Sufferance

by Thomas King

  I mean, really. A paper cup?

  “So she’s back. But because she was gone, now she has to come up with a bunch of law dues for the years she missed. Before they’ll let her practise.”

  For me, life is too short to rush past the pleasures. Espresso should be experienced slowly, in a heated porcelain cup, with something sweet to complement and soften the bitterness.

  “I figure soon as she gets the money for those dues, she’ll go back to law.” Florence holds her arms out. “And leave this paradise behind.”

  I finish the macchiato and set the cup to one side. I’m thinking of ordering another one when Roman comes over.

  “Cuz,” he says. “How’s my girl?”

  “Easy enough to find out yourself,” says Florence.

  “Have to be here early,” says Roman. “Jeremiah don’t mind.”

  Florence throws a towel over her shoulder. “You could pick her up after school.”

  “Got to practise today,” says Roman. “Big gig coming up.”

  “Today’s the only today the two of you going to have.”

  Florence grabs my cup and takes it to the sink. I lean away from Roman, so Florence can tell us apart.

  “You understand, cuz.” Roman hitches his pants, gives me a quick smile. “Man’s got to make a living.”

  I HAD FORGOTTEN about the upcoming election. But when I get to the plaza, there it is. Election central. The Neighbours and their families have been replaced with canopy tents that are lined up along the perimeter of the square. Some of these are for candidates. Others are for issues that will be on the ballot.

  I have little interest in politics and even less in people who can imagine themselves as politicians.

  “Jerry.”

  Mayor Bob. With an enormous button on his lapel that says “Bob’s the One.”

  “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  Mayor Bob grabs me by the shoulder and drags me over to a double tent with “Re-Elect Bob” signs stacked up like cordwood.

  “Here you go.”

  Mayor Bob pins one of his buttons on my jacket. I feel like a goat that’s been tagged for slaughter.

  There’s a large table with a scale model of a housing development. Cradle River Estates. Executive lots and luxury condos.

  “Cradle River Estates is going to be a major focus of my election campaign.”

  It’s the reserve. The trailers are gone, the old school is gone, the graveyard is gone, all replaced with concrete and steel, wood and brick. With pathways and playgrounds.

  “Phase one.” Mayor Bob waves a hand over the model. “Right here is going to be a shopping centre. Along with a medical complex.”

  The model makers have even named the streets in honour of what they’re going to replace. “Ojibway Lane,” “Iroquois Road,” “Cayuga Crescent.”

  “This was going to be the new library.” Mayor Bob taps one of the toy buildings with a finger. “But we decided to go with a sports bar instead.”

  It’s Loomis’s master plan for the old school and the graveyard, for the reserve. He had the model built a number of years back, and he shows it off at every opportunity.

  “The library will be in phase three.”

  Miniature buildings glued to a board. Tiny strips of indoor-outdoor carpet marking out the lawns and green spaces. In the centre of the development is a circular park labelled “Loomis Commons.”

  “I’m counting on your vote.”

  I’ve heard about the project. But this is the first time I’ve seen the model.

  “Vote early,” says the mayor. “Vote often.”

  Two tents down, Maribelle Wegman is getting signatures on a petition.

  “The crosses are a bee in her bonnet,” says Mayor Bob. “Not sure I can support Maribelle on that one. Technically, the school and the graveyard are on private land. And everyone knows my views on the sanctity of private land.”

  Now that I’m in the plaza, I decide to check out the rest of the booths. The election isn’t the only order of business. Beeswax candles. Raku pottery. A heavy-set man selling home water-filtration systems who assures me that I’m killing myself drinking town water. A double tent with a banner that says “For a Greater Gleaming.”

  A young woman with a clipboard rushes out of the tent. “It’s a research project,” she tells me, “to see what people want in a community. There are five questions. All you have to do is read them and indicate whether you agree or disagree. Yes or no.”

  And then she’s off to find another participant.

  The questions are crafted in a way to get the correct response.

  Shouldn’t members of a community share the same values?

  Shouldn’t communities be able to plan for and pursue a common destiny?

