Mr. Camp.” Emma holds out a hand. “Sorry about the imposition.”
“Don’t worry,” says Florence. “He don’t bite. Man don’t even talk.”
“I really appreciate you helping us out until we can get settled.”
Lala puts her hands on her hips. “Pop-Up doesn’t talk?”
“Lala,” says Emma. “Manners.”
“Then I won’t talk either.”
Lala helps herself to a jar of crayons and some paper and takes over the small table near the kitchen. Florence makes her a hot chocolate, and Emma brings her daughter a sandwich.
I have the uneasy feeling that there’s something I’m supposed to do. But I can’t think of what it might be. So I just stand there and watch.
THE LUNCH SPECIAL is shepherd’s pie with a small salad. I eat it at the counter, while Florence fills me in on what I’ve missed while I was gone.
“You see what Wegman’s up to?” Florence makes a face. “Woman tried to make off with your pile of crosses.”
The salad is fresh and crisp.
“But Roman beat her to it. He’s got them stored in Nutty’s trailer. Says he’ll bring them out when it’s time for the big bonfire.”
The shepherd’s pie is excellent. Between bites, I check the blackboard to see if there are any desserts.
“You missed the news, but there wasn’t much to it. World’s falling apart. Same as last week.” Florence looks over at Lala. “Not right for a child to sit in a café all day. She should get out into the sunshine. Take her for a walk. Have some fun.”
I stop eating.
“She could help you with the renovations at the school,” says Florence. “Pull up some of the crosses.”
A blind man could see where this is going.
“So, Pop-Up,” says Florence. “How’s it feel to be an uncle?”
Florence doesn’t have to spell out the fact that Emma is tied up with work, or that Florence has to help her, or that Nutty’s too old to look after an energetic girl, or that Ada can’t do it on her own, or that I’m not doing anything anyway.
But she does nonetheless.
“It’s only for today.” Florence says this as though she expects me to believe it. “Tomorrow, Lala will be in school.”
LALA STILLDAY IS A CONSTANT and inexhaustible stream of questions.
“Wh
y don’t you talk?”
“How old are you?”
“Can we go to the bakery?”
“What’s the cat’s name?”
“Do you like me?”
“What other things should we burn?”
THE GROCERY STORE has grapes. The large black variety. Dino Kiazzie and his son Javi are arranging melons in a basket. Dino sees me and hurries over.
“Midnight Beauty,” he says. “Delicious. Very firm.”
I check the origin information.
“From Chile.” Dino picks two grapes off the bunch and hands me one. “This time of the year, it is what we can get.”
He hands the second grape to Lala. “You must be the special little girl I’ve heard so much about.”
“Lala Stillday,” says Lala, “and I am no longer little.”
“So smart,” says Dino. “Much better to be smart than pretty.”
“I’m also pretty,” says Lala.
Dino claps his hands. “Javi,” he shouts to his son, “what do we do with smart girls who are also pretty?”
Javi is in his early twenties. Coal black hair with soft eyes and long lashes. “We give them an apple.”
Lala’s face erupts in a smile, and she bounces about from one foot to the other.
“That’s right, we give them an apple.” Dino picks a Golden Delicious from the stack. “This is a special apple.”
“It is?”
“Oh yes.” Dino’s eyebrows are thickets. His moustache is a pile of dry brush. “A long time ago, there was a famous lady named Hera, who had a grove of apple trees that was guarded by a fierce dragon.”
“A real dragon?”
Javi holds his arms up over his head and screws his face into an impressive snarl. “An enormous dragon,” he says. “It could eat a hippopotamus in one bite.”
“One bite?”
“And the apples that grew in this grove,” says Dino, “were all the colour of precious gold.”
“Like this one,” says Lala.
“Exactly like this one,” says Dino, and he hands her the apple. “But what makes these apples special is that they have the power to heal.”
“Like if you scraped your knee?”
“Better than that,” says Javi. “They have the power to heal the spirit.”
Dino nods and puts his hand over his heart.
Lala ponders this for a moment. “But you can still eat them?”
“Of course,” says Dino. “Eating has always been a part of healing.”
“That’s why,” says Javi, “they’re called Golden Delicious.”
“Can Pop-Up have one too?”
AT THE BAKERY, Swannie gives Lala a sablé breton.
“The shortbread,” Swannie tells her. “Very much the butter.”
I stand in front of the case and check the trays. All the brownies are gone.
“And what will you become,” says Swannie, “when you have become grown?”
“A dragon,” says Lala. “I’m going to be a dragon.”
“D’accord,” says Swannie. “This the world needs.”
I don’t see any point in trying to explain the intricacies of mythology to either of them.
“Will you be the fierce dragon?”
Swannie has changed into a long-sleeved shirt. You can’t see the hair under her arms, but the area is dark with sweat.
“Not too fierce,” says Lala. “Otherwise people won’t like me.”
“Ah,” says Swannie. “And then you would be sad.”
“Pop-Up is sad.” Lala takes my hand. “That’s why he doesn’t talk.”
AS SOON AS WE get back to the school, Lala takes me to one of the large classrooms. It’s been converted into a bed-sitting room. The desks are long gone, but the blackboards are still up and functional. Lala has found some chalk and has started drawing stick figures and flowers on the old slate.
“That’s Mum-Mum’s bed,” says Lala. “Sometimes I sleep with her. Like if there’s a storm. Or my stomach hurts. Or Mum-Mum is feeling lonely.”
