Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  The torrent blotted out the opposite shore. It pummeled the roof of the houseboat, sending water gushing from the gutters. The building hummed with the noise. I hoped that by the time I had to leave the rain would’ve been reduced to a sprinkle.

  I really wanted to wear my new rust-coloured wool slacks, two sizes smaller I might add than I used to wear, and the brown leather loafers bought to go with them. But let’s face it, it was a stupid idea. They’d get soaked. My other options were jeans or an old pair of baggy wool slacks dating from when my figure was fuller, options I wasn’t keen on. Besides, I wanted to look svelte for Eric.

  Before we married I paid little attention to my clothes, since the bulk of my time was spent tramping through the woods. And Eric never indicated that my clothes mattered to him. But after watching his soft grey eyes light up when I first wore these new slacks and the matching forest green silk blouse, I knew he cared. He’d even bought me a silk scarf of greens and browns with a hint of turquoise to compliment the outfit. To hell with the rain, I’d wear them. But I’d keep the shoes and matching purse dry inside a plastic bag until I reached the restaurant.

  I zipped up my rain jacket, careful to place the hood so that it didn’t destroy my hair. But with frizzy hair, there wasn’t much damage that could be done anyway. My first husband had insisted I have it straightened, but I’d never felt that it was me. After we went our separate ways, I let my hair return to its natural curly ways. Nowadays I kept it reasonably short. My only attempt at a beauty aid was touching up the fading red and hiding the emerging grey with Flame by Clairol. But even this might stop, for Eric preferred the natural look. And to tell the truth, so did I.

  The dispatcher said the cab would take fifteen minutes. Even though I couldn’t keep an eye out for its arrival from the houseboat, I decided to wait inside until close to the estimated time and then race to the pickup spot. But after ten minutes I started to worry I would miss it, so I grabbed a large golf umbrella from the closet and headed out into the deluge.

  Instead of abating, the rain’s intensity had increased. I splashed up the ramp, but the taxi hadn’t yet arrived. Not willing to wait, I headed down the lane to the main road hoping to meet it. No such luck. And without a cellphone, I couldn’t call. This was one of the rare occasions when I wished I had one. But with no reception at Three Deer Point, it had never made any sense to have one.

  I gave up on the taxi and headed to the nearby Granville Island Hotel, hoping to find one parked out front. The cabstand was empty, but a five-dollar tip had the doorman calling one for me. I waited by the entrance under the protection of the glass portico. My trail shoes were decidedly wet, so was the bottom of my slacks. But the rest of me was dry.

  A cab drove up and emptied itself of two passengers. I started to walk toward it when a man brushed past me and jumped inside, shouting for the driver to get him to the airport fast. The doorman merely shrugged and indicated the next one was mine. So much for my five-dollar tip. I moved to the front of the portico, careful to keep out of reach of the slanting rain.

  By now I was a good ten minutes late. I debated running inside and using a payphone to let Eric know, but feared I would miss the next cab. The hotel doors slid open behind me and two men emerged. They were arguing, judging by their raised voices. Though I couldn’t make out the words above the rain pounding on the portico roof, I thought one of the voices sounded familiar. Before I had a chance to turn around to check, another cab arrived. I was already climbing inside by the time the last passenger was stepping out.

  As the cab sped away, I peered through the rear window and recognized the slicked-back hair and paunch of the master carver, Ernest Paul, the man who just this morning was accused of murder. Since he was walking free, I could only assume the police hadn’t reached the same conclusion as the dead boy’s mother. As for his companion, I noticed, before the hotel retreated from view, that in sharp contrast to the carver’s casual, slightly sloppy appearance, the man with the short-cropped black hair and stocky build was dressed in perfectly pressed grey slacks and a blazer.

  As we zipped past, I saw that the police tape no longer blocked access to the carver’s studio. If Ernest Paul was so keen on getting on with his carving, as he’d loudly insisted this morning, why wasn’t he there? Or had he used it as a ploy to hassle the police? Maybe Allistair’s mother was right. Maybe he was involved.