  Shouldn’t communities be able to expand as expansion is needed?

  Shouldn’t the health of a community be unobstructed by special interests?

  Shouldn’t everyone in a community pull their weight?

  I answer no to each question, sign Bob’s name to the survey, and drop his button in the trash can. I don’t stop by the widow Wegman’s booth. I expect I’ll see her soon enough.

  Swannie Gagnon has set up an outdoor display of pastries to take advantage of the increased foot traffic.

  “Ta petite fille,” Swannie tells me, “she is charmante.”

  I buy a small bag of sablés bretons for Lala.

  “That one,” says Swannie, “she make the stone happy.”

  I buy a pain aux raisins as well.

  “Oh, mon dieu.” Swannie throws her arms in the air, her eyes wide with astonishment. “The world, it is ending.”

  I ignore the mockery and Swannie’s underarms, take my pastries, and walk away from the plaza, away from Wegman and Mayor Bob, the man with the water-filtration system, and the promise of a better Gleaming.

  And I don’t look back.

  20

  Nutty Moosonee is relaxing in her recliner, but she’s not alone. Wes Stanford and another man are standing on the roof of her trailer. Wes has his hands on his hips, while the older man walks around in a circle.

  “They heard my roof was in trouble,” Nutty tells me, “so they came by.”

  Slick is perched on the garbage can. He’s all puffed up, as though he’s trying to impress the world.

  “The one with the beard is Jimmy,” Nutty tells me. “He’s done roofing work before.”

  Slick has one eye shut, but the other one is open just a crack in case trouble comes along. He may be young, but he’s no fool.

  I pull up a chair and sit.

  Wes and Jimmy climb down.

  “No good news,” says Wes.

  “Trailer roofs,” says Jimmy, “are generally made out of fibreglass or rubber. Don’t much matter which, so long as she stays watertight.”

  “But this one ain’t,” says Wes.

  “You got pinholes in the rubber membrane,” says Jimmy. “Best you can do is roll a coat of roof cement over the whole thing and hold your breath.”

  “It’s not cheap,” says Wes.

  “Couple hundred for the material,” says Jimmy. “Then there’s labour.”

  Wes shakes his head. “Don’t know it’s worth doing, seeing as the main problem here is the mould.”

  “It’s what I got,” says Nutty. “Mould and all.”

  “Good money chasing bad,” says Wes. “Just so you know.”

  Slick opens both eyes and shakes himself awake. He stretches his neck and gives a sharp caw.

  “We don’t mind doing it for the cost of materials,” says Jimmy. “You can’t live like this.”

  Slick begins his dance on the garbage can. Nutty takes a peanut out of her pocket and tosses it to the bird.

  “Be okay if we take a look at some of the trailers?” says Jimmy. “See how bad the mould problem is. Word is the mayor’s still pushing the band council about renting the empties and sticking us in them.”

  “Right now, we got the old box facto
ry,” says Wes, “but that ain’t going to last much longer.”

  “Sticking us in the trailers is cheaper than coming up with affordable housing,” says Jimmy.

  Wes nods. “They don’t want us in the park.”

  “As if we want to be there,” says Jimmy.

  Slick uses his beak to turn the nut around, as though he’s checking it for quality and size. Then he puts it down on the garbage can lid and waits.

  “Don’t even think it’s legal. Moving us onto treaty land. Rent or no rent.” Wes wipes his hands on his pants. “Figure the mayor’s just blowing smoke, making it look as though he cares. So he can get re-elected.”

  “You get that membrane cement,” Jimmy tells Nutty, “and we’ll put it on.”

  Wes and Jimmy head off into the trailers. Nutty throws another peanut to Slick.

  “He’s not satisfied with one,” she tells me. “The other day, he tried to stuff three in his mouth.”

  Slick sets the nut next to the first one and taps his beak against the can.

  “Picking up bad habits from somewhere,” says Nutty. “Not naming any names, but you got to wonder if he’s been talking to certain folks in town.”

  I put the pain aux raisins on the table next to Nutty.

