Sufferance

by Thomas King

  “Grummy!”

  Lala comes sprinting down the hall, rushes into the room, and gives Nutty a big hug.

  “Pop-Up!”

  Nutty takes the cookie from under the pillow and holds it out.

  “I’m not supposed to have sweets until I eat my dinner.”

  “Cookies aren’t sweets,” says Nutty. “Cookies are appetizers.”

  “What’s an appetizer?”

  Emma appears in the doorway. “It’s something you eat before the meal.”

  “It is?”

  “But cookies aren’t appetizers.”

  “They’re not?”

  Emma gives her daughter a pat. “Go see if you can help Nooko.”

  “If cookies aren’t appetizers,” says Lala, “what are they?”

  ADA BRINGS IN A BIG POT and sets it on the coffee table. Lala follows behind her with bowls and spoons.

  “Reserve stew,” says Ada.

  Emma looks in the pot. “Potatoes and onions and meat.”

  “Got some red peppers in it as well,” says Ada. “There’s warm bread, too.”

  Nutty sniffs the air, smiles. “Sure don’t smell like the slop they used to feed us.”

  Ada purses her lips. “You want seconds, you’re going to have to do a whole lot better than that.”

  WE EAT THE STEW while we watch a movie on the television. It’s a cartoon about a bunch of animals who are trying to save their forest from being destroyed by an evil developer.

  “Well, that’s a little close to home,” says Ada.

  “This is nice,” says Nutty. “Family is all here.”

  “Roman’s not here,” says Lala.

  “We’ll save him some stew,” says Nutty, “in case he shows up.”

  “Maybe we will,” says Ada, “and maybe we won’t.”

  Lala hops over to Nutty. “Can I have my appetizer now?”

  I LEAVE BEFORE the movie is over. I go upstairs and lie down on my bed. The binoculars are on the desk next to the laptop. I haven’t bothered to look through them. Maybe tomorrow I’ll watch the crows, see if I can learn anything.

  And I haven’t opened the computer. I don’t want to. But Ash Locken has been pretty clear about my options, and the fact that I don’t have any. I could catch a bus or a plane to somewhere else, but she would find me, and we would dance this dance all over again.

  I try to sleep, but I can hear the television, can hear Ada and Nutty arguing about the details of some long-forgotten offence, can hear Lala counting through the sevens and eights of the times table.

  I always had trouble with eight times seven.

  Lala gets it right the first time.

  Later, the television is turned off. Ada and Nutty go to their respective corners. Emma and Lala give up math for bed.

  And when the old school is finally quiet, I crawl into bed, pull the covers around me, roll against the wall. Eight times seven is fifty-six. Eight times nine is seventy-two.

  Two plus two equals four.

  You’d think knowing this might change the way we imagine our place in the universe.

  But, of course, it doesn’t.

  29

  There are nights when I can’t sleep, when I find myself wide awake. Nights when everything slows down, when nothing moves quickly, not even sound.

  Tonight is such a night. I lie in my bed and listen to the usual creaks and groans of the old timbers in the school as they cool and shrink. As they shift into a more comfortable position.

  Someone is snoring. I don’t know who. It’s not me.

  A little after one, I give up on sleep and get out of bed. When I turn the laptop on, I’m greeted with an on-screen message.

  GOOD MORNING, MR. PHELPS,

  YOUR MISSION, IF YOU DECIDE TO ACCEPT IT, IS TO DISCOVER WHY BILLIONAIRES ARE DYING. AS ALWAYS, SHOULD YOU OR ANY OF YOUR I.M. FORCE BE CAUGHT OR KILLED, THE SECRETARY WILL DISAVOW ANY KNOWLEDGE OF YOUR ACTIONS.

  Funny.

  Ash Locken is too young to remember the Mission: Impossible television series. Flood, on the other hand, is not.

  There is a series of folders on the computer, one for each of the names on the list. Archival materials, newspaper articles, television interviews, the transcripts of judiciary hearings. Most of this information is familiar, but I read through it all again, in case I’ve missed something.

