‘What do you think happened to that creep Pluto?’ I asked.
‘Maybe the Windigo got him,’ said the Rat.
‘You got him more likely.’
‘Ah beep him. He hit my dad. Goddamn paedophile!’
‘Just because he hit Dad that doesn’t make him a paedophile.’
‘Yeah, well, he looks like one.’
‘You can’t tell what they look like.’
The Rat gave me her scary kid look. ‘Sure I can, Bob. They can’t hide from me.’
I never said anything then. She was starting to freak me out.
‘And even if that creep Pluto wasn’t a goddamn paedophile he hit my dad. And so that puts him down there with them.’
The Rat could be stubborn at times and she could be really irritating, but she was right. Anybody who hit our dad was a goddamn paedophile. And that’s all there was to it.
Chapter Two
The next morning I awoke to the one and only Frank Sinatra singing ‘Mack the Knife’, accompanied by my dad of course. Dad’s a big Sinatra fan and that’s how he got us up in the morning. There was no shouting up the stairs or banging on doors. There was only Frank singing as loud as the system would let him. And no matter how much Dad drank the night before, no matter how late he went to bed, he always got up on schooldays to cook us breakfast. He must have been really soused last night because today was Saturday.
The Rat rolled her eyes on her way to the bathroom and I trotted downstairs to tell the Old Man he could go back to bed.
‘Dad, it’s Saturday,’ I shouted.
‘And a beautiful Saturday it is too,’ he shouted back.
I was annoyed over being woken so early, and for no reason! But the smell of Dad’s blueberry pancakes wafted around the kitchen and since I was out of bed anyway I took a seat and waited to be served. Dad came towards me doing this shifty little dance as if to imitate old Mack the Knife himself. You could never stay mad with the Old Man, he was too nice, but I could see where the Rat got her craziness from. Then she came in and sat herself down at the table. ‘It’s Saturday, Dad.’
‘I know it’s Saturday,’ said Dad slapping a wad of cash on the table. ‘I want you kids to go to town and treat yourselves.’
It was the surplus from the Old Man’s welfare cheque. You see, Dad used to be a farmer and quite often the government would subsidize him not to grow certain things. Now they gave him a welfare cheque, which was like subsidizing him not to grow anything at all, which he didn’t, not unless you count the secret garden. It was just a few acres where he grew fruit and vegetables. He sold them around town or at the side of the road, did pretty good at it too. And so he didn’t really need the welfare money. But rather than going to all the trouble of giving it back to the government, who probably didn’t need it either, he gave it to us kids. I have to say that me and the Rat lived pretty well on welfare.
‘Try buying some clothes this time,’ said the Old Man sliding the pancakes on to the table. ‘I don’t want people calling my kids white-trash.’
The Rat mouthed the word cellphone; she’d been after one for some time.
‘We’ll never be white-trash,’ said the Rat dividing the money. ‘We don’t curse or swear and we’re far too sophisticated.’
‘Of course. What was I thinking?’ said Dad. ‘Well, you kids eat up and head to town.’
He never had to tell us twice. We swallowed breakfast, showered, and we were outside on our BMXs before the sun had a chance to turn yellow.
The Old Man came out to see us off. ‘Look after your sister, Bob.’
‘I will,’ I said riding away.
‘Try and be back for lunch. And watch out for the paedophiles.’
‘If I find any, I’ll let you know,’ shouted the Rat over her shoulder.
The Old Man was always telling us to watch out for paedophiles. But I don’t think there were any in Winnipeg, not as far as I know. But the Rat was always on the lookout for them. She’s a little strange, like I say.
We rode off our land and on to the dirt road that ran to the train tracks. Far in the distance a four-by-four cut a trail of dust across the horizon, and way beyond that we could see the trees that grew along the riverbank. We passed various fields, brown with wheat or yellow with sunflowers, and then we bumped over the train tracks, which marked the halfway point between our farm and the river. From then on the road turned to tarmac and we covered the same distance in half the time.
The sun was golden when we reached the trees. Its rays were warm and mild for now but later it would dry the ground to a crisp. Believe me, Winnipeg’s as hot as the Sahara in the summertime.