  “This from the bakery?” Nutty tears off a small piece. “Ada tried putting raisins in bannock once.”

  As soon as Slick sees the pastry, he begins cawing and dancing at the same time.

  Nutty tears off a small piece and tosses it to him. “Babies can be greedy. But if you give them what they want, as they get older, they grow out of it.”

  Slick gobbles down the piece of pastry, grabs both nuts, and flies away.

  “Or they don’t,” says Nutty. “Not much you can do about that. Easy to get lost. Easy to stop caring.”

  I tuck the blanket in around Nutty, bring her a bowl of yogurt and canned cherries.

  “How’s the graveyard going?” Nutty asks. “My sister is buried there. You got a couple of aunties and a bunch of cousins. Babies, all of them. We all got people in that place. Good someone is looking after them.”

  I haven’t found any Camps yet, but there are still a great many more graves to go.

  “And Roman could use a big brother. Hold on to him when he runs off in a bad direction.”

  I flash on Koala breaking her leash and plunging headlong into the river and over the falls. With Mrs. Takahashi rooted to the spot, watching the calamity through her binoculars.

  “He’s got one beautiful daughter,” says Nutty, “and a woman who may still love him.”

  Roman needs to hold on to himself.

  Nutty leans back and closes her eyes. “That’s more than some people got.”

  ROMAN AND EMMA are sitting on the front porch. Emma waves when she sees me.

  “Mr. Camp,” she calls out. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “He doesn’t mind,” says Roman. “Besides, he doesn’t really own the school. It’s treaty land. Cradle River land. Ain’t that right, cuz?”

  “Mr. Camp is very gracious, letting us stay here.”

  “Can’t buy and sell what’s not yours. That’s the law.”

  “So now you’re a lawyer?” Emma looks at Roman in mock horror. “I’d stick to the high Cs if I were you.”

  LALA IS AT THE KITCHEN TABLE with a sandwich and a glass of water.

  “Pop-Up!” She leaps off the chair and wraps her arms around my legs. “Where have you been?”

  I pull up a chair and sit down. I’m hungry but I can’t think of anything I want to eat.

  “Pancakes was worried about you, too.”

  On cue, the cat appears, hurries to Lala, and jumps on her lap.

  “I call her Pancakes,” says Lala, “’cause I like pancakes.”

  Lala starts rubbing the cat’s ears and the animal begins purring loudly enough to disturb the dead in the graveyard.

  “Pancakes and I have been in every room in the whole place,” says Lala. “Do you know how many there are?”

  I’ve counted the rooms myself. More than once.

  “Mum-Mum says I’m not supposed to go into your room, and that I’m not to touch any of your things.”

  The cat rolls over on her back, her paws in the air.

  “Like that old lunch box on the windowsill.”

  I go to the refrigerator. Outside, I can hear voices. Roman is talking to someone, and neither one of them sounds happy. And then a woman’s voice, rising above the rest, firm and unrelenting.

  Maribelle Wegman is standing by a patrol car. Two officers in uniform are standing with her. Roman and Emma hold the high ground on the porch. I arrive just in time to stop World War III.

  “There he is,” says Wegman. “Arrest him.”

  The two policemen look somewhat embarrassed. The taller one puts out a hand in an attempt to defuse the situation.

  “Let’s stay calm,” he says.

  “He unlawfully crossed a crime-scene perimeter.” The widow Wegman has blood in her voice. “And he burned city property and historical artifacts in direct defiance of a court order.”

  “How about it, Mr. Camp?” says the tall cop. “Did you do that?”

  I’m not about to answer that question. And I don’t have to. Emma is off the porch in a flash.

  “I think we have a jurisdictional problem,” she says.

  Wegman jumps in before the cop can open his mouth. “And who are you?”

  Emma takes a deep breath, finds a smile. “I’m the band’s attorney.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” says the tall cop.

  “Damn right she is,” says Roman.

  Emma steps in front of Roman. “And from what I can see, you have no jurisdiction here.”

  Wegman turns to the shorter of the two cops. “Tell her.”

