Five Little Indians

by Michelle Good

  Lucy sat up straight in her chair. “What about him? From who? Don’t they know he’s gone?”

  “It’s from his bank. I guess he bought some life insurance and named you to get it if he died.”

  The shock on Lucy’s face was quickly replaced with tears. She held her forehead in her palm. Kendra moved to sit next to her mom and put her arm around her shoulder.

  “Ah, Mom. Don’t cry.”

  “I know why you had such hard feelings against him, but this is how he always was. Even as a kid. Always caring for other people. Did you know he sent money home to his mother for years until she died?”

  Kendra shook her head. “No, Mom. I didn’t.”

  “I wish you could have seen how kind he was, how good.”

  “Me too, Mom. I just couldn’t stand what he always did to you.”

  “No, Kendra. No. Don’t make this about me. He was good to me. Always. He was the only person in the world who really understood what makes me tick. He loved me. Love doesn’t play out like some cake recipe. Who do you think paid for all the work done on this house? That useless landlord?”

  Kendra let her arm slip off Lucy’s shoulder and shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

  “And those braces you got when all the kids were teasing you at school about your teeth. Who do you think paid for those?”

  “I just never had a dad, and every time he took off, I knew how hurt you were. And I was hurt too. Wasn’t I enough to make him stay?”

  “Child, he loved you more than life. Me too. It was himself he couldn’t love. They did that to him. Whatever they didn’t break in him, they bent. They beat him and beat him so many times I couldn’t even count. He never told me this, but I know Brother was bothering him too. That creep went after so many of those little boys.”

  “Mom, I didn’t know. First time I had any idea was when Clara talked to me about it, just before he died.”

  “And he never gave up.” She told Kendra of all the escape attempts, the times he was caught by Brother or the RCMP and brought back to be humiliated and beaten. “He could have drowned, taking that little punt all the way to the fishing grounds.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I know he wasn’t the way you needed him to be, but there is no limit to what that man could have done if it weren’t for those bastards.”

  Kendra took a sharp intake of breath. “Mom.”

  Lucy shook her head just a little. “Just because I choose not to use foul language doesn’t mean I don’t know the words. And any suffering I felt when he would leave was for him. I knew how much pain he was in every single time he went back to his wandering. He tried to stay. Harder than he tried anything in this life.”

  Kendra sat a little taller and reached for the thick fold of documents. “Well? Should we look?”

  Lucy nodded, folding her hands in her lap.

  Kendra read through the papers and then laid them back on the table. “Mom. It’s three hundred thousand dollars.”

  Lucy recoiled in shock, her eyes wide, jaw falling open. “What?”

  “Yeah, you heard right.”

  Lucy stood and turned toward her bedroom. “Call Clara. I need to lie down.” She headed toward the bedroom, one hand sliding along the wall as though she might fall without its support. She pulled the curtains open and lay down, gazing out at the now meticulously cared-for backyard. She looked at the yellow blossoms of the forsythia and remembered the time she and Kenny had planted it while celebrating Kendra’s fifth birthday. Soft grey pussy willows crowded the branches of the red willow she and Carla had filched from the park as a small seedling. The cherry tree was in full blossom, and she thought of the many times she and Kenny had spread a blanket under its boughs, enjoying warm spring days, sometimes with Kendra, more often not as Kendra grew older and overcome with resentment.

  Lucy reached over and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table and reached in for a small folder. She lay back again on the bed and opened it, a handful of photos falling out onto the bed. Their City Hall wedding; one of Kenny outside the Chinatown apartment; one of him cradling Kendra at just a few months old, like she might break. She picked up the one of him outside the apartment. She remembered him standing there that first time he’d come back, the collar of his worn jean jacket pulled up against the chill, his hands stuffed into his pockets. She thought of the first time they’d made love: him, all fumbling and gentle; her, nervous and embarrassed. She thought of the last time he’d been in their bed, their innocent sleep, arms around each other, close and warm. And she wept. Holding the picture against her body, she turned her face into the pillow so Kendra wouldn’t hear.