Dismounting our bikes, we made our way down the slope to the river and our beloved Marlin. It was a long lightweight canoe with a square back and an outboard motor, and it went like the wind. But we never used the motor on the weekend; we paddled downriver to save fuel. I positioned the bikes in the boat, the Rat cast off, and we pushed ourselves away from the bank.
I like the morning time; it’s special, but it’s made more special by the river. The Assiniboine River was our Amazon. It even looked like it in parts with tall trees blocking out the sun and bright beams of light blasting through for the butterflies to play in. The silence was broken every now and again by the shrieking of an almost exotic bird or the swish of a catfish’s tail. Apart from that there was only the rippling of the oars.
Not wanting to disturb the tranquillity I paddled smoothly. But then the Rat sang ‘La Vie en Rose’ as loud as she could, in French, her voice echoing around the river. All of a sudden the butterflies left, the birds flew away, and the catfish sank to the riverbed. I turned to see her small face straining with the notes, but I said nothing. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Every time we paddled downriver she sang that same damn song, and what got me was that the Rat knew the words to every song ever written. She was only doing it to wind me up. And she was worse when she was with the Old Man. They both fancied themselves as a couple of crooners and doubled up every chance they got. The Rat, the Old Man, and Frank Sinatra, it was as much as a twelve-year-old boy could take.
She didn’t stop singing until we reached the Forks. The Forks is the place where the Assiniboine and Red Rivers meet. If the Assiniboine was our Amazon, the Red River was our Mississippi. Later it would bustle with paddle-steamers, water-taxis, and tourists strolling along the riverbanks. But for now it was quiet except for the few families having breakfast in the riverside restaurants.
‘I want a mocha,’ said the Rat. ‘Keep paddling.’
What that meant was she wanted to hang around the French Quarter. I didn’t mind because it was still early, but even if I did mind I’d have no choice. Whether it was that thing with Felicia I don’t know but the Old Man never liked me to let her out of my sight. She was ten and tough and could look after herself but he worried, so what could I do?
She guided the Marlin to the opposite bank and we docked at the jetty below the St Boniface Cathedral. I jumped out and tied the Marlin fast. ‘Lock the bikes to the boat,’ I told her. You can’t be too careful. There’s a lot of petty crime on the mean streets of Winnipeg.
We ran up the stairs to street level and looked across the river towards the downtown skyscrapers, not a single cloud above them. In the centre stood the Fort Garry Hotel, quite famous in these parts, and just upriver stood the Esplanade Riel, a splendid name for a very splendid bridge. It mightn’t have been the biggest bridge in the world, but it’s white and pretty and it gleams in the sunshine. And we’re very proud of it here in Winnipeg. I met some people from Saskatoon who said it looked tacky. I’m not going to be childish and say something bad about Saskatoon. There’s no need. And if you ever go there you’ll see why.
Entering the green graveyard, we made our way towards the St Boniface Cathedral and the gaping circular hole that hovers in its centre. The cathedral burnt down long before I was born but nothing could destroy the stone walls. The hole is from where the stained glas
s used to be, of course, and above the hole sits a bishop. He looks like a piece missing from a chessboard. Me and the Rat like to position ourselves until all we can see through the hole is sky. It’s just something we do. The Rat said it could be a portal to another world. She’s crazy, but I’ve always thought of the cathedral as being a magical place.
I carried on to the cathedral steps but the Rat stayed where she was. She was one of those kids who always lingered behind and I’d always have to tell her to catch up. When I turned around she was staring at the gravestones like a scary kid. ‘Come on,’ I said.
She ran towards me. ‘Guess what I’ve just seen?’
‘I don’t want to know!’ And I didn’t want to know. Last Halloween she told me she could see the ghosts of the Grey Nuns of Montreal hovering around the graveyard. I bet she only said it to freak me out. But it worked, and so I never let her tell me anything else.