  False dawn begins to light the sky as I begin my forecast. No rush. I like to let my ideas sit awhile and relax, give them a chance to catch their breath, make sure that, after they’ve rested, they still make sense.

  I’M IN THE KITCHEN, eating breakfast, when Emma and Lala show up. Lala is pouting, and Emma is trying to ignore her daughter.

  “I can’t go to school,” says Lala, “because I’m sick.”

  “You’re not sick, honey,” says Emma. “You’re just anxious.”

  “Linda said I was an Indian.”

  “You are an Indian, honey. Cradle River First Nations.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yes, honey, that’s good.”

  “Linda said it was bad.”

  Emma makes Lala a bowl of cereal. “How about I slice some banana. That will make you feel better.”

  “Will Pop-Up take me to school?”

  Emma looks at me.

  “I want him to tell stupid Linda that Indians are good.”

  “Linda’s not stupid, honey,” says Emma. “She’s just prejudiced.”

  Lala finishes her breakfast, goes back to the room to get her jacket.

  “Some of the kids at school are picking on her,” says Emma. “I may have to talk to the principal before it gets out of hand.”

  Emma makes a bologna sandwich and puts it in a bag, along with an apple and a box of juice.

  “I don’t want bologna.”

  “You like bologna.”

  “I like peanut butter and jelly.”

  “You can’t take peanut butter to school.”

  “But I like it.”

  “There are children who might be allergic to peanuts,” Emma tells her daughter.

  “Then I won’t give them any of my sandwich.”

  Emma turns to me. “I have to stop by city hall after work,” she says. “Is there any chance you could pick her up this afternoon? I’d ask Roman, but sometimes he forgets.”

  Lala is back with the cat in her arms. “I’m taking Pancakes to school with me,” she announces. “If Linda is mean, Pancakes will scratch her.”

  “You can’t take Pancakes to school,” says Emma, “but maybe you could take Little Bear.”

  “Little Bear is a toy,” says Lala. “Linda won’t be frightened if I bring a toy.”

  “You don’t want to frighten Linda,” says Emma.

  “Yes, I do,” says Lala.

  Emma puts the lunch in Lala’s Batman backpack and gives her daughter a hug. “Mum-Mum will miss you.”

  “Then why don’t you stay home?”

  “Mum-Mum has to work.”

  “If you stayed home,” says Lala, “we could help Pop-Up with the crosses.”

  “And you have to go to school, so you can get smart.”

  “I’m smart already,” says Lala. “Is there a cookie in my lunch?”

  “There’s an apple and a box of juice.”

  “Linda’s not smart, and she gets a cookie.”

  TODAY, IT’S FOGGY on the river trail, and it feels as though Lala and I are on the coast. Everything is grey and hazy and soft. People on bicycles and joggers come out of nowhere and disappear quickly and silently.

  We run into Mrs. Takahashi. She doesn’t have Koala with her.

  Lala stops. “Where’s Koala?”

  “Koala,” says Mrs. Takahashi, “is at the doctor.”

  “Koala is sick?”

  “No, Lala-chan,” says Takahashi. “Koala is getting fixed.”

  Lala frowns. “Koala is broken?”

  Mrs. Takahashi looks at me, but I’m going to leave it to her to try to explain spaying to a child
.

  “Keizo also bought a camera,” Takahashi tells me. “Very expensive. Very nice. It goes with the binoculars.”

  “Pop-Up fixed my bed,” says Lala. “’Cause it was leaking.”

  “He wanted to look at birds,” says Takahashi. “And then he wanted to take their picture. Maybe you can explain this to me.”

  “But then Pop-Up bought me a new bed.”

  Mrs. Takahashi pats Lala’s head. “I will tell Koala that Lala-chan misses her.”

  AT THE SCHOOL, I wait until Lala remembers to give me her phone.

  “Linda keeps her phone.” Lala holds the phone against her chest, in case I see the logic. “And she gets a cookie in her lunch.”

  SWANNIE HAS A FULL TRAY of chocolate brownies. I resist pointing out that some are larger than others. There’s a bulletin board next to the cash register where people can post notices of services and things for sale. Someone has tacked a Cradle River Estates brochure to the board.

