Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  “Yeah, he’s getting ready to pull anchor. Heading back to Simpson. Sockeye are thick at the mouth of the Skeena, I hear.”

  “Well, boy, you’re in luck.”

  Kenny couldn’t tell if he meant it or if Mack knew how surprised Clifford would be to see him. The pair walked past three more boats and Kenny figured this one must be it. Had to be. The last slip.

  Mack stopped at the prow, looked up and called out, “Clifford! Clifford! You up there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m busy here.” Each word seemed louder, punctuated by firm steps on the deck, as the speaker made his way from the stern. A large, exasperated dark man leaned over the prow. “Whaddya want? Oh, hi, Mack.”

  The fisherman nudged Kenny a little toward the boat. “Your new help is here.”

  Kenny looked up, barely recognizing his mother’s brother. “Uncle Clifford!”

  “What?” Clifford raised a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Who are you?”

  “It’s me, Kenny. Bella’s my mom.”

  “What? I’ll be right down.” Clifford was on the dock in no time, agile and fast for such a big man.

  “I found him stowed away on my skiff. Says he works for you. Sixteen, he says.”

  Mack chuckled. Kenny looked up at him and didn’t think Mack found it funny at all.

  “Well, he’s all yours now, Clifford. I’m heading up Simpson way too.” He waved over his shoulder without looking back. “Maybe see you in Rupert.”

  Kenny sat on the deck. “I can help you. I can work for you. Help you for getting me home.”

  “Kenny, you’re just too young. You can’t work for me. C’mon, let me get you some dry clothes.”

  Kenny followed him below deck and changed into the clothes, rolling up the ankles and sleeves, trying for a better fit.

  “I work all the time. I’m strong. I can do it. Just give me a chance.”

  “You’re supposed to be in school. They could throw me in jail just for having you on the boat. I just can’t risk it. I’m going to have to take you back.”

  Kenny followed him back above deck and sat on the deck next to some rigging. “I can’t go back. I just can’t.” Panic rose in him, thinking of Clifford delivering him back to the Mission.

  Kenny stood up, Clifford’s clothes hanging off him. He threw off his uncle’s shirt, exposing the rainbow of red, purple and yellowing bruises. Ashamed of the tears he couldn’t hold back, he turned and gripped the railing. He pinched himself hard, willing the tears to stop. Uncle won’t want a crybaby. His ribs, exposed from too little to eat, were punctuated by the marks, old and new, of Brother’s handiwork. Choking back the tears, he turned to his uncle. “Please. Please don’t take me back.”

  Kenny flinched and pulled away when Clifford reached out to put his arm around his shoulders.

  “Who did this to you, Kenny?”

  “Brother. He hates us. They all hate us.”

  “But why would he do this?”

  Kenny shrugged and looked at his feet. “He does other things too. He hurts me.”

  Clifford stepped back from Kenny and looked away. “He’s supposed to be taking care of you.”

  Kenny shrugged again. “There’s never enough to eat.”

  “You know, me and your mom, we never had to go to the Indian School. Your grandfather made sure of that. He would take us out on his fishing boat every fall for a few days when they were coming to collect the kids. Never wrote our names down anywhere so the government didn’t have us on their list.” Clifford picked up the shirt and wrapped it around Kenny’s shoulders. “We knew it was no good, but not this.”

  “Why didn’t Mom come see me? You could have brought her on the boat.” Kenny looked away, feeling the tears pressing at his eyes again.

  “We did. The year they took you, we went down during the halibut season. We docked right there at the school. The principal—don’t remember his name—”

  “Father Levesque.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. He wouldn’t let us see you. He said he would send us a letter saying when we could see you and if we came back before then, he would call the police. Your mom never got a letter.”

  “So you just gave up?” Kenny broke down, sitting in a puddle of khaki, sobbing.

  Clifford put his arms around him and rocked him gently. “No, Kenny. Your mom wrote that school every day. She walked to town every day to mail her letters, asking about you. She even wrote to the Indian agent in Terrace. She wrote you letters, too. Sent you money. Even presents at Christmas. That principal never wrote back either.”

  Kenny rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I never got any letters, Uncle. Not one. Nothing.” The tears started again. “Please don’t take me back. Please.”