  It was late afternoon when she woke to the sound of Kendra’s voice.

  “Mom. Clara’s here.”

  Lucy quickly returned the pictures to their folder and slipped them back in the drawer. “I’ll be right there.” She splashed her face with cold water in the bathroom and then headed to the kitchen.

  Clara rose from the table and put her arms around her. “Look at your eyes. You’ve been crying again. You know what Mariah taught me about death? That the only thing our loved ones suffer is when we are suffering here without them. We know he is free, finally, in the green grass world. You know he would not want you to suffer.”

  “I try. It just hurts so much. He deserved so much better.”

  “We all did. But I guess the only thing we can do is try to make our own lives better now.”

  Lucy nodded. “I suppose. Now what about this letter? Is it real?”

  Clara nodded at her friend. “Yes, it is most definitely real. What a guy. You’re set.”

  “So, what do we have to do?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but you probably have to go to that insurance company and sign papers, then they will give you the money.”

  “Will you call for me?”

  Clara nodded, reaching for the phone. “Sure.” She made an appointment for the following Tuesday, and hung up the phone. “You’ll need to bring all your ID and after you sign their papers, they will give you a cheque.”

  Lucy smiled for the first time since Clara had arrived. “ID. Remember about the ID right after Kendra was born?”

  The two women burst out laughing, Kendra looking at them as if they’d suddenly gone nuts.

  Lucy caught her breath and turned to Clara. “Tell her.”

  Clara, always happy to tell a story, settled back and launched into Kendra’s birth story, the attempted apprehension of her by the welfare, the fake ID, the awful state the house had been in and how they’d all pulled together to make her a home.

  Kendra took it all in and looked at the two women as though she were seeing them for the first time. “Wow. You two were crazy!”

  Clara nodded. “That we were. Crazy for you. But yeah, you don’t know the half of it. Well, c’mon, we need to celebrate. How about we go for Chinese food?”

  “Well, I’m sure not up to cooking.” Lucy turned to Kendra. “You want to?”

  The three of them gathered their things and headed out to the Peking Kitchen, a new place just a few blocks from the house. Clara turned to Lucy as they walked. “Too bad they closed down the Only. Best place ever.”

  Lucy nodded. “Seems everything is changing.”

  They settled into their booth at the restaurant and ordered their favourites along with a large pot of green tea. Kendra was the only one who ate with chopsticks, and the women smiled at her dexterity. Lucy ordered some ginger beef to go. Kenny’s favourite. She would put it out for him when she got home, an offering.

  The conversation waned as they finished their meal. Kendra looked at her watch.

  “Sorry, Mom, but I am supposed to go to study group tonight.” She was in her second year at college, in a sciences program. She had set her sights on becoming a doctor.

  Lucy beamed at her. “Yes. Go. I’ll see you at home later.”

  Clara and Lucy watched her head out the door. “She has become quite the
young woman,” Clara said, the pride clear in her voice.

  “That she has.” Lucy settled back in the booth, sipping her tea.

  “So, what you gonna do with all that dough? I know me and Kenny had our issues, but I never expected he would do something like this. What a guy.”

  “I’ve told you all along he was a wonderful man.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s hard to see through all the leaving and boozing and such.”

  “I know. But he is. Was. Just can’t get used to that. Was.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’m going to put aside enough so Kendra won’t want for anything while going to school. Then I think I’ll buy a house. A newer one, so she will have something when I go.”

  “That sounds like a great idea. You must be sick of that old house by now.”

  “No. Not at all. It was our home, me and Kenny. I feel him there. And it was your home too, remember, during all your adventures.”

  Clara laughed. “This is true. Still, you deserve something newer.”

  They paid their bill and wondered out into the evening air. Clouds formed above in billowing patterns and they picked up their pace. They went their separate ways a block before Lucy’s house, Clara heading to Hastings to catch the bus.