  Swannie catches me looking at it.

  “You see,” she says, “the school, she is gone.” Swannie taps the brochure and gets powdered sugar on Loomis Commons. “The graveyard? Poof. All the trailers? Poof. And where will you go?”

  Swannie’s hair is back to normal. “Where will the people go?”

  Sometimes, it doesn’t help to think about something too hard. Sometimes, if you ignore it, it will come to you.

  Swannie puts my brownie in a bag. “Poof, poof,” she says. “Poof.”

  THE PIGGY IS FULL. Emma is busy moving from table to table. The Three Bears are at the counter.

  “Standing room only.” Louis waves me over. “We got here early, and it was like this.”

  “We may have to go somewhere else for coffee,” says Enola.

  “But Wapi likes the hot chocolate,” says Louis.

  “Chocolate,” say Wapi.

  “Keep the coffee,” says Louis. “Lose the people.”

  Florence comes out of the kitchen looking as though she is being chased by something large and dangerous.

  “I’m going to need most of that brownie,” she says. “Never knew success could be such a failure.”

  I take the brownie out and set it on top of the bag. Florence heats a cup and hands me a knife.

  “Hear you and your girlfriend were at the country club the other night,” says Louis.

  “That estate thing is so much noise,” says Enola. “No way it’s going to happen.”

  “That’s what they said about Adolf Hitler and Donald Trump,” says Louis.

  “News, blues, and comfortable shoes.” Florence sets the macchiato in front of me. “In China, several scientists have been convicted of genetically editing babies.”

  Florence has to raise her voice to cut through the clatter of happy patrons.

  “The head guy was sentenced to three years in jail and fined almost half a million dollars.”

  “Whereas you get the Nobel Prize for genetically modifying a tomato,” says Enola.

  “That’s because we value ripe tomatoes more than we do people,” says Louis.

  “In New York City, a man has been arrested for throwing the pages of books off the top of the viewing platform at the Hudson Yards building.”

  “Fahrenheit 451,” says Enola. “Redux.”

  “Among the books that were destroyed for their pages,” Florence continues, “were The Prophet, The Fountainhead, To Kill a Mockingbird, and the Bible. He’s been charged with public mischief and held over for psychiatric evaluation.”

  “We should send him the Indian Act,” says Louis.

  “Did he dislike the books,” asks Enola, “or was it random?”

  “Did he throw the pages off the building,” asks Louis, “or did he cut them up into confetti first?”

  “Confetti,” says Wapi.

  “Doesn’t say,” says Florence. “And here at home, the spring festival is just around the corner.”

  “Roman and the Clay Pigeons are going to sing,” says Louis.

  “I sing,” says Wapi.

  “You bet,” says Louis, “but more than that, you’re my number one helper.”

  “Number one,” says Wapi.

  Louis starts in on a list of the jobs that have to be done now that winter is in the rear-view mirror.

  “All the generators have to be serviced and filled. Couple of the trailers need their electrical services replaced. Water lines have to be flushed.”

  I stay for the first round of repairs and replacements, but when Louis moves into the world of local politics, the Gleaming town council, and federal treaties, I step away from the counter and slip out the door.

  THE FOG HASN’T LIFTED. If anything, it’s thicker now and seems content to have settled in for the day. Fog dampens sound, but I still hear the door bang open and shut behind me.

  “We need to talk.”

  Florence catches me at the cedars.

  “That woman don’t belong here.”

  Ash Locken.

  “Expensive people like her show up in a town like this and you can bet they got trouble in their carry-on.”

  Florence pauses to see if I want to fill in any blanks.

  “Trouble with strings attached. Her and Mr. Sunshine.”

  Oliver Flood.

  “New television. New furniture. Cellphones.” Florence sets her hands on her hips. “Nothing’s free. And I’m guessing you the one paying the bill.”

  The fog is cool and damp. With any luck, it will stay around. Florence is about to take another run at me when the door to the café opens and Emma sticks her head out.

  “We need four lattes at table six.”

  Florence and I stand in the cedars. Waiting for the other to make the first move.