  After a nail-biting snail-crawl through downtown rush hour to the rain-swept streets of Gastown, I arrived at the Salish Feasthouse a good thirty minutes late. I splashed through puddles and into the restaurant where I hastily switched into my dry loafers and stowed my wet gear in the cloakroom. After carefully draping the silk scarf around my neck and smoothing down my hair, I followed the maître d’ into the dining area. Fully expecting to find Eric casting anxious looks in my direction, I sighed with relief when I found the table empty. I sat down to catch my breath.

  I found myself enjoying the warmth and coziness of a longhouse. Rich cedar paneling covered the walls and the peaked ceiling, while massive cedar beams extended from one end of the room to the other. The walls were alive with eagles, killer whales, and other West Coast native renderings in the form of woodcarvings and colourful prints. Most of the long wooden tables were overflowing with diners and food, which, given the enticing aromas, promised to be delicious.

  I had just ordered a pot of hemlock tea, one of the house specialties, when I heard the sound of stamping feet and clattering umbrellas amid boisterous laughter at the front door. My heart jumped when I recognized Eric’s grey-streaked mane of black hair among the group of men and women.

  He waved and started toward me with the confident stride I knew so well, of a man wholly content with his life. Of medium height with a husky build, his easy self-assurance invariably made him stand out in a crowd. I watched eyes turn in his direction as he strode, beaming, dimples erupting, toward me. My heart fluttered as it usually did, making me feel like a lovesick teenager, which was ridiculous. After all, we’d been married a good eight months and were supposed to be set in our old married ways.

  We embraced as if we’d been away from each other for considerably longer than half a day. His colleagues’ laughter and joking banter soon had us breaking apart. As everyone spread around the wooden benches on either side of the table, Eric introduced me. Although I had previously met a couple of the men, including Dan Blackbird, the Grand Chief, the rest I was meeting for the first time. I have a terrible habit of forgetting names, so the only name that registered was Louise O’Brien, only because it had been mentioned yesterday.

  While Eric remained standing talking to Dan, the elderly woman carefully inched her way along the bench to sit beside me. “These old bones sure can’t take a hard seat like they used to.” Her dark eyes twinkled with life. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. I’ve heard so many good things about you from your husband.”

  I squirmed with embarrassment and changed the topic. “We enjoyed meeting your niece Becky at the museum yesterday.”

  “A lovely girl, isn’t she? We’re all very proud of her.” Her red and black appliqué jacket barely stretched across her ample bosom and stomach.

  “I’m afraid we were with her when she got the bad news about her boyfriend. How is she doing?”

  “The poor child. Such an awful thing to happen.” The twinkle vanished. “I only found out a short while ago.”

  “I saw her again today. She seemed in a bad way. I hope she’ll be okay.”

  “The poor dear is very upset and rightly so. She loved him very much. I suggested she join us tonight. It’s not good being alone at a time like this. I’m the closest to family she has in Vancouver. Although I’m not exactly family, just an auntie who has known her since she was in diapers.”

  With her sympathetic manner and short curly white hair freshly primped at the hairdresser, she reminded me of everyone’s favourite grandmother. But if the steely glint lurking behind the twinkle were anything to go by, I’d
say she was a grandmother with a firm hand who’d be less inclined to spoil her grandchildren than offer them heartfelt advice.

  Seven

  Eric climbed over the bench to grab the spot on the other side of me. “I hope your day wasn’t too boring without me.” He chuckled.

  I yawned. “Funny, it only just started to become boring.” Then I punched him gently in the ribs. “Seriously, I did have an adventure. Remember our museum guide?” I began telling him about the crime scene. Partway through, the woman sitting on his other side interrupted me by asking him a question. Smiling apologetically he turned to answer and became caught up in a heated discussion on some issue pertaining to the Grand Council.

  With everyone around me engrossed in conversation, I found myself studying my mug of hemlock tea until I felt a nudge.