  Clifford stood and turned his back to Kenny, taking his work gloves out of his back pocket. “I’m heading up to Simpson tomorrow to pick up a crew. The sockeye are running. We’ll be fishing outside of Rupert within a day or two.”

  “So, I can work for you?” Kenny leapt up, grabbing on to the waist of the too-large pants to keep from losing them. “Okay, what do you want me to do? Just show me once. I’ll do a good job.”

  Clifford laughed. “You are too young! Maybe next year, when you’re fourteen, I’ll take you out. Show you the ropes. I’m gonna take you to Simpson. To your mom.”

  “Really?” The thought of his mom worried him. He’d been gone such a long time.

  “Yeah, really. If that priest wants you back at that school, he can come get you himself.” Clifford stood and pointed below deck. “Come on. Let’s get you fed up and then we are out of here.”

  Like a jackrabbit suddenly free from the trap, Kenny ran a full circle around the deck, laughing at the top of his lungs, running finally into his uncle, hugging him for dear life. “You’ll see. I’ll help you.”

  Clifford hugged him back. “Now look at me, Kenny. It’s been rough for your mom. You were all she had after your dad died. When they took you . . . Well, it’s been rough.”

  Kenny looked at him, wondering what this could mean. Just as he was going to ask, the crew started climbing aboard and the fishing boat came to life.

  A day later, after a refuel at Port Hardy and fish and chips for Kenny, the fishing boat docked at Port Simpson. The men rushed through their work, anxious to secure the boat and carry on with their evening pursuits.

  “Five a.m. sharp!” Clifford called out after them as they disappeared into the late afternoon. “The rest of the crew will be here, and we’ll be pulling anchor right away. Don’t be late if you expect a pay packet.”

  Kenny stood next to Clifford, afraid for reasons he couldn’t figure out.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you to Bella’s. Do you remember the way?”

  Kenny felt small and unsure. The tall, narrow two-storey houses, built chockablock in a long crescent above the beach, looked smaller now, like faded ghosts of the brightly painted houses of his memory. He inched closer to Clifford. “I used to think of it all the time at school. Sister would get mad at me for daydreaming.”

  Clifford put his arm around Kenny’s shoulder. “Must feel a little strange, eh?”

  “Yeah.” Kenny didn’t understand the sinking feeling in his stomach. The village was eerily quiet, with only the occasional cry of a baby from deep inside one of the ghost houses. They walked by the empty playground. The rusted chains of the swings hung motionless, the canvas seats long rotted away. The slide lay on its side and the sandbox was overgrown with sedge grass and dandelions. Not a single child played on the sunny beach, in front of the houses or on the walkway.

  “Do you remember?” Clifford pointed to a faded moss-green house, the last house above the beach.

  The house looked so much smaller and sadder than Kenny remembered, with the roof starting to sag in the middle. Kenny ran to the front door, leaving Clifford behind. He struggled with the door, but it was locked. He turned and looked at his uncle, confused.

  “Why is it locked?”<
br />
  “Well, I guess she’s not home.”

  A sudden exhaustion overtook Kenny. His knees felt weak. A small, weather-beaten three-legged stool sat beside the front door. He remembered it from all those years ago. His mom would sit him there while she got her gear ready for the smokehouse. The stool looked so small now, and no longer the bright blue it was then. He sat down, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

  “Where is she?”

  Clifford craned his neck to peer through the window and then looked away quickly. Just as he did, a couple stepped out of the house next door.

  “Oh, hi, Clifford.” The couple smiled and walked toward them. “Who is this?”

  “Do you remember Kenny?” Clifford motioned to Kenny to stand and shake hands.

  “Kenny!” The young woman threw her arms around him. “You’re all grown up.”

  Kenny normally would have been overcome with pride that someone recognized he wasn’t a kid anymore, but he was tired from the last couple of days and all he wanted was his mom.

  “Do you know where she is?” He stared up at the sturdy, dark-haired woman.

  “Lots of goings-on here last night,” she said, then hugged Kenny. Catching Clifford’s eye, she raised one eyebrow. “I saw her heading for the pebble beach just before dawn. I think she was headed to her smokehouse.”

