by Dawn Dumont
Nathan walked past with a piece of wedding cake wrapped in blue tinfoil. He waved it in my face. “See this? Girls are supposed to put it under their pillow and then you’ll dream of the man you’ll marry.”
“Why do you have it — you want a husband?”
Nathan showed his dimples. “Why not?”
I bought a beer. I sipped it because I never could drink beer fast. I had to work hard to get the beer down and by the time I’d finished it everyone else would be on his or her second. I’d try to force down another but my stomach would rebel against me.
Around midnight, a fight broke out between Elliot, the family troublemaker, and, well, everyone. Elliot had a troubled youth and a few years back a well-meaning uncle had thought it a good idea to give him boxing lessons. Now Elliot was well equipped to annoy everyone. He fought Nathan, then he fought the guys that held his arms back, then he fought the guys who held back the guys trying to fight him. He bounced off a bystander — who happened to be the bride’s father — and took a swing at him. Then he fought Nathan again until finally he was surrounded on all sides. The men surged forward in a large group and dragged him to the nearest cop station, which happened to be across the street.
The white people left after that.
The wedding reception continued unabated until the hall closed. We lingered a few minutes in the foyer wondering what to do next before someone yelled, “Party on Big Eddy!”
I pulled up to the party address with Celeste and Nathan. A long line of people snaked up the stairs to the house, others stood around a bonfire behind the house. I went inside and went out again, too shy to make myself at home. I was surprised to see my mom in the living room surrounded by people, both young and old, as she sat on another woman’s knee and laughed raucously.
Eventually Mom and her caretakers left but not before she assigned me an important task. “Look after your sister,” Mom slurred as she fell into the car. “She’s the only sister you’ve got.”
Since I had two other sisters, I didn’t take her words very seriously. Besides how could I be babysitting my sister, when I was looking for him?! “He” was the elusive cute guy who would kiss me and fall passionately in love with me. Then, everyone would be coming to my wedding! First, I had to find him.
I found him, or at least a reasonable facsimile, near the bonfire. He stood across from me, bathed in the warm light of the fire. Nathan called him Garfield. Garfield — it was a name befitting an angel. In my head I heard the Priest announcing, “I now pronounce Dawn and Garfield . . . ”
Garfield’s eyes flirted with me and with my sister. I pretended not to see him; I pretended not to care. He stared at me across the fire. I smiled and sipped my beer. I spilt my beer down the front of my shirt. I laughed it off coolly. “Uh oh, alcohol abuse.”
He laughed, more at my stupidity than the joke. That was okay. Guys didn’t mind if you were stupid; I knew at least that much about the opposite sex.
Garfield was older than me, a hockey player. He talked earnestly to Nathan about the team they were putting together. Nathan was having trouble concentrating because he had taken a handful of mushrooms earlier.
“I’m not playing hockey this season. My knee has a pin in it. A huge pin.” Nathan held his arms about a metre apart.
Garfield laughed.
Celeste wandered over, hand in hand with a dude.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
Celeste smiled, “This is my boyfriend, Chris.”
“Albert,” the boy said. Then he and Celeste began making out by the fire; the slurping noises made it impossible to ignore them.
I checked in with Garfield; this didn’t seem to be throwing him off. Across the bonfire my eyes met his. He smiled. I half-smiled. What now? Was he supposed to walk over here and take my hand? Or was I supposed to say something witty and smart-assed, perhaps make fun of The Pas and its various idiosyncrasies such as the way that parents attended the same parties as their kids?
No wait, smart-assed had never ever worked for me. So I stayed silent.
“What’s wrong with you, Puddinghead? Why you so quiet?” Nathan turned to Garfield. “You should hear this girl, she’s got a real mouth on her. Say something mean! Go on.”
“Oh Nathan,” I laughed gently, and smacked him on the arm. Nathan reacted like I had beaten him with a coat wire. He reared backwards and fell into the grass.
“She hit me!” he cried.
Celeste stopped kissing Albert-Chris and looked down at Nathan and then at me. “Why are you so mean?” she demanded.