  The money came through just as Clara had said it would, and she, Lucy and Kendra started looking at real estate ads. They eventually hired an agent, an earnest young man new to the business. Lucy was clear she wanted to stay in the neighbourhood even when he pressed her that she might like something on the west side. Something safer.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I know where everything is here. It’s home here.”

  The agent prepared a list of modest homes within a ten-block radius of Frances Street for Lucy to consider. After a week and a half, Lucy made an offer on a neat postwar bungalow with three bedrooms, a fenced-in yard and a kitchen laid out much like the one at the Frances Street house but bigger, with new appliances and cabinets. She signed the papers and she and Clara went home and waited.

  Kendra arrived that evening as the nervous women thought for sure they wouldn’t get it at their low offer even though the agent had been confident. By half past eight, they’d still heard nothing.

  Lucy shrugged and wrapped her sweater around herself. “Well, I guess that’s that. Too bad, I liked that place. Good for grandchildren. Close to the elementary school.”

  Clara winked at Kendra. “Better get busy, Grandma here’s making plans.”

  Kendra laughed. “Oh no. I can’t even imagine being a mom.”

  The phone interrupted their laughter. Lucy took the receiver off the hook while Clara crossed her fingers and Kendra wiggled in her chair with anticipation.

  “Okay. Okay. Yes. Sure. Okay. Yes, that would be fine. See you tomorrow.”

  “Well?” Kendra was bursting.

  Lucy threw her hands in the air. “We got it!”

  “That is so fantastic.” Clara lifted her teacup in a toast. “To Kenny.”

  Lucy and Kendra tapped their teacups against Clara’s. “To Kenny.” The words caught in Lucy’s throat and she wiped a runaway tear.

  The sale went through without a hitch and once it was finalized, Lucy and Kendra started packing up the house. Lucy insisted that they pack Kendra’s things first. They would get her settled and then Lucy would follow. They splurged and bought a new couch, a dining table and some fancy lamps Kendra couldn’t keep her eyes off. Lucy told Clara after the big shopping trip how the salesman had tried to shoo her down to the bargain basement and how his attitude changed completely when she pointed out her selections.

  The movers arrived on schedule and Clara came by to help.

  Lucy sat in the kitchen, tapping her fingers on the table. “It’s going so fast.”

  “That it is, but it’s great, right?” Clara glanced over at her old friend, who was looking increasingly distressed.

  “I guess so. I’ve been here so long. Seems like my whole life unfolded in this house.”

  “I know, but this is a new beginning for you. Do you really want to be reminded of Kenny every day?”

  “I do, actually. I don’t want to lose these memories.”

  “You won’t, Lucy. How could you? They are a part of you.”

  “Memories fade. I don’t even remember what my mom looked like. Do you? To me the word ‘mom’ means me. When it comes to my own mom, it’s just a word, a sound like a whistle or a bark. No meaning.”

  Clara nodded. “I know. I don’t really remember what my mom looks like either.”

  The movers returned after unloading Kendra’s belongings and delivering the new furniture. The burlier of the two turned to Lucy and asked if the rest of the stuff was to go or if anything was to be left behind.

  Clara replied, “Yes, it all goes.”

  “No,” Lucy said quietly. “None of it goes. I’m staying here.”

  Clara opened her mouth to reply, but one look at her friend and she knew there would be no talking her out of it.

  “This is my home. I will stay here with him.”

  16

  Howie

  Howie stood alone in the deserted cemetery at the foot of his mother’s grave. Relatives he’d only met in childhood had left after the new headstone had been placed. It was five years to the day since his mother had succumbed to a heart attack. Working in her small garden, she breathed her last breath, lying amongst the fresh pea shoots, gazing at the brilliant blue prairie sky. Her friend found her that way, flat on her back, eyes closed. For a moment her friend thought she was taking a nap in the garden. Howie was still locked up. He was not there for her funeral, a truth that brought tears to his eyes today, alone in the small cemetery at Red Pheasant.