  A rush of memories washed over Kenny, welling in his chest so much as to be painful. The salmon, like red ribbons, hanging, cured by breeze and smoke. His mother, singing to him in the old language, smiling and putting him to work, carrying the little load of kindling he was strong enough for. Mom. Kenny ran, his feet remembering a long-ago path. He forgot Clifford, the pretty dark-haired lady and her quiet man. He forgot the boat, the school, the long, cold escape. He felt as though his feet weren’t even touching the ground until he ran through the seagrasses at the end of the trail and his feet fell against the heavy layers of small stones that made the ground both solid and malleable. He ran in an awkward stagger, his feet sinking inches into the layers of pebbles with each stride. He saw the smokehouse and was sure he could smell the slow alder smoke, just like that day seven years ago.

  Breathless, he ran into the smokehouse and was stunned to find it empty and cold. No fire, no salmon hanging, no mom. He looked around at the broken-down smokehouse as a cold breeze blew through the door. The plank walls looked like a toothless monster, the sea visible through gaps left without repair. A pile of ancient alder firewood stood rotting in one corner. The firepit lay bare of even ash, leaving just a circle of cold stones.

  Mom. This time he heard his own voice and a rustle from the front of the smokehouse in response. Kenny walked slowly and quietly toward the sound. There she sat, on their favourite driftwood seat, huddled over, her arms wrapped around herself in an empty embrace. She rocked slightly back and forth, and he could hear his lullaby, practically a whisper.

  “Mom.” His own voice was a whisper too. She didn’t respond, just sat there, her back to him, gently rocking. He cleared his throat. “Mom.”

  She turned, looking at him over her shoulder as though not expecting to see him at all. Her eyes, narrow and swollen, shot open and she tried to stand so quickly she slipped off the smooth driftwood.

  “Kenny!” she cried, and scrambled to her feet. Kenny ran, colliding into her and wrapping his arms around her, the two of them a jumble on the pebbles.

  “Mom!”

  “My boy!”

  In an instant, the years of terror and hunger shook through him like a riptide and Kenny sobbed in his mother’s arms.

  Bella ran her fingers through his salt-crusted hair and wept with him. “Kenny. My boy.” Her voice was strangely harsh, not at all the soft, singing sound of his memory.

  Kenny caught his breath and they sat together on their driftwood seat, their arms still around each other. She looked older, shots of grey evenly sprinkling her black, black hair. He rested his head against her chest and closed his eyes, the warmth of her arm around him like medicine. “I love you, Mom. I was so lonely for you.”

  “I thought I would die without you.” She kissed him on the top of his head. It was then that he smelled it for the first time—that sickly sweet smell. Just how Brother would smell when he came for him in the night. He looked up at her with a question in his eyes. She had never smelled like that before.

  Just then, before he could say anything, Clifford emerged from the smokehouse, a little out of breath.

  “Boy, can you ever run! Bella, you okay?” Clifford sat cross-legged on the pebbles in front of them and told the story of Kenny’s escape, about seeing him for the first time on the docks at Port McNeill and barely recognizing him, and the sail home. All the while, Bella and Kenny clung to each other as if at any second they might be ripped apart.

  Bella looked at Clifford, terror in her eyes. “Are they going to come for him again?”

  Clifford looked down and shook his head. “I just don’t know, Bella. He left the punt he escaped in adrift. We can just hope they think he drowned. Give up. Too much trouble, maybe.”

  Bella stood shakily. Kenny wondered if it was the pebbles. She ran her hand through his hair. “Let’s go home, son. You must be hungry.”

  Clifford laughed. “Oh, he’s always ready for a meal, this one.”

  Kenny smiled at his mom.

  As the three of them walked back through the smokehouse, Kenny looked up at his mom and asked, “How come no fish, Mom? I dreamt about it.”

  His mother looked away and replied in her soft, rough voice, “Oh, I haven’t made fish in quite a while. No one to feed but me.”

  “I’m home now, Mom. Clifford will bring some sockeye and we’ll fix up the smokehouse and make some together. Okay, Mom?”

  Bella smiled and squeezed him. “Okay, my boy.”