“I didn’t do anything!” I looked at the faces around the fire; everyone was staring back at me suspiciously.
Celeste knelt on the ground and petted Nathan’s head. “There, there. She won’t touch you anymore.”
Nathan nodded. “I was so scared. She was hitting me and hitting me.”
A group of pretty girls walked past us, up the hill to the party. Garfield’s eyes followed the pretty girls.
“So how do you like The Pas?” I asked loudly.
“What?”
“The Pas? You like it?” Someone turned up the AC/DC and it surged through the party. The raspy drawl of Brian Johnson fought the mosquitoes for sovereignty of the air.
“What?” Garfield asked, again.
“DO YOU LIKE THE PAS?”
“Sure. I’m gonna go get another beer.” Garfield slipped away.
I looked down at Celeste, Albert-Chris and Nathan. Nathan had recovered from his “beating” and was now studying the stars. “I never noticed this before, but the big dipper looks sad,” Nathan observed.
The other two agreed.
I sat on the hood of the car and pondered my beer: how was it that I was still in the same position? Wandering around at a family wedding looking for a cute guy? Evolution took millions of years. I wanted to jump ahead to a moment when I could stop thinking and relax and have things come to me. I looked up at a bright star and made a wish on it, “Dear North Star, or Venus, or Chinese spy-satellite, please hear my wish that I get a boyfriend someday.” The star blinked twice.
I stared down at my beer. If only I could drink then my hormones could punch out my brain and I could have as much fun as everyone else. As if to mock my desire, Celeste began gagging.
“Oh crap, she’s gonna blow.” Nathan rolled away from her.
Celeste puked all over the grass and in her own hair. Dutifully I went to help her up.
“Why did you make me throw up? Why are you so mean to me?” she sobbed.
“That’s it, I’m taking you home,” I replied, grabbing her by the elbow, which was mercifully vomit-free.
“Take me home now!” Celeste commanded.
On the car ride home, Nathan played with the car stereo, convinced that he could find a station that only played Creedence Clearwater songs. In the backseat Celeste held her head and groaned. Albert-Chris sat next to her staring out the window trying to remember where he lived.
I dropped Nathan at his front door as the sun came up. “See you at the next wedding,” I called to him.
Nathan laughed, “It’ll probably be mine.”
“Or mine,” I said.
“Or mine,” said Albert-Chris.
As I helped Celeste into the house, Tabitha walked from the kitchen with a coffee cup in her hand, a sly smile on her face. “How drunk is she?”
Celeste’s head popped up. “I’m so drunk.”
“And sick, don’t forget that,” I added.
Tabitha smiled and helped Celeste take off her jacket. “I met a guy,” Celeste said. “He’s beautiful. His name is Gary.”
Tabitha looked at me. I shrugged.
We helped Celeste into bed. “My wedding cake!” Celeste said. “I need to put it under my pillow.”
Tabitha reached into Celeste’s pocket and pulled out a handful of wrapped pieces. She held them up to Celeste. “How many husbands are you planning on having? Seven?”
Tabitha looked over at me. “D
id you meet anyone?”
I shook my head.
Tabitha handed me a piece of wedding cake. “For your dreams.” My stomach grumbled.
“I don’t think it’s gonna make it to the pillow,” I said, unwrapping it and taking a bite.
“Well, don’t worry about it,” Tabitha said pulling her expensive duvet away from Celeste’s open mouth. “There’s no rush,” she added with the clarity of someone who has worn a gold ring for ten years.
Mom’s Wedding
I glanced at the wall and saw that it was almost our bedtime. I was in no hurry so I asked Mom another question. “How did you know that Dad was the one?”
“The one what?”
“The love of your life,” I said sighing with the heavy effort of a lifelong coalminer. I hated the way she always made us spell things out for her.
Mom scoffed. Then she took a drag of her smoke. Then she scoffed again. “Why would it be him? I think my true love is Robert Redford. Or Paul Newman. Or Brad Pitt. Would you like Brad Pitt to be your stepfather?”
“First of all, gross,” I said.
