Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  Clara and Vera embraced on the curb. “You want to come in?”

  “Naw. You have your reunion. I bet that baby is runnin’ around by now.”

  Clara hugged her again. “Thank you. I’ll see you at the Centre in a couple of days.”

  “Yeah, George is giving a talk this weekend. See you then.”

  Clara waved from the curbside until she couldn’t see the tail lights, then turned toward the house, lamplight, warm and inviting, shining through the drawn curtains. John Lennon nuzzled her hand with his nose, and they headed up the stairs and into the porch. Clara knocked softly just in case the baby was sleeping. Lucy peeked through the curtain, an unmistakable look of delight washing over her face as she pulled the door open and threw her arms around Clara.

  “Thank God! I’ve been waiting all day. I didn’t know when to expect you!” Just as Lucy let go of Clara, the baby crawled around the corner, climbed to a standing position, clinging to her mom’s leg, and peeked up at Clara from behind Lucy’s bell-bottoms.

  “Holy, she’s grown!” Clara settled John Lennon in the corner and swooped in on Kendra, holding her high in the air and then snuggling her close.

  “Well, six months in a baby’s life is like forever. She’s into everything these days. The pots and pans keep her busy, though.”

  Clara laughed looking at the blanket laid out in the middle of the kitchen floor with an assortment of pots and pans, wooden spoons and plastic containers strewn about. “I bet they do.” Clara wandered through the rooms of the house. “Lucy, the place looks great.”

  “Kenny was here for a while. He bought the armchairs and a new kitchen table. Well, new to us, anyway.”

  Clara stiffened. “That jerk.”

  “Ease up, Clara. He did right by us. He absolutely dotes over Kendra.”

  “Yeah, sure. Until he takes off again.”

  “Well, just never mind that. Come on. You want tea? Are you hungry?”

  “Tea sounds great.”

  The two women sat at the kitchen table drinking tea and catching up. Kendra eventually started fussing, and after a quick bath and a cuddle, Lucy placed the sleeping baby in her crib.

  “I can’t believe how big she’s grown. And she’s calling you Mama. So cool.”

  “Yeah, sometimes I feel like I can actually see her growing, it’s happening so fast.”

  Clara laughed and poured the last of the tea. “Welfare still sending my half of the rent?”

  “Yeah, no one ever asks any questions. So, what now? You going to hook up with the fishermen again?”

  “Naw, I think I’m done with that. Gonna see what’s happening at the Friendship Centre. Try to find some work of some kind.”

  “I hear Harlan’s still at the Manitou. Bet he’d give you your old job back.” Lucy laughed behind her hand.

  Clara burst out laughing. “Yeah. Like that’s gonna happen.”

  The two women talked late into the night, reminiscing and making plans. Lucy rose first and headed for bed, warning Clara that the baby knew how to climb out of her crib and not to be surprised if she crawled into bed with her in the dawn hours. Clara yawned and smiled at the idea.

  The next morning, the two women rose early with the baby, packed her bag and stroller, made a picnic lunch, and headed for the neighbourhood park to let the baby wander and explore while they continued to talk about the past and schemed about the future.

  On Saturday morning, Clara was antsy to head to the Friendship Centre to help George with his presentation. She caught the bus and jumped off a few blocks early just to wander down Fourth Avenue for a few minutes, mingling among the hippies and street vendors, the musky smell of marijuana floating by from time to time. She turned down Vine Street and her heart swelled with the familiar sight of the Indian Centre, its doors wide open, welcoming all for a chat, some advice, a good bowl of soup, or political organizing. If anyplace was home, this was it.

  She saw George sitting on the lawn outside, rifling through a sheaf of papers and handbills. She crossed the street so he wouldn’t see her coming and at the last minute leapt in front of him.

  “Boo!”

  George jumped and burst out laughing. “You crazy woman.”

  “You all ready?”

  “Just about. I’ll meet you in there.”

  “Cool. I’m going to go see who’s around.”

  Clara wandered into the building, the smell of sage and sweetgrass a welcome scent. Visiting around, she had a coffee and read the posters and notices on the bulletin board, each one a story of what was going on in the city for Indians. One in particular caught her eye. The bold heading read: ARE YOU IN TROUBLE WITH THE LAW? Clara pulled the thumbtack out of the poster and took it to her table to read. The poster was for the Native Courtworkers’ Society. Clara read on. It described how Native workers would go to court with you and would speak for you and help you so that you didn’t go to jail just because you were an Indian. Clara borrowed a pen and wrote down the phone number from the poster and then returned it to the board. She saw George coming in from outside and the men gravitating toward the big drum. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, the voices filling her and reminding her of the lodge.

  Monday morning, Clara made a call, and by Wednesday she had an appointment with one of the Courtworkers, Rose. They met outside the courthouse and talked about what it took to become a Courtworker. Clara applied within the week, and three weeks later she was in the six-month training program that would certify her. Part of her training was to observe seasoned Courtworkers speak for Indians who’d been charged and didn’t have lawyers. Clara watched Rose every day for a week. During the breaks, the two would head to Chinatown for lunch and, over hot and spicy soup, Clara would pester Rose.