  The three of them walked back along the trail, slower this time, and soon arrived at the house. Bella fished in her pocket for her key, then hesitated as she put it in the lock. She looked at Kenny.

  “Things are different, son.”

  Kenny followed her inside, and his heart sank as the cozy home of his memory dissolved into the shambles before him. The once-immaculate living room was strewn with empty wine and beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays. Plates of half-eaten food were stacked precariously on the counters and filling the sink. The place stank of stale booze, old food and rotting garbage left under the sink too long. Bella threw the discarded clothes off her armchair and looked away, silent.

  Kenny looked up at Clifford. “What happened here?”

  Clifford looked away too. “I told you, it’s been hard on your mom.”

  Kenny left them there in the fetid mess and went to what had been his bedroom. Everything from his toys to the pictures on the walls were as they had been before he was taken, and the room was impeccably clean. He sat on the bed and looked around. His mother came to the doorway and stood in front of him.

  “You kept it for me.”

  “Yes, Boy. It was the only thing I cared about.”

  “I’m a hard worker, Mom. We’ll fix it together.”

  “That he is, Bella,” said Clifford, who was now standing in the doorway too. “He works like he’s doing it to save his life.”

  Bella smiled. “You were always such a good boy, Kenny.”

  “Well, I gotta head back to the boat, Bella. You need anything?”

  “Okay, Cliff. No, I got everything I need, right here.”

  “Me too!” Kenny jumped up and ran to Clifford, hugging him tight. “Thank you, Uncle.”

  Clifford put his hand on Kenny’s head. “You take care, boy. If you need me, check with the dock master, he can tell you if I’m coming in and he can get a message to me.” He looked at Bella. “I’m heading out for sockeye in the morning. I’ll bring you a bin-full for smoking.” He paused. “If you’re up for it.”

  Kenny nodded, looking from one to the other, a little confused.

  “I’ll be up for it, Clifford.” Bella s
traightened her back and smoothed her hair.

  Over the course of the evening, Kenny and Bella scrubbed that sad little house from top to bottom. They dragged boxes and bags of bottles out to the back of the house to be sold back tomorrow. They hauled six full bags of garbage to the burn bin and got the fire going, making trips back and forth, adding more and more debris. Kenny washed the floors while Bella washed the dishes and drank glass after glass of cold water. After a couple of hours, they took a break.

  “You hungry, my boy?” Kenny nodded as Bella rifled through the pantry cupboard. “Not much here, but I can patch something together. Tomorrow we’ll take those bottles in, and I have a few dollars left from my widow cheque. We’ll go shopping.”

  “Shopping?” Kenny had almost forgotten what it was like to wander the aisles of the little grocery store in Port Simpson. “Guess I’m too big to ride in the buggy now, eh, Mom?” The two of them burst out laughing both at the memory of little Kenny in the buggy reaching and pointing for items on the shelf and at the idea of big Kenny stuffed into the little seat.

  “Maybe just a little.” Bella laughed as she turned to making supper for her boy.

  That night they dined on mac and cheese, fried baloney, and fry bread slathered with margarine with the meal and with huckleberry jam for dessert. A feast to Kenny, who, stuffed to the gills, collapsed on the couch next to his mom and rested his head on her shoulder. They sat together, wordless, until Kenny’s head started drooping as he fell asleep then jerked up as he tried to stay awake, only to droop again.

  “Son,” his mother whispered. “You’re exhausted. Come on, let me tuck you in.”

  Kenny mumbled through his sleepiness as his mother walked him to his room. He stripped down to his shorts and climbed beneath the fresh sheets. Bella tucked him in, kissed him on his forehead and sat at the edge of the bed until he drifted off to sleep. But he woke again and watched her as she walked softly out of his room and into the kitchen. She lit a small candle and reached for a clean ashtray, a water glass and then the half-empty bottle of wine that she’d hidden in the pantry cupboard. She sat at the kitchen table, lit her smoke and took a long draw. Inhaling deeply, leaning back, looking up, she exhaled a long, slow plume of smoke into the dark reaches of the rafters. She toyed with the empty water glass and looked at the ruby liquid in the deep-green glass. She smoked and sang his lullaby.