  “Don’t mind us, dear,” Louise said. “It’s been a busy day and we haven’t quite left it. Eric says you have a lovely place in Quebec. Please tell me about it.”

  I began describing Three Deer Point to her and the features that made the century-old Victorian cottage such a comfortable place to call home, like the wraparound porch where I liked to sit and ponder the ever-changing view of Echo Lake or the massive stone fireplace that pours soothing heat into the front room on a cold winter’s night. But after several minutes, I realized her thoughts were elsewhere, so I stopped talking just as the waitress was placing large wooden platters piled with a cornucopia of native delights on the table.

  “Potlatch platters” the menu called them. The one in front of us overflowed with plump fried oysters of the giant variety and bright pink spot prawns, both unique to the cold seas off the West Coast. A large side of barbecued salmon filled another platter. Farther down the table, a third contained a haunch of venison smothered in a juniper berry sauce, while another was piled high with contributions from eastern Canada, wild rice and fiddleheads. It was going to be quite the feast.

  Eric’s eyes sparkled with delight as he reached for an oyster. Cutting it in half, he placed one half in my mouth and ate the other. Muttering “delicious” in unison, we both reached for another.

  “I hope you’re taking notes,” I said. “I expect to see some of these dishes on our table back home.”

  He grinned and poured himself a hefty glass of white wine, while I stuck with the hemlock tea. I was enjoying its faintly licorice taste. I no longer drank alcohol. After one drunken episode too many last year, I decided that alcohol and I didn’t get along and never would, so I gave it up. Amazingly, I hadn’t found it difficult, even with Eric having his nightly glass of single malt. At first he’d stopped drinking altogether, but when I realized that he missed his scotch and occasional glass of wine, I insisted that he go back to his old habits. I found I was no longer tempted to sneak a drink, nor did I find myself eyeing his glass longingly. On the plus side, I felt healthier, more energetic, and more ready to take on life’s challenges, which these days didn’t seem quite so insurmountable.

  We continued to share tantalizing morsels until Eric was again drawn into a conversation, this one with two men across the table. Although he tried to include me, I had no idea what they were discussing, nor was I particularly interested, so I concentrated on eating.

  After a few minutes I noticed Louise was also keeping to herself. Thinking she might be worried about her niece, I asked about her.

  “A lovely girl.” She sighed. “Such a shame. Two sweet, innocent kids who weren’t hurting anybody.”

  “Do the police know who killed him?”

  “I doubt it. And they won’t try very hard to find out either.”

  “Of course they will.”

  “Hrmphh! For an Indian? Don’t kid yourself. But then you wouldn’t know.”

  I felt my back stiffen and was searching for a diplomatic response when she said, “Forgive me, child. That wasn’t fair. Please excuse the grumblings of an old lady.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I’ve had my own experience with police wearing blinkers.” I paused to help myself to another oyster. “But I hadn’t realized Allistair was native.”

  She sighed. “He was a good Haida boy and a natural carver from what Becky says. So he must’ve come from a long line of carvers, although he didn’t know. He was adopted and had no idea who his birth parents were, not even his clan.”

  “Your people have two main clans, don’t you?” Eric asked, leaning across me to reach the platter of barbecued salmon.

  Loud guffaws spilled over from the other end of the table. After exchanging a few jibes accompanied by a couple of wry comments from Louise, Eric turned his attention back to the salmon. He passed Louise and me a slice of the tender flesh before placing one on his own plate.

  Louise smiled. “Nothing beats salmon, our people’s lifeblood. If I’m not mistaken, this spring salmon, or taagun, could be from Haida Gwaii, where the run has started.”

  “I envy your people’s bounty,” Eric replied. “I’m afraid my Algonquin ancestors had to search far and wide for their food.”

  “We were fortunate. But we always made sure we paid our respects to Salaana, the spirit who lives above.” She paused to enjoy another bite of the delicious fish. “To answer your question, every Haida is either an eagle or a raven. I’m eagle, whereas Becky is raven. I had worried that her boyfriend might’ve been a raven, especially if they’d decided to marry. Traditionally, we can’t marry within our clan.”