  “You really think you get to hide away in an old schoolhouse all by your lonesome?” Florence turns back to the Piggy. “Get to spend your life sitting in a graveyard, chipping at stone?”

  It’s only after Florence has gone back into the restaurant that I remember what I like best about fog. It comes out of nowhere, doesn’t make a sound, and as it forms, the rest of the world disappears.

  30

  The musicians are in the bandstand. Sometimes, they cover popular songs, but today, it’s improvisation.

  The crows are there as well. In force. About fifty birds are clustered on the roof of the bandstand. I don’t think they’ve come for the music, but with crows, you never know.

  “Jerry!” Mayor Bob trots across the grass. “What do you think?”

  This is not a question he wants me to answer.

  “The new bylaw?” Loomis holds his arms out in an attempt to encompass the plaza. “The anti-vagrancy legislation?”

  The Neighbours are nowhere to be seen.

  The musicians launch into a piece that sounds like enamelware falling down an elevator shaft, and the crows join in, cawing and screeching.

  The mayor shakes his head. “I like it better when they play show tunes.”

  The birds begin dancing. They bob their heads, hop into the air, spread their wings, and shit on the roof. The overall effect is unexpected.

  “May have to do something about the crows as well,” says Mayor Bob. “They’re as bad as pigeons.”

  The musicians quickly fall in line with the crows, and in a blink, everyone is hopping about and cawing and flapping their arms.

  “I’m the future.” Mayor Bob puts his hands together, as though he’s praying. “And you know what they say.”

  Swannie Gagnon comes out of the bakery to see what all the racket is about. Dino Kiazzie stops arranging oranges in the display at the front of his store. Maidie Matthews stands next to a barbecue that’s on clearance, her fingers keeping time on the metal hood.

  The mayor brings his fingertips to his nose. “You can’t stop the future.”

  I’m tempted to offer him a pair of binoculars at a good price.

  “The future is here to stay. Plain as the nose on your face.”

  And then as quickly a
s it has started, the concert stops. The musicians put their instruments down, and the crows rise up and vanish into the sky.

  “But you don’t care about the future, do you? Hell, you don’t care about much of anything.” Loomis rocks back on his heels. “Is that why you don’t talk? Because you don’t give a shit?”

  The mayor hands me another business card. He’s written a figure on the back and underlined it.

  “Take the money and run. Go someplace where nobody knows you, someplace where you’re not in the way.”

  He scoops a handful of “Bob’s the One” buttons out of his pocket and starts across the plaza towards the bandstand and the musicians.

  “And don’t forget to vote.”

  WHEN I GET BACK to the school, the place is empty. There’s a note on the kitchen table from Ada.

  “Took Nutty to get her lungs checked,” it says. “You’re out of eggs and fruit.”

  I open the refrigerator. We’re out of tomatoes as well. And cookies. There’s bread and cheese, so I make myself a sandwich. Butter, mustard, a piece of lettuce. I’ll go shopping when I get Lala.

  I take the food up to my room and set the plate next to the laptop. I already know what I’ll tell Locken, already know what my forecast will say. That’s the easy part.

  What comes in the aftermath will be more difficult.

  As for Mayor Bob, he’s probably right. About my caring. After all, I didn’t come back to Cradle River on my own. I came back because Thomas Locken had given me the school and the property, and because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

  Sure, the reserve was my mother’s home. And yes, I was born here. But then we left. And in all those years, we never came back.

  So here is not mine. And yet here I am.

  There’s no good reason not to sell the school to the mayor. Pack my bags and head west. The Horatio Alger solution to ambition. Not that I’m interested in ambition. Not that I have any other place in mind. The coast perhaps. Maybe an island.

  How far west could I go? There’s twice as much water as land on the planet, so the odds of drowning are excellent.

  The forecast is done. Finished. I could look at it one last time. To make sure I haven’t missed any patterns.

  Or I could watch the crows.

  They’re never in a rush. They’ll sit in trees for hours, test the wind for smells, listen for sounds. They’ll watch the clouds, contemplate the quality of light. And when they’ve considered all the possibilities, all the patterns, then and only then do they act.