  “But I don’t get it. Why are you so nice to those bastards? That judge today—what an asshole, looking down his nose at that guy. Geez.”

  “Clara, get it through your head: your job is not to change the world. Leave that to the politicians. Your job is to keep Indians out of jail.”

  “How can you take that shit? Kissing ass so they do what they’re supposed to do in the first place?”

  “That guy today can come and visit me for the next six months and go home to his kids every night. Ask him if he would rather be locked up in Oakalla. Ask him if he cares if I talked nice to the judge.” Rose was standing in the middle of the café, her face red and her breath short.

  “Aw, sit down!” Clara pulled her arm lightly. “Okay, I get it.”

  “But seriously, Clara, it’s a big deal. It took a lot of talk and a lot of work to get this program up and running. The last thing we need is complaints from the courts that our Courtworkers are a bunch of big-mouth rabble-rousers.”

  Over the next few months, Clara bit her tongue, listened and watched. She thought of what it was like to lose your freedom. She thought of her helplessness at the Mission and being under the thumb of Harlan and the city cops. She met with court staff, judges and prosecutors during her training and hung on their every word, gleaning everything she could. It wasn’t easy to say the words that all of them needed to hear, but Rose was right. This was about those people standing helpless before the law, often for just trying to get by in a world they’d been abandoned to, entirely unprepared.

  Lucy was back to nursing now, part-time, and in her spare time, usually when the baby was asleep, she helped Clara study. Clara struggled with some of the words in her reading assignments. At the Mission, her education was no more than darning socks, cleaning and doing endless loads of laundry. But between her and Lucy, they managed, and Clara wasn’t shy about asking Rose for help too.

  The night before her exam, Clara paced the kitchen, unable to even think of sleep. The baby was sleeping and Lucy, sipping her tea, beckoned Clara to join her.

  “Come on, Clara, relax.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Clara pulled up a chair and nervously shuffled an old, worn deck of cards left there from their last game of gin ru
mmy.

  “You know your stuff. You’ll do just fine.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Clara didn’t sleep a wink that night and was the first one to show up at the testing room. She sat alone for a good fifteen minutes before the others trickled in. A woman sent to oversee the exam arrived exactly ten minutes in advance of the start time, gave strict instructions and handed out the exam face down on the tables in front of the students. Clara’s heart was pounding as she watched the seconds tick away on the big black-and-white clock on the wall.

  “Begin!”

  Clara flipped her paper over and panic set in as she read the first question and had no clue what the answer was. She kept reading, deep confusion setting in. Halfway down the page she read question five and could almost breathe again. This one she knew. She wrote her answer furiously and returned to the test sheet, looking for something she felt certain about. In the end, she left three questions unanswered, but passed nonetheless.

  Three months went by before she was offered work. She did odd jobs, contributing what she could, and minded Kendra when Lucy worked. The two became inseparable, and Kendra cried loud and hard when Lucy or Clara took her to a sitter on days when they both had to work.

  Clara pried Kendra’s little fingers from around her neck, gave her a quick squeeze, and assured her she would have fun and they would all be home again before she knew it. Kendra sobbed as though the world was ending. One of the Friendship Centre regulars was watching Kendra for them, and she shooed Clara off on her first day, assuring her Kendra would be laughing and playing as soon as Clara was out of sight. Clara quickly left, closing the front-yard gate behind her, and ran for the bus.

  Later that night, with the dinner dishes washed and Kendra in bed, Clara told Lucy about her first case. The guy, not much more than a kid, had been caught stealing apples from a corner grocery. Clara leaned back in her chair. “He’d just been let out of Indian School, up north somewhere. They kept him until he was eighteen, then put him on a bus to the city.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Those people. What was he supposed to do? Starve?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. The judge didn’t like it much, but I tried to explain he just didn’t know what else to do and had nowhere to go.”

  “Like us. Just thrown away.”

  John Lennon stirred from his bed in the corner and sidled up to Clara. She scratched behind his ears. He pressed against her.

  “Well, at least he’s not in jail tonight, and he’s coming to the Centre tomorrow. We’re going to try to find him a job. At least he’ll have one meal a day until then.”

  Lucy yawned, stood, planted a soft kiss on Clara’s head. “Keep fighting, woman.”

  John Lennon headed back to his bed, Lucy to hers, and Clara took a pad of paper off the bookshelf and sat down with her pen.

  Dear Mariah . . .

  13

  Howie

  Howie squirmed a little in his chair. “Hey, do you think you could call me Howie instead of Brocket? I know I told you to call me Brocket before.”

  Clara nodded. “Sure, why not?”

  “It’s just that no one’s called me Howie since my mom died.” He looked intently at his hands. “It’s like my own name takes me back to that place, a little boy at Brother’s mercy. It’s like a part of me died, or I will die, if I let myself think about it.”

  Six months had passed since Howie had stood before the judge, ashamed and full of self-loathing. Thanks to Clara’s intervention, he had not been sentenced to jail time, but instead received counselling from her once a week for six months. Today was his last appointment. The two had become close, with a shared history that at first they didn’t know they had. Once she got him talking, he told her about the Mission and was amazed when she confided to him that she had been there too.