  She’d wanted to come to Vancouver and visit him again, but he’d pleaded with her not to. She was getting on and deserved the peace of home and garden.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll get out eventually and get back on my feet and as soon as I can, I’ll come home.”

  “Well, if you think so, son. It will be so good to have you home. We will make a feast and the family can get to know you again.”

  Now he wished he hadn’t talked her out of it. Maybe he would have been with her when she took her journey. Maybe she wouldn’t have been alone.

  He thought he heard relief in her voice, and the fact that she was getting older sat heavy on his mind. She was always such a hard worker, revealing the stories of her days in painstakingly written letters recounting a much slower life. He had looked forward to the time he could head back here and take care of her. He’d dreamed for years of building a house next to hers on their family land on the rez and starting his own horse ranch. Appaloosas. He’d loved them ever since he was first introduced to the agile, curious breed when he was a boy, growing up in California. Sometimes he was lucky and a horse breeder magazine would show up in the prison library and he would lose himself in it, dreaming of days long ago spent high in the mountains with only a horse, a rifle, a knife and a bedroll. A future, no matter how far out of reach, that was as rich as the past was the dream that had kept him alive.

  He knelt and started planting the tiger lily bulbs in front of her headstone, remembering a time, when he was very little, when she would tell him the old stories about Tiger Lily and Weesageechak, and the living stories of her parents and theirs. He knew she would love having a bright-orange spray rising, year after year. The flowers reminded him of her sturdy beauty. He rose and shook the dark earth from his work gloves, picked up his tools, gave his handiwork one last look and headed for his truck.

  An emptiness overtook him as he drove back to his mother’s little house. The shed out back, grey, weather-beaten and distinctly listing, looked as though it might collapse at any moment. The caragana hedge, whose top leaves he remembered being just able to touch as a small boy, now towered over him and obscured the house from sight from the road. In fact, the day of his arrival, he’d had to ask for directions to the house because it had changed so
much from his boyhood memories. The three black poplars that stood guard around the garden had also thrived, their rugged bark like stories written by the elements.

  The screen door creaked as he stepped inside. His lunch dishes dry now on the sideboard, he put them away and eased into his mother’s armchair, an open cardboard box at his feet. He carried on where he’d left off the night before, sifting through a lifetime of mementoes, letters, birthday cards, recipes and news clippings. He smiled at the array of things she’d chosen to keep.

  Inside the box was another, smaller wooden box. Opening it triggered an emotional landslide. Pictures of that summer adventure at Auntie Mae’s before the priest brought the cop to take him away. Howie, newly six years old, standing in the wildly decorated living room holding his birthday cake, candles bright, his mother behind him, smiling like there was no tomorrow. Next to the photos was a tiny red car. It disappeared in his hand now, and he smiled remembering how it had not been so tiny in his child-sized hands.

  Underneath these memories was a thick file folder. He opened it to see carbon copies of letter after letter penned in his mother’s painstaking hand. Letters to the Indian agent, the RCMP detachment at Orca Bay, the Mission School itself, pleading her case, explaining that her son was to go to school at Red Pheasant, even begging them to let him come home. For all her letters, there was not one official letter in reply. Howie thought he might cry looking at her careful printing, her respectful requests for her boy to be returned to her. He carefully replaced the letters in the box and put it away, keeping two pictures, one of him and his mother with that glorious birthday cake and the other of her alone, standing beneath one of the giant cedars around Auntie Mae’s home, whose swaying branches had haunted him on those long-ago nights. He placed the tiny red car on the window ledge next to the photos.

  It seemed not so long ago that he had stood over the grave of his friend Kenny, not a week after reconnecting with him for the first time since the two had fought for survival together at Indian School. A rage he’d been able to contain for a long time was set free that day, and it would not let go of him. Conversations with Clara helped. She had helped him keep focused on the future, but when Kenny died, the past was like tinder to the rage he had kept bottled up during all those years of confinement. It was that rage that pushed him to make an appointment with the lawyers who had given the presentation that night at the Friendship Centre.