“How is Brad and me gross?” Mom asked.
“You’re our mom, you can’t have . . . ” Celeste’s voice dropped to a whisper, “ . . . sex with Brad Pitt.”
“I would make him the happiest man alive; you don’t know your old mom.”
“Again, gross. Seriously though, how did you know that Dad was the one you were supposed to marry?” I asked.
“Your dad told me something once . . . ” Mom dropped into her story telling voice. Celeste and I leaned back in our chairs in preparation for a long Mom-tale.
Mom exhaled her smoke. “When I was about thirteen I went over to your dad’s house with my friend Chris Starr. Chris and your dad had the same grandfather. Your great grandfather had three wives. That was the custom back then. ”
“Cool,” Celeste said.
“Not in my family,” Mom was quick to add. “In traditional Indian families like your dad’s.”
I knew all about the polygamy thing because Mom had explained this after an ill-fated family tree assignment for Health Class. My teacher had asked us to go home and enquire about our ancestors.
The morning the family tree was due, I had sat across from Dad at the table and questioned him about his forebears. He told me the name of his mom and his grandfather and then stopped talking. I shot a questioning look at Mom who surreptitiously shook her head as she blew on her coffee. Later she took me aside and explained that Dad didn’t like talking about his family.
“Why?” I asked.
“It makes him sad,” Mom replied.
“Then what am I supposed to tell my teacher? ‘Family makes my dad weepy?’”
I did my best with the tree. After an hour interviewing Mom, her side of the tree was filled out in detail. Each of her Métis relatives was noted and smugly occupying their lines. In contrast Dad’s side of the tree was barren and thin like a strong storm had stolen all the branches. (If I had put in all the wives, their predecessors and children, Dad’s side would have dragged the tree to the ground. There was no room on the paper for multiple wives.)
The multiple wives thing would have probably impressed my teacher. I imagined standing in front of the class and explaining that Native custom to my classmates and loving their shocked silence. But Mom didn’t know the names of those other women and she most definitely did not know the names of their parents as well.
There was no way I was going to turn in a blank family tree and risk getting a low grade. So, I compromised. When Monday rolled around I ended up scribbling fake names into the blanks. This is how I became a direct descendent of Pocahontas, Big Bear and Charlie Chaplin.
Mom continued her story, “And we went over to Dad’s house because Chris wanted to see his grandpa about something. Chris wasn’t my boyfriend, just a friend. Nobody could ever understand that. How I could be friends with men? Especially since my friends were always sleeping around and—”
“Yes, and you went to visit Dad’s family. What happened there?” I asked. Sometimes we had to steer her back in the right direction.
“We got there and your dad’s Auntie Emma was there. She was an old woman by then and blind. She used to lie on a bed in the living room. The whole time Chris and I were there she never said a word. I think she only spoke Cree anyway. Later that night, your dad got home and his Auntie Emma says to him, ‘Your wife was here today.’ And your dad says, ‘I don’t have a wife Auntie.’ Cuz he was only fifteen at the time, y’know? Emma said it again. ‘Your wife was here. Y’know that Dumont girl.’”
“How did she know Dad was gonna marry you?” Celeste asked.
“She just knew. She could see things.” Mom waved her hands in the air to symbolize the kinds of things Emma could see.
“So it was kind of like fate then?” I asked.
Mom shrugged.
“Well, that’s romantic,” Celeste said.
“I guess.” Mom let the smoke ease out of her mouth.
“I wish Auntie Emma was still alive,” I said.
“Yah, so we could meet her!” interrupted Celeste.
“No, so she could tell me who I’m gonna marry,” I said, and then remembering that relatives did not exist to satisfy my every whim, I added, “and uh . . . also the meeting her thing.” Trust Celeste to make me look like an asshole every time.
“It’s best to find things out as you go. That way you’re always surprised,” Mom said as she closed the wedding album.
“You should have a second wedding someday,” Celeste said.
“One wedding was enough, thank you very much,” Mom replied. Then she stepped on her tiptoes to tuck the wedding album back into its cupboard above the fridge.
MISS GRAMIAK
AFTER A TUMULTUOUS GRADE ONE IN WHICH I switched schools three times, our parents — meaning Mom — decided that for the rest of our school careers, we would stay in one place, Balcarres. It was hard at first because the teachers were not aware of my brown-nosing powers. Over time, my earnest smile, arrow quick arm, and need to do extra homework proved that I was a teacher-pleaser. By grade four, I had established myself as one of Balcarres first Native teacher’s pets; it was quite an achievement.
On the first day of school, all the elementary school students were ushered into the hallway for an assembly. There was excitement in the air as the students whispered about the unfamiliar adults faces they had seen. It could mean only one thing: new teachers! They were as rare as rainstorms. Years had gone by without seeing a new face and then bam! Suddenly two new teachers appeared out of nowhere.
The new teachers were Miss Noble and Miss Gramiak. All the students declared them both beautiful, which was no stretch. They were both young and blonde; Miss Noble came to this colour via genetics and the latter found it through other means.
While I acknowledged that they were prettier than the rest of the elementary teachers who tended to be around the 100 year mark, I also thought they had big bums. At the time I was obsessed with the size of teachers’ rear ends. It made sense: what else was there to look at when the teacher was at the board? My eyes were always drawn to their bottoms, snug in their tailored slacks or skirts. Compared to my butt, theirs seemed enormous. Which was hardly fair considering that that I was only nine-years-old and Native to boot.
“I never want a bum like that,” I whispered to Trina who nodded in agreement.
“You’re dumb,” said Tyler Clark who overheard everything.
Trina and I ignored him. That was the best way to handle Tyler, a skinny kid with a huge voice. That voice! He was even louder than my mom and she spoke at twice the volume of a normal human being; if you had the misfortune of speaking to her on the phone, your ears would ring for weeks.
A big mouth is sometimes confused with charisma. This was true in Tyler’s case. He used that preternaturally loud voice to control his followers. He wasn’t witty but everyone heard whatever he said. One by one all the boys in c
lass fell under the spell of his loud mouth. He was a natural leader; he knew that the only way to stay in control was to keep your men busy. Tyler decided that bullying quiet, shy boys was the best use of his and his acolytes’ energies.
In grade one, I watched him psychologically destroy Mike Johnson, Craig Martin and Eric Lahaney. Every guy wanted to be his friend if only to stand behind him and laugh as he convinced his soldiers to shove other kids’ faces in the mud.
Both of the new teachers gave short speeches about how they were happy to be in our community. Miss Noble smiled throughout her speech and when a child raised her hand and asked if she was a princess, Miss Noble giggled. Miss Gramiak smiled less and tapped her fingers against her leg. I recognized the movement; my mom did the same thing when her desire to smoke came up was in conflict with her setting. In church, Mom’s hand became a blur.
Both of the women had moved from the big city of Regina to join our small town yet I don’t think they were friends. I couldn’t put my finger on what made them different, exactly. They both wore pastels and had their long hair pulled back neatly but with Miss Noble you had a sense of softness and with Miss Gramiak, thumbtacks.
Both women said they were excited about the prospect of teaching in a small town. I figured they were either crazy or lying. Why would anyone leave the city to move to the country? I knew that characters in movies thought the country had “charm.” By the end of the movie, after being chased through a forest by a guy wearing a goalie mask, they would realize that the country was far more terrifying than any city ever could be.
Miss Noble said that she would focus on singing in her class. “Singing is fun and it makes other people happy.” She beamed at the grade threes in front of her. They beamed back at her. My sister Celeste was going to be in her class.
Then it was Miss Gramiak’s turn to speak. Her voice gave away her long and friendly relationship with nicotine. Her eyes were dark and deep-set. In an effort to make them visible, she had given them a generous coating of blue mascara. It looked like blue spiders were perched on top of her lids staring down at the students in front of her. She’d be teaching the grade three and four split and she said that she’d be concentrating on reading. “I want my class to have strong reading skills because I’m entering us in a year-long reading competition with schools all over the province.”