  “You were at the Mission? The one across Arrowhead Bay?” He wasn’t completely surprised that they never met at the school, what with boys not allowed to talk to girls, their lives segregated in every respect.

  “Yeah, I was there for ten years before they let me go.”

  They couldn’t look at each other, thinking of that place, the air heavy, the silence awkward.

  Changing the subject, Howie looked at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. “So, this is our last date, Clara.”

  “Think you can stay out of trouble?”

  “Yeah. Thanks to you. I don’t think I could have found a job without your help. My head was still in prison. I was feeling desperate when I really didn’t need to.”

  Clara looked up at him. “Man, we’re free. Let’s keep it that way. We’ve spent too much of our lives with other people running them.”

  “Thank you, Clara. Without you, I’d probably be back in lock-up.”

  They walked to the front door together and stood there a moment, neither knowing what to say. Clara reached up to put her hand on his shoulder. He reached in to hug her just as she turned to leave, and they ended up bumping noses instead. They laughed, and Howie walked out the door, free again.

  He walked down Vine Street toward the ocean, thinking of Clara at the Mission and not wanting to imagine what might have happened to her there. Other than the fact that he’d been there and his hints about Brother, they’d never talked about his time there. Neither had she volunteered any details. He hoped she’d escaped the worst of it. He sat down on a log and watched the giant ships anchored in English Bay, sailboats flitting around them like colourful butterflies.

  The next day, after work, Howie made his way back to the Friendship Centre on Vine Street where Clara worked. She was making herself a cup of tea, the tea bag held suspended above the cup, a look of surprise on her face to see him walking through the door. The look of surprise quickly turned to concern.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He pulled a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back that he’d selected from a Fourth Avenue grocery, and smiled. “Well, I’m not required to see you anymore, but I sure would like to.” He handed her the flowers. “Would you like to have a meal with me after work?”

  Clara laughed nervously. “Well, sure, why not. I just have a few things to finish up here.” She finally let the tea bag drop into the cup. “And I’d like to go home first.”

  “Okay. Well, why not meet me at the Only. It’s pretty close to your place, isn’t it?”

  “Best soup ever. See you there. Six okay?”

  “Six it is.” Howie left, smiling at the sight of her with tea in one hand, flowers in the other, and a slightly puzzled look on her face.

  She looked so pretty that night as she walked into the Only. Her long black hair was neatly braided, her work clothes replaced with jeans and a peasant blouse under a thick knitted sweater. He smiled and waved. She slid into the booth across from him and smiled back. “Made it.”

  “Yeah, looks like we did.”

  They ordered and talked about the deep chill in the air, so unusual for the city, how Howie’s job was going, how Clara came to work at the Friendship Centre, and finally they spoke of the Mission. The fact that this was a personal conversation, not one ordered by the court, freed them both, and an air of relaxation settled around them.

  “What I don’t understand is how you, a Cree, ended up in a school on the BC coast.”

  Howie gazed out the window onto East Hastings. “That, my friend, is a long story.”

  Clara reached out for his hand. “I’m all ears.”

  Howie took a long draw of tea, settled into his chair and started in.

  The summer my mother and I took the train out west was the best summer of my life. I was five years old, almost six. It was my first train ride, and in the weeks prior to our departure I pestered my poor mother to death with questions: Where will we sleep? Will we have to take food? How long will it take to get there? What if I have to pee? My mother took it in stride as she always did, answering the same questions over and over a
gain, steadying me on the kitchen chair when I wanted to mark the days off on the calendar, tucking me in numerous times a night when I couldn’t sleep for the excitement.

  We were going to see my mother’s sister, Mae. My mother had never been out of Saskatchewan and rarely left the reserve. She didn’t need to be anywhere else. That was her home, and the home of her parents and grandparents back to when Treaty Six was signed by her great-grandfather, Pihew-kamihkosit, for whom our Red Pheasant reserve was named. The same couldn’t be said for her sister. Mae had married a mooniaw, and her red-headed husband took her a thousand miles away to a logging town on the central coast of British Columbia. Auntie Mae was often alone while her husband was away for long stretches in the logging camps. Lonely for her sister and her language, she’d talked her husband into sending my mom money for train tickets. We would spend the whole summer there, my last before I started school.

  Fully clothed and ready to go, I was at the table at first light the morning of our departure.

  My mother laughed, coming through the front door with an armful of poplar rounds for the wood cookstove. “Did you even sleep at all?”

  “Is it time to go?” I could hardly sit still, I was so excited.

  “Just calm down, napaysis. I want you to have a good, hot meal before we go. There won’t be anything but bannock, berries and dry meat until we get there.”

  I loved it when she called me “little man” like that. She dropped the rounds in the woodbox and I opened the stove, setting the kindling just right and putting a match to it the way she’d shown me. I sat back at the table as she nursed the fire alive and set the porridge pot to boil on the cast iron stovetop. “Tell me again, Mom, what’s an ocean?”

  “Salty water as far as the eye can see. And the moon makes it move deeper and shallower along the shore.”