Someone has brought in a dresser, a kitchen table, and a television.
“The television is old, and it doesn’t work. Maybe you can fix it.”
There’s an air mattress in the corner covered in stuffed toys and books. It has a soft look to it, as though it’s worn out and can’t get up. Lala jumps on it and it makes a sharp hissing sound.
“My bed is broken,” she says. “Maybe you can fix it, too.”
EMMA GETS BACK to the school a little after four. Lala and I are sitting in the kitchen, sorting through a pile of books. We’ve been doing this for almost an hour. Lala chooses a book and reads it to me. And then I choose a book, and she reads it to me.
“I’m sorry,” says Emma. “I thought I would be done sooner.”
“Pop-Up doesn’t mind,” says Lala. “Do you?”
“Honey, Mr. Camp is a very busy man.”
“And he’s going to fix the television.”
“Lala . . .”
“He’s already fixed my bed.”
I’d found an old tire-patch kit someone had left behind. The glue was still good. All that was needed after that was a decent set of lungs.
“And now,” says Emma, “it’s time to let Mr. Camp get some rest.”
“Pizza,” says Lala. “Pizza, pizza, pizza.”
“Yes, honey,” says Emma, “we’re going out for pizza.”
“With Roman?”
Emma stiffens. “Your father said he’d meet us there.”
“Hooray!”
“We’ll see.” Emma takes a long breath. “We’ll see.”
LATER THAT EVENING, I hear Emma and Lala come into the school and go to their room. As soon as the cat hears the front door open, she’s off the chair and down the stairs.
I don’t mind. If I want reliable companionship, I can always get a goldfish.
19
The next few weeks fall into an easy and dependable routine. Emma goes to the café early, and I look after Lala. I introduce her to quinoa, Parmesan cheese, and cottage cheese.
She is not impressed.
“Pop-Up, you eat this every day?”
Lala’s idea of breakfast is a bowl of sugar-flavoured cereal and sliced bananas.
“No wonder you’re sad.”
And I walk her to school. This is pleasant enough. Lala likes the crows, tries to mimic their calls.
“I can talk to crows.” Lala hops around on one foot. “And they talk to me. They tell me things.”
I try to imagine what secrets crows would share with a child, what lies they would tell.
“Can you talk to crows?”
TODAY, IKU TAKAHASHI and Koala appear on the path. As soon as Koala sees Lala, the dog begins dancing on its hind legs.
“Mr. Camp,” says Takahashi. “And Lala-chan. Koala asks about you every day.”
“What are those?”
Takahashi slips the binoculars off her neck. “These are binoculars.”
“Binokers,” says Lala, picking her way through the syllables.
“With these, you can see the world,” says Takahashi. “With these, you can see the future.”
“Really?” Lala holds the binoculars up to her eyes. “I can’t see anything.”
“You have to relax your eyes,” says Takahashi. “Then everything will look larger.”
Lala sways from side to side. “Is the future large?”
“These were my husband’s binoculars. Very expensive. Very high quality.”
Keizo Takahashi. Taught history at the high school. Heart attack. Sudden and complete.
“I can see something,” says Lala, “but it’s all blurry.”
“He wanted to watch birds,” says Takahashi. “He did not think about the future.”
I have to get Lala to school. I’d look at my watch. If I had one.
“Would you like my binoculars?”
Lala puts the binoculars down. “Sure.”
“Maybe Mr. Camp will buy them
for you.”
I hand the binoculars back to Mrs. Takahashi.
“Your niece has such nice manners.” Mrs. Takahashi tightens up on Koala’s leash. “My husband had nice manners, too.”
I DROP LALA OFF at the school, walk over to the bakery, pick up a brownie, and get to the Piggy in plenty of time for a macchiato and the news.
Today the café is full, and I have to sit at the counter.
“Business gets any better,” says Florence, “and I’ll have to shut the place down.”
I take the brownie out of the bag, so Florence can see it.
“This is the way it used to be when Reggie was alive.” Florence takes a deep breath. “Who wants to work this hard?”
Roman comes out of the kitchen carrying plates of food.
“Had to hire someone,” says Florence, by way of explanation. “Evidently, café hours and musician hours go well together.”
Roman looks to be in good spirits. He smiles at the foursome sitting at the table as he sorts out the plates, even laughs at something that’s said.
“Thinking I may have him play a little music on the weekends. Sort of a brunch-time concert. See how that goes.”
Florence grinds the beans.
“And it gives him and Emma some time together. Don’t know that it will work out. Not even sure if they’re trying.”
I wait as Florence fills the basket and tamps it down.
“How are you and your niece settling in?”
Florence has continued to experiment with the espresso blends. This one is black cherry with nutty undertones.
“You missed a bunch of days.” Florence cuts the brownie, the division favouring her side. “So there’s ground to be made up.”
I sip my macchiato slowly. When I was in Rome, I watched people walk in off the street, order an espresso, and toss it back in one gulp. As though it were a nasty tonic that a doctor had prescribed.
“I feel sorry for Emma,” says Florence. “She shouldn’t be cooking. Woman has a law degree. She should be in a courtroom ripping the lungs out of some corporate maggot.”
And they drank it in paper cups.
“She and Roman were together for a time. Didn’t work out. That’s why she moved to Winnipeg. New start. Evidently, lawyers can move about. Like plumbers and truck drivers. But she couldn’t find any lawyering work in Winnipeg, so she started cooking. Discovered she was good at it.”