We made our way into the roofless interior of the cathedral and out back. Then we passed the St Boniface University, where me and the Rat might go when we’re older. It’s a sophisticated university with a huge silver dome you can see for miles. I really like it. And I really want to go there. The only thing I don’t like is the statue of Louis Riel.
Louis Riel is buried in the St Boniface graveyard and he’s a real Winnipeg hero. You see, he stood up for the Métis, who were the French-speaking descendants of European men and Native women. When the government tried to install English-speaking settlers on their land, old Louis Riel wasn’t having any of it, and he led the Métis in rebellion. To cut a long story short they captured, tried, and executed him. But old Louis Riel would be up and out of his grave to start another uprising if he could see this statue of himself. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the ugliest, scariest statue you’ll ever see in your life! It’s even concealed in a concrete partition so it doesn’t frighten the kids on their way to school. And to give you an idea of how deranged my little rodent sister is, she thinks it’s cute.
You know you’re in the French Quarter when ‘streets’ turn to ‘rues’ and this is where the Rat likes to hang out. We head to the stores and cafés that line Provencher Avenue, and all the proprietors greet the Rat like she’s a relation. She buys a magazine from La Page bookshop, so she can catch up on celebrity life, and she buys candy from Chocolate Affair. Then we sit outside Le Garage Café where she dons dark sunglasses and orders a mocha. The Rat likes mocha. Then she sits, cross-legged, in the sunshine and watches the people go by like a Parisian on the Champs-Elysées. And of course the Rat will only drink mocha in the French Quarter because she thinks it’s more sophisticated. You see at heart the Rat is a little French snob, even though she’s eating candy out of her pocket because she’s too cheap to buy a cake from the café. I say nothing because she’s bought me a hot chocolate and she’s passing me some of the candy. And doesn’t everyone who wanders by stop to talk to her and isn’t she on her high horse speaking French. You see I speak a little French but the Rat speaks French like a Frenchman. And here’s old mademoiselle what’s-her-name who can speak English but never speaks it to me.
‘Bonjour, Marie Claire, comment vas-tu?’
‘Bien, merci,’ said the Rat.
‘Et comment va ton frère?’
‘Il boude parce qu’il ne peut pas parler français.’
And when there are no passers-by she flicks carelessly through her magazine and there’s no way she can see anything through those blacked-out sunglasses that make her look like a fly. But I say nothing. Eventually she finishes showing off and we make our way to the Forks.
It’s a nice place to escape from the bustle of busy Winnipeg. There’s an amphitheatre and a podium. And there’s always some sort of entertainment around there: a comedian or a clown, or someone collapses in the heat.
Me and the Rat make our way towards the Forks Market. It sells a lot of cool stuff, most of which we don’t need but always seem to buy. And as we did so a large Native man comes towards us.
‘Aniish na Wazhashnoons?’ he asks.
‘Giiuk Miigwech,’ said the Rat.
The Native laughed and patted her on the head.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked.
‘That’s Mike. He works on the Hawks Head Reservation.’
That was another thing I could never understand. I never let her out of my sight but the Rat knew everybody and everybody knew the Rat. She knew all the vendors who worked in the Forks Market and the boatmen along the river. She knew the immigrants who hung around Tim Horton’s and she knew all the guys who wiped windscreens on Portage Avenue. She knew strange people like Mad Mike the biker, who was the head of one of the biggest bike gangs in Manitoba. He called her his little Indigo and he was always polite to her, which was strange because Mad Mike wasn’t polite to anyone, not even the other members of his gang. And you’d think she was an informer the way the Winnipeg cops pulled up and talked to her. Sometimes their conversations became really intense. Maybe she was a Rat: ratting people out all over the city.
The only person the Rat didn’t get along with was Running Elk, who was walking towards us with my best friend in the world, Little Joe. They called him Little Joe because that was his name, but there was nothing little about him. For a twelve-year-old kid, Joe was built like a sumo wrestler, looked like one too. And his sister Running Elk was no small size. She was a year older and a good deal heavier and she went to Native school. I don’t know what they taught her there but she was always on the warpath about something.
‘Hey, Bob,’ shouted Joe.