  “Tell her what?” says the cop.

  Emma keeps her smile in place. “As I remember, the town ends at the old riverbed. Which means your jurisdiction ends there.”

  The cops look at one another.

  “We might argue whether this is private property outside city jurisdiction or Cradle River First Nations land under treaty,” Emma continues. “But in either case, you have no authority here.”

  Wegman is not about to give up. “There’s a court order.”

  “Actually,” says the shorter cop, “it was a motion passed at city council.”

  “And that’s the law,” says Wegman.

  “On city property, perhaps,” says Emma. “But not here.”

  Wegman looks at the two cops. “So, you’re just going to let him burn the crosses? You’re just going to allow him to desecrate a graveyard?”

  “Not sure what we can do.”

  “The graveyard is a historical site,” says Wegman. “It’s part of our heritage.”

  “Maybe,” says the taller cop, “you could work out a compromise.”

  “That,” says Emma, “you will have to take up with Mr. Camp and/or the band council directly.”

  “This is a Christian country!”

  “And if you come onto the property again without written authorization or a proper warrant, it will be considered trespass and you may be subject to criminal charges and civil suits.”

  The whole confrontation lasts about ten minutes, and then the two policemen and the widow Wegman get back in the car. Even at a distance, over the noise of the car’s engine, you can hear Wegman continue to argue her case.

  I feel motion behind me, and I turn to find Lala standing in the doorway. On the verge of tears. Emma sees her, too.

  “It’s okay, honey.” Emma gathers her daughter in her arms. “Mum-Mum was just talking to some people who were lost.”

  Lala blinks away tears. “They were angry.”

  “No, honey, they weren’t angry. They were just lost.”

  “Why were they lost?”

  “Sometimes people get lost,” says Emma. “Sometimes they don’t watch where they’re going. And when that happens, they get upset.”

>   “I get upset sometimes.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “When you want me to eat beets.”

  “Beets are good for you, honey.”

  “But I don’t like them.”

  “Then,” says Emma, “we won’t have beets tonight.”

  EMMA TAKES LALA back in the house. Roman shakes a cigarette out of a pack and offers me one.

  “Bet you don’t drink either,” he says.

  Somehow, the day has disappeared. It’s not evening yet, but the light has softened and the temperature has cooled.

  “Emma and me used to be real tight.” Roman takes a long drag, fills his lungs. “She’s a good woman, but she’s not easy.”

  In the house, I can hear Lala arguing with her mother about a bath.

  “I love my daughter. No doubt about that.”

  The point of contention is Pancakes.

  “I’m playing at the Bent Nail tonight.” Roman drops the cigarette on the porch and steps on it. “If you like jazz.”

  I watch Roman walk off through the graveyard, touching the crosses as he goes. Then I sit on the steps and wait for the day to end and for the crows to come home.

  21

  I’m heating chili when Emma comes into the kitchen. She leans up against the counter and sighs.

  “She wanted to bring the cat into the tub.”

  I try to look sympathetic.

  “I hope you didn’t mind me jumping in.” Emma gets a glass from the cupboard. “Wegman’s always rubbed me the wrong way.”

  I take bread out of the freezer and put two slices into the toaster.

  “She’s not going to give up.” Emma fills the glass at the sink and heads down the hall. “But I guess you know that.”

  THE THREE COMMA CLUB.

  Unlimited money. Unrestricted power. Your desires met. Your authority absolute. A careless narrative of imagined omnipotence.

  I knew most of the people on the list, had sat down with them at business meetings, had talked with them at parties. And, except for the fact that they were all rich beyond belief, there was nothing notable about any of them.

  Tall, short. Fat, skinny. Healthy, sick. Intelligent, stupid. Friendly, belligerent. Ambitious, lazy.

  Ordinary. They were all one remove from ordinary.

  I CAN HEAR LALA in the classroom, laughing. Her mother is reading her a story about a princess and a dragon. I catch parts of it. Mostly the sound effects. The dragon roaring, the princess roaring back, until they both tire and fall over giggling.