  “So Allistair would’ve needed to be an eagle?” I asked after savouring another tender morsel of salmon.

  “That’s right. Mind you, the young today don’t pay much attention to such things. Many don’t even marry within the Haida Nation. But who am I to talk.” Her eyes creased in merriment. “I married an Irishman from Belfast. Met him when he was working at the military base in Masset at the north end of Haida Gwaii. He was a sergeant with the British Army, on a special assignment with the Canadian Forces. We spent several years moving around to various British bases, then he left the army and we came back to Masset, where he got a job as a civilian.”

  “Do you have children?” I asked.

  “Two sons. Both married white girls and moved away. One’s living in Edmonton and the other’s in Seattle.”

  “I imagine you don’t see them often.”

  She chortled. “One of the reasons I like to work on GCFN committees, I get to travel. I’m heading down to Seattle tomorrow to spend a few days with the grandkids and then back to Haida Gwaii for a very special occasion — I’m witnessing a pole raising.”

  “A totem pole? Like the ones I saw in the museum yesterday?”

  “Yes, but more colourful, for it will be freshly painted.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Yes, a very exciting time for us. A member of my clan will be raising it to take the name of a chief. It has been many years since we’ve had a potlatched chief.”

  “A potlatch is about giving away goods, isn’t it?” Eric asked.

  “You’ve been doing some reading.” She smiled. “The chief holds a potlatch ceremony to reward witnesses to the pole raising by giving them gifts. It includes a big feast and lots of dancing. In the old days these potlatches would go on for days. If you and Meg don’t have any immediate plans, you should think of coming. It would give you a chance to get to know us Haida better and for us to get to know the next Grand Chief of the Grand Council of First Nations.”

  Eric laughed, while my ears perked up. This could be fun.

  “Please, I’m not the only one in the running for Grand Chief. There are some good contenders. When did you say this would take place?”

  “On Saturday, which is, let me see …” She pulled out an iPhone and checked the calendar.

  “Five days from now,” I offered. “Let’s go, Eric. It sounds like a lot of fun and I’d love to visit Haida Gwaii.”

  “We’d have to change Friday’s flight and I have an interview with CBC early Monday, so we’d have to be back in Ottawa by Sunday night. I don’t k
now. It would be cutting it pretty tight.”

  “I’ll check the flights. I’m sure we can get an early one on Sunday.”

  “Let me know,” Louise said. “I’m sure the new chief would be very interested in meeting you.”

  At that moment her face broke into a welcoming smile. Our guide from yesterday was making her way toward us.

  “Becky, how are you doing, dear? I’m so glad you decided to come.”

  Eight

  Trying to keep her tears in check and not succeeding, Becky walked around the table greeting those she knew and introducing herself to those she didn’t. All expressed their sympathy with either a bear hug or a consoling pat. She clung to Louise for several long minutes before turning to Eric and me. At first she didn’t remember us, and when she did, she broke down, muttering, “I’m so sorry I ran out on you.”

  “Please, you have nothing to apologize for,” Eric said, taking her small hands in his large ones. “You have our deepest sympathy.”

  We shuffled along the bench until there was enough space to squeeze her slimness between Louise and me. Finding ourselves in a shoulder lock, Eric slipped his arm around me, nuzzled my ear, and continued eating with just his right hand. If he needed to cut something I could hold it down with my fork while he sawed away with his knife. We’d call it communal eating.

  “Oh Auntie, it’s all my fault,” Becky wailed.

  “Hush, child, and eat something. It’ll make you feel better.” Louise filled her bread plate with oysters and prawns and passed it to the distraught girl.

  “But Auntie, you don’t understand. I got him killed. If I hadn’t kicked him out, Allie would be alive.”

  “Now, child, you can’t go blaming yourself. His death had nothing to do with you.”