‘Hey, Little Joe, Running Elk.’
‘Hey, Marie Claire,’ said Joe.
The Rat and the Elk just looked at one another.
‘Good news, brother,’ said Joe. ‘We’re going to meet up with the other guys at the zoo. My grand-father’s waiting to give us a ride.’
‘Great,’ I said.
The Rat folded her arms. ‘I don’t want to see animals in cages.’
‘I knew she’d cause trouble!’ said Running Elk. ‘Daddy’s little Rat always has to have her own way!’
The Rat clenched her fists. ‘Listen, Running Buffalo!’
‘OK! OK!’ Joe stepped in between them. ‘Let’s try and behave in a mature manner. Running Elk, why don’t you go and wait by the river?’
‘Or preferably in it,’ said the Rat.
‘I’ll squash you, you little rodent!’
‘Enough!’ said Little Joe.
Running Elk walked off towards the river and the Rat walked off towards the park.
‘The Rat and the Elk,’ said Little Joe. ‘It’ll become a Native legend, you see if it doesn’t.’
‘I thought you were First Nations people?’
‘First Nations, Natives, Indians. Who cares.’ He touched my shoulder. ‘It’s not happening, brother. But you’ll see. We’ll have a great summer, last day of school Monday.’
‘OK, Joe, I’ll see you at school.’
We did our funny handshake and I watched him walk away. I was angry then and I went to find the Rat to give her grief. ‘You better watch what you say to Running Elk. She’d eat you for breakfast.’
The Rat kicked at the ground in front of her. ‘Ah beep her. She thinks her poo don’t pong.’
‘Well I wanted to be with Joe and the other guys. Now I’m stuck with you all morning.’
‘If you’d sooner be with them you can go. I’m only your sister.’
She got me with that one. I felt kind of bad then. ‘Well, what do you wanna do?’
‘Well, we can buy the cellphones and then we can do some stunts on our bikes. If you want to hang out with me, that is.’
The Rat liked doing stunts. She had the reputation as the best stunt girl in Winnipeg. She was a real tomboy, but she was nowhere near as good as me. ‘Come on then,’ I said. And having gotten her own way she returned to her ratty self.
First we went to the Bay, which is one of Canada’s most popular stores, and there we bought the cellphones. Th
e salesmen wouldn’t give us any free call-time and so the Rat kept going on about how much they cost, and how we were just kids, and how she wasn’t sure if we could really afford them. In the end he gave us fifty text messages each so she’d go away. The Rat’s irritating attitude could pay off at times.
We sent text messages to our friends, so they would have our new numbers, and then we headed to the State Legislative Building. It looks like any other big-domed building, found in most big cities, but it has lots of stone and stairs and we did some great stunts around there. It’s always more fun doing stunts where you’re not supposed to. We skidded on the smooth floor until the security guard chased us, and then we cycled around the flowerbed until we were dizzy, and he chased us again. But we came back and encircled it some more because he wasn’t nice, and then we rode on to Broadway.
Broadway is one of Winnipeg’s best streets and all along it are life-size statues of polar bears. There was a bear with wings like an angel, a bear on a motorbike, and a bear reading a book. There was a bear painted with the Northern Lights and another showing the prairies in full bloom. They’re called Bears on Broadway and they’re really cool. Winnipeg is always doing arty things like this. But the Rat started placing her pointy ears against the bears, as though listening to their hearts. ‘I have to find out if they have a happy spirit.’ Turns out they all did because they were raising money for cancer, but of course the Rat had to check them all.
When we got home the Rat ran upstairs and I went in the kitchen to see the Old Man. He looked really sad. He got that way sometimes. ‘You OK, Dad?’
He looked up at me and tried to smile. ‘Hey, Bob, you hungry?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure, son, I was just thinking about things. Go tell your sister lunch is ready.’
I never knew what caused his sadness and he never talked about it. All I knew was that something pained him and he drank to drown the pain. I shouted to the Rat that lunch was ready. If the Rat had only one usefulness it was that she put a smile on Dad’s face, and in that she never failed.
Unhooking